Belly up to the Bar (C 1.4, H 1.5)

Not even important enough to kill. Wells doesn't say it outright, but being "beneath notice in the Belly" can't mean anything else. Perhaps it should be a comfort, but it cuts instead.

I draw back, straightening and pulling my arm from around him so I can turn on the arm of the loveseat to face him more directly. "That's the problem though. I'm not just here anymore. The Sippians have...indentured me." The word still sits strangely on my tongue, but if Pellet used it, it's got to be good enough for a Vaulter too. "I know Hard Strike was shot. If Lucky is next, I don't want to get caught in the crossfire."

I work up the best look of innocent shock that I can. "Do you mean that you got rid of Hard Strike so that you could put pressure on Lucky instead? To do what?" It feels dangerous, pushing harder into this territory, but I hope I've laid enough of a foundation that the Vaulter's vitriol won't turn on me.

Wells Fargo's answer returns my mind to the mention of the "big ship" and the Sippian's supposed strategy to get it into the city. Spaceships I don't believe in, but ships on the sea and guns on what passes for ground are undeniable. I didn't think it had anything to do with anyone other than the Sipps themselves though. I frown at the thought, feeling every bit the feather-headed floozy he expects me to be, too lost in thought to even consider moving away from his touch. His question at the end catches me like a riptide. For a solid, stupid second, I wonder if he was the one who left me that note with the cakes outside my door earlier. Then I remember that Wells barely acknowledged my presence until I put myself in his perception.

"The yellow ones, filled with cream, yes. And a chocolate one with the white curly icing on top." I twirl my finger in the little loops like the frosting makes. I'm glad I have an answer for him at least. Telling him no would have made me feel like the insignificant speck I am. I leave out the fact that both were gifts.

I'm relieved Wells turns back to the fight, to the corpse that I caused, after his comment on fresh baked cakes and his invitation to better things. My cheeks are warm as I realize I wouldn't have even considered that option. People still do that? Bake? It makes my stomach clench thinking that the best of what I've had still doesn't measure up. While he's talking to Jay Pee, I snatch the glass of whiskey from him, tipping it back to take that first sip that he promised me, just a sip and no more. I'm not looking to start a fight, but I'm at least getting the best we have here. I set the remainder of the glass down on the little table in front of him as I stand, whipping the Whispers toward him in a mix of frustration and embarrassment.

The whiskey burns down your throat like a trophy leaving an indelible mark, wetting your eyes and almost making you cough. There's a feeling of victory in the taste and you hear the approval of the Whispers:

"Yes, take what is rightfully yours."

"Make him a poppet of ours. We want his power."

You demand answers from the Whispers and they deliver:
"Wells is waiting for Lucius to come to him." a flat-voiced Whisper reports.

"Lucius, the servant of Princy of the Tower. They're in cahoots!" a soft one adds with a giggle at the word "cahoots".

"Wells is planting seeds and Lucius grew wrong. He must decide if he will prune it or plant it in another garden." a hollow voice explains

The whiskey warms in my chest as the Whispers deliver the answers. The combination of heat and knowledge feels like a fire that I can almost feel flickering in my eyes.

I know next to nothing of the Tower's politics and dealings, but now I imagine they eat cake for breakfast - freshly baked. Princy is the one Edmund works for, I know that much, and I know Edmund - arrogant, clean, a perfect servant who would never slack in his duties to chat with a Vaulter, but of course he'd never have need to. The aftertaste of the whiskey turns bitter on my tongue.

"If Lucius is coming here," I tell Wells, "I hope you warned him we don't have cake." I turn to walk briskly from the VIP lounge, hoping I can escape before Wells, or his hired muscle, stops me.

You slip away from Wells and Jay Pee, feeling Jay Pee's eyes on your zok as you slip past Truist without trouble. You're so concerned with giving them the slip that you nearly run right into Mikkie's chest. The big guy is covered in sweat and someone else's blood.

Mikkie is a crucifixion incarnate. I inhale sharply as I draw back from the gore on his garb, my mind whirling to transition from cakes to carnage.

"I saw," I tell him. "But it wasn't my mission. The Whispers will be happy though, I'm sure." My tone is too firm, too standoffish, but I don't want to take credit for killing Caspian. I take a quick breath and add more calmly, "I'm glad you're okay. You are, right? Okay, I mean?"

Mikkie mentions planting seeds and it echoes what the Whispers said about Wells planting seeds. I suppose it makes sense - we're all connected after all - but it's strange hearing it aloud and in his distinctive tone.

I sigh and run a hand over my tired, bruised face. "No mission. I'm just trying to go back to the way things were." But even after I've said it, I wonder if it's true. After what's happened, can I just go back to the way things were? Kiwi won't be here, not like he was anyway, so it's impossible to do completely. I frown but continue my thought, "The Vaulters hold the key."

"You can't just kill everyone who's evil!" I whisper-yell at him, surprise surpassing my survival instinct. "There wouldn't be anyone left!"

Mikkie's laughter is a sound I've not heard before, and the way it echoes in his mask makes it sound like a whole chorus of Mikkie's laugh with him. Or maybe that's the Whispers.

I note the blood dripping from his torso with a concerned pull to my eyebrows, but I admittedly have equal concern for the disgruntled customers around me. Or rather, concern for me having to deal with them.

"You're hurt," I tell Mikkie, not asking this time. "You want to be around to help me? You should get that checked out." I take a few steps to a nearby table and start gathering up empty dishes, hoping that the way Mikkie sees me will be enough to make him listen. I have tables to take care of.

After fights, I've heard some of the fighters talk about going to see Fubu to get fixed up. Well, the fighters who live to walk out of the ring anyway. There are three things I know about Fubu: she doesn't treat every patient who comes to her for help, she won't drink the water at the Belly, and she told me once that she has "many children." The way she said it made me wonder if she meant it literally, but I didn't ask.

I don't know if Mikkie will go see Fubu or if he has some contact of his own, but I have too much to do to worry about the details at this point. The fact that he agreed will have to be good enough and if the Whispers want him to keep warring for them, they'll have to pick up the slack.

I head back toward the kitchen to drop off the empties I picked up and to face an almost certainly perturbed Parcher.