The whole bar was steeped in a kind of boisterous cheer. Men were talking loud, even arguing, teasing the fiery waitresses, clinking glasses with each other. In here, nobody bothered thinking about the shadow of war. Life soaked in alcohol and cigars became easy and carefree.
Every time someone raised a glass, the bar would erupt with a neat, unified toast.
"To hell with the Western Alliance!"
What followed was raucous, unrestrained laughter.
Right then, by the window, a handsome young Silliac Federation officer with short brown hair was straddling his chair backwards. A beer in his left hand, his right arm draped over the chair back propping up his chin, he turned with a grin to the buddies beside him. "Hey, guys, you heard? The first Twelfth-Generation mass‑production Mecha is already off the line."
