He drank himself oblivious for a week.

Despair, self-pity, and hopelessness pushed each glass to his lips.

Arron had been surprised he could get drunk in-game, taking to that particular feature with a gusto.

He managed, through luck primarily, to barely pin the zombie. And it had taken so long. So much longer than seemed reasonable or logical for him to kill it. How could he expect to get past two of the things!

He'd often been accused of being stubborn, arrogant, and single-minded. Accusations he long since started wearing as a badge of honor. But he wasn't dense. He could recognize when an obstacle was so damn obviously insurmountable.

Which left him here, drinking away his sorrows. How could he help Bella when he couldn't even reach her? The horrors she must be dealing with without him there to protect her.

When he imagined her jaw being ripped off or the countless other pleasantries he'd experienced so far, his blood boiled. Bella was too pure for this freak show of a game.

But it was hopeless.

And the spiral of descending futile pity began again.

His pitcher ran empty. Scowling, he turned the vessel upside down, licking at the suds that slid free on their way to the table. When they stopped flowing, he waved for the server.

A thin young girl came over, slight of frame and standing only as high as Arron's chest. Her face clearly showed a less than stellar impression of Arron, and her nose wrinkled at his ripe scent mixed with the stale beer.

He pushed his empty pitcher at her, mumbling about another.

She shook her head, and said, "I'm afraid not, sir. The coin you gave us has run out, and you've maxed the tab we can afford ya."

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Arron didn't respond for a moment. Here he was, trying to come up with a better plan to save his wife, and this girl, who couldn't be out of high school, was worried about a few bucks for beer? Really?

Growling, he shook the pitcher this time before roughly shoving it into her hands.

"No," she repeated firmly. No apology. No respect.

Arron yanked the pitcher back and threw it against the wall. The shattering glass could have stopped time by the rippling silence that descended within the tavern. The patrons were suddenly quite interested in a free show from the drunk they'd been largely ignoring.

"Listen, Missy," he slurred, stumbling to his feet. "You will bring me more pitcher of beer. I'm doin' important working here, and having no times for sassing from yous."

The girl did not move, her face expressionless. Almost bored, she said, "With that, m'lord, I will have to ask you to leave."

"Deed you hear me?" he roared. "Bring me beer!"

Arron pushed past the girl, not caring how she stumbled. Not caring about the amused stares turned cold. It served her right, served them all right! For preventing him from figuring out how to help Bella. She needed his help. That was the whole point. To free her from the confines of the metal coffin keeping her alive in the real world. Damn the patrons and to hell with pint-sized little pixies who clearly couldn't understand the purest soul he'd ever known was in real danger. If only he could reach her. How was he to get to her and stop whatever horrors must be surrounding her...

Beer. He needed beer to help make a solid plan. He moved toward the bar and its spouts of liquid aid, grabbing another pitcher to fill.

The serving girl sauntered closer, a strange look on her face. Was that excitement? Glee even?

Oh well, he wasn't concerned about a hundred pounds of annoyed teenager.

The patronage of this noble establishment would later discuss, in precise detail, the shock on that drunk's face as the girl grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, lifted him one-handed, and threw him bodily, like a wet towel in the laundry, straight through the front window and into the street.

Glass exploded outward, shards flying into passersby who cried out at the sudden assault.

Arron, in the middle of the tiny razors, was lucky enough to have his senses dulled by intoxication, blunting the pain from a great many cuts. He would recover before feeling the full effects.

Milling citizens scowled at the drunk, a few kicking at him in frustration as they nursed new wounds. After a pause, the rhythm of the street normalized as the people went back to their business and errands, and the commotion of the town started up again.