Of Booze and Burlesque IC

No matter how menial the task, Gramps always threw himself into his work. He did not notice Jolene behind him until she had spoken. “Can’t rush perfection Jolly,” he replied dismissively, his eyes staying focused on the threads that we weaving themselves together between his fingers. He was similarly quick to dismiss the boy who had eagerly assigned great meaning to his simple parlor trick. “I’m a gnome. We fix things. It’s the blood. Don’t flatter yourself too much.”

After Monroe ran back to Ifa, presumably to woo the littler firecracker, Gramps turned back Jolene. “Alright, I guess we best be off then.” He said before starting towards the door. He didn’t like leaving his spell book behind, even with all the precautions he had against outside tampering. Still, he had no choice to trust Allen’s moving crew with it. Having it following twenty feet behind him down a quiet back alley was one thing, but that wouldn’t float down a busy back street.

The barrel required some convincing. It’s tiny black legs pitter pattered across the floor as it eagerly followed Gramps to the exit. After an intense stare of disapproval, it surrendered and settled quietly into the corner of the room. Somehow, despite not having a mouth, it appeared to be pouting.

Something the boy said before they left stuck with him. The world felt bigger and less safe than it had in a long time. He didn’t fear for himself, but something different, something...softer. If Gramps could place the feeling he was having, he didn’t’ cart to admit it. “I s'pose a little extra precaution never hurt anyone,” he muttered.

“To me.” The command rippled out through the planes, catching the attention of his familiar.

High above them, a raven soared out of its pocket dimension into theirs. Its iridescent black feathers shone with specks of blue and purple where the sun reflected off them. Scout had missed the sun. He hoped this visit would longer than the last. He faithfully swooped down and stood before his master. Scout stared deeply into Gramp's eyes who heard the familiar's thoughts clearly in his mind. “It’s been a long time.”

The old gnome, never one to waste times with pleasantries, spoke his orders aloud. “We need a pair of eyes in the sky.” His glance shifted momentarily to Jolene to indicate who he was speaking of. “Let me know if you see anything suspicious.”

“Understood.” Scout confirmed before taking off to fulfill his duty. “She’s very pretty,” he added on jovially. He hoped the presence of this new woman would mean spending more time with them, like the old days, when master was happy.

“She can’t hear you, you know” he shouted back in frustration. “And no one asked”

Though he didn’t realize it at the time, Monroe’s words had taken residence in the back of Gramp’s mind. The meaning was foreign, lost to time if it had ever been known, but the sound was familiar. As they walked the streets towards the library, he absentmindedly began to hum a popular Elvish tune he had first heard in a ballroom over a century ago. The lyrics had been so beautiful they had touched him in a way that compelled him to know their secrets.

Carrying the tune started turning gears in his mind. The clock began ticking backwards. Soon he could hear a voice, see a face, feel the warmth of their bed.

When he realized what he was doing, the road he was travelling down and where it led, he reached for the flask. He anxiously unscrewed the cap, his other hand obscuring the old Gnomish script that read “for emergency use only.” He continued walking as he pressed the bottle to his lips, freezing only for the instant it took ihs spirit to return to its vessel after being forcibly ejected for third time that day.

Jolene watched Monro approach Ifa with a bit of pride, hoping that the two would be able to patch things up ok. After Gramps was ready, and a few mishaps with his alive-not-alive equipment, they were out the door. Jolene did note a shadow growing on Gramps’ face but dismissed it as a sign of the times. Even grumbled old gnomes could get rattled sometimes, especially after a bust and possibly losing a comrade.

 

They didn’t get very far, though, before the gnome came to a stop and said, “To me”. She looked at him quizzically at first, formulating a response about she was already next to him and daren’t approach closer, before she was interrupted by the appearance of a raven. He barked a couple orders at it. Being that she couldn’t hear the raven’s response, she began to question Gramps’ sanity… again. She mulled over Gramps’ puzzling behavior before deciding that maybe this was a trained raven, a magical creature, or a gnomish invention. Either that, or Gramps was batty. Maybe both?

 

She was particularly off put about Gramps shouting, “She can’t hear you, you know,” a few seconds after a sideways glance in her direction. She assumed it was about her. Her lips pursed and brow furrowed. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Gramps having a conversation about her with a raven, regardless of whether that conversation was imaginary or not.

 

And then he was… humming?

 

And it was an old ballroom tune, no less! She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes uncharacteristically wide in surprise. She quickly calculated their distance to the nearest hospital and formulated a plot to get him to the psych ward.

 

But then she saw his face, so full of hurt and anxiety, and her heart softened. This wasn’t the joyful song of senility, but the sorrowful melody of remembrance. He took a drink from his flask, she assumed his personal stock, and his emotions disappeared for a split second. Had she not been trained in watching people, she may have missed it.

 

But she was trained, and she didn’t miss it.

 

This wasn’t the first time he did it, either. She noted him drink from the flask and lose his expression during their walk to the warehouse. She was otherwise preoccupied with Marty’s departure at the time, but she made note of its oddity. She knew everyone had their demons, this group of outlaws especially, and always wondered whether it was right for her to interject into their business. However, the heartbroken look on the otherwise strong-willed gnome pulled at her in a way she couldn’t ignore.

 

She enjoyed the gnome’s company, especially if it was just the two of them. He was so preoccupied with himself and his work that he normally didn’t notice, let alone mention, her slip up a time or two. She let her face relax a bit, dropping some of the faux cheerfulness, her expression taking on a more neutral tone. The day so far was exhausting, and she wanted to recharge her emotional batteries before being thrown into the arena again.

 

“I never knew you had a pet raven,” She said, her voice conversational and friendly, but not nearly as sing-songy or charming. “Has it always been around?”

The last pull from the flask was deeper than Gramps realized. When he returned to consciousness his body felt vaguely foreign as if had been gone for weeks. He had hoped his travelling companion had noticed his temporary absence from the material plane, but her sudden attempts at small talk revealed the feelings of awkwardness bubbling up inside her.

Unlike the sociable halflings and surface gnomes the humans were familiar with, Gramps didn’t care much for idle chatter at the best of times. He was perfectly content spending hours in silent company, and firmly believed a man’s personal problems were meant to stay private. Nevertheless, his time among the humans had taught him that exchanging pleasantries was one of the formalities of doing business in the city, and that ignoring questions often beget more questions still.

“He comes and goes.”

"Oh. So, he's a free roaming pet, then? He's smart if he knows what to look out for and how to tell you about it."

In better times, he may have admired Jolene’s curiosity. He understood that human relationships were built on feigned interests in the trivialities of one another’s life, but hers always seemed sincere.

“Pet” was a poor approximation of what Scout truly was, but at the moment Gramp’s lacked the spark required to delve into the intricacies of his marvelous magics. The day had already been far more eventful than he had bargained for, and the numbness from his attempts at self-medication lingered deep inside him.

“He does as he is told”

The girl was smart, smarter than most, or at least socially aware enough to see when a trail ran cold. She saw he had no more to say about the topic, and respected him enough to prod no further. Still, she needed to fill the silence somehow. As they turned down the next alley, she tired a differ path to connect with the somber old man leading the way.

"Have you given any thought to what we will name the new bar?" A commendable attempt. If Gramps were to open up, bringing up his work was the surest way to go about it.
"Not particularly. I've always left the marketing side of the business to others."

He thought he had shut the door on the conversation, but Jolene had seen the opening and kicked her foot into the crack before he could close it. The mention of his work had given her a connection to topic of her interest, the one she had been dancing around until now. She pointed at the flask at his hip, working slowly and subtlety as not to alarm gnome who had carefully deflected any attempts to pry a meaningful answer from him thus far.
"And that flask you carry, is that part of the business? Or is that your personal brew? I've never seen a patron take a swig of something and react the way you have been."

Though Gramps rarely gave much thought to it, Jolene was a Lady. Words were her weapons. So clever she was with them, forgoing a brutish attack for a subtle trap. She had him hopeless outclassed and he was now painfully aware of the fact that she was free to strip him of any secrets he sought to hold. He was ill-equipped to talk his way out. Still, in an act of stubborn pride he stalled as best he could. He turned the flask over in his hand contemplatively. Eyeing the carvings sketched inside to avoid having to look up into her eyes.

"No. This is something special, just for me"

Her next words came in a whisper of quiet concern. The kind that invited grown men to fall apart in her arms like frightened children. “"Is it a spell to fix something?" So innocent and optimistic of a question. Did she really think it so simple of a thing? More likely, it seemed, it was a hidden inquiry asking what manner of problems could drive a powerful mage to such desperation. She had asked what it was, and the corned Gnome could think of nothing to say but the truth as he saw it.
“It’s poison.”
His response had surprised her. Her head tilted slightly in contemplation. "Poison?" The “why” was implicit.
He had caught her off guard. If he was to escape her trap and put an end to the conversation now was the time to do it, and yet, he felt compelled to explain. He owed this girl something, for all the trouble he had caused, for all the worries she had when so few others did.

“There are things inside me that I need to kill”

"What things?"

For the first time in a long time, the crafty gnome who had built a business empire and bent reality to his wills in ways few mortals could dream of felt scared and confused. He felt tired. He felt weak. He felt alone. More than anything, he felt thirsty. With a slow deliberation he twisted the cap off his flask. Ignoring the world around him Gramps pressed the bottle to his lips and drank deeply from the flask until it was empty and his senses faded to black.

Ifa took the pizza, glad Allen didn't even attempt to come over to console her. It wasn't that she wasn't shattered over the events of their afternoon (okay maybe slightly), but rather she wasn't as affected as Monro seemed about it. She took a bit, savoring in the meal as her slight headache melted away, not noticing the eye roll that Monro gave her. She had already finished two slices by the time the others began showing up.

Ifa sat and listened to everyone around her silently, nibbling on her third slice. She wasn't surprised that Marty left. All things considered, she was surprised most of these people stuck around so far. Most of the people she knew and danced with only stuck around in the industry for a year before moving somewhere else, with better pay or better...something else. She'd always thought about why she stayed but she knew that this job and giving info for CID paid the best. She needed to do it, to help the others. As for Gary, well, they all knew what the job entailed. Didn't make it any less tragic, but Ifa felt numb to the loss. She felt emotion faintly light up in her chest but soon compartmentalized and moved on to her next bite.

“We’re a bit low on general supplies. Gramps and I made that list last week, but I haven’t been able to get everything. I need you to get the rest of the stuff on this list and get it to the new place. Take Monroe with you.” Allen said to her, handing her a piece of paper. She nodded, finishing off the crust before taking a look at the list. Most things had a checkmark scribbled hastily beside the name, but she knew that the rest was what she needed to pick up. It was all prepaid since they needed a large stock, so she was just acting as pack mule. The list was put into her backpack, safely tucked in a pocket.

She nodded to Monro with a blank, guarded expression, her mind still grappling with her resentment towards CID for messing with her work. But she would deal with that at another time, she thought, attempting to pack away that emotion as well. It was...a decent attempt until Monro's words registered. “You should grab the first aid kit and put some alcohol on that cut. Even minor cuts can get nasty. I`ll meet you outside after I change. Oh and don't be so bossy this time sweetheart. You don't look a thing like Kinnleth.”

The paper he gave her in her hand crunched as she made a fist, her eyes glaring pointedly at Monro's back. How dare you? You have the god damn audacity to tell me what to do, then call me the bossy one? What did I do to you other than help you fucking get out of the raid? The Kinnleth comment especially got to her, seeing that she never dared compared herself to their leader. Kinleth, though bossy at times, was a great point woman, directing them all the time. And she cared-- a rare trait for people in this city. She shared nothing in common with Kinleth, nor attempted to. She clenched her jaw as Jolene mouthed her apology, but Ifa knew it wasn't hers to give.

She turned to Allen after a few minutes, her expression frigid. "You wanna rethink making me go with him after that?" she asked with a voice no louder than a whisper yet dripping with poison. She didn't need to wait for his response though, as Monro was making her way back with a most downtrodden, apologetic look on his face. Not that she was gonna buy the apology now, especially if it utilized the excuse that he wasn't good at dealing with it.'

Her mouth turned up into a wry smile, stepping up to him. Wordlessly, she held his paper up to his face, the other hand digging into her pocket for her lighter. She whipped it out, flicked it open, and snapped a flame right under the address and let the paper burn rapidly and turn to faint ash. Before it burned her, she let go of the last piece of the parchment. "Go home if you can't fucking handle this," she growled, shoving the lighter back into her pocket and pushing past Monro. On her way out she grabbed the keys to the team's truck before slamming the door behind her.

Allen shook his head at the unfolding drama between Monro and Ifa. He had just started getting along with Ifa himself. She was difficult to work with at times, but generally politeness and food was the answer to her cooperation. Still, she was effective, and hopefully she could keep from killing Monro long enough to at least get the supplies and return them to the new place. He turned back towards Kinleth, “you’re right. There’s no way we could get back in, buy maybe we can at least get close enough to make sure nothing is left to lead the CID any closer to our group.”

With that he limped towards the door, coat and hat in hand, motioning for Kinleth to follow him.

~~

Aldan was a true Blueblood. He remembered his initiation, and the face of the old pig he had murdered to secure his spot as a lowly musclehead in the gang 10 years ago. After that, the killings had increased, and where he had once felt guilt and disgust, he was only numb now. He led his own group of lads now, predominantly made up of immigrants like himself. They’re sole goal in service of the gang was termination of rival groups. It was what led Aldan and a group of four others seated in the back of a flat bed truck to the warehouse district. They were closing in on a group of dangerous freelancers, booze runners that needed to be taught they either played by their rules or they didn’t play at all. They had heard rumors of a playboy bootlegger extraordinaire among their ranks, and knew immediately whom they would exploit to draw out the rest of the gang. They had used one of the gang’s prostitutes as bait, posing her as a newly arrived farmer’s daughter, and tailed the man after he left in the morning. They had lost him, but were moving quickly again when the tail had picked him up again. Now here they were, posed to take him. The bootlegger was with another, a woman when they blocked off the alley they were walking down. Aldan jumped from the back of the truck, quickly throwing the woman off her feet and several feet down the alley with a wave of his hand. Two of his boys cut off her escape on the other end with shotguns pointed down the opposite side of the alley. Two more grabbed the man, knocking him unconscious and binding him in the back of the truck. Aldan forced the woman back a few more feet with another push, jumping in the back of the truck. The driver thundered down the road, quickly disappearing in the mad chaos of the city. The two lads behind Ifa quickly ran away, knowing enough restraint not to pick a fight when they’re job was done, leaving Ifa alone in the alley.

The gnome was out cold before Jolene could put a stop to it.

“Tch,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. The sound was one of annoyance, directed more at herself than at the gnome. She couldn’t blame him, not really, for taking the long swig. She pushed him too far. He was much more fragile and sensitive than he’d ever admit, and she knew that going into the conversation. It was just a matter of time before she broke his sad brain and forced him to drink. In her prime, she could’ve gotten him talking about his past like she was giving him a new spell for every word he spoke. She was out of practice and losing her touch.

She sighed and made her way to Gramps when the raven came back, cawing and visibly upset. Its behavior flagged as strange in her mind, as even a trained bird couldn’t sense when its master passed out. It was nowhere in sight when Gramps went down, and reappeared just as quickly.

“How odd,” she said, giving the raven a suspicious look. Still, she couldn’t dwell on it for long. There was no point in asking questions she wouldn’t get answers for – not today, at least.

With a long suffering sigh, she grabbed at both of Gramps’ arms. “Boys,” she said with a groan and a tug, “They say that we’re the dramatic ones, but start asking them personal questions and it’s drama, drama, drama.” She was monologuing to hear her own voice, she was sure. But she DID enjoy the sound of her own voice, and it wasn’t like the raven would complain.

“They’ll faint to get out of it,” she said, gesturing to the passed out gnome. She tugged again, making small leeway on the road to their destination, “Or they’ll ignore you.” She grunted as she hefted the gnome along, “Or, my favorite is when they start getting angry and start asking questions back.”

Her mocking tone fell a few octaves. “Who are you? And how dare you accuse me of that?” She dropped Gramps’ arms to make quotation marks in the air. There was a resounding smack as his arms made impact on the ground. It made Jolene remember where she was and what she was doing. She flinched and hissed through her teeth apologetically. “Oops,” she said to the raven, grimacing. She quickly picked up the gnome’s wrists and checked them for visible injuries, turning his hands over once, before shrugging and moving on.

“Either way, boys are most certainly more dramatic than us. A poison to kill things inside of him?” Her eyes darkened, an uncharacteristic shadow passing over her face as her lips set in a grim line, “I hoped he’d be more courageous than that.”

With that, she fell silent, save for her labored breathing as she tugged the gnome along the road.