Serving Swill (H 1.1)

Location: Poseidon's Belly
Time: evening

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Helix,

It's halfway through your second shift and your eyes are itching and burning from lack of sleep. What kept you up last night? There's a live band playing tonight, blaring rock so loud you have to lean in too close to listen to Bakker's drink orders, almost close enough to touch - not that he minds. The Belly is busy tonight: not an empty table and a few people left standing by the bar. Who else is waiting tables tonight?

Mikkie just laid somebody out in the fighting pit, per usual. His streak is up to twenty-two, so high that folks don't want to bet against him. This match had Mikkie wearing shackles and his opponent had a frelling chainsaw - didn't matter. The crowd may not bet against him, but they sure cheer for him.

As you're taking Bakker's order to the bar, you see some Sippians enter the Belly and "eject" some Librarians from their table so they can have a seat. It's in your section.

What do you do?

There are ants behind my eyes today, little legs scratching, little teeth biting. It burns, but not as much as the Whispers in my blood which have built up over the double shift with nowhere to go. My hands are heavy with them, laden with the pushing, pressing, worming. They are drops of ink in the clear water of my soul.

Their spread is only made worse by the ants, scratches of sleepiness because I am keenly aware that my neighbor and I share a bedroom wall. When her lover visits, their passions aren't worried about the hour. And last night, once the moans and the banging of the headboard had ceased, shouts followed. A lover's quarrel about something I'm sure they'll make up about in a way that will steal another night of sleep from me too soon.

In some ways, I find relief in how busy it is tonight. The distraction, the music, even the occasional lewd pick-up line are all welcome distractions, quieting the whispers to murmurs. But my reserves are nowhere near where they should be for dealing with the Sippians. I very intentionally avoid direct eye contact while I fight the urge to plead with the Whispers under my skin to send them on their way and subconsciously scan the space to see if there are any Talons here. The Sippians eject the well-mannered Librarians - a double whammy in my own personal fighting cage. Not only did I lose my nicest table, it got replaced by the worst. Well, maybe not the worst table. I glance toward the cages where Mikkie is still soaking in the cheers and jeers of the audience. That guy sends shivers like snakes down my back.

I head up to the bar and feed Bakker's order to Kiwi behind the bar.


While he gets the drinks, I turn and scan the room for Dakota, the only other server working tonight.


With how busy it is, we could have used a third, and if we wanted to provide actually attentive service - the kind that I'm sure Princy and Millions get from people like Edmund Sterling every day - we would have probably five of us serving. But the tides aren't so kind to everyone, so Dakota is my only chance to ditch the Sippians.

When she comes back to the bar with her table's next order, I move up to her. "Hey, switch sections with me?" I mean to say it like a statement, a strong and certain thing, but it comes out with a question mark on the end.

I hesitate, unprepared for the question and worried about letting my chance at escaping the Sippians slip away with a flippant response. I scan Dakota's section, then Dakota herself, hunting but trying to keep the Whispers from reaching out for her. They press at my temples from the inside, trying to claw their way toward her, but I keep them inside where they plant a headache between my eyes in revolt.

But I know Dakota without their help, surely I can tempt her on my own. In our world, everyone is fish. Big or small, barbed or smooth, everyone has bait that would hook them. I can find Dakota's flavor.

Dakota has a deep and abiding crush on Kiwi and wants to impress him. Not so badly that she'd stop getting high, mind you, but she'd do just about anything else. Kiwi, however, has expressly told you that he does not date co-workers because "1. that always causes problems down the road and 2. I need this job".

Despite the fact that it's so loud in here my own voice feels like it is drowned out before it reaches my ears, I glance behind my shoulder to make sure Kiwi isn't within hearing distance before I answer. "I thought you might like to spend more time in Kiwi's sightline. You look nice tonight, so I'm sure he wouldn't be able to help himself from enjoying the view." I watch her face closely for a reaction, to see if my bait is tantalizing enough.

Dakota holds herself like new ice trying not to break as the waves below beat against her fragile surface. She's high, of course, but I can't help but wonder if part of the reason she is so sluggish is partially due to the pain eating away at her mind. The thought makes the Whispers push harder at the space between my eyes so I hide it away in some dark corner of my consciousness for later when I'm not so tired myself.

I know the Sippians are going to give her hell, but I don't feel bad enough about it to rescind our deal. "Kiwi's working on Four's order now. Two is waiting on one more before they order. And I haven't greeted Eight yet." I rattle off the updates for my section quickly, Eight being the space the Sippians have just taken over. Poseidon's Belly is always cast in a red-orange light from the many neon signs scattered around the space, tacked up to sections of chainlink fencing that separate sections and wrap around the bases of booth legs. The VIP rooms have the same neon lights, but none of the chain link fence.

"What about you?" I am as certain that whatever updates Dakota shares about her section will be incorrect or incomplete as I am that Peppering will get together with her lover again.

Dakota slowly murmurs gibberish about table sixteen (there is no table sixteen) before she heads to the bar to fetch Bakker's order. You've escaped the Sippians and jumped into the deep end of unknown and irritated tables full of Rafters - denizens of the Raftlands.
What are the Rafters celebrating? Is it some arcane holiday of their own making, that they sealed a new deal that will bring them prosperity if they can hold onto it, a celebrated union of two of their young-folk, or something else?

Armed with some completely useless information about her section, I head off into Dakota's tables. They seem turburlent, probably annoyed with the slow service or maybe less entertained now that Mikkie has won another fight, but I hope the Rafters will have a little more grace than usual today. It seems like they're celebrating a marriage. The happy couple sit at the head of a table together, chairs squished close, both with gull feathers woven into their hair and fresh matching tattoos on their necks. I'm uncertain about who holds the highest rank amoung the group, so I go to them first.

"I'm taking over your table for the rest of the night. Were you waiting on anything I can check on for you?" I don't quite smile as I make my introduction - I rarely do in any scenario - but I try to look pleasant at least.

I resist the urge to grab her wrist away as she drags me far too close for comfort. My choker pushes against the back of my neck, willing the Whispers forward, forward, forward, and Titicaca's wild eyes become the sky - expansive and alight with galaxies unexplored. Unexplored but beckoning. I close my eyes and will myself back into the center of my own universe.

With how tired I am, the mere act of closing my eyes has me swaying on my feet and I snap them open again. I want to tell her something snarky - that it would be a lot easier to get their beers if I weren't being chained here like a dog - but instead I say as calmly as possible, "I'll get those right away for you." And I wait for her to let me go while the Whispers slither around behind my skull like hungry snakes I've just denied a meal. I just need to keep them from striking out a bit longer.

My forehead flickers with pain as they all laugh, each guffaw like an anvil against my brain. Victoria isn't the only one with a headache, and I'm sure mine won't be cured so easily. Still, I give Suez a grateful look as I straighten, free from Titicaca's hold. I look at her with her wild, galaxy eyes beckoning. "You got it." The Whispers tell me I could know her, and crush her, but I turn away before their bait can sweeten too much.

I'm sure Dakota's other tables are just as impatient as this one, but this one is big and Titicaca is always a bit unhinged. As I pass one of my other newly-acquired tables, I put my hand on the end of the table and assure them, "I'll be right with you." But I try to move on before they can stop me. I really hope Kiwi's been watching and can get the Rafter's drinks up fast.

"Give me Librarians ANY night over those guys," I answer as I reach up and run a finger under my choker, situating it more comfortably after Titicaca's tugging displaced it. I sneak a glance over toward the Sippians' table. "But they drink less. You know she won't kick the Sippians out unless it's financially advantageous." Financially advantageous for her, of course. If the past is any indication, the Sippians are terrible tippers. I reach across the bar and help move glasses onto the tray. "Do you know what they've ordered? I'll help run it when it's up." Dakota won't be able to handle it, I know that. If I'm just dropping off drinks - NOT running their tab - I may escape the stormiest waters.

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.

You slam the heavy glass pitcher down hard onto the skinny fingers of Karo, the Sippian who pinched your zok.

He screeches in pain and snatches his hand to his chest, rolling away from you and falling off his chair. He mutters through hot tears how you've ruined his hand amid simpering whines and plaintive whimpers.

The entire Sippian section falls silent, their sudden quiescence rippling across the Belly. All of the Sippians turn their attention to Lucky Strike when he stands up. You catch a bit of movement from Regal as he slides out a revolver, but he doesn't bring it up, doesn't aim. You know Regal, Helix. He owes you, big time. Why does Regal owe you his life?

Nobody else seems to know about you and Regal, and even if they did, they're far too interested in Lucky Strike and what he's going to do to you.

The regret I experience the second Karo screams is a wave rising up against the side of a building, wet, dark, and heavy, swelling and consuming. The silence from the Sippians and the way it seeps across the bar is even worse than what happens when one of us drops a big tray. The feeling of spotlight is the same, but instead of breaking glass, I may have broken bones, and instead of Blackjack balking at backfill, the Sippians simmer at this sacrilege.

My heart is a drum in my ears, as the wave subsides and leaves Lucky Strike standing in its wake. He pulls out the chair for me, and I don't think I have any choice but to sit, perching on the edge like a baby bird prone to fall from her nest. My fist still grips the handle of the pitcher that sits in my lap uselessly. I can't seem to let go.

I don't think I blink as Lucky Strike speaks, spinning a story of revenge and respect, actions and reactions. For once, I wish the Whispers would murmur to me again, so I wouldn't be alone under the Sippian's stares. Instead, their silence turns my skin to stone. My eyes seem the only part left free, taking in the Sippians when they laugh or grumble or jeer. Noticing Mikkie watching, probably eager to see a little bloodshed that doesn't involve him, some of the sport he creates, and I see Regal too, sliding that revolver free.

In many ways, Regal and I couldn't be more different. He a man, me a woman. His blond hair, my dark locks. He in a gang, me an island in this ocean. But for all our differences, we have one important commonality--we were both Ivies, one of the kids who climb rickety buildings and skyscrapers to scavenge whatever the wind has deposited among the skeletal remains. As kids, we were light enough to scale where full-grown adults dare not. I still see Ivies up there today, different kids from the ones I knew of course, but completing the same task that we did for the Gardeners who sell their treasures for profit.

Once, when we were climbing, one of the kids unhooked Regal's safety anchor - a mechanism not all Ivies even had access to. I hooked it back in and when I caught up to him a few floors up, I told him as much. He scoffed, telling me that he never falls anyway.

He fell that day, and that safety anchor saved his life, breaking a few of his ribs in the process, but Regal knows he owes me, especially because the imps who had unhooked his anchor in the first place beat me up after they realized what I'd done. But is something that happened so long ago worth him taking lead to his own gang? His own leader?

Not wanting to give him away, I bring my eyes back to Lucky Strike and his story. Every time Lucky says my name, my stomach lurches. It's like he's reminding me he knows exactly who I am, and that he won't soon forget.

Finally he stops and looks at me like he expects something from me - doesn't everyone? - but this time, I'm not sure what it is. My breath is shallow in my chest and my lips part softly, my tongue touching the hard line of my lip ring like it is the anchor attaching me to this world.

"I...guess..." I swallow, then manage, "I'm lucky then. That your mother didn't see this." My wrist twitches to the left, indicating the pitcher I hold, but I don't have the strength to actually lift it.

It would take a feather to push me over as Lucky Strike leans into my face, and something unnamably light when he tosses that nail onto the table and asks me for restitution.

I have no marketable skills apart from delivering drinks and food to tables and running empty dishes back. I'm not a skilled fighter and sometimes it's as if I'm the only person in the whole world who hasn't fired a gun before. I tried once to join Canary out on the water - a failure when there's little else to drown out the Whispers.

The Whispers. They're back, with me, urging me out of this, and so I need them to save me - and Regal. I've scarcely stopped studying Lucky Strike since his story began.

To him, I tell the Whispers. Go to him. Ferry his mind to me.

Benson and Hedges, brothers and influential Sippians, don't buy Lucky's story about someone murdering his mother. They think he did it. Lucky knows they suspect and he's going to have to deal with them. Either by convincing them (which he doesn't think he can do) or offing them (which is his unfinished business).Lucky wants you to pledge yourself to the Sipps for a month to make up for the loss of Karo. He knows you've got some power of your own - maybe you can fix the Benson and Hedges thing, or maybe you'll just help him in other ways to secure his leadership and find the murderer of his mother.His deepest secret fear is the gang believing he killed Hard Strike, which, since you're in his head you can see he didn't do. If the Sipps thought like Benson and Hedges, they would kill him very slowly. But then they would curse his name and remove him from "the books", which is his greatest fear.

The Whispers are a barrage returning to me, a dozen tiny bullets burrowing into my brain, each one humming a different resonance. My neck tenses under their attack, eyes closing as sensations and images invade. I see Benson, Hedges. Hard Strike. Karo. The name of Lucky Strike written in smoke and erased with the swipe of a hand. His fear is a dark pit in my own heart, a void that yawns before me as if I've lived with it every day. With one false step, I will be nothing.

I open my eyes again, back to the world I know with that bloody nail staring at me from the table, Lucky looming over me, Sippians all around. My breath trembles as I exhale.

"I can't drive a boat or fire a gun either," I say softly, looking up at Lucky Strike with wide eyes. "I can't replace him directly." My gaze flicks to the nail, then back to him. " But I can..." I swallow, "help you out..." I remember that this is a gang, functioning as a group, so I amend, to, "...help you all out, until he's back."

The Sippians cheer and resume their usual cacophony of conversation while I am left with a fettered future. I find some solace in Regal's retreat and Mikkie's exit, paltry bandages for a longer-lasting wound. I sigh, about to stand when Karo speaks. My lips twitch as words hit the back of them, restrained only by my recently returned common sense. Just because you like it doesn't mean you can grab it, you hazmot.

I do stand now, my knees soft paper under my body. "Let me bring you some ice," I say, ducking my head and heading for the bar to do just that.

End Scene