Serving Swill (H 1.1)

A pained, weary expression flits across my face. Choosing between dealing with surly Sippians or handling ornery Orion is like choosing between a bullet in the front of the head or the back. Of course, at the moment, it feels like I've got the bullet embedded in my brain already. I reach up and rub the place between my eyes.

"How much have we written off already tonight? Can we give them something on the house to tide them over? Call it a buy back so Blackjack doesn't freak out on us?"

A soft breath escapes me as I lower my hand. Kiwi's not wrong, he rarely is, but the idea that the nadir of this night has yet to be reached isn't what I'd hoped to hear.

"Be careful with Orion," I warn him as I heft one tray up, balancing it on my shoulder with my hand. "I hear his bite is worse than his bark." I pick up the second tray with my free hand, grunting with the effort. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were getting heavier. "I'll try to keep an eye on the bar while you're away," I promise, turning and heading back toward the rafter's tables, hoping Titicaca doesn't pounce on me when I get there. I'm a laden barge now, slow to move, slow to stop, and slow to adjust to unexpected, rude, minty obstacles.

Everyone knows Blackjack hires her staff for more than just serving drinks and sweeping floors. We're here to look pretty for our customers too, so I'm accustomed to dealing with all kinds of comments from my tables. I've become a duck on the water - all calm on top, all scurrying beneath. But Titicaca's comments are challenging my calm in a way no salacious sneer or crude come on could. I'm not sure if that's because of how exhausted I am, or if it has more to do with how much Titicaca bothers me. Or maybe there's something about being called a cow that offends the duck within.

I press my tongue to the back of my teeth as I move over to Suez and Victoria, setting down the first tray and keeping the other up on my shoulder. With my one free hand, I quickly spin two cups up from the stack and fill them from the pitcher, then make my way around the table, setting out and filling more cups. I could just leave the pitchers and stacks of cups here, allow them to sort it out like we usually do in the Belly, but I don't.

I don't because even ducks can bite. I fill everyone else's cups, leaving Titicaca for last, and I make sure that by the time I get to her, I have only enough beer left to fill her cup a third of the way.

I lift my eyes to the rest of the table and say calmly, "See what the Karen brings, Rafters? Savor it." I gather my empty trays to head over to my next table.

The Rafters explode with laughter at your demonstration. Titicaca's eyes widen when the mockery turns on her. She grips the table and you're ready for some blowback, but Victoria reaches over to pat her hand. Victoria's touch surprises Titicaca. It's enough to quell Titicaca's growing anger.

When Victoria thanks Titicaca for getting them beers, I bite my tongue to keep from reminding her who it was that ferried them over. I try not to stare at the scars on the side of her face. It's not as if scars are an uncommon sight here, but the Whispers tell me she once fought them - and won. I don't know if the scars come from that encounter, but I worry that one day, I'll have to fight that battle myself and I don't think I'll come out on top. I'm no Victoria. No Rafter. Not tough enough to be a Talon. Not bright enough to be a Librarian. Not poised enough for the Tower.

I wonder if Victoria's triumph over the Whispers means she doesn't hear them anymore, or if she is their master? The question both draws me to her, and terrifies me of her. I find myself lowering my eyes, bowing my head, and taking her silent permission to leave, taking two steps backward before I turn, only then realizing that I wasn't breathing while she looked at me.

"Don't say anything," I murmur to the Whispers. "Just leave it be."

My spine goes tight at the echoing voice, a chill running all the way to my toes as I look up at Mikkie, then quickly away again. It's unnerving, that mask. It's hard to believe there's someone under there who experiences things like thirst at all.

I glance around, hunting for a table where I could direct him so at least I can put something between he and I - not that it would make a difference if it came down to it - but the place is packed tonight. My mouth is dry when I give a stiff nod and answer, "I'll get that right away for you." I move quickly away from him, not inviting him to the bar with me, but it's Mikkie. He'll go wherever he wants to. I'm certainly not going to stop him.

Mikkie is a storm cloud at my back, every hair on my neck bristled to the impending power. I know in my head Kiwi won't be back already, but I'd been hoping for it in my heart anyway and I swallow hard when I'm caught alone instead. I hesitate, then head behind the bar while Mikkie gets his pick of the suddenly open seats. I'm not completely unfamiliar with getting behind the stick, but it's not somewhere I typically post up. I'm surprised at how much it makes me feel like I'm on stage. With Mikkie in the audience, it's a very uncomfortable stage.

I grab a glass and fill it with water from the soda gun. The water here tastes like copper and grit, but it usually doesn't make people sick. My hand shakes only a little as I lift the glass to the counter and I push toward Mikkie. My server instincts tell me to ask if he wants anything else, but EVERY OTHER INSTINCT tells me to escape this interaction as quickly as possible.

I grab a pitcher and fill it with beer, willing to bet I can knock out a few of Dakota's impatient tables faster that way instead of running individual glasses back and forth. Stop shaking, hand. Stop it. While the pitcher fills, I steal a glance up toward the Sippians, searching Dakota out to see how she's faring.

I gasp when Mikkie's hand clasps onto my wrist, jerking back but not away - his grip is too strong for that. But he lets go when I look. It's difficult to parse his request from the momentary flashes I see of his cage fights over time. Fights where he grabbed his opponent's wrist just like he did mine, only he didn't let go then. Not until he'd bent, twisted, pulled - sent a bone splintering out through skin or a sickening wash of white over his foe's face or tore a finger free.

I blink the bloody memories away. "Right. The mask." I reach under the counter and grab a straw. We wash and reuse them so they're all slightly different colors and sizes. This one is white with red stripes and a bendy end. I hesitate, not sure if I want to hand it to him, stick it in his drink, or just set it on the counter between us. My mouth opens and closes a few times before I extend it out toward him. Then, because I think if he grabs me again, my heart may gallop straight out of my rib cage, this time I do ask, "Anything else?"

Watching Mikkie rummage in his pocket is a nightmare in slow motion. I'm certain he'll somehow pull a machete from some dimension inside the pocket, run me through the stomach before I can flinch.

And he does run me through, but not with a machete. His words, few as they may be, turn me into his white-washed opponent, useless and gaping. I stare as he sips his water, my hands still, something a server should never say.

"What did you call me?" The question comes without permission, but with the way the ants have ceased scurrying at his words, I know if I don't ask now, I'll be left with another sleepless night as they skitter double-time worrying over it.

Mikkie continues sipping his drink, hunkered over the bar and the glass. You hear the Sippians calling Dakota's name in a mocking sing-song and what sounds like a fight starting near the edge of your new section.

What do you do?

My gaze shifts to the swelling voices across the bar, then to the Sippians sing-songing, a sound signaling an impending end of patience I'm sure. For all I know Mikkie didn't hear my question. In fact, the longer I stand here, the more convinced I become that I didn't speak at all. Maybe the Whispers asked instead.

I'm in no position to be turning down tips, no matter how terrifying a hand they come from, so I sweep the jingle off the counter into my pocket, grabbing the pitcher of beer and heading toward the noise of the brewing fight to see if I can quench their fires with Poseidon's cheapest swill.

"Who needs a refill?" I ask loudly as I approach, raising the pitcher. I can't help but glance over my shoulder to see if Mikkie is watching.

Mikkie isn't watching you - he seems intent on his water (the glass is nearly empty). You announce your arrival at a table near the Sippians and people turn their attention from irritation to a positive acceptance of liquid oblivion, regardless of the taste. Dakota slides past you with a warm and thankful look in her eyes and she heads for the bar.

If you're willing to endure some of the Sippians' teasing, jostling, and pinching, you can weather the storm until Kiwi returns. But the Whispers want to cow them, to pull their fears from their empty heads and show them right back.

What do you do?

It is easy to tell myself I'll bear up under the Sippians' sport, but actually accomplishing it is another story. My eyes sting, arms burning from carrying trays for hours on end, and after dealing with Mikkie, my soul feels exposed to the wind. I'm worried what the Whispers will welcome into so weak a vessel. They push incessantly, incrementally, inching into places they don't belong. I don't want to know what lies in the minds of the insipid Sippians, but their slanted speech stokes the Whispers onward and there is only so much I can contain inside at once. There comes a point where the Whispers will win if I don't act.

I whirl on the next pinch I feel on my thigh that comes as I pour a drink for a neighboring table. I raise the newly-emptied pitcher and bring it down on the hand of the offender, aiming to smash their foul fingers like a butterfly, an exhibit I am more comfortable pinning and displaying than the one that threatens to be pinned on the tapestry of my mind.