Chapter VII - Healing Pains

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn tilted her head thoughtfully. "I'll disagree on that somewhat. Philosophizing has drifted out of the realm of educated men to some degree and diffused itself in pop culture, for better or for worse. Sting's an example, but you have some profound ideas embedded in a song's lyrics," she explained.

Still, the fact Gremory mentioned Tiktok, but he did't understand who Sting was puzzled her somewhat. The female roane raised a brow at the incubus. "How familiar are you with current events in the mortal realm? Sting was around before TikTok, but you obviously have access to clothing that might've suited some '80s hair bands. When I had to rescue Tom from the seraglio, your siblings acted like a modern belt might as well have been a Gordian knot."

Ciaran thought back to Tom's first days among them. "From what I remember, Tom was familiar with jazz, but he was less so with other genres or modern day items. Why is the exposure to our realm so piecemeal, especially with someone like Salome?"

***

Aspasia frowned thoughtfully at Azazel's assessment of his personal color palette. "I think you're still subconsciously thinking of yourself as a denizen of Hell, or at least the old version of it," she mused, having learned of how Lucifer's had completely transformed the plane. "That won't do if you're going to become an honorary member of the Fae."

She glanced at Coach and nodded. "Those are typically the colors for the Summer Court. On a more detailed level, I'd say Titania's court favors pastels, which counters Morgana's more tropical, neon feel. The way Summer Fae dress denotes their allegiances."

"You'll probably need some suits, as I don't see you wanting to dress in medieval or Renaissance garb, like the Gruffs do. Maybe even some athletic wear, as I'm sure you'll have mentors teaching you how to use some sort of weapon for self-defense at the very least. A bow and arrow likely enough, if not a sword."

She looked toward the stores in the distance. "Come on, speculating on what attire is suitable for you is pointless until we see what the sellers have available."

[IamLEAM1983]

"Time - or the mortal concept of time - is a bit of a chestnut for us," noted Gremory, with an inclusive nod of the head towards Tom. "Unless you do what your beau took to doing and live out your days at the rate of one second per second, Hell and Heaven's notions of eternity muddle things to a degree."

Magnus finished his Virgin Ceasar and took a sip, grunting slightly in agreement as he did. "It's a bit of a pithy comparison, but some immortals could more or less be likened to dementia sufferers," he told Aislinn. "They see the mortal plane through jump cuts and rewinds, slow fades and bleed-throughs, usually at the rate of whoever and however many mortal souls they come in contact with. I've been largely living here for thousands of years and my only big pause happened when I goaded Belial into imprisoning me. I missed out on the nineties but Quint's mind has a decent set of memories of the decade, which is why it doesn't show in my case. In Gremory's, however, focusing on a single client means he's only caught bits and pieces of the last several generations."

Gremory smiled. "Not to worry, though - we're fast learners, as you've seen. If I had to compare situations, however, Tommy's is much more comfortable than mine, obviously. One wrong rhetorical step and I could seriously offend one of the local music lovers. I know my Mozart, for instance - bloke had a bit of a stint in Lust before Ascending - but his contemporaries are just names, to me."

Tom clicked his tongue. "Speaking of fast learning, I'm guessing you have some grasp on mixology?
- Not officially," replied the Steward of Lust with a slow, feline grin. "Officiously, I picked up a few things from the occasional collaborative project or two. I couldn't be caught dead remembering the names of all the combinations your patrons might ask for, but desire hangs pretty heavily on anyone who comes into a watering hole, looking for some release or solace. Some people like it sweet, others like it hard. Add some bitterness, a little piquant; a watery caress or the slickness of more full-bodied spirits - and you've got yourself a cocktail. I ran a few trials with other souls, back Downstairs. Cherry-picked a few contemporary minds, planted them in a ritzy ballroom plucked out of some movie, somewhere, and I learned to pair liquid desires with their actual names."

Giving his brother an oblique glance, Tom slid aside by a step or two, opening one arm in a beckoning gesture. "It's far too early for a drink, obviously, but I'm a warthog and Aislinn and Ciaran are selkies. We'll know how accurate you are by scent."

Returning the glance playfully, Gremory's steps flowed past the counter, where he made a bit of a show out of the idea of skipping past the double-hinged doors that separated the back of the bar from the surrounding stools and the nearby dance floor. Tom composed himself and obviously tried to make any desires he might express feel rather hermetic. So, with crossed arms, he addressed the roanes while keeping his eyes on his would-be employee.

"Ciaran - time him, please. Let's assume it isn't bright and early out and that you're actually looking for something to liven up a party... Don't go too easy on him, hm? Imagine you're a high roller and you've got a very specific cocktail in mind, something complex and custom-tailored."

Gremory leaned against the back of the bar with a bit of a teasing moue. "Someone's been up here too long, I'd say," he teased. "I imagine that's what happens when you save the world and end up as the only Pitspawn on record with a Presidential Medal of Freedom."

Tom's attitude cooled slightly, but he concealed it behind a smirk. "We've all received one," he noted. "All of us who organized the resistance here, and every other American figurehead of the Pride War countrywide. I'm not exactly special, in that department."

* * *

"I'd reccomend getting a suit cut," noted Spector, "either here or in Walpurgis. Saville Row's Brownie tailors can work wonders with ward-work, but I've found nothing beats Kevlar lining on Italian silk. Swords and bows might be common with the Fair Folk, most of everyone reasons like your average thug. Slap some gloves on and you can touch all the iron you'd care to."

Azazel looked a bit perturbed, not so much by his suggestion as by the fact that nobody seemed to pay any mind to the fact of such a lanky figure unfurling itself from a food court table. The Wisp caught the inference, the bottom half of its face creasing in a suggested smirk.

"I never carry," he said. "I don't need to. If Halcyon's tatters attempt anything here, they'll die before their remains have any chance of touching the ground. That's if I don't simply enthrall them and let them fend for themselves.
- They'd just be carrying out orders," noted the liberated Scapegoat. "Isn't that a bit excessive?
- It would be if I had them kill themselves," noted Spector. "I haven't been this expeditious since Oberon exposed me to the Hearth. Even if I wanted to subject someone to self-destructive mental decay, I couldn't. The more gruesome ends of my abilities are locked away indefinitely."

As if on cue, a demon clad in an ill-fitting suit approached the group, greeting card in hand. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear you and I thought I'd introduce myself. I'm Gorgo - everyone calls me Greg - I'm part of a group of reformed Greed representatives and we'd like to expand our outreach towards our mortal beneficiaries, as a show of thanks for our liberation. I've been made administrator for a trove of considerable power left unclaimed even in Mammon's days, and I-"

Spector's hand flashed, a leather-inset laminate appearing between his fingers. "William Spector, Special Arcane Investigations, FBI. Credentials, please."

Gorgo stammered. "Um, you see, I'm, uh, accredited by Greed and, well, we're trying to give back-
- Then you won't mind showing me the Writ of Authorization Melmoth would've delivered to you. Might I see it?"

Greg made a bit of a show of patting his suit and then tried to dig for something in his jacket pocket, Spector's other hand immobilizing his arm in the split-second that followed. His other arms blurred into view, a slight tear appeared in the alabaster-white mask of his face, which soon tore open in a nightmarish grin. His pale tongue flashed out for an instant and an animal's growl left his chest. By now, Greg was absolutely terrified and looked into the Wisp's featureless mien, something in his gaze shifting, turning hazy.

Power similar to that of the Black Speech, if expressed in plain English, left the Wisp in a growl. "Leave Obsidian Plaza. Return to your colleagues, tell them you couldn't find a suitable mark. Forget you ever saw Azazel."

Greg's features turned slack, a quiet "Yes," escaping him as what he'd been looking to brandish fell out of his jacket. The blue-white flames that had been licking at Silas' finger bones dissipated when he noticed the object. It was a simple can of Mace.

"He knew he'd have the upper hand if he pleaded self-defense," he then noted, bending down to recover it. One of Spector's added arms picked it up from Coach's hand, blended back into his main right hand, and left the Wisp with his laminate pinched between two fingers and the can held by the rest. He let go of the huckster and jerked his chin, the ragged slit in his face closing.

Nobody had noticed. The failed conman turned back, looking confused, and muttered vague excuses before teetering away, a hand on his head. Azazel looked on, blinking. "So, I'm safe, then," he summarized.

Spector adjusted his tie. "With a heroine of two world-redefining battles, the local undead cowboy, Joyful Death's wielder, a Soulborn and the former White King in tow, kiddo, you're as safe as safe can be. You're just lucky the first idiots to make a pass at you figured you'd fall for the Spanish Letter con."

[Karl the Mad]

"Morgan le Fay..." Marius thought about it for a few moments. "Some of the stories say she was Merlin's apprentice, others say she seduced him and half of Arthur's court. Most of them agree she was Arthur's half sister, a powerful sorceress in her own right and quite seductive, but protective of Arthur overall. Well, except in the stories where she lusts for his throne. Or his wife, it was hard to say.

"I think what the boy's getting at here, though, is the part where she deceived Merlin and seduced him, along with others around Arthur himself. Which fits with what he said about Morgana."

He smirked a bit. "And I may be making progress, but it wasn't so long ago that I was doing the opposite to those around me. Using fear and pain as my tools of manipulation, instead of honeyed words and promising looks."

----------------------------

That was a lot to take in all at once, and Charles wasn't sure how to reply right away. "That's... awful nice of ya, but let's git t' know each other a bit better, eh?" he remarked congenially, concealing his initial unease. "We been drivin' back 'ere fer a while but we ain't talked much th' whole time, been drivin' 'n sleepin' mostly."

[TennyoCeres84]

Nodding to Tom, Ciaran watched as Gremory made a show of approaching the counter top and sat down. He kept a neutral expression and leaned against the bar and let his mind drift.

Eventually, the incubus would pick up on the selkie's cocktail preference. It was a drink made with gin and had a long history, likely having its origins from a saloon. It was a complicated drink in that it required exact measurements for the right taste, but the ingredients brought to mind sweet and tartcitrus flavors that would counter the the base alcohol's flavor, as well as creamy. He was thinking specifically of a Ramos Gin Fizz that he had heard about from Coach, but he kept his desire and its name hidden.

He sent the bartender candidate a pointed look and eyed his wrist watch. "Go," he simply said, refraining from giving him any particular expression.

***

"Even with safety of us around you, it's always wise to keep your wits about you," Aspasia noted. "Though, that's a skill that comes with time and experience, but I know you've got a sharp mind for that sort of thing."

The older fauness then looked around at the stores and eyed a ritzy store that resembled a Macy's in the prime of the '80s. In the front windows stood various mannequins of Fae and Wyldfae dressed in their best attire. "I think that'd be a good place to start," she stated, gesturing toward the business.

[IamLEAM1983]

Someone else would've probably widened their eyes, frozen in sudden panic or stammered some sort of plea for additional details, but Gremory didn't do much more than keep his eyes on Ciaran, something like a thoughtful purr dwelling in his throat, his jacket failing to conceal the way the glow inside his chest pulsated a few times - the incubus having effectively picked up the arrythmia of a desire being expressed so clinically. Ciaran hadn't lusted for a drink, he'd merely requested it. After two long seconds of a casual, almost defiantly-maintained stare, the elder incubus pushed himself off of the back countertop and turned around, raising his hands and waggling his fingers. He looked like he was pulling randomly, but everything seemed to fit. Gin, Tom's reserve of premade simple syrup, heavy cream, lemons and limes from the small drinks freezer below the counter, orange flower water, a single egg and club soda.

Tom took a step back and crossed his arms, quirking an eyebrow at his brother's dismissal of the cocktail jiggers and the Hawthorne strainer, but didn't interrupt him. Gremory followed all the steps to the gin fizz' creation, but didn't so much do so with a seasoned barman's precision as with the measured hesitations of someone researching new mixology combinations. He didn't exactly waste time and his gestures were precise, but it felt as though he were discovering the recipe while putting it together. Tom naturally expected some sort of hesitation during service, seeing as he hadn't told Gremory how to recognize Collins glasses - but  again, the incubus picked the flat-bottomed and fluted vessel to be expected out of some strange instinct.

"And, stop," said the warthog, as the glass was placed on a Club Ishtar coaster and slid forward. "Hold your time, Ciaran; we'll need a point of comparison for measurements. You can sit with Ciaran and Aislinn again, Gremory - I'll need to make one myself..."

The silver-haired demon having returned to his stool, Tom set about making his own Ramos Gin Fizz. As could've been expected, he had the precision and speed to be expected of someone who'd spent virtually every bit of down-time during the Pride War dealing out cocktails to tired front-liners needing some respite. Unlike Gremory, he didn't trust his instincts to get the required doses right on the first try and efficiently measured all required quantities. Gremory's picking up of residual foam in the shaker had been a tiny bit sloppy, whereas Tom's was careful, twisting the measure of club soda around as he poured its contents, carefully ensuring that nothing would remain in the shaker. That done, he pulled out a third Collins glass and a small electronic scale, used the empty glass to tare its weight in ounces and then placed his own glass on the scale. Just a little over four ounces. Then, disturbing Gremory's light tweaking of the coaster with a finger, he picked his brother's own glass.

Gremory's was off by one-tenth of an ounce, but the head of froth on top concealed things adequately. Already knowing how much time he'd needed, Tom hadn't ask Aislinn to time him. "The local par is at about 37 seconds per glass, for this cocktail," he said. "Aislinn is 36, I have it down to 35. What's your watch say, Ciaran?"

The roane would've hit the mark at 35.6 seconds, for all of the older demon's seemingly improvisational approach, he'd effectively landed a bullseye in a respectable time. A rather messy bullseye, judging by the state of the recessed countertop, but that likely was something they'd be able to work on with time.

Now, to taste - or more accurately, smell... The Warlock took a few moments to let his snout hover over his own glass and then carefully wet his lips, then offering his glass to Aislinn so that her lips would touch a section of the glass' brim he hadn't touched. "Here," he said, "so you've got some sort of reference..."

Gremory scoffed lightly. "You've barely touched it, how are you getting a full measure of its personality?
- You've never inhabited an anthro's body before," noted Tom as he picked Gremory's glass for comparison, "and it shows..."

Again, the warthog settled with the most demure of sips, something professional for the proprietor of a serious evening venue. Gremory proved that he would've fooled someone too inattentive - or thirsty enough - to notice the small note of excess syrup. As with the countertop, this looked like something time would fix on its own. He then fished out a straw and handed his drink to Ciaran, waiting until Aislinn's brother would've taken its measure before transferring the straw to Gremory's own glass. Sipping at an alcoholic drink in a bar with a straw during daytime might've seemed weird, but at least Magnus kept sanitation as high as he could and minimized fluid transmission. The situation wasn't normal, obviously, as most patrons didn't go around swapping glasses or letting each other taste things.

* * *

The wannabe-Macy's was a bit of an odd experience for Azazel, which wasn't helped by the sight of vaguely Fae or Wyldfae-shaped animated mannequins cycling between poses. Signs urged visitors to actively ask the mannequins for directions, if need be, and the sight of a faceless being that looked like one of Spector's relatives taking its hands out of its pockets, centering its weight and pointing along an aisle without saying a single word unnerved him. He wasn't alone, however, in that several of the human and anthro visitors looked equally wigged out.

Coach stopped in front of what looked like the plaster cast of a bugbear if you'd covered it in pricey Italian silk cut in a double-breasted suit. Unsurprisingly, the bugbear mannequin was well-placed to point out most of the departments adjoining basic Smart Casual wear, from Formalwear to Accessories.

"Formalwear, please," asked the lich. The mannequin lifted a perfectly-sculpted furry paw in jerky motions and pulled its pair of vintage Oakleys down a peg, its features suggesting utter and complete congeniality. "For you, sir?" it asked, in a grinding, halting and muffled rendition of the usual bugbear baritone.

Coach extended a hand towards Azazel. "No, for him. I think he'll need a few items between Medium and Small.
- Price range?"

Spector looked a bit annoyed. "It's for a meeting," he said. "An official one."

The bugbear mannequin raised a hand back towards its sunglasses, pulled them back into position and held the pose for a second or two, perhaps in order to suggest thought. It then focused on Azazel.

"Rhapso & Ariadne, Third Floor. Menswear, formal. Sizes Elf to Extra-Extra Large. Tailoring and off-the-rack adjustments available. Escalators are to your right."

Coach's eye sockets widened slightly. "Rhapso & Ar - wait, isn't that a little too pricey? This is a Macy's, I don't think anyone at the, er, meeting would mind if we decked him out in Ralph Lauren or something."

The mannequin bent its knees, stepped off of its base and then sat down on it, adopting a posture that evoked conversation, a raised hand suggesting a point was being made. "Individuals present suggest particular needs. Similar events involving common brands resort in refunds seven-point-five times out of ten, and contact by officers of the law four-point-two times out of ten. Customer satisfaction is paramount."

Silas would've frowned rather tightly if he could've. "Pardon my curiosity, but how do you rate, compared to one of Paradise's Maintainer frames?"

The mannequin suggested a mechanical shrug. "This construct is inhabited by a minor spirit of Intellect, with a Turing Consciousness Index of 0.25. It may parse and collate data relevant to the Macy's of Obsidian Plaza and to other nearby stores, and is tasked with the recognition and appeasement of all significant threats to customers and salesforce alike. Similar Paradise devices would include personal organizers with audiovisual capabilities."

Coach nodded. "So you can't, say, be concerned for any one of us, here. 
- Customer satisfaction is paramount," repeated the mannequin. "Maintaining your homeostasis whilst on the premises absolves Management of all liability in the advent of sickness or sudden demise. Data suggests a projected loss of profits in the addition of dead customers. Again, individuals present suggest particular needs. Similar profiles rate 84% after use of Rhapso & Ariadne's order-in ward-stitching service."

It might've been easy to discount this as Silas being a needlessly prying old fossil, but that last bit of info struck him. It meant that in the relatively short time since the mall's inception, someone else had placed orders there. Someone else with very particular needs...

"I don't suppose you can disclose the names of these client profiles?"

Another shrug. "I cannot. Customer confidentiality agreements restrict my functionalities in this regard.
- Can you at least tell me how many you have on file? No details, just a number."

The bugbear mannequin jerked as it raised two fingers to its right temple, aping an effort of rememberance. "Three," it then said. "Three clients have requested suit cuts of various degrees of similitude from our licensed vendor at the Rhapso & Ariadne counter. Third floor. Escalators are to your right."

* * *

"Progress is still progress," countered Aidan. "As for using fear and pain, they're George Gammell and Bill Spector's tools of the trade. You can be objectionally, well, objectionable and still be on the right side of an argument."

Sarah pursed her lips together. "I'm not sure I'm cool with the idea of the guy who made Christmas ornaments and toys for generations also assembling Hellraiser-type traps for Team Amaxi to stumble onto, bro," she opposed. "I understand the Loyalists need to be stopped, but being a monster to the monsters feels like a half-measure - like someone somewhere's given up and gone for the stuff Edgelords are made of."

Three smiled as he moved to refill his coffee cup and to offer a refill to Marius, in case they'd need one or two extra gulps before moving along. "I'm sure George feels the exact same way, sis. Everyone who's anyone wishes they could just sit down, talk things through like adults. I'm probably the first. The thing is, and Marius can also attest to that, there's people out there who lack enough maturity to give a shit about your own efforts to stay objective. The Loyalists would probably sardonically thank you for defending them and then turn your brain to mush."

He scoffed in amusement at Vlastos. "If the world were just, you'd probably be able to design security systems that stop at speakers broadcasting a very polite request to turn back and please avoid touching any further objects. If that were the case, you'd be better served as an audio engineer or a shareholder for on-hold music publishers."

Gavin smirked as he outstretched his own cup-holding hand for a refill. "The only designer I know who'd get a kick out of a system designed like this would be Nigel Griffin. Knowing him, it'd probably be an elaborate fakeout to redirect the pen-tester's attention elsewhere."

* * *

"You're probably right," noted Xenophon, again rubbing at his face, this time to tear away at any remaining embers of grogginess that still stuck to the back of his mind. He grunted and bent down to recovered a Thermos of coffee they'd shared, and picked the paper cup he'd previously used. "Meris could confirm; I get attached easily. I care - probably too much. Before I met her, I had the grand idea of dedicating the last two Feasts of Harrogath to the people - especially to our slaves. I dressed it up as initiating the least of us to the exquisite ends of Their corruption, but I never really did manage to fool Chambers. I'd put together plans with House Lulroth to give the chattel a week of libations with no corporeal or mental abuse and paid half of the House Speakers in seafood to have them intimidate the other half into compliance. I hadn't counted on Harrogath Himself keeping tabs on my plans."

He looked out the window and sighed. "The Devourer used my sleeping hours to bypass me and warn Chambers. On the day of the first Feast, he took me over completely and didn't relinquish control until a week after the event. On the second, he made us stay co-conscious - I was trapped behind my own face while I gorged on the table I'd set aside for redistribution. He tore at my stomach's lining, left me bedridden..."

A pause. "I learned to close myself off to Them, outside of protocol-related events. As much as I'd like to, I can't rush things between us, Charles. If I did, They might take notice. They like..."

Another hesitation. "They enjoy the taste of kindness defiled. They thought being brought low and being opened to Chambers' depredations would break me. If Meris hadn't been captured and brought to me as tribute, I probably never would've..."

He didn't finish. "If we haven't been attacked yet, it's probably because of this. They know what I'm willing to do to preserve my freedom. They know I won't let them harm either of you. I know you're both capable in your own right, but They won't send mere soldiers after us, now. The next ones who'll assault us probably won't know what to do with a jack-knife, even. That'll be the worst of them. Make sure you're ready."

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn took a sip and lightly smacked her lips, savoring the taste she analyzed it. "Slightly over sweetened, I think," she observed. "But not bad for a first try. It improves with practice and experience, like anything."

Ciaran gave a similar response after tasting it. "First one I've tried. Pretty good, overall. I requested the drink based off what a friend had described after his passing through Louisiana a couple centuries ago. You suggested a high roller looking for something to raise the spirits, so I figured I'd go for a drink an immortal would ask for," he explained.

Aislinn glanced back at the countertop and clicked her tongue. "I think he's got the knack for detecting what customers would want, even if they don't subconsciously know. He'll pick up on the exact measurements with time or he could pick up the specifics from a recipe, depending on how quickly you want to fill the position. What else do you think we should test?"

***

Quickly finding the escalators, Aspasia thanked the mannequin and got on it. She looked back to the others. "We might be able to find out more about those clients. It might make sense if it was one of the Fae staying in the Tower, it might make some sense. However, things have been relatively calm around here, to my knowledge," she noted.

"Didn't you say tailors can be like hairdressers in that they know a lot about gossip and goings-on?" Miranda asked.

"They can be. It depends on how willing they are to divulge information based on their personal sense of dedication to protecting their clients' secrets. If the clients are not on the up and up, then we might have some leeway of requesting information in the name of post-war security," the fauness replied.

[Karl the Mad]

"Would that life were so easy," Marius scoffed, accepting the refill and sipping from it. "There's always someone who thinks they know better than you, and thinks they have the muscle to force their views on you. In my case at least, the majority are quite wrong on the second count; I'm not so stuck up anymore as to think they're universally wrong on the first."

Mini Bug meowed and pawed at his leg, and Marius smiled, set his drink aside and knelt down to pick the cat up. It made itself comfy against his chest, purring loudly, and he muttered something in Ancient Egyptian as he gently scratched behind its ears. "Whatever the Young Master wants, hm?" were the words he used.

-----------------------------

"Aye, you 'n Drakey got that in common," Charles replied as Thanos bemoaned caring too much. He sighed and looked out the window. "Y' ever wonder what y' mighta been, in some other life 'r plane a' livin' r' some shit? I feel like I'd'a been more a slave 'n I am now, y'know? More caught up in this, this Others shit."

Abraham rolled his eyes as he drove. "Ignore the boss, sir, he gets these moods at times. He is convinced he was chattel in some previous life or incarnation or whatever, merely a tool in the games of greater beings. If he was, then what would that say about the rest of us?"

Charles flicked his hand dismissively. "Ferget it. Yer talk abou' losin' control 'n feelin' like a slave jus' reminded me of it, s'all."

[IamLEAM1983]

Gremory mostly just sat by and smirked faintly, listening as he was the object of pointed discussion. "I just have a few errands to run between here, Pandemonium and Heaven over the next few weeks, so it's not a deeply immediate concern," Tom conceded. "I just don't like any venture of mine - or the friends that are involved - to end up with their pants down in my absence."

The older incubus tapped on the counter with a few fingers. "I'd say there's a joke waiting to be said, here, but..."

Tom smiled back at Gremory. The same man from before the incursions would've probably lifted his Virgin Ceasar in mock salute, but the warlock settled with a curt pulling-up of his lips. It might as well have been the non-verbal equivalent of "Ha, that's cute," as a mild accusatory statement denoting someone's childish behavior.

"Safety's an obvious point of focus," the warthog then added, offering the leaflet of available drinks to Gremory. "Tell me, in your own terms, why I've left a drink labeled as the Ladies' Night Special on a weekly menu, even for nights that aren't Ladies' Nights."

Gremory took a look at the leaflet, cross-referenced a few descriptions with the bottles along the back of the counter and then stopped at the abovementioned cocktail, taking a minute to double-check the bottles alongside the wall.

"You don't have half of the ingredients listed," he noted. "No fresh cider on tap, no hard seltzer - and the pairing doesn't make much sense to me. Why?
- Because what's important about the Ladies' Night Special isn't that it is ordered; it's who's ordering it."

Tom clicked his tongue and pointed at the door next to him. "That's the storeroom for the bar. If you'll take a look, you'll find we have a small lounge area there. It isn't for employees, though. If someone orders one of these in front of me, I do my best to distract whoever they're with, buy myself enough time to bring the customer through here - and get them to sit still while I call Security. Then Paimon comes in, removes the object of distress from my club and from there, out of the tower. In the meantime, either I or Aislinn can use the freight elevator in the storeroom to lead our client through a different path, opposite the main entrance. The client hails a cab while on the way down and tells them the nature of the call - and they slip out unharmed, or at least, not more harmed than they were when they first came here."

Another silent Ah from Gremory. "So it's code, then. A plea for protection.
- Precisely. Both Aislinn and I are powerful enough to fail to be impressed by any two-bit abuser, but harnessing the primal forces of Nature to deal with something as gauche as a macho who can't handle their drink would be in bad taste - especially with the cops."

Gremory nodded. "Right - wouldn't want to overstep your bounds, obviously. Domestics aren't Magnus Tower's forte unless concrete chunks start flying. What's your play for one of the bigger fish, then? An abusive vampire, a demon, a Celestial blowhard...?"

Tom smiled. "You offer them Medusa's Kiss. It isn't any given drink, but it's a hex that can be placed on any single one using a pre-set charging plate that's hidden right here, right of the beer taps. The alcohol content doesn't increase, but its effects on the body triple in speed and duration. They will get aggressive, but that phase will pass in seconds. According to my trial runs, most subjects below five hundred pounds sink into boozy slumber by the five-minute mark. In cases like this, I'll ask my friends to help me remove and detain the offender."

Gremory eyed the charging plate and the signal drink's description. "I won't need either of those too often, I think," he stated, shrugging. "Not when I can lure assailants out of the premises or freely give comfort."

Tom looked a bit surprised. "You don't need constant line-of-sight to feed?
- I wouldn't be much of a wrangler of illusions if I always had to be an active participant," noted Gremory. "By the way, I think the cleaning staff jostled one of your booth tables; Table 2C looks a little off-kilter..."

Tom looked past Gremory, grunted in mild annoyance and left the bar. Within a few steps, however, he froze, blinked and looked back to the group. From Aislinn and Ciaran's perspective, 2C was just fine in its grid, only Tom had seen it as askew by a few inches. The effect had lasted for a few eyeblinks, and now was gone. The older incubus silently chuckled. 

"You hire me, and I'll put your muscle out of a job," he joked. "I'll have drunken asshats walking themselves out and bawling excuses sooner than you can say Cheaper than therapy."

[IamLEAM1983]

As had been stated by the mannequin, Obsidian Plaza only ran a counter of Rhapso & Ariadne. They'd find a few aisles of Menswear surrounding a square booth in immaculate hardwood panelling, one of its sides closed off with a half-wall and serving as a work counter where modifications and custom orders were assembled. At the register was the most striking woman Azazel would've ever seen, with milk-white skin and almost white hair, high cheekbones and eyes of a shade of green so deep it seemed inhuman. Pointed ears waited just underneath her swept bangs, and her combination of a floral tee-shirt, sheer beige blouse and dark plum skinny jeans managed to look both disarmingly casual and prohibitively expensive. Ask Tilda Swinton to research a blue-collar Service Industry job while wearing her Pride War Lockdown Zoom Meetup best, and you probably would've gotten a sense of the confusing dichotomy at work in the woman's being. There was unquestionably one of the True Fae, typically only found in and around royalty's various circles, working retail for what looked like a small outlet branch for a store that had never left Faerie's boundaries before. The Lady Eirean could be striking if she needed to be, but she'd also been a Changeling. That woman - if you could call her a woman - had never been one. That much was obvious.

She smiled, the gesture carefully calculated in order to dose her presence. Her magnetism seemed to fade by degrees, and the initially agog lich was able to cough and recover his senses. 

"Um, yes, hello - we've got a very important event planned for this young man, and-
- I know," she said, her voice soft and yet strangely commanding. "I also know of your other questions."

Azazel had read a little too much Tolkien, apparently. "Can you see into our fates, Milady?"

It's only then that the young woman's Mantle intentionally collapsed, her features turning from ravishing to merely pretty. She smiled more fully this time around, showing teeth. "No, nothing that exotic; the mannequin just put up an alert over the intercom," she said, pointing back at a black phone that stood a ways away from her. "I'm sorry about the show, it's just - I didn't think my first few weeks here would be like this," she confessed, speaking with a bit of a Northern English accent.

Her nametag giving away her surname - Abigail - Silas addressed her as such. "What's one of the True Fae doing in Hope, Abigail? That is, if you don't mind my asking?"

The girl grimaced lightly, even that particular expression looking exquisite on her. "Nepotism, I guess. The women in the family supposedly descend from some goddesses and the Fates, and we marry exclusively with the gentry so our gift with sewing stays, well, supernaturally intact. I guess you could say I'm a Rhapso. The only girls who don't go into fashion in the family typically end up as buyers or procurement specialists for everything we need. I'm barely a hundred, which makes me a teen in Fae terms, and I shocked the girls by wanting to try my luck on the street, more or less. In retail.
- How lowly of you," noted Spector, in a tone that left no question. He'd only teased her. Still, the girl curtsied slightly. "Your Grace," she said, bowing her head.

Spector more or less prowled around the cube and stopped to lean into her workspace, observing the comparatively mundane Singer machine and spools of fabric and thread. "The equipment and lease would've been child's play for House Rhapso to procure," he noted. "I assume your mother and aunts bemoaned the idea of letting the likes of us petition their name for a design?"

Abigail couldn't stop herself from grinning. "Well, not you, Your Grace, but - well, yes. The family has reservations about who has access to their services.
- So why Hope?" he asked, one black-clad arm slowly unfurling to touch the machine's needle. Abigail stopped him with a smile and a light tsk. She then leaned on the side counter and looked down, looking extremely mundane in the moment, as she fidgeted with her rings. "It's embarrassing," she then quietly said. Still she gathered her wits and smiled at Aspasia.

"I'd like to meet Meris, someday - specifically so she can put me in touch with Nickar. I've seen his work or, well, Abdiel's revision of his work, on the Fire Throne's combat attire over the news and I just-"

She chuckled at herself. "I drooled, let's say. For decades, superhero culture had form and function perfectly combined, and the Western Fae were still trudging around in splint mail or full plate. I don't have an ounce of human DNA in me that you couldn't trace back to the first Titania, I'm an exact representative of how the dragons made us - and it's been millions of years and the only fashion-conscious Fae out there are Changelings. The only practical-minded ones are Changelings, too - or Wyldfae strongly influenced by mundane culture, like yourself, Mrs. Robertson," she said, nodding at Aspasia.

A sigh was added. "The family business is floundering. Commissions aren't coming in fast enough to keep up with mortal inflation rates, incorruptibility is such a focus in our materials that most clients only ever get one commission made - and the old crones are wondering why nobody from bloody London ever comes down to their shop. We need the world, and to get the world, I need Nickar."

Another faintly tired grin. "Well, him and a few more clients that won't scare the crap out of me."

[IamLEAM1983]

"That's usually how it goes," replied Sarah, smirking, in a somewhat Americanized delivery of Ancient Greek, then switching back to English. "I found Bug on the way back from class, four years ago. Aidan wasn't back from Afghanistan yet, I was always either on-campus or off on research trips, so I figured Mom and Dad wouldn't mind having someone else over to look after."

Three was a bit surprised. "You understood Marius while he spoke to the cat?
- Well, yeah," she replied, shrugging. "Egyptian today only really only exists as Coptic dialects around Northern Africa, but pre-Accords linguists already had some working theories on both the prestige form used with royalty and the priesthood - hieratic - and the everyday vernacular most of everyone used, which was demotic. The one big issue is that reconstructive work was difficult up until the point where the Accords allowed surviving native speakers to come forward," she explained, scoffing in amusement. Mr. Abasi, from my Linguistics class, is probably one of Marius' contemporaries - from around Thebes, I think. The first thing he did is hold up a copy of Bodge's lexicon and tear it in half in front of the whole class. Your vowels are all wrong, he said."

Aidan smiled. "Shit, really? How'd the dean take to it?
- You don't really want to mess with a linguist who was around to see Thebes and Rome fall and who mingled with theoricians during the Islamic Golden Age, bro," the girl replied. "If an immortal who was around to speak the language you're trying to learn says your vowels are all wrong, then your vowels are all wrong. We've got a new lexicon as a co-op text, now, but Mr. Abasi's still trying to get it published. There's a lot of pushback from people who can't deal with the notion that there's probably serious typos on the Rosetta stone."

She sniffed lightly. "Egyptian was a trial run, for the most part - a kind of early-Postgrad fantasy of mine. Now I'm gearing up for older stuff. With Squids around speaking a language with an entire component you aren't actually supposed to use unless you're looking to drive people insane, I want to go back to the roots of Language as a concept, see where things tie back into their power or with the earliest mages in recorded History.
- So..."

Sarah cleared her throat. "Sumerian and Akkadian, for starters. I want to follow population markers and see if there's a point where both languages are gestating and the only thing that's left is Indo-European. I'm working with another team that wants to canvas Russia and Northern China for the same reasons, and Professor Mariner thinks I'd be-"

Aidan sighed, but abstained from further commentary, instead raising his cup to his lips. A spark of anger lit up the girl's eyes. "So Soldier Boy gets to have his brains scrambled in the sand on the taxpayer's dime, but I don't get to further the cause of Science because someone's afraid I might catch a Pazuzu or something? Professor Mariner's fine, Aidan - he's just really passionate about his work."

Three's eyes flicked to Marius, the Lexicon wordlessly sending a brief image, a memory, across the void. Sarah at her desk, pouring over an old tome and her reference material, with a grey-clad man in his late sixties hovering over her. He was a paunchy sort, lean everywhere except for the waistline, with a carefully-trimmed beard and a close-cropped halo of white hair. Grey suit, black tie. The memory was from Aidan's perspective, so Marius would see Three's right hand come up as if it were his, lightly rapping on the doorframe.

"Hey, sis - car's downstairs, I wasn't sure if you were-"

Mariner's eyes looked up. For a split-second, they looked eerily familiar. Too blue for standard human hues, with pupils that had looked faintly irregular.

"Aidan, hello!" said the professor, stepping forward. "I was wondering when we'd meet!"

Echoes of Najeeban, the ghost of some old, nameless panic churning at the base of his gut. The gulf of years that separated him from it did their work, and he managed to shake the offered hand, to smile convincingly. "Albert, right?
- Correct, dear boy." he said, with an accent that wasn't quite British, on a tone that suggested warmth. Marius would feel through Aidan's remembered impulses that the soldier hadn't fallen for it at all. "Sarah says the world about you, and considering what you've already done for this city...
- Just doing my job, Professor. 
- You're far too modest, my lad. How is Gubbin now, if I may ask?"

The remembered construct of Aidan scoffed. "He's a Malk, sir. He could be in the throes of depression that I don't think it'd show. I wouldn't be surprised if he were still adjusting to all this, his shifting masters so quickly. He's got some grief to process, of that much I'm certain. All we can do is make sure he knows he isn't alone. Gawain might've turned out badly, he'd still spent almost three hundred years trying to raise him right. It's like he lost a child."

Mariner nodded. "Tragic, truly. Absolutely dreadful. Well, I'm sure he's thankful for you, in his own way. Er - please, don't let me keep either of you. Sarah and I were poring over old Sumerian poems we were trying to restore."

In the back, Sarah had been collecting her things. "Think we can drop by the library, bro? I've got this chonker here to return...
- Uh, sure! It was nice meeting you, sir, but we really are getting late.
- Of course, of course. Don't let me keep either of you, I'll close up behind you."

The siblings left the office, Aidan's pace progressively turning faster, his left hand pinching Sarah's right elbow. She kept along for a while, but eventually gave her brother an annoyed glance. "Aidan, what the hell?!
- Walk, Sarah - just walk. We have to get out of here, but we can't make waves."

A short jump-cut, somewhere in the parking lot in front of the main building. Aidan's hands gripping Sarah's shoulders. "Look at me for a sec, okay? Just - look at me!"

Sarah finally sustaining his gaze out of sheer anger. No micro-tremors in her eye movements, no pinpricks in her irises, no deformation of the pupil. She was fine. Pissed off, yes, but fine. Not yet under Mariner's thrall. She pushed him off and got in the car.

"God, why do you have to make everything feel so personal?! My life isn't one of your superhero investigations, Aidan!"

The memory ended, barely a second having passed. "Well," replied Three, "he's passionate about you, too. He sees something in you, and I'm just not sure I like how he's expressing it. He barely knows you outside of the campus and he's hugging you, sis. One or two shoulder clasps is okay for any teacher, but embraces used to beat back deadline-related anxiety just sounds excessive. You told me he'd flown back to Delft as soon as the incursions had turned serious, and now he's back. Why not just use telepresence solutions for a few more months?"

Obviously, Three didn't feel like blurting out something as condemning as I think your new mentor is a Loyalist Squid that's trying to hack your brain without being too obvious about it. 

* * *

Thanos sighed and chuckled sardonically. "Separated by millions of cubic metres of salt water, and still with such relatable experiences... The Loyalists believe everyone is a slave to someone or something else - and that we all are ultimately playthings and tools for the Others. Oppose them, and they contend that we've only chosen one system of control instead of-"

He didn't finish, as something pulled at his consciousness. While he wasn't classically narcoleptic, his being the Augur left him extremely close to the Darkhallow, with practically no liminal space in-between. He could sleep his way to the realm of infinite possibilities, like any other Prelate, but could also maintain a hook of sorts down into it, like a fishing line waiting for a strike. 

Something had taken the bait. He held his last pose for an instant, his eyes turning vacant, his breath deepening. A single, soft snore escaped him and he blinked himself awake.

"Faster, Abraham," he said, his tone now strangely commanding. "When I tell you, brake hard and veer as hard to the left as you can. Duck so Charles gets a clear shot without risking blowing your head off. Charles, I'll need you to keep an eye on Zahavi's window. You'll spot a Black Lexus five cars away. There's going to be a flash. Don't panic - if we time this right, they'll miss you. Draw your breath as the window behind you shatters and aim for the mirror on the passenger side. Our slide and the car's changing position are going to meet midway, and you'll land a headshot on the driver."