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

The night air doesn't feel as refreshing as it should, and that's not due only to the fact that the Sippian's smoke creates a cloud around us. My already sullen countenance deepens when Bristol mentions the money issue. Between the short shift and my distractions with Mikkie and the Vaulters, I'm definitely behind where I should be. I know anything beyond rent and survival is going to be slurped up by the Sipps right now anyway, but at this rate, I'm not sure I'll even make rent.

I don't meet Bristol's eye when she tells me Lucky's already asked for me. I can guess what she assumes he's so eager to have me back for.

I pull the straps of my backpack a little tighter to make sure it's secure and pat my pockets to make sure nothing's going to fall out, which is when I feel that note from the cakes in my pocket. I'd hoped to find someone who I trust enough to read it for me, but now my only options will be Sippians again. With no idea what it says, that doesn't feel like a risk I can take.

I take a breath and head over to join Bristol on her ski. I'm too tired to argue, to worn out to fight, and I need all the energy I have left for talking to Lucky when we get back.

Bristol's jet ski skims away from The Belly's harbor and the wind bites with chilly teeth at your face. One of the Sippians (named "Sampoerna", but they call him Sampy), rides ahead and does a lazy twisty line - showing off. Bristol chuckles at him and calls him stupid, but doesn't join in on the shenanigans. Soon you see the high rise of Car Lyle ahead. Bristol brings her jet ski into the pier and ropes it off. She leads you back inside the Sippian headquarters. You notice the place is a bit emptier than it was last night as you head to the elevator shaft to climb up to the penthouse level. Bristol seems ready to stay behind and watch you climb away.

What do you do?

My heart stutters when Sampy does his trick, worried that Bristol will do the same with me at her back. I grew up in the air, not on the water, despite the world we live in. I try not to act uncomfortable around the waves, but I fear them deep down inside. It's a wonder I ever tried to work with Canary out there, but I was desperate at the time and I had to try.

When we reach the Car Lyle and head upstairs, I hesitate at the elevator shaft. I turn back to look at Bristol. "Where is everyone? Early curfew tonight?"

The corner of my mouth turns down, but I don't address her last assumption. "I thought the ship wasn't going to be ready for a few days."

The way Bristol tells me it’s nothing for me to worry about reminds me of Wells Fargo telling me not to "worry my pretty little head," and my jaw only tightens further when she calls Lucky my master.

"He talks in his sleep you know," I say, reaching a hand to the ladder and grabbing hold. "Maybe if you’re nicer to me, I’ll tell you what he says about you." I swing up onto the ladder and head up to the penthouse floor.

As you climb, a natural movement that should be like walking, you notice the kinks in your neck muscles and fatigue in your arms. The Whispers rush in.

"You could fall. Fall down to break your neck," a gravely male voice whispers.

"Join Kiwi. Join everyone you've ever loved," a whisper says with a snicker.

"We'll read you the note." a voice offers.

Finally, you climb up to the penthouse floor. Somewhere down a hallway, you hear an old man coughing - the kind of cough that makes you wince internally with the pain of it. Wet and shuddering. The cost for decades of smoking and fighting the world. Death in a bed on your back alone.

Do you knock at Lucky's door?

I grip the ladder more tightly as the Whispers taunt me, missing the noise of the Belly.

'I don't trust you to read it to me,' I answer back, annoyed, ignoring the rest.

I take a moment to still my heart when I reach the top then creep down the hall, feeling very much like an intruder. The wet cough makes me worry that the Whispers will soon be pushing me to trap another soul with them. I walk faster and don't bother knocking when I reach the door, heading right inside, eager to escape the reminder of how imminent the end always is.

The walk to Lucky's door by yourself seems longer, but you do eventually reach it.

1407


You push it open - why would Lucky lock it, right? It opens and you spot Salem sitting on the floor on the plush plush carpet. She has several small plastic dolls in mismatched bright clothing and she's playing with them, animating them, and talking for them. She seems lost in the story she's telling.

Lucky is seated at the fine dining table, hunched over a book reading. It's dog-eared and cracked but seems to hold fascinating words the way he's scanning it. He's shirtless and you see there's a bandage on his shoulder, white on the edge and red in the middle. He looks up when you enter suddenly, but doesn't reach for a weapon.

What do you do?

In my younger years, I would have stammered out the first syllables of all the reactions that flit through me at what I see, surprise making me a stumbling mess of what is ultimately nothing. Now, I keep my reactions from my mouth, milling them through my mind first as I stand there just inside the door, a frozen mass of what is ultimately nothing.

What happened to your arm?
What are you reading?
You can read.
Do you ever wear a shirt at home?
You wanted to see me?
Do you know what happened with Karo and Nuport earlier?
Do you know what happened with Hedges?
Salem is up late for someone so young.

My gaze lingers on her, imagining myself in her place as a child. How different would I have been if I'd had dolls with bright outfits and a plush carpet to play on? A family to watch over me after my mother died? Would the Whispers still have come for me?

I realize I've been quiet and still for too long and my gaze snaps back to Lucky like a flag catching a sudden shift in the wind.

I walk closer, but stop a good six feet away, far enough away, I hope, that he won't expect me to be able to see his book from here. I choose what seems like the safest place to start. "What are you reading?"

My chest tightens when he raises the book to show me. I stare at it, wondering if I could trust the Whispers to read this for me, but then he asks his question and I feel my chest relax. That, at least, is a question I can definitively answer.

"No. You seem to be enjoying it though." I glance down at Salem to see if she's watching this or still lost in play, and so that I don't have to look at that book anymore.

Salem's innocent eyes make me feel even more spotlighted as Lucky pushes on my ignorance, saying my name in the way that he does when he's setting the hook and not letting go.

The Whispers are two-thirds right. Yes, he knows. Yes, I'm stupid. But I'm not going to ask them for help. If they try to do to Lucky what they did to Hedges, I will never make it out of here alive.

I push them away to some dark corner of my empty, useless mind. There should be plenty of room for them there, but it still takes conscious effort that makes my forehead flicker with the bright beginnings of a headache.

"You know the answer to that question," I tell him softly, meeting his eyes and trying not to seem as ashamed as I am. "Wouldn't you rather ask me something you don't know?"

I go still as he approaches, not sure if I'm about to get screamed at or sneered at or smacked. Instead, as he names his mother as the reason he learned, my cheeks burn with restrained emotion. I don't need the Whispers to remind me that I didn't have a mother to teach me to read, or write, or play with dolls on a plush carpet. The idea of Pall Mall teaching me, of Pall Mall knowing, fills me with a deep sense of shame that turns the back of my neck hot. Would I be there seated between Salem and the other children, practicing making shaky lines and inelegant curves into meaning? My eyes sting with sudden tears, vision blurring as I try to suck them back into my body. My jaw stiffens, back straightening. Even with my midriff exposed, I'm far too hot suddenly, everything burning.

"No thank you," I manage, each word forced with rigid precision past my tightening throat. "I'm not your advisor. I'm your-" I stop short of saying it, glancing at Salem and working to quickly blink the glaze of tears away, away, away before I look back to Lucky. "Not your advisor," I repeat.