Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

Location: Downtown Archipelago - Car Lyle
Time: early morning


Helix,

When the sun's rays peek over the water and wake you, you find yourself in the comfy bed where you fell asleep with Salem. Surprisingly, you find yourself alone - no sign of the little girl, not even a stray curly hair or other sign of her presence. You hear the sound of people in other rooms, moving about. Also, there's the sound of something sizzling coupled with the smell of cooking meat, and it isn't fish.

What do you do?

When I open my eyes, these things are true: Kiwi is dead, I don't want to be here, and the sun still rises.

Despite what happened yesterday, or maybe because of it, once I fell into the current of sleep, it carried me far and deep. This bed is objectively more comfortable than my own, and Salem's little body by mine kept any chill of night away. Now, though, I'm wondering if I only imagined her.

I sit up, taking in the room in the light of day and inhaling the scent of meat, not briny and sweet, but something distinctly non-oceanic. I can't imagine what. Rat, maybe? If you don't let them feast on garbage, they don't taste like it later. My stomach tightens with hunger, a sensation I've long since conceded to accepting as a faithful friend.

I make the bed, wincing when I move my arm too quickly, shooting pain through my elbow. If anything, the bruise and cut look worse today, but hurtful things often do in the light. I straighten myself up as best I can, smoothing the wrinkles out of the yellow dress and running my fingers through my hair to work out the snarls. I don't relish the idea of leaving this space and starting a day with the Sippians, but avoidance won't save me. Only I can do that.

I wonder if Lucky Strike found my scalpel left by his gun last night. What did he make of it? Will I ever get it back? I open the door and quietly make my way toward the kitchen.

You find nobody in the hallway and head to the kitchen to find this woman busy cooking strips of meat in a skillet:


You've served Pall Mall at the Belly dozens of times. What's her favorite drink? How does she tip?

Pall Mall usually drinks, and I quote, "anything extra dirty." Kiwi usually ended up mixing beer and pickle juice, but sometimes made a true vodka martini. Regardless, Pall Mall was usually all bark and no bite. She'd berate me boundlessly, then leave a good tip under her chair where none of the other Sippians would see it. I wonder who will mix her drinks now that Kiwi is gone.

She orders me into the kitchen and the counter in my chest clicks the start of another shift. It's the feeling I get every time I step into the Belly, but now it may be my life. I wonder if by the time the month is up, I'll still feel it, or if it will become like every other harsh reality - registered at first, then routine.

"Sorry," I say, moving into the kitchen and opening the cabinet she pointed out. "I'm used to working nights." I pull seven glasses down - enough for the six at the table and Pall Mall - and start filling them up. Without a proper serving tray, I can only carry five drinks at once - three in the palm of one hand with a fourth balanced on top, and the fifth in my serving hand. It means I'll be leaving someone out on my first trip to the table. Perhaps that should be Salem, as the youngest, but instead I drop my first drink to Lucky and the second to Salem. I leave one of the others out at random, running a second trip to the table just for them.

I should be able to go back to the bar where I could roll my eyes with Kiwi at the rude comments from customers before coming back into the fray. Now the only one waiting for me is Pall Mall, and even if she's left good tips before, that doesn't mean I trust her enough to be honest with her.

The comment Benson makes about Nuport is a barb that sticks though, and my lips tighten, turning down at the corners as I straighten. I wonder how much worse the world would get for me if I smashed a second Sipp's hand, or head.

I inhale through my nose, pushing the thought away. I don't need the Whispers to remember the bloody nail Lucky laid on the table. But that doesn't make the Whispers useless.

'You said Mikkie talks to you,' I ask them as I go to get Benson's water. 'Do you help him win his fights?'

"We do, we do," a voice responds in a syrupy sweet voice.

"But only when he begs us," another snaps.

"And the cost is high," yet another warns. "Very high. What do you want help with, Helix?"

You pour the water from the sink into the glass to bring it back to Benson. He reaches for the water and you feel Lucky Strike's eyes on you, watching.

What do you do?

The Whispers mention a cost and my ribs shrink. Having them trapped in my head is costly enough. What else would they want? Would it be worth it?

I cross the room with Benson's water, wishing I had Orion's venom to top it off for him.

'I want to know how I can get under Benson's skin,' I tell the whispers as I hand off the water and watch Benson the way a caged dog watches its captor. The hair on my neck bristles with the sense of someone else's eyes on me and I blink to the present, looking over at Lucky Strike for a moment before I step away from Benson and go back to the kitchen to await my next orders. It feels like Lucky sees too much.

In a flash, you see Benson's younger brother Hedges standing twenty feet over him, laughing at him. Benson shrinks down and cowers from Hedges, fear putting a telltale tremor in his voice.

When the vision fades, you find yourself standing by the table. Benson yanks the glass away from you, calling you a stupid cow for being so slow.

The vision floods my emotions, drowning me in Benson's fear and Hedges' power, the dichotomy threatening to tear me in two. Just as soon as it comes, though, it goes, as do so many things in this world - food, freedom, friends - and I'm once again a stupid cow in a yellow dress trapped with dirty dishes and, if I'm lucky, my daily dregs.

I avoid meeting Salem's gaze as I move back to the kitchen, but I can't help but wonder what she makes of this. She's likely used to it, me and the "other slaves" being demeaned and demanded about, but I doubt she dreamed alongside any of them the night before. I doubt she dazedly dubbed any of them her mother in the after-midnight hours.

It's Lucky Strike's last order that bothers me most. Being given a task is one thing. Being sequestered to a single space for an indeterminate length of time feels like a pointless power play. It is a bitter weed on my tongue. I don't answer Lucky Strike aloud, but I set about washing the dishes like he said, thinking of the dishes I left drying at my own apartment as I do. Will they still be waiting for me when I get back? I have to get my pets before long, but I don't think asking for a return trip home is going to do me any good right now. If I ever have a free moment, maybe Regal would take me.

While I wash, I listen, trying to glean as much as I can from this breakfast gathering. Are these members Lucky's inner circle? Or is this merely a casual occurrence? Why is Salem here with no other children around?

The group seems to be Lucky's inner circle - they're getting prime meat and service on the upper floor. You notice as they talk that none of them are smoking. There are no ashtrays up here, the telltale stench of cigarettes is absent. It must be some rule or something because at the Belly everyone in the Sipps smokes. Pall Mall hands over a skillet and a couple of pots you have to scrub, but she doesn't care that you're here - you just save her work. You can feel Salem's eyes on you as she sneaks looks at you a few times.

Benson and a couple of the other Sipps are telling Lucky Strike about repairs on "the big ship". Lucky's asking probing questions about the engines and guns. It sounds like something big. Big ships don't sail in the Downtown Archipelago because of the risks of tearing open on unseen buildings, but it very much sounds like this ship is going to sail downtown. Benson laughs as he calls it "our real pirate ship". It sounds like they should have it ready to sail in a few days.

Lucky Strike tells them to go get to work and promises he'll be by to check things out soon. Sounds like the ship isn't in Car Lyle. They exit and Salem is told to go find Bristol to work on her lessons. Lucky tells Pall Mall to "take off", and she wipes off her hands and leaves, too. It means you're alone with Lucky Strike.

I don't understand how the Sippians think they're going to get the "big ship" through the buildings and rubble in the Archipelago, but maybe I'm too dim to follow their conversation correctly. Canary would know. She also knows precisely how ill-suited I am for the waters around us, a weakness I'm resolved to keep hidden from my current company.

More than the mechanics of the big ship, though, I'm worried about the mission. Bringing a big ship - a pirate ship as Benson says - into the midst of our world doesn't seem like a good thing, especially when that ship is in the hands of the Sippians.

I've only just exhaled a breath of relief when Salem leaves, no longer worried about what her bright eyes are trying to tell me, when the tension returns double. Lucky Strike's quiet command makes me question every step I take. I know he's capable of issuing orders aloud, but when it's just us, he seems to prefer silence. It makes my hands feel too cold.

I follow him toward the door, unsure of everything but very aware that I don't know when I might have another chance alone with him. When I catch up to him, I say, "I have rent to pay. I have to work my shifts at the Belly still."

The wind whips past, carrying the smell of the water with it. The place is green with vegetation, all in pots that hang from wires in neat rows. You see a few people wearing wide hats to hide from the sun who tend it. Lucky heads to the edge of the roof and sits down. He's facing The Tower. He pats a piece of roof near him, a place to sit.

What do you do?

He doesn't answer and I don't dare ask again. When he leads us to the roof, I check the sky for storm clouds before I follow him up. The Whispers revel in the rain. It's how they first found me, and to this day storms will turn me to a mewling kitten, sequestered to a fetal heap on my bed with my hands clapped over my ears until the storm passes.

Without imminent clouds, I safely climb to the roof and take in the view. It reminds me of my days as an Ivy, ascending to dizzying heights, and when Lucky Strike invites me to sit beside him, it brings back another memory of my Ivy days. The sound of a body hitting the water from this high up. It isn't so much a splash as a splat. A dull thunk of flesh on something that is more solid than liquid before the corpse disappears below the surface.

Lucky threatened to nail my body to the side of a building last night. I doubt he'd hesitate to push me off the edge of one today, but I have no choice. I move up to sit on the edge beside him, trying to remain as far away as I can without it being too obvious. My fingertips press hard into the rooftop below me, holding onto the surface just in case.

My whole being is balanced on the edge of a blade. On either side, a lethal fall, and where I am a cutting danger. I watch Lucky Strike even though he doesn't look at me, my eyes keen for any flinch or twitch that might indicate a threat.

I had hoped he'd forget about what I said last night, but apparently he has only stewed on it since then.

I swallow, then I skirt the question with, "If you had, wouldn't you be broadcasting it as a reason none of the Sippians should cross you? A man willing to kill his own blood wouldn't hesitate to oust an unruly pledge. I haven't heard you doing that."