A/N: This is set basically the evening before the crew sets out on the Rachel in #54. And usual stuff: Don't own Animorphs, ain't makin' cash, hope you like.

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The bartender walked his usual pace, wiping down the bar as he went. Another day in, another day down. Didn't matter what the official term for it was. It was 1:00 a.m. and with any luck he wouldn't have any more come in in the hour till close. It was empty as is; his regulars rarely made it past the double digit hours, preferring just to have a casual few or a nightcap, and he had no problem kicking out non-regulars who tested his patience. The ones who lasted much past midnight usually did. That was the beauty of owning his own bar. It didn't take in the capital of the chains but it had a down home feel to it that kept the usuals coming back, night after night and week after week, and that was enough for him.

That's why he was a bit taken aback when he heard the bell tied to his door give a slight tinkling noise and he looked up to see one lone figure making his way to the bar. A young man, who stood tall enough but hunched over, thin but not gangly, dirty blond hair disheveled and there was something wrong with his face; he appeared miserable enough but something about his expression made him look ready to throw down. He appeared sober but he gave off the aura of someone who was looking to forget one hell of a bad day. And the bartender was more than a little curious as to what happened to make his day go the way it had, because the black skintight t-shirt and shorts were a ridiculous outfit for this time of night.

The man sat down on the stool with a grunt, folded his arms across each other on top of the bar and tapped two fingers on the scarred wood.

"Whiskey please, neat."

The bartender draped his rag over one shoulder and scratched behind his ear with an apologetic look on his face. "Uh, look, sorry sir, but you look barely old enough to drink-" he halted as the man cut him off mid-sentence, looking down at himself as if seeing his own body for the first time.

"Yeah, I thought I wasn't supposed to age." He gave a resigned shrug. "Oh, well. Nothing I can do about it."

The bartender stumbled on, caught off guard by the man's strange interruption, "No, kid, I mean I'm gonna need to see some I.D."

The young man laughed mirthlessly, and without cracking a smile, said "I haven't existed in six years, you won't be getting any I.D. out of me."

As strange of a response that might be, the bartender just shrugged. "Then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. No I.D., no drinks, that's the law son."

He straightened automatically as the man tilted his head back to look him in the eyes, not a trace of emotion showing through a dead gaze. "Look, pops, I cleaned up more bottles, dodged more beer cans, and took more punches from drunks by the time I was ten then you have in your whole career. The law didn't do shit for me then, don't see why it should stand in my way now." He took in the look on the bartender's face before he sighed and dropped his eyes back to the bar top, "Look, it's 1 a.m. at the ass-end of town, I probably won't even be within a million miles of liquor again, and I could really stand to get 'what-year-is-it' drunk."

The man's tone bordered somewhere between apologetic and pleading but when he looked back up there was no change in his expression, just a face set in stone. The bartender sighed. He had a pair of boys of his own, probably around the same age as this young fellow, and he knew they had their own wild nights out. It didn't really bother him so long as they were responsible about it. Hell, he remembered his own days like that and he had more than a few blank nights under his belt before twenty-one. He was on good terms with the local police, his bar having amongst the fewest alcohol-related fights, drivers, and health scares in the whole county, but he still drew a line between generous and charitable. "You got any money son? I might be willing to turn a blind eye but the whiskey don't buy itself."

The man reached down to his right side where he'd wrapped the tight shirt into a small knot, undid it, and pulled out a singled hundred dollar bill. "Saw an old...acquaintance of mine before I came out. He figured this was the least he could do."

The bartender sighed again, poured a drink-

"A double, if you wouldn't mind."

-finished pouring, passed the drink over and went to get change from the till. The man took a short gulp from his glass before reaching out a hand to stay the bartender. "Keep the whole thing. Either I drink the whole hundred's worth, or you get sick of me and kick me out. In which case, enjoy the tip."

The bartender grunted but closed the till back up. "Ain't supposed to serve to the point of intoxication son."

The man shrugged. "Ain't supposed to serve without I.D. either, yet here we sit." He finished his glass and held it out for another. This kid wasn't screwing around on the 'want to get drunk' meter.

The bartender grunted and refilled the glass. "Smartass eh?" He wasn't usually big on backtalk but the kid said it with good enough humour, even if his face hadn't shifted one iota. Eh, screw it, he figured. Whole place was pretty much cleaned and ready to close, wouldn't hurt him to tolerate one final customer for an hour. "Sorry eh."

The man looked at him questioningly. Or at least he assumed it was questioningly.

"About the ducking bottles, and such. Ain't right for a kid."

The man shrugged. "Made me the man I am today." He took a sip and seemed to consider that before looking back at the bartender. "That would've come across a lot more impressive a few years ago."

The bartender just nodded. "So, what's with the get-up kid?" He waved his hand up and down towards the man's outfit. "Not cold out?"

The man gave a short, throaty...he wanted to say laugh and might've if it been accompanied by a grin, but he had to go with cough. "Takes me back. It's what I usually wore with the girlfriend on dates."

The bartender threw back his head and gave a fuller laugh than he had intended. "Wore those on dates eh? Must've been some romantic times."

The man shrugged and took another sip. "I was there, she was there, didn't much matter what we did."

The bartender smiled at that. He remembered those days. Young love. Didn't matter what you did, where or when, who was wearing or driving what, so long as you were together. Those were the days. The days back when love was all that mattered, back before money, objects, that bitch of an ex-wife who wanted bigger and better where he wanted cozy and simple. He sighed inwardly. He missed those days.

"So, special day today?"

The man nodded but kept his eyes forward with a thousand-yard stare, "Yep. Anniversary." He finished his drink. "Three years ago today, I watched her die."

Jesus Christ! He didn't see that one coming. "Oh, well, hell kid, I'm uh, I'm damn sorry to hear that." He took the man's glass and poured another. Three years ago? No way this kid was legal, regardless of what he told himself. If she'd been his age, three years ago would've made her what? Fifteen, sixteen? Seventeen tops? No wonder the kid was in drinking alone at one in the morning. He wasn't in the mood for this but the kid's mind was obviously on that one specific subject. "Uh, do you mind...you mind if I ask how?"

The man gave a bitter laugh, unaccompanied by anything resembling a smile, which did little to soothe the bartenders nerves. He was happy that the man in front of him was wearing everything skintight; had he been packing a gun or knife, it would've stood out instantly, and at the rate this conversation was going, the bartender was happy he could see neither. The man seemed to think it over for a few seconds, chuckling straight faced the whole time. "Suicide," he said finally, he paused for a moment then he shook his head. "No, that's too strong, it wasn't that." He gave a small shrug. "She went out on her own terms, the way she would've wanted to. I'll give her that."

The bartender found himself taking a few hesitant steps back; he needed a subject change and quick. He didn't quite know what the man meant, differing between 'suicide' and 'her own terms' but this shit was too heavy for discussing at pretty much any time with a stranger, let alone at one in the morning.

He did his best to seem unaffected and turned to reach up and turn on the one flatscreen above the bar. "Well, I'm awful sorry to hear that son. But if I get to go out on my own terms, I'll consider it worth it."

The man looked up. "Hey, sorry, barkeep. I'm not meaning to worry you or anything, just, uh, you know, the anniversary thing, and I got something big coming up tomorrow, I just..." he trailed off and the bartender followed the gaze which had drifted up to the tv above the bar. He saw the ceremony being presented as the three heroes each gave their speeches.

"Ah, yeah. That was last years. They'll probably be doing the same thing tomorrow. Earth Victory Day. Crazy stuff eh. Six kids saved the world."

The man grunted and held out his glass for another refill. "You know they say there were others. Some crippled kids that all died, some freed aliens."

The bartender nodded his agreement and chanced a glance at the fellow who sat before him, his curiosity growing. "Yeah, they do. But they say the majority of the fight was just those six, the Animorphs. You hear about some of the aliens that died, all those crippled kids, sad sure, but still not as as sad as the other two."

The man looked up sharply. "The other two?"

"You know, the Forgotten Animorphs. Xena and Bird-Boy." The bartender gave a sad smile, "What were they actually, Raque-...Rachel. Rachel and Toby. No...Tobias. Rachel and Tobias. Damn shame about those two."

"What about them?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow. The outfit, the conversation, and the look in the man's eyes had raised his suspicions and he had a nagging feeling that the man in front of him might've been more important than he let on, but if the kid wanted to play, he'd play. "Jesus, kid, you been living under a rock?"

"Not far off."

The bartender shook his head. "The only two that didn't live through it. She died in the last fight, and him...well, they don't know for sure he's dead, but that's what they all say." Looking at the figure in front of him he...if he was right, he wasn't sure if they'd been wrong about that or just half-right. "Said he showed up just long enough at her funeral to take her ashes and hasn't been seen since. Given his age...well as a hawk anyway, they say he probably died quiet some time ago."

The man grunted, downed his drink and held his glass out for another, clearly a little wobbly at this point though he kept his speech somber. "That all they say?"

"That's the general stuff. Of course if you want more specifics you can listen to the speeches, read their books and what not."

"Specifics like what?"

The bartender snatched the man's glass from him and refilled it. "Keep up this shit son, and you'll be leaving me quite the tip."

The man shrugged. "Like I said."

"The specifics, boy, the ones they all know. The boy had a shitty life before, nobody even bothered looking when he went missing. They say no photo of him even exists these days. Even his own mother'd be hard-pressed to describe him. He was the most righteous after the farm girl there. The big government honcho these days...Cassie. And the girl was the fighter. Reckless and dangerous they said. Wasn't a thing she'd back down from. That's where the 'Xena' comes from. The gorilla there, which one was he...Marco. Joked in his book that fighting was her favourite pastime 'cause red was was her favourite colour." The bartender gave a short chuckle. "Sounds like quite the pair."

"It was blue."

The bartender gave a shake of his head and took notice of the catch in the man's voice. "Come again?"

"Her favourite colour. She liked blue."

"That ain't what the world says son."

"No, I don't suppose it is." He clinked his glass down on the bar top.

"I think you might've had enou-"

"Either fill it or kick me out."

The bartender was very tempted by the latter option but there was only a half-hour left till close and he had to admit, the man in front of him had him intrigued. Besides, if he was talking to who he thought he was, there was a good chance he was the first since victory day. He gave the man a look as he grabbed the glass and poured a new one.

"So the world says red and you say blue. What makes you confident enough to go against the world son?"

The man laughed at that, long and hard, though the bartender found it disconcerting that he still wasn't smiling. Eventually he stopped and stated with a smile in his voice if not on his face, "She does...she did." He stared ahead at nothing but the past as he recounted. "It was something no one else knew. She had liked red before it all started. Blue eyes, blond hair...I used to tease her. Told her she was the ultimate Lady in Red. But eventually she stayed away from it. Said she'd seen enough to last a lifetime and more. Told me she liked blue, reminded her of life, of freedom...of me. It matched her eyes." He took a sip from his freshly filled glass. "I don't think she ever told anyone else. Not her mom. Not even Cassie. Everyone says if she hadn't had the war she would've been a model. No way. She'd have been an actress. No one could play the part like her. I don't know how many books you've read about it, and I mean no offence, but you don't know a Goddamn thing. Hell, if she hadn't been willing to tell me, even I wouldn't have known. She told me a lot of things she never told anyone else. I think that's what gets me most these days. A few lines in a book, a few words in a speech, and everyone thinks calling her 'the warrior' is the best epitaph. Bullshit. They don't know how she felt about the war, about life, about her friends...they don't even know her favourite colour...they don't know shit."

The bartender nodded thoughtfully. "So, it is you. Word was you were dead son."

"Yeah, well 'the word' is oh for two tonight it seems."

The bartender straightened himself subtly; in the presence of a hero, even a reluctant one, he tried to show a little more deferrence. "Not to intrude son, but may I shake your hand?"

The man set his glass down and reached over to grasp the bear paw the bartender called a hand. "Tobias."

"Jeremy. But most folks just call me Big Jim."

Tobias snorted and looked up at him with humour in his eyes. "Thank you for that."

Jim just gave him a look before continuing. "Look, I'm real sorry about your lady friend there, but she was a true hero. Rare breed that one."

Tobias froze with his glass halfway to his lips. "Do me a favour would you?"

"Name it son."

"Don't talk like you knew her."

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A/N: Jesus. I need someone standing over my shoulder to smack me when I'm writing these things. This was supposed to be like a 200-word drabble and now I have like an additional 4 ways to end this. I went with this one though it may change. I figure it's a Sopranos sort of ending. Unfulfilling yet open to interpretation. I'll probably come back to this one but for now, here you go. Please review, even if they're angry. Thanks!