The bartender - a grizzly old man with a patch over one eye - stared at the pink-haired huntress warily. "What'll it be, miss?" He droned, his voice rough like sandpaper.

Lauren's face was grim and stoic, "Keep 'em comin'. And make 'em strong." Her palm smacked the table. "I've had a hell of a day out there." She seemed to deflate for a moment, as she sat hunched over in the barstool, her eyes dead set on the man who began to pour her the house's choice.

Filling the bar were black ghoulish spirits, their skeletal faces leering at her from the shadows. They wore tattered military jackets, the insignias in tatters, their eyes glowing an eerie, fresh blood-red. Something about that both excited her and made her nauseous. Most of them kept their distance, content to nurse their own drinks and mutter among themselves, but a few seemed to take an interest in her. Their gaze lingered a little too long for comfort.

In a sort of nervous tic, Lauren regaled the barkeep with a story, her voice growing louder and more animated as he humored her. He listened with a bemused expression, occasionally twitching his mustache and waving his hand away at her more outlandish claims. She didn't care if he believed her or not. Out here in the Deads, truth and fiction blurred together.

She raised her freshly-filled mug in a toast, a smile finally appearing on her face. "To all the crazy bastards who call this shithole home!" The old man chuckled, shaking his head some more as he refilled her mug. Lauren's belly laugh sounded like a hyena. She downed her drink in one gulp, slamming the mug down empty on the bar in a satisfying clunk.

"Hear, hear," he grumbled contentedly, stepping away to attend to the other outcasts, ghouls, and ghosts that filled his establishment.