At a party somewhere.

Jack's eyes narrowed. He'd come to this party in good faith, bearing a sixer of a microbrew from New Orleans under the assumption that an evening of pleasant social interaction was to be had. He had told himself that the objective here was a wider social circle, and there was nothing to be gained by being judgemental. In many ways it had paid off. The music wasn't what he'd put on, but it was pleasant and carried a straightforward beat at a volume that allowed a modicum of privacy in the small pockets of conversation. The drinks were mostly Do It Yourself 2-part cocktails in the form of various 2-liter bottles of juice and various handles of bottom to mid-shelf liqours. He'd played a bit of scrabble until it had gotten heated, and he'd learned about the local anarchist bookstore, which would give him something to do tomorrow. The house, a sort of commune for 5 or 6 residents who preferred quality of life over privacy, had a back yard complete with 5 guys and a dog arguing over when to flip the hamburgers. There were weed-infused sub-parties upstairs, though following one of those crowds seemed an imposition given the acquaintence who he'd come with had left at eleven under a flimsy pretense. He was flying solo, breaking ice where he could, and so far that had gotten him tied up in a knot with 3 or 4 young men and women who clearly shared an office. They had pounced, in the way he had suspected they would from the start of the conversation, like social raptors sensing prey. So, Jack, what do YOU do?

He pretended to be struggling with a particularly difficult swallow of vodka and tonic, and weighed his options.

"Bullshit, mostly. Anyone want a drink?"

Ignoring requests for reinforcements, he sullenly walked back to the haphazardly organized table of bottles. He'd been working those 3 for what had seemed like half an hour. He'd casually walked by, pretended to take an interest in some fragment of conversation, lurked in the periphery, waited for an opportunity to be clever. Lacking a generous soul, he'd parted the waters by force before being treated to a treatise on Carla from HR, the filthy whore. They were on the precipice of a conversation about the latest weird-for-the-sake-of-truth movie offering when hairgel over there had rather violently shifted the conversation to what we do in exchange for money.

"Can I make you something?"

Jack snapped out of it. A rather charming young man was playing bartender. He introduced himself as Oscar, a resident of the home, and it was an absolute pleasure to meet him. And yes, he had vermouth, along with an altogether better class of gin, and for the modest price of listening to him nerd out about drinks he'd gladly share. This last bit he actually said, word for word. A queen sized bed, picture of a significant other, and second wardobe revealed he was, in point of fact, a giant if unknowing tease. But the drinks were good, and when the usual suspects of conversation subsided he turned to a hasty sketch tacked to the wall.

"Thanks, I'm a little proud of that one. A friend of mine and I are working on a project." He trailed off, until given permission to speak at length.

"Well, we're working on writing and illustrating a couple of hero stories. Just for fun, we haven't talked to a publisher or anything, but I'm hoping we can turn it into a graphic novel. We're using people who really existed, though. We want to use real figures, and just make it as pulpy as possible. Like, what if Churchill had actually gone ahead and stormed Normandy with the troops? Tommy guns and all."

Jack pointed, "Maybe he should be teamed up with Fightin' Jack Churchill."

When quizzed, he revealed that Jack Churchill was the only soldier to kill someone with a Longbow in the whole of WW2, that he'd been disappointed with the use of atomic weapons because it ended the war sooner, and kept him from getting to fight more. Oscar was rapt, letting the ice in his glass melt as he was regaled with tales of a larger than life personality behaving like some kind of Mongolian raider on the steppe.

He was handed a card, and told to contact the writer who was, unfortunately, not in attendance. Drinks concluded, Jack was ushered to a literal social circle and introduced to other residents to enjoy the rest of his evening before stumbling out into the crisp early morning air.