2020-01-16 - West of the Moon Part I

"Long story. Tell ya later," Itzhak mutters, eyes on the door. His gaze flicks to Ruiz when he catches the motion of him sweeping his coat aside for his gun. Okay, awkward time to find that intensely sexy. He snaps eyes-front when the door opens, takes in the two men, and spreads his hands in effusive New Yorker greeting at them. "'Ey! Good to see ya, bruddah," he says jovially to the Italian or maybe Greek guy. "How's by ya, boys." He plucks off the fedora as he swans in--reflexes from a time not his somehow imbued into his nerves. "How's we lookin'?"

He tips his head, abruptly taken by the music, eyes going unfocused as he concentrates on nothing but. "Wow," he mutters.

Long story, he says, and Javier's just about to fire back with some sort of blistering retort, when the door swings open. Warm, smoky jazz held aloft by a jaunty trumpet, and a pair of n'er do wells who evidently are buddies of Rosencrantz's. Gun held loose in his right hand, gloved forefinger resting along the barrel rather than the trigger, he meets the black fellow's gaze squarely, then slants a look to the Greek, douchier looking one with the Tommy gun under his coat.

Looks like he might flat out refuse for a moment, but perhaps in the interests of seeing where this leads, eventually lifts both hands in a gesture of supplication, and shoves the gun back into its holster. "Le tocas un pelo en la cabeza y te volaré los sesos," is delivered with a dazzling smile. Maybe he doesn't speak English, Itzhak's pet thug.

The Mediterranean guy, whose name is Adrian, sighs. "Ey, ey, tio, relájate, nadie va a tocar a ninguno de ustedes. Todos aquí saben quién eres." Relax, man, noe one's touching either of you. Everyone here knows who you are. His accent is all continental Spain, maybe even collegial. The black guy, named Jacob, gives Ruiz a sympathetic look over his colleague's shoulder, waves for Ruiz to come in. He steps back to make space. "Get in here, would ya, we're letting the cold in and the heat out. And we can't keep Mattie waiting."

It's notably warmer inside the hall. Once he's in the building Itzhak can better hear the trumpet, singer, and rest of the band. Through a curtain he catches a peak; it's a fairly cramped little dive, clearly set up in the basement of some larger enterprise that had no use for a cellar anymore. Tables and chairs are packed, and the band is crammed into a low platform that was probably some sort of loading dock once upon a time. It's crowded for how small it is, laughter and guffaws and arguments filtering out through the thing fabric.

Jacob is heading for the end of the hall, where the steps lead up.

Itzhak tries not to stare at Ruiz. He also tries not to color; he can't precisely translate the Spanish but he gets the gist. Ruiz is threatening the men on his behalf. Red creeps up from his collar nonetheless.

"Ahhhh let the man do his job," he says, resisting the urge to loosen said collar. "He's real damn good at it." The curtain is distracting him with peeks as tantalizing as a girl stripteasing, little glimpses of this and that but never the full glory. He wants to charge over there and plunge himself into the music and the tiny cramped club. This is all extremely his jam.

He can't help it; his gleaming boots draw him over there instead of following Jacob. Two long fingers catch the curtain's edge and lift it just enough that he can see through.

The Colt is obediently safetied and put away, though Ruiz doesn't have to look pleased about it. Especially with orders coming from Mr. Continental Spain over there. He adjusts his gloves with a little tug along the inside of each wrist, eyes on the black fellow, then pushes his hands into his pants pockets and trails along at the rear of the little ensemble.

When Itzhak stops, however, so does he. Like hell he's heading up those steps without him. "Rosencrantz." Sharp, like a whipcrack. "Muévete." If the lean musician does, in fact, do as he's told, then something is offered in a low voice when he draws near. Followed by the Mexican peeling away, and up those stairs after Jacob.

And what a sight it is beyond the curtain. The tables and chairs are obviously all salvage; none of them match, and all stand to just provide a spot to rest your feet or a drink if you need to do something else like clap or dance. The men are in suits, cheap to expensive, just like Itzhak and Ruiz's; the women are in flapper dresses. The low, low ceiling is crisscrossed with pipes and wires right out of the stone age of such things.

And speaking of drinks...there are plenty. Beer and liquor, flowing freely, not a hundred feet from where beat cops patrol. Or would be, if they weren't paid off, but they always are, and on time like clockwork. Mattie Rozgold knows her business. The bar is a long slab of polished wood, maybe the only legitimate piece of furniture in the place: knotty burl, it's golden, curling texture reflected the haphazard lights in a soft sort of glow. It's situated in one corner, with a the drinks all secured behind it on the floor, out of sight in cases. Nothing lines the bar on the wall behind the bartenders; this isn't exactly a legal establishment looking to advertise. You ask what they have, not say what you want. The bar tenders are in suits with their jackets off; two young black men, laughing easily with their customers. The clientele is a wide range, but Ruiz and Itzhak can tell right away, most of the patrons aren't white.

The band are crammed onto the little platform but don't mind one bit. The piano has some fire damaged but it's in tune, so who cares if it's ugly; its voice remains intact. And is that Louis himself leading them? It--

Adrian comes to stand next to Itzhak, opposite Ruiz. "Business first, Rosencrantz. Afterwards I'll for sure by you and your man here a drink."

Jacob waits patiently at the stairs.

The things this sight does to Itzhak's musician soul. Just a glimpse, but my God, such a glimpse! The people. The music. The music. Is that--that can't be. Is that Louis fuckin' Armstrong on the horn? Oh, it's like a body shot of the world's best whiskey off the world's hottest man (currently standing nearby in a tweed suit).

Which man says his name in that Voice and Itzhak twitches, the curtain rippling in his grip. "...Yeah," he says, and swallows dryly. "Muévete." He pulls back, glances at Adrian. "You got yourself a deal," he says, with a hint of a crooked smile.

He dips his head to hear what Ruiz says to him--then turns bright red and shoots him a glare. "Awright awright already," he grouses at him, trying to act annoyed, and stalks up the stairs after Jacob.

Ruiz, for his part, looks pleased as punch at the response his words garner in his companion. Smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, he ducks his head and precedes Itzhak up the stairs. Louis Armstrong, no doubt much to the musician's chagrin, is wasted on him.

Jacob leads the way up the cramped, narrow stairwell which has to come from the late 1890s at the absolute earliest. It's a fire hazard waiting to happen. Under their feet the stairs are covered with an brocade-style carpet, and beneath that, old wood creaks and groans. The trumpet player's horn grows more distant, as do the sounds of laughter and merriment in an era desparately trying to cling to its sanity. Adrian brings up the rear, keeping a respectable distance from Ruiz and Itzhak so they won't have the sense of that Tommy gun at their backs.

The come out into a long hall in what might be some sort of office building or hotel. It's hard to tell which it is, between the various doors with numbers, the art deco style elevators at one end, and the side tables in the hall with lovely flower displays. The floors are polished wood with an inlay of fleur de lis.

Jacob brings them to a pair of huge mahogany doors, knocks once. They crack open, and young woman with curly, rust-colored hair, dark brown eyes, golden skin, and severe features peers out. She looks past Jacob to Itzhak and Ruiz, back to Jacob, nods at him. She disappears back inside, and Jacob steps back. "In you go," he says, gesturing.

Itzhak's sense of the physical is clamoring, each creak of the stair like its own horn hit, the fleur de lis inlay singing to him. This wood comes from trees older than America, and he can feel it. His gaze is a little unfocused when the girl appears. She kind of reminds him of somebody; can't say who.

He nods to Jacob, anyway. "Thanks, pal." And steps past him into the room. He's got a wild shiver in his stomach like he's about to hit the stage.

Ruiz is in the dark here, figuratively speaking, and he doesn't like it one little bit. Who the fuck are these people? Why do they know Itzhak? What is this place?

The music fades, and his heart picks up like a drumbeat in two-step. His fingertips touch the grip of his pistol as they cross the hall and come to a halt in front of that door. He flicks his eyes across to Itzhak, and then the thing swings open and the girl who appears there drags his attention away. He doesn't like it one bit. But he enters, taking point just ahead of his companion if he can.

Neither Adrian nor Jacob prevent Ruiz from going in ahead of Itzhak. The room they come into is a large, fancy office, complete with lawyer bookcases, filing cabinets, and massive oak desk carved with a stampede of horses. A neat wet bar with a marble countertop occupies a spot between two bookcases. (It almost looks like the flanking bookcases could slide in place to hide it.) The young woman they saw briefly is standing next to the desk, hands clasped in front of her; another woman is seated at it, writing with a fountain pen.

Adrian steps in with Ruiz and Itzhak, but only to give the simplest introduction. "Rosencrantz, de la Vega, Ms. Mathilda Rozgold." The woman seated at the desk nods without looking up, and Adrian departs. The door shuts behind him, but there's no sound of a lock.

The young woman watches the two of them, her dark eyes attentive. She's dainty and birdlike, but with a hardness to her which suggests her delicacy is that of of a steel sculpture. Her outfit is entirely 1920s secretary, from her gray wool skirt and simple, ivory top to her plain black shoes.

Mathilda Rozgold, or Mattie, is another matter. She's almost certainly mixed race, her face heart-shaped and soft, her nose gently rounded. She has light ochre skin and dark, satin brown hair carefully styled in finger waves. Her eyes are hazel green-brown, and she's wearing a lovely, plum-colored flapper dress, beaded and maxi-length. She's probably a little older than Itzhak, but not quite Ruiz's age. Without glancing up from her writing, she says, "Gentlemen." Her voice is rich and low, with a gentle Virginian accent. "I'm glad you could come to see me. I know your work keeps you busy, these days."

She shifts, finishes writing, hands the page off to the young woman waiting for it. The young woman vanishes into another room, shutting the door behind her. They hear a typewriter begin clacking away.

Mattie gets up from her desk, moves to the wet bar. She's short, maybe five and a half feet at most, with gentle curves and a smooth gait. "A drink? I've a lovely bourbon someone managed to bring up from New Orleans."

Itzhak lets Ruiz go ahead of him although it grates on all his defender instincts. He hates letting Ruiz take point--but he lets him. Walking into the rich and beautiful room after him, he falls back on old habits; he bows, fedora to his chest, other hand sweeping out behind him in a flourish. A performer's graceful tribute, one that his tall lean frame executes with panache. The overcoat makes it extra dramatic. "Miz Rozgold. We're glad ta finally meet you."

Haha, their work? What the hell is their work? What role are he and Ruiz assigned? Who is this formidable lady? What, exactly, the hell is going on here?

It hits de la Vega about two point five seconds after they've entered the room. Moments before the door clicks shut. The way the men at the front knew them. The circuitous route they took to their client, the opulence this room is drenched in.

But it's Mathilda Rozgold that seals the deal for him. He gets one look at her, and he knows. And what's worse than the knowing, is the fact that it does nothing to him. Nothing.

"Mattie." She'd never be Ms. Rozgold to the likes of them. "Si. You know we're never too busy for you. Bourbon would be lovely." No smile, though he does palm his fedora, and slide it off his head. Nowhere near Itzhak's graceful tribute, this furtive, stony-faced foreigner. But the way he watches her, like his mind is hungrily devouring every last detail and itemizing it for later retrieval.

Mattie smiles at Itzhak, warm and indulgent. "Di fargenign iz ale mayn, Her Rozenkrants." The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Rosencrantz. Her Yiddish has an odd accent to it, the gentle drawl of Virginia mixing with something almost Celtic. She dips her head to Ruiz. "Mmmm, su tiempo todavía es muy valioso, Sr. de la Vega, pero igual gracias." Your time is still quite valuable, Mr. de la Vega, but thank you just the same. Her Spanish is definitely school-taught, informal in that European way.

She pulls down three tumblers, pours out two fingers for each of them. She brings Ruiz and Itzhak's to Ruiz. There's a brief look in her eyes, a sense of like recognizing like. Drinks handed off, she moves back to her desk. It's unlike anything to be had in their time; cherry and chocolate and caramel, with a nutty, cedar palate and a tart, smokey finish that lingers.

"I won't mince words with you. By now you've probably heard about my Dashiel." She picks up a sepia-toned photograph in a silver frame on the desk. It's a man maybe Itzhak's age in a sharp, costly suit that was likely a pale gray; he has dark, black hair in a full, neat beard, a sharp nose, and pale eyes which might have been blue or green. Mattie studies the photo a moment, sips from her tumbler. "He was a good man--the best advisor I could have hoped for. White, rich, tolerant, and most of all, not in the pockets of the police." She sighs. "And now, he's gone. And I want the people who took him from me to pay."

She sets the photograph down, turns to face them and sits on the edge of the desk. "I've already looked into the initial possibilities. Whomever it is, it's no one you currently accept employment from, so I don't expect there to be a conflict." She looks down into her tumbler. "To be honest, I came to you first, because you're the only ones who I thought might accept the task." She swirls the drink, has a swallow. "I'm almost certain it was the Leper who had him killed."

Itzhak's eyebrows fly way up. "Du redst Yiddish! Vos a fargenign tsu hern a sivaleyzd shprakh." Such a pleasure to hear a civilized tongue. His fingers twitch when she brings the glasses to Ruiz, and it takes him a second to realize: she's letting Ruiz make the call on whether it's safe to give him the drink.

Something funny happens under his sternum. What's going on here? A glance at Ruiz tells him that Ruiz has figured something out--but what? He doesn't know.

He turns his attention back to Mattie, listening to her with his musician's intensity. Her voice is so beautiful to listen to, and yet, he's wary. Something about her beauty is like the beauty of a venemous snake. Beware. Trouble me not, for I shall trouble you more than you would care for.

People don't understand that snakes bite only if you mess with them.

His gray hazel eyes tick over to the photograph. "So we have. We're sorry for your loss," he murmurs, ritual words. Then...something about what she says, and the way she says it, chills his stomach in him.

They're...no. Are they? He glances at Ruiz again. To test his theory, he ventures, "The only. Why do you say that?"

Itzhak's drink is given a sniff, and then a sip while Mattie speaks. Just enough to coat the tip of his tongue, not swallowed until he's reasonably certain that it's just watered down bourbon. Not the top shelf stuff, clearly. He passes it off though, and does the same with his own, before taking a proper sip. Then his hat is slid onto her desk, nudged just so by his fingertips. And he's perfectly happy to let his companion do the bulk of the talking while he prowls in for a closer look at the picture.

Dark eyes on the photo of Dashiel in his trim beard and lovely suit. Then dark eyes on Itzhak. Something's communicated not with words, but in the form of a mental whisper; that familiar wolf and its guttering flame and knife-blade claws and bright eyes. <<She's hired us to kill someone. Or someones. Let's find out what we can.>>

To Mattie, "Cuéntanos sobre el leproso. Y donde podemos encontrarlo."

If Mattie is the cobra, Ruiz and Itzhak are the mongeese. She's aware of the danger they present, yet requires their skills. Such are the risks they take to get what they want in these times. "Meyn foter's shprakh. Er gelernt mir vi a kleyn meydl." My father's language. He taught me as a little girl.

The photo and its frame are fancy, for the era; the kind of thing only a rich person can have casually. Dashiel's features and hair suggest he might himself be mixed race; in what manner is hard to tell. A color photograph would be necessary to suss it out.

For a moment Mattie seems surprised to be asked that by Itzhak, more so to hear Ruiz say what says. Her face creases in a gentle frown, clears a moment later. "I suppose it's not a surprise; the Leper's work is confined to the southeast. Perhaps she's been too wise to trouble Rooney or Capone."

She.

Another sip of bourbon, then, "No one knows much about her, except that she's white, and has some sort of," Mattie traces her fingers back from her face, "skin disease, or scarring maybe. Like she might have survived the Great War in Europe." Chemical weapons, she means--sarin gas and the like. "Leper's just a moniker, I imagine; the description doesn't sound like leprosy." She shrugs that digression aside, moves on to the particulars. "She's ruthless, controls her neighborhood with an iron grip. The only head who'll dare kill police, so I assume she must have something on the chief. Even Rooney won't do that. Which makes her hard to get at, and most people of your profession would pass on such a job." Her mouth flattens. "She's the only source of absinthe in these parts, which I'm sure I don't need to tell either of you is often in high demand. Dashiel was looking for another supplier for us when he went missing." She rubs at her eyes. "It might not be her. But she and hers are as good a place to start as any. And regardless of who it was, I want them dealt with. I'll pay top dollar."

Itzhak's hand trembles when he takes the glass from Ruiz. Killers. They are killers. His mental fractalscape contorts around the wolf-shape that burns like a star. To give himself a moment, he sips the liquor, tilting the glass in such a way he doesn't dunk his nose into it. (Life with this schnozz can be a challenge.) The bourbon is so good it distracts him, settles his roiling belly. He licks the taste of it from his lips, his eyes on Ruiz.

"No one troubles Capone," he says, looking back at Mattie. "Not even her." His tone is flat. This woman is going to great lengths to take revenge for her...her what? Her son? He switches back to Yiddish. "Ir zogn zi iz shver tsu gefinen. Dos iz vos mir ton bester."

You say she is hard to come at. Yet this is what we do best.

The Dream has its own logic, and Itzhak feels--well, something. A violinist hit man and his surly, violent partner. Known for their near-supernatural ability to work together, perhaps, their skill sniffing out targets no matter how hardened and taking those targets down. A pair of men who don't fear cops or cop killers or any mobster or politician. Who write their own ticket and accept the jobs they want, and disdain the rest.

Maybe.

De la Vega, in contrast, looks not troubled in the least. Itzhak may have some sense of what's going on under the surface, courtesy of the link that travels between them like a filament, giving emotion shape and voice. There's uncertainty, confusion, reluctance and even fear, when one delves far enough. Not fear of what they're being asked to do, no. Something far worse than that.

"Bueno," he offers quietly once Mattie's finished speaking. No reaction whatsoever to the frown; no hint that he's taken off guard by her reaction to their not knowing. He takes it all in stride, as much as he can. "La encontraremos. Estará hecho. Requeriremos la mitad del pago por adelantado, estoy seguro de que lo comprende."

His eyes flick to Itzhak, and then he reaches for his hat and tugs it back over his head.

"It's true--none may trouble him. Though sometimes, the Leper acts without rhyme or reason. It's one reason she's so feared, in these parts; she's unpredictable, illogical at times." Mattie sighs, shakes her head. She's not going to try to get into the mind of the person who slaughtered Dashiel, one way or another. She's just going to get rid of her.

She smiles to hear Itzhak say that, slow and pleased, nods at Ruiz. "I'd hoped you might feel that way." She eases off the desk. "And, absolutely. I'll have Cora authorize a the down payment from the bank. Let me know if there are any incidentals you need help with," she's moving towards the room from which the sounds of typing continue, "I'm aware that, if it takes time for you to track down the responsible party, there may be an additional fee. I'm prepared to pay it." She knocks on the door, which opens. She murmurs something to the young woman, who nods and heads back in, shutting the door once more.

Mattie returns to her desk, pulls out another piece of paper takes up her pen once more. "Thank you both for your time, gentlemen. Jacob and Adrian will show you out. You know where to find me, should you need to."

Itzhak drops another one of his elegant little musician's bows, gesturing with the fedora still in his hand. He finishes the bourbon--it's too good to slam, but also too good to waste, so he goes for the lesser evil--sets the glass down. "We'll be in touch," he murmurs.

He sweeps out of the room, tall and beaky and his eyes fierce and bright. ...But he lets Ruiz take point again if he moves to.

His violin is really going, in the kythe, singing questions and positing answers without words, music theory and logic braiding together to represent his thoughts. Fernlike fractals rustle together, a thousand thousand iterative processes murmuring to each other. Itzhak is thinking and he's thinking hard.

<<We need to talk,>> his violin sings to Ruiz, words forming out of the music.

Once out, he turns to Jacob and Adrian. "So howsabout that drink? I got to see what you guys got goin' on in there." The music distracts and lures him too badly; he's GOT to hear! Hey, when else in his life is he going to get this chance?

Jacob looks uncertain. Adrian gives Jacob a look. They can suspect what this was about; anyone in Mattie's inner circle can, come to it. But others might not know why Ruiz and Itzhak are in the speakeasy. Hell, they might just be here for music and a drink. They'll get treated better here than in any of the white-run establishments, that's for sure.

Jacob relents. "Sure. I hear there might even be a case of rum down there, if that's your thing."

Adrian guffaws. "Are you kidding? Rum? The hell are we waitin' for?" He does wait, though, to see if Ruiz is in.

Sure, of course they're here for music and a drink. The taller fellow, at least, looks like like Louis Armstrong might be his kind of jam. The Hispanic guy in the tweed suit, though, just looks like he wants to get the fuck out. And might be about to try to encourage his friend to accompany him, when Adrian and Jacob turn to look at him expectantly. He starts to say something. Glances at Itzhak. Then nods once, slightly. "Si. Por un ratito."

Hat replaced atop his head, he nods once to Mattie, pushes his hands into his pants pockets, and ambles on out of the room.

Adrian grins, flashing white even teeth. "Spectacular," he says, clapping Jacob on the back. he sets off to lead the way, asiding to Itzhak, "If you don't got your instrument with ya, I'm sure someone has one." Is he dying to see the infamous Rosencrantz play? Probably. (Yes.)

Even Jacob seems pleased by the prospect; he nods at de la Vega. "There's a good tequila too, if that's your preference."

The trip back down the cramped stairwell is much the same as it was up, and soon they're back in that hall. Two other men are on the door; they up-nod to Adrian and Jacob, who touch their hats in response. Adrian pulls aside the curtain, giving Itzhak and Ruiz a full, unimpeded view. The band is playing a slower tune now; The Man I Love. With a lighter crew than Gershwin wrote it for it takes on a darker, smokier vibe; it's less dreamily hopeful, more melancholy satire. The singer--tall, lean, dark skinned with black brown eyes, hair in finger waves and a long, lovely, beaded dress in dark blue, her voice throaty and rich--isn't hoping for her man, she's lamenting that this is all society has left for her.

A few eyes flit their way, but not many; the singer has almost everyone's attention, and anyone not watching them is watching a companion, their drink, or both. The bartenders are among the attentive, thanks to Adrian raising his chin at them and heading to the bar. He speaks to one, who nods, and Adrian claps him on the back and slips each of them folded bill.

Jacob sees this, says to Ruiz and Itzhak, "It's on us, fellas. Enjoy yourselves. If you'd rather go out the back just let anyone at the curtain know."

"I didn't bring 'er," Itzhak tells Adrian, "but if someone's got a violin I can get my hands on, I'll play all right." He's grinning, face alight. He looks like a kid who gets to go to Disneyland and ride a dinosaur. Possibly why Ruiz is letting him get away with this.

When they're back downstairs and Adrian pulls aside the curtain, Itzhak takes in a breath. He stands there in the doorway, enchanted, poised on a threshold of something he doesn't understand, but that makes his prickly, difficult soul sing. Everyone in this room has reason to fear and possibly hate him, and that means nothing to him. He saunters in, sheds his overcoat. Long and lean, clad in a gorgeously tailored pinstripe suit, he cuts a hell of a figure, and does he notice or care? No. Not really. He cares about the band, and that stunner of a singer.

"Thanks, man!" he says happily to Jacob, and Adrian. "We appreciate it, fellas."

He's taking off his suit jacket--when he freezes in place. There's something weird about his jacket. He hadn't noticed before, but as he's taking it off, without the pressure of the overcoat, he notices.

His Song tells him what the weirdness is. His jacket is lined with hidden pockets. In those pockets, knives. Light, slim, sharp throwing knives. Itzhak swallows. He finishes taking the jacket off. As he does, he notices the woman with the black-lightning tattoo. His eyes dip to the tattoo.

He'll look at me and smile
I'll understand
Then in a little while
He'll take my hand
And though it seems absurd
I know we both won't say a word

Javier's not quite awestruck, but certainly seems singularly focused on the singer in her slinky beaded dress, sequins catching the light like a hundred thousand tiny mirrors. He keeps to the back, near the velvet curtain they came through, and a brush of gloved fingers to his coat pocket produces a tin of fragrant cloves. His expression's briefly speculative as he slides one out, turns it over, then lights up; he's hardly the only one in here smoking.

Adrian and Jacob, too, are watched. More surreptitiously perhaps. And then, in trailing the latter, an older gentleman catches his eye. Off by himself, the edges of some intricate ink just barely visible above his collar, and the Mexican squints slightly as he studies him. Then Itzhak is striding past in his tailored pinstripe, and he can't hardly help it; the man steals his attention like nobody else. He smokes and he watches, and he's very aware of that pistol holstered at his ribs.

Adrian passes by Itzhak and Jacob, gives them a white-toothed smile, then he and Jacob vanish back beyond the curtain. Ruiz can instinctively pick out the 'bouncers', if you will; there's a few men in less expensive attire placed around the room who seem to be here for the music and booze but are curiously not imbibing in the later and not in good enough seats to properly enjoy the former.

The woman and man with the markings are among the very few white people in the speakeasy; maybe there's a half dozen all told, but the others are unmarked and not paying attention to Itzhak or Ruiz. She's a little over five feet and curvy, with prominent green eyes in a cat-like face. Her auburn hair sports elegant Marcel waves, and her long, fancy, beaded and lace dress speaks to considerable wealth. It also helps hide the design on her arm, except to those with a practiced eye. She's enjoying herself, to go by her smile and the gleam in her eyes.

If the woman's a cat, the man's a bulldog. His expressive face isn't especially handsome by the requirements of society: his bright blue eyes are deep set, so much so that he seems to be squinting most of the time; his nose is short and broad; his ears stick out a bit, and his strong jaw squares off his features. His hair's a reddish blond, the beard flecked with white and gray, and he looks absurdly bored. He's in a fine, pale gray suit; the black tattoo pattern peaks out just back his shirt and jacket collar.

The woman notices Itzhak's eyes on her arm, drifts closer. "Well hello handsome," she says in a pleases alto. "Never seen a woman with a tattoo before?"

Itzhak really didn't expect to actually be approached. If anything, avoided. (Sometimes he's not too bright like that.) He hikes his eyebrows at the lady, while he's unbuttoning his cuffs. "Gotta admit it's unusual, yeah?" He tips his head down at her tattoos, and shows her his own forearm as he rolls his sleeve back. Beautiful illustrative-style pomegranates and olives, fruit, flowers, leaves, and branches. His other forearm, of course, has the Lichtenberg-figure scar, fernlike patterns seared white in light olive skin. "What's it of? Looks like lightning."

He glances over his shoulder to check on Ruiz, finds him smoking and studying the room. And him. Nice.

The Hispanic man in the tweed suit just keeps right on smoking, dark eyes carefully trailing the woman who approaches Itzhak as if to keep tabs on her, too. The bulldog-faced fellow with the strawberry blond hair is watched in fits and spurts, and eventually he sidles on up to the bar to place an order for a glass of tequila.

"Oh my," the woman says, green eyes widening as she sees Itzhak's own tattoos. Her eyes flit to the Lichtenberg figure on his arm, and she seems to fixate on it for half a breath. Then she's back to studying his arm appreciatively. "Unusual, but, if there's anywhere that the unusual is accepted," she looks up at him through her lashes, "it's here." She doesn't touch him, just studies the art closely, straightens and holds out her own arm for him to see. It almost looks like her veins themselves are black and popping close to the skin, so fine are the details and lines. "I like to think of it as the roots of a seed," she says. It winds up her arm to somewhere under the shoulder, where her dress obscures the rest.

On stage, the song is wrapping up, and the singer is thanking the crowd as she moves off to have a seat and a drink of her own. There's a fiddler in the group, an older, oliver skinned fellow with heavy brows and black hair who looks a bit winded; he's cradling his instrument, seems to be indicating to the band leader he'll be sitting out a few more.

Ruiz is in luck, there's tequila tonight! The brand isn't labeled in any way, but that's not a surprise; this is the era of La Cristiada when tequila had to be smuggled not just into the US, but out of Mexico as well. The bottle is a simple, plain brown glass with a blue agave plant painted on the front. "This is good stuff," the bartender assures him, probably having noticed Ruiz is Hispanic. "I save the junk for people who won't know any better." He winks at Ruiz, pushes the glass to him and leaves the bottle in easy reach. It's easily as smooth as Gran Patron, but there's a hint of difference in it; perhaps the blue agave plants of the 20s aren't the same as modern cultivars. Or perhaps the Dream teases him with something he'll never find when--if--he escapes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the strawberry blond shift to another table closer to Itzhak and the woman, oh-so-casually.

Itzhak, who can have zero sense of propriety, does touch. He sets one calloused fingertip under the woman's wrist, steadying her arm so he can have a really good look. Just that one touch, just for a moment, before he drops his hand. "Roots of a seed," he echoes, curiously. "Well, it's beautiful. And on a beautiful lady." Oh shit, he was accidentally smooth. "What's your name?"

He doesn't seem to have noticed the other handsome brick of a guy who isn't Ruiz, moving closer and closer. What he notices is that the fiddle player on stage needs a break. He applauds the singer, first, she richly deserves it. Then he says to his companion, "I gotta get my hands on that fiddle," and offers her his arm. (Bex taught him how to do that.) He wants to escort her close to the stage so he can intrude on the band and not leave her hanging. The Dream logic affects him, gentlemanly reflexes happening without him quite knowing it.

The bottle is reached for, turned with inked fingers so Ruiz can get a good look at the label if there is one. His dark eyes slink from 'tender to drink, then back again as the man speaks to him. A smile, slight, and then he lifts it to his nose for a sniff, followed by a small sip. One doesn't guzzle this stuff.

A brief glance is spared for the stage, and then the pair with the tattoos that seem to have honed in on Itzhak; now the gentleman is edging closer as well, and it sets off alarm bells in that paranoid gut of his. He stays put for the time being though, sipping and smoking, letting them think his interest is only passingly so.

It's an añejo tequila for sure, a lovely dark gold color, rich and complex. Definitely for sipping. Nothing on the bottle to indicate the distiller; perhaps that's not a surprise, given the uncertain nature of tequila production in this era, alongside its clandestine import.

When Itzhak's fingers touch that tattoo, a sensation tingles in his Lichtenberg figure scar. The woman doesn't seem to notice; she's instead caught by him calling her pretty, and asking for her name. For a moment she looks at him, and there's a sense the question has struck a chord in her smoewhere. Ruiz sees the man who's been closing in on them freeze at the same moment, staring hard.

The woman blinks, and the moment ends. The catlike smile returns. Accepting his arm, she says, "Miranda," all smooth indulgence. Her eyebrows go up, and she glances at the fiddle. "You play? Oh--play for us. I'd love to hear it."

Nothing seems to happen, or at least not what the man was bracing for, because he relaxes, drinks more of his...whatever it is. (Rum, maybe.) He flicks a sharp-eyed glance back at Ruiz, then to the stage again.

"Just a few songs," the fiddler assures the band leader, who nods his understanding.

Itzhak feels that tingle, and adrenaline spikes through him. He swallows, Adam's apple sliding along his throat. But the pretty woman is looking at him like he's said something poetic, something that's made her think things she didn't expect to think.

The moment passes. Itzhak says, with all the gallantry at his disposal, "Miranda. I'm Itzhak." The laughing one, he doesn't say, the bard, the guy who's gonna rip this Dream apart. Then he guides her weaving through the crowd to the stage. "I play. I'll show ya." He can't resist a quick half-smile at her, and if it's wolfish, so much the better.

He bounds up on the stage in a couple of long-legged strides, like a deer. "Can I?" he asks the fiddler, eyebrows up, all excited.

"You a fiddler?" the older man asks, easing up off the stool. He has a Slavic or Baltic accent of some kind; Azerbaijani, perhaps, or Armenian. He blinks, seems to recognize Itzhak somehow. "Ha! Listen to me, asking you if you're a fiddler." He offers his instrument over. It's a handsome enough piece; nothing fancy, but no student's fiddle.

The band leader nods, satisfied if his fiddler is. The older musician gets down, wincing, heads for the bar. "We're gonna pick up the tempo a bit," the trumpet player says, his own instrument back in hand. He's already counting out a brisk pace as he takes center stage. And just like that, the band launches into The Blue Room.

Miranda watches from the side of the stage, attention fixed on Itzhak. She finds a table to settle at, green eyes on the musicians.

When Ruiz checks again, the blue eyed man is absent. And that's because he settles at the bar next to Ruiz and gives him a stunning smile, for such a pug-faced fellow. The bar tender does his best to mask a grim expression, pours the man a bourbon. The man nods, takes his tumbler, and leans back against the bar. His gaze settles on Itzhak. "Seems your friend's found his entertainment for the night," he says.

Itzhak claps the fiddler on the arm. "You bet. Don't worry, I'll take good care of her." Then the man says asking YOU if you're a fiddler, and his eyebrows promptly go up, narccing him out. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He doesn't know. So he just takes the fiddle, and smiles secret and satisfied to have it in his hands. He plucks the strings, retightens the bow to how he likes it. Then he tucks the fiddle under his chin and pops his eyebrows at the horn guy, who--god damn, he really IS Louis Armstrong.

"Hit it, chief!" And Itzhak swings into the music, playing high and sweet and lively, boot tapping, grinning to himself, swaying.

Ruiz's hat has come off, and his coat too, in keeping with the muggy, smoky air of the speakeasy. The latter's folded across the back of his stool; the former placed on the bar beside the unmarked bottle of tequila. He continues to survey the room with a predator's lazy interest; like he's cataloguing who doesn't fit in here, who might be dangerous, who might be acting erratically. Itzhak, of course, he keeps half an eye on at all times; but the blue-eyed man, when he settles in nearby and singles him out with his words, is given an assessing flick of his gaze. Just enough to confirm that he's the same one he saw earlier, mingling out there, pretending like he wasn't with the woman.

"Seems like," he replies evenly. No smile in sight from the Mexican, until Itzhak takes up that fiddle and starts to play; and then a traitorous grin, like he had any hope of hiding his fondness for that lanky son of a bitch.

The band rolls through The Blue Room; everyone gets a solo, including Itzhak. More than a few patrons set to dancing. They move on to West End Blues, with its snappy trumpet intro that slides into a bluesy, casual gait. Miranda doesn't take her eyes from them the whole time.

The blue-eyed man smiles, his teeth sharp and white. While Ruiz watches Itzhak, the blue-eyed man watches Ruiz. "You two work together long?" he asks, as bold as you please. The word 'work' seems to have several layers of meaning. This close, the tattoos on his neck look more like raised veins, and Ruiz can see, there's an odd thread of black in one of his eyes as well.

Itzhak is in his element, and he even takes the solo with verve, whipping the bow across the strings. He gets a little bluegrassy with it, throws in some alligator-for-breakfast style Cajun, has fun. He's having so much fun, all the danger and stress of the Dream held off from him for a short and precious time. People dance, and Itzhak glows up there on stage, sunk into music, amid fellow musicians. When they wrap up 'West End Blues', he whoops, unable to help it. "Hell yeah!"

His gaze ticks across the room to Ruiz--were you watching? did you see that?--and finds him being chatted up by that fellow who's burly like de la Vega, has the aura of a predator like de la Vega.

The initial strain of lively trumpet fading to a sedate, smoky roll has de la Vega's grin settling into a more even-tempered curl at the edges of his mouth. This is definitely his jam, and he's not even bothering to hide, tonight, the way he looks at Itzhak. Of course he saw his solo, the way he attacked his instrument like a fever. Who wouldn't watch him? The man bleeds charisma from every pore, Espressivo given form.

Blue Eyes' question has him sipping from his drink though and easing back in his seat to regard the man more fully for a few moments. His gaze is intent, dark eyes glittering with ferocity. Curiosity, too, as his gaze skims the lines of that tattoo. "Por un ratito. Por qué preguntas?" Looks like a foreigner; maybe he doesn't speak English well.

The band leader loves that flavor of Cajun--but then, if he is Louis Armstrong, that's no wonder, being from New Orleans himself. Or perhaps he's the Dream's idea of Louis Armstrong. It's hard to say, there's an uncertainty there.

They're ready to roll into a third song; Miranda is gazing up at Itzhak, clapping for him. She follows his line of sight to the blue-eyed man, and her expression falters, becomes more wooden and confused. Then she's smiling and clapping again. "Another," she encourages Itzhak.

Blue Eyes doesn't seem the least put out by Ruiz speaking Spanish. He sips his bourbon. "Quién no sentiría curiosidad por ustedes dos?" Who wouldn't be curious about you two? His eyes flick back to Itzhak, admiring his in his musician's enthusiasm, back to Ruiz. He pulls a dark brown cigarette out of a pack, holds it up between two fingers. "Got a light?"

Itzhak's gaze is focused on Ruiz and that handsome guy with the blue eyes, now asking him for a light. A razor lance of jealousy, almost too sharp to feel, goes through him. He gives his head a toss, to shake his curls out of his eyes, and glances down at Miranda, urging him on. "One more." He turns to the band and Mr. Armstrong, telling them what he wants in short, quick murmurs of musician talk. When he faces the audience again, he steps up to the mic.

One. Two. One two three--and the band swings into that unmistakable sound of New Orleans jazz. Itzhak sings, rowdy, raunchy, working his New York accent to its limits to pump up the contrast. The Big Apple sings The Big Easy.

"In the South Land there's a city
Way down on the river
Where the women are very pretty
And all the men deliver
They got music
It's always playin'
Start in the day time, go all through the night
When you hear that music playin'
Hear what I'm saying, it make you feel alright!"

Take that, stupid handsome blue eyed guy.

When Itzhak breaks out with that big, rolling, bawdy tune full of belted out vocals and jaunty trumpets, Javier can't help but smile. Just a little. It crinkles up the corners of his eyes, and scrunches up his nose a little, and he chuckles into his drink as he listens.

Dark gaze on Miranda, then on Blue Eyes, the Mexican notes the bourbon his companion du jour is drinking, and then the pack of cigarettes. The brand, of course, is nothing available out there in the real world. His own clove is held scissored between two fingers as he slips out his lighter and hands it over in the same palm. Inked knuckles, little odd, but maybe not to a guy with a neck tattoo like that. "Got a name?" he returns in kind. In English this time, slight smile lingering.

Miranda laughs and claps when Itzhak agrees to another. Blue Eyes smiles, radiating a sense of victory. He thinks Ruiz is being left to him.

It's not a song the band knows, but the New York fiddler knows how to describe it to them, and that's plenty. This is how Jazz and Blues have always worked: weaving together the various pieces that follow a theme, no notion of 'right' beyond music that's heard and enjoyed, that makes space for and uplifts each voice in its turn; no notion of 'wrong' save a failure to adhere to those notions. A 'wrong' note is just a new one.

As Blue Eyes accepts the lighter and ducks his head to light the clove cigarette, Ruiz gets a better look at the marking on his neck. It disappears under his color and spreads from there, who knows how far. He hands the lighter back with a murmured thanks. The smoke that he breathes out is spicy sweet, and tickles Ruiz's nose.

"Caliban," he says. He leans easy against the bar. The smell of his cigarette is starting to get stronger. Ruiz can hardly focus on anything else. And is the black mote in the man's eye bigger than it was before. "What brings you two all the way down here?" He takes a drag, blows a smoke ring.

"Grab somebody, come on down
Bring your paintbrush, we're paintin' the town
Honey, there's some sweetness goin' 'round
Catch it down in New Orleans!

We got magic, good and bad
Make you happy or make you real sad
Get everything you want, lose what you had
Down here in New Orleans...

HEY!" Itzhak barks into the mic, realizing something fishy is going down between the blue-eyed man and Ruiz. Something about that smoke! Itzhak's glad he already set the fiddle down. He'd hate to break another man's instrument. He springs down from the stage and charges for the bar, his hazel eyes hot and a sneer curling his lip.

He's aware, surely, that something's a little off. He's a hunter of men, senses keen as a hawk taking the lay of the land, a shark slipping through the undertow looking for blood in the water. But something about this guy.. it's hard to focus. He had a thought, a moment ago, opens his mouth to answer the question posed to him, and can't remember what he was going to say.

As Itzhak rolls up, he's starting to push out of his seat, half a glass of tequila still sitting there on the counter, the band looking at his friend like what the fuck, man? De la Vega starts pulling his glove back on, murmurs something about needing to go, and nearly runs right into the lanky musician come to see what's up. "Mantente alejado de él. Él es ... el cigarrillo, no estoy seguro."

The band are a bit surprised by Itzhak's sudden exit, but they keep on playing. Wouldn't be the first time a fight or argument has broken out in the speakeasy. Mr. Armstrong improvs some lyrics, they beat and the melody carry on, meandering into something a little different than Randy Newman originally wrote but which is no less authentic.

Blue Eyes takes a half-step back from Ruiz, all easy consideration and false smile. "Have a good night," he purrs, smoking away, sipping at his bourbon. Miranda stays by the stage, frozen in place, expression pained.

The bartenders exchange nervous looks. A couple of the bouncers are eyeing Itzhak and the Blue Eyed man.

Itzhak gets an arm around Ruiz, staring daggers at the blue-eyed man. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he looks like a jealous lover, a fighting cock fluffing his feathers and flashing his spurs at another rooster. He doesn't give a shit. Let them all look. Let them all know what happens to them if they fuck with Ruiz, and why it will happen.

"You back off." His voice is a growl, and something about his Song picks it up, amplifies it in the little room, rumbling the floorboards. Then he pulls Ruiz away, just a little ways, to a chair so he can figure himself out. Itzhak's worried he'll fall down if he tries to get him any further.

Ruiz might be of a mind to protest, were the situation any different. Were his faculties all intact; were he able to move without commanding his feet, left and then right, vision swimming, some distant roar beginning in his skull that starts to drown out the music. He barely makes it into the chair Itzhak shoves him at, and collapses into it heavily, head tipping back. He's forgotten his hat and coat over at the bar, of course, along with his drink. His clove still smokes away between two fingers though, the planes and angles of his bulky frame emphasised by the well-tailored suit. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his thumb and forefinger to his temples, and tries to focus.

As soon as Ruiz is clear of the smoke his confusion stops worsening. It doesn't immediately begin to improve, though there's a sense it will, given time and maybe some fresh air.

Caliban remains at the bar. He goes so far as to lean over Ruiz's glass of tequila and give it a sniff. And...does he run his tongue around the rim of the glass? Mmm, yeah, he just did that. The bartenders give him a horrified look and become busy doing literally anything else.

Miranda is weaving through the patrons with a purpose, coming towards Ruiz and Itzhak. The odd, eclipsed nature of her Glimmer seems gone to Ruiz's eyes. Wasn't it just there, though? He could swear it was.

A couple of bouncers have gotten up from their tables. One comes over to Itzhak and Ruiz, though he looks friendly, not irritated or aggressive. "He okay? Need a walk outside to clear his head?" The guy gestures overhead. "Ventilation in here, it's for shit."

Itzhak points the bouncer towards their coats and hats. "Get me our stuff, willya? Do not touch anything." Miranda is coming towards them, and he eyes her like the bristling junkyard dog he is. "I'm not in the mood for any bullshit," he warns her.

And...ol' Blue Eyes over there is licking Ruiz's glass. Itzhak's eyes snap to the glass, and--fwish! it rockets off the bar and shatters into a million pieces.

"I'm fine," murmurs de la Vega, fingertips still dug into his temples, then dragged across his forehead slowly. He has no idea what Caliban's doing over there with his glass, nor that Miranda's approaching them - until he catches a glimpse of her sequined form in the low-hanging haze of smoke, winding between the tables. He struggles to focus on her, something about her eyes, something about her Gift, like the sun behind the moon. But no matter how much he squints, he can't find it. Or maybe it was never there. Fuck.

The sound of glass splintering has his gloved hand dropping to his pistol, which is in plain view now with his coat off. Fingers around the grip, his heart thudding in his chest, but he doesn't draw it. Yet.

"Say no more, boss," the bouncer says. He goes to gather up the coats and hats, careful not to look into or fumble the pockets. He knows this part of his job quite well, is versed in not getting into patron's things. Not his business.

The glass flies off the bar and shatters, which startles Caliban; his surprise melts into a devilish grin that he turns on Itzhak. He takes a long, happy drag from his cigarette, blows a smoke ring, purses his lips in a kiss and wiggles his fingers at him. The rest of the speakeasy...doesn't seem to notice the broken glass.

"Then you shouldn't have come," Miranda says. Her voice is pained, her expression is drawn. She reaches out that tattooed hand towards Itzhak's bow arm, but Itzhak can evade her attempt to snag him.

Itzhak, fast-handed fiddler, doesn't let Miranda grab him. His right hand (his bow arm, the fernlike scar laid into his skin in pretty spirals) snaps out and clamps around Miranda's delicate wrist.

Itzhak's hand--the hand on his bow arm, the arm with the scar--closes around Miranda's wrist, the wrist with the leading edges of black, web-like roots. Just as his fingers are about to make contact he feels a sensation of being drawn in, and his scar writhes on his arm.

Tattoo and scar meet. Except now he knows it's not a tattoo at all; it's the same thing that made that scar in the first place.

The cold hits him like a railroad spike to the head, and his whole scar lights up with searing, numbing, blinding pain, a deafening roar in his mind. Ruiz feels the avalanche hit, hears the soft, whispering voice that comes in the aftermath. And Ruiz, for all that he never saw the skygge-skapning, he knows this voice too. He heard it in Portland, when a book dragged him down into its hidden heart of mist and shadow.

You will never be enough, the voice murmurs, silky smooth, certain of its rightness. You lie in the service of liars. You abandon those who love you. You fail them all, again and again...

Someone is crying. It's Miranda. (Maybe they are too. But she is as well.) "No, please, stop. Stop."

It's hard to follow what's going on; Caliban over there with his glass, and then not, as it shatters in his hand. Miranda rushing toward Itzhak, bouncers converging on them, and the music wobbles, falters, then eventually peters out as the musicians stop to stare at what's going on.

Javier looks, for a hot minute, like he's down for the count. Out of the game, slumped in his chair like that, dark eyes gone glassy with confusion. But then something happens when Itzhak touches that woman, and he pushes through his mental fog and surges to his feet like a bat out of hell. Shoulders aside the bouncer who'd come over with his hat and coat, and steps right the fuck in close to Miranda, up against her back with his mouth at her ear like he means to whisper something enticing to her.

Then quick as a shot, his gloved hand comes around to grasp and lift her jaw firmly and the scent of something bitter and acrid builds on the air, like smoke from an electrical fire. It's soundless, the moment the circuit closes and the charge goes off. Fifty thousand volts of electricity channeled through his body and into hers, there and gone in a fraction of a heartbeat; the remnants of the charge slide off them both like an afterimage, a flash in the pan.

Itzhak shouts, a cry of pain--that becomes a cry of real pain, pain dragging through his scarred heart, leaving bloody furrows in its wake to scar in their turn. You will never be enough. You lie in the service of liars. You fail, and you fail, and you fail, and you fail--

Blinding. His very self slashed down the middle and left to die, split open like an animal hit by a car. Itzhak can't breathe, can't move, can't think. He can only stand frozen, tears slipping down his cheeks, and slowly. Desperately. Open his hand, and let Miranda go. And then Ruiz is on his feet, fighting to defend him, that devastating circuit closing, and Itzhak laughs low and rough, just once, to see him in action.

His mind is reeling but he didn't make it this far in his life without being able to act on instinct. He grabs their stuff--the knives! and God knows what Ruiz has in his!--and croaks at Ruiz, "C'mon!"

The speakeasy has fallen silent as everyone stares at this weird spectacle. For them, Miranda has tried to grab Itzhak, been grabbed in turn, and now, they're both freaking the hell out. Caliban gets up from the bar and homes in on them, but he's having trouble getting through the stunned, silent patrons.

Ruiz grabs Miranda, sparking blue and white. The lightning races from him into her, colliding with that black tattoo like it knew to go right there.

Miranda screams. Ruiz can feel the pressure of an inky darkness scrabbling at his electrokinesis, trying for a foothold it can't get. The tattoo seems to pull off Miranda, leaving a twining, red-white scar in its wake. The soporific effect of the cigarette burns out of his veins at the same time. The eclipse over Miranda's Glimmer fades, and they both begins to see it: brilliant, like Itzhak's, fully powerful. They can sense she has a touch of the mind Song; enough that they know she's not fighting Ruiz's lightning at all. She's fighting the shadow thing, trying to shove it out even as Ruiz burns it away.

The shadow coils in the air like smoke, absorbing light rather than scattering it. Pathetic, it hisses, desperate. Selfish. Weak. You are worthless, none will ever want you for yourself. Miranda's face is streaming tears, green eyes open wide in shock. The skygge-skapning breaks free, and she collapses, groaning and smoking, but free.

Caliban breaks through the closest group of on-lookers. "Goddamnit," he snarls, and launches at Itzhak, fist swinging.

It's reminiscent of something, though Javier can't quite remember what, with his mind in the grip of that fog. The things it tells him, that shadow. The way the words cut right to the core of him, he's felt this before. And then Miranda's screaming, and a few people in the crowd are screaming too, onlookers scrambling back, confused and terrified. And suddenly, the thing is out of her, and he sees it for what it is. And reaches in as if to try to snatch it up in both fists and literally wring the life out of it, like a wet cloth. His power surges again, pale filaments that race along his wrists and fingers and discharge into the shadow-thing. Teeth gritted, all of his focus on that task, he doesn't even notice Caliban taking a swing at Itzhak.

That wrongness floating in the air, one of Their nail parings--Itzhak recognizes it. "Zap it!" he shouts to Ruiz, "it'll kill it!" Ruiz is already on the case, like the hunter he is, and Itzhak whoops in appreciation. That's his man! At the same time, however, Caliban is coming to push in his big nose for him. Itzhak steps around swift and neat to face him, baring his teeth in that battle grin. "You wanna dance, boychik? C'MON!"

He blocks Caliban's swing with his right arm, swatting the man's fist aside, then surges in with his left ('DOWN'). POP! his bony knuckles achieve impact on Caliban's face.

The knives in his jacket tremble with eagerness. They want to be let loose. Itzhak tries to ignore them, tries to do this the old fashioned way.

The inside of that darkness is cold, numbing Ruiz's hands to the bone until the electricity flows out of him, banishing its meager attempts to infect him. Blooms of white and blue flare through the hazy darkness, shredding it, burning it away like morning fog. As the last of it dissipates, a little tendril lashes out, trashes a searing, cold line across Ruiz's jaw. Two familiar faces appear in dim corner of his awareness, and a voice slithers into his mind, soft and certain.

you as good as killed them yourself

Then it's gone. There's the smell of Miranda's burned hair and dress, the shock and awe of the crowd, and Itzhak and Caliban coming at one another like a pair of boxers in a grudge match. Caliban takes the hits with a grunt, flashes Itzhak a feral smile. "If you say so," he growls, and swings again--with fist that has more of that ugly veining creeping over it. One of his eyes has an odd threading of black running through it as well, like fouled blood.

Miranda coughs, grips a table leg, then the top of the table. She's shaking but determined to get up.

Ruiz hisses sharply as that tendril slices across his face, jaw clenched hard with the agony of keeping his hands thrust into the guts of that twisting, crawling shadow. The last thing it tells him has his heart skipping a beat and his dark eyes snapping wide. And then it's done, and he drops back against the edge of the table, panting heavily, but his head at least is clear of that mental fog that had suffocated all thought.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings, and he pushes off to offer Miranda a hand up. Itzhak looks like he's got fucking Blue Eyes under control for the time being, but he keeps an eye on the fight as it progresses.

Itzhak sways back, dodging out of reach with a grace Joey Kelly might grunt approval over. "I'm gonna need you to stay down!" he snaps at Caliban, pointing at the floor--and Caliban's clothes and shoes obey him. They yank the man to the floor, pinning him there like a butterfly. If it happens so fast his head bounces off the wooden floorboards, well, Itzhak won't complain.

Caliban bares his teeth. "Well maybe you shoul--" His voice ends in a surprised yelp as his lovely suit and shoes do Itzhak's bidding. He falls flat on his face, busting his nose, lays there groaning.

Miranda accepts Ruiz's hand because she's not entirely clear on who's offering it. As soon as she stands and sees its him she shrinks a bit, grimacing. "I--I'm sorry," she stammes, voice hoarse from the screaming. "I tried to stop it, but they're so powerful, and once they're--once they've got a hold..." She swallows. There's a look in her eyes; she knows what it showed Itzhak, can guess it did something similar to Ruiz, and she's plainly expecting some payback.

As soon as Caliban is stuck to the floor the bouncers wade in. It's at this point that it mgiht be more apparent, they all Glimmer. Very faintly; it's almost easy to miss. Just a hint. In fact, it makes one wonder if, perhaps, they've not found some way to mask it. Which might mean Mattie has as well...

They're on Caliban instantly, one sitting on him, the other moving to disarm him. "Goddamn, Cal, when you start working for Her, huh?" Caliban just snarls and struggles.

Another bouncer is staring at Ruiz, agog. A third hits that one, gives him a Look.

"What?" the staring one hisses. "I just never seen a Maestro throw down in front of God and everyone, you know?"

"Yeah and you still haven't. Get it?"

"W--" He gives Ruiz an uneasy look, focuses on dealing with Caliban. Odds of Caliban surviving the night are getting slimmer all the time. "Right," the bouncer mutters. "Right."

Another bouncer approaches Miranda, hesitant. Her face is a mess and she's gripping her arms around herself, shivering. Uncertain, he says, "Ah...ma'am..."

She blinks, looks at him. "Oh." She seems to realize the issue. They've just attacked two of Mattie's patrons in her own speakeasy. Two special patrons, even. Neither one of them is leaving this speakeasy alive unless someone gives Mattie's people a very good reason to let them go.

There's a quick, ferocious little grin from de la Vega as his companion manages to pin poor Caliban to the floor with an artful slinging of glimmer. He makes it look so easy.

"No lo siento," he tells Miranda, wicked enjoyment having cooled to a fleeting smile that soon fades. He leaves her to stand under her own power, and snags his coat, pulling it back on with quick little tugs. It's possible the bouncers noticed how heavy the thing was, festooned with inner pockets filled with disassembled bits and pieces of what would reveal themselves to be a rifle and small collection of custom reticules. "No fue tu culpa, las sombras son persuasivas," he tells the woman, with a sidelong glance to the bouncer who's staring at him. Then his hat replaced atop his head, and the man's given a wink.

As to what they're going to do with this pair? Well, "They're coming with us." They what now? Itzhak's shot a look, and he tips his chin slightly toward Caliban, as if to ask that he deal with him.

Itzhak shoots a look right back at Ruiz, acknowledgement and agreement. "We'll handle 'em from here, boys," he tells the bouncers, and he doesn't have to fake the menace in his voice. Which makes him, for a flash of a second, realize how he must seem to them. An infamous assassin, whose skill with the violin is matched by his skill in killing, a man who walks dark places by choice, unafraid.

Unafraid, hah. He's scaring himself, the wounds the shadow ripped in him bleeding.

He hauls Caliban to his feet nevertheless, fronting with all his bitter-won experience. "We are gonna have a little chat," he promises him in a low rough purr. "And you are gonna keep your hands to yourself, or you're gonna lose 'em."

Adrian and Jacob have arrived in time to hear that proclamation from Ruiz. They exchange a look. Well, at least Ruiz and Itzhak didn't need to go too far to find some of the Leper's underlings. How thoughtful of her. Which meant it was no doubt a trap, but what can you do.

"Understood," Jacob says. He nods at the bouncers, who get off Caliban and stand aside so Itzhak can haul him up. One has a handful of rope, ready to tie up Caliban if needed. He writhes under Itzhak's grip, promising a struggle the second Itzhak or Ruiz takes their attention off him. The bouncer with the rope rolls his eyes, offers it to Itzhak wordlessly.

Miranda licks her lips. Her eyes fix on Itzhak. No doubt about it, she's terrified of him, and why wouldn't she be? The parasite consuming her just tore a hole in him a mile wide. He can't be happy with her; neither of them can be. But then Ruiz says that, and she watches him, wary. "Careful," she says, eyes shifting to Itzhak now. "Don't let the mark touch your scar."

Adrian seems to sense her fear and moves to stand nearby, conveniently preventing her from fleeing under the guise of offering to help her outside. She makes a face and grips herself tighter.

"I had a guy go get your driver," Adrian says. "Car should be out back any second now."

"Gracias," offers de la Vega when the news is given about their car. He can only guess at what they might be driving. "Come on," he tells Miranda, reaching for her arm in order to draw her along with him. The ogling crowd is ignored, and no doubt the band's started playing again in a more subdued fashion. "We've got this," he tells Adrian in a crisp tone of voice that plainly suggests he fuck off. Then, out they go, assuming Itzhak doesn't require his assistance with Caliban.

Itzhak takes the opportunity to lash Caliban's hands together, cautious that, indeed, the black marks do not touch his scars. (Miranda will have them too now, under her half-melted but once pretty dress.) He has gloves in his jacket pocket; he tugs them on to handle him. "Thanks for the assist, fellas," he tells Adrian and Jacob and the other bouncers. "Tell Mattie thank you for the lovely presents." And he steers Caliban out.

Something about the psychic wounds makes it easy to play this role he's been assigned. Just like it was in prison.

The band has indeed fired back up; patrons with no hint of Glimmer have already lost interest. Those with it cast lingering looks back at Itzhak and Ruiz before returning to their own parts in this Dream. Will the speakeasy by raided later? Will they be attacked by police on the way home? Who can say.

Caught between the traditional rock and a hard place, Miranda opts to go without a struggle. Caliban less so, but bound and gagged (a bouncer provides a rag for the purpose) he can't do much more than occasionally misstep on purpose.

As Ruiz and Itzhak come out into the alley they hear a car fire up in a nearby. To Ruiz and Itzhak, it doesn't sound like it's moving very fast; no tires screeching, no roar of a meaty big block. It's still a sight, though, the vehicle that appears: a gorgeous, long, black Bentley. Mint condition--well, no, just 'current'. As expensive as such a thing would be now, in their own time it's a priceless collectible. They can't see the driver from here, but they rev the engine once in a request that Ruiz and Itzhak pick up the pace.

The sturdier, less talkative of the pair seems for his part to have no interest in putting on a show. Miranda's escorted out with that big hand wrapped around her arm, and the distinct sense that he'd have no qualms about roughing her up if she puts up a fight. The door's shoved open with a shoulder, and he squints through the rain that's started up as they step into the alley. Making sure they aren't about to be ambushed, perhaps; his gloved hand touches the pistol under his coat, then falls away.

Then the car slides into view, and even he takes a moment to appreciate that beast. Shame he won't be the one in the driver's seat. "Entra," he tells Miranda, once he's popped one of the rear doors.

Don't stare at the car Itzil. Don't do it! The car is not why you are here!

Itzhak stares. "Oy gevalt, what a beauty." But he has a dangerous man on his hands, and he shoves him in. Then he jerks his chin at the mysterious driver. "Go. Get us outta heah."

Miranda is careful not to give Ruiz any trouble. She climbs into the car and huddles against the seat. Her evening's taken an unexpected turn.

Caliban struggles a little, but once he's in the car his freedom of movement is particularly constrained, so all he can do is seethe. He stares hard at Miranda, who's careful to not look at him.

There's a woman behind the wheel; she's maybe twenty-some years old, with olive-brown skin, a long face with an equally long nose, bright gold-brown eyes, and tightly curled black hair pulled back into a snug, smart bun. She's not dressed as a woman would be in this time period; she's in a white, button down shirt, a shearling jacket in dark brown, and black slacks with suspenders. She leans over, opens the passenger door with a long arm. "Let's go, you two," she calls, her accent as Chicago as can be. "There's a lot of bulls out tonight, and I'm fresh out of whiskey to bribe 'em with."

She sees Itzhak shove in Caliban and makes a face. "Sure you don't want him in the back?" She means the trunk. Probably. She also eyes Miranda, who eyes her back. Maybe noting Miranda's injuries, she says, "Doc's?" Presumably somewhere she can take them. The car sets off at what would be a sedate pace to them, but for the era is a handsome clip.

Itzhak manages not to bounce Caliban's head off the edge of the doorframe, despite how much he'd like to. The dapper butch driver makes him do a nice doubletake, looking at her appreciatively. "...Ain't a bad idea, but this guy I wanna keep close to my heart." Inside him something is screaming and bleeding, and look how cool he is on the outside. Slick, Slick. "Doc's. Go."

To Caliban, he tells him sweet and menacing in a raspy purr, "We're gonna cure your stupid ass too. Ya little buddy in there? Gonna be a stain on the floor when we're done with it."

Itzhak's somewhat surlier companion seems perfectly content to let the silver-tongued musician handle the talking. He climbs on into the front passenger seat after strongarming Miranda into the back, tugs the door shut, and proceeds to give their driver the once over with a slow tick-tock of his eyes. Then his gaze goes to the window as they get moving, and silence ensues.

The driver gives Itzhak a dubious look. "Suit yourself, Itz." She's not the least bit disconcerted by Ruiz's presence next to her, even seems to expect it given their additional passengers.

The route seems overly circuitous and long, like she's trying to come at wherever they're going from an angle that avoids a large space. The Bentley prowls through the chilly, misty streets, a dark wraith spiriting them away from Mattie's to 'Doc's'.

She stops in a tone-y part of town, with rich people's brownstones set cheek to jowl. The roads are cobblestone, the gas lamps all lit, the landscaping perfect. This is where businessman live when they want to be close to the heart of the city but not among poor people.

She pulls the car around back, aka the servant's entrance, where coal and the laundry are delivered and people like her come in. They see a couple of similarly fancy cars parked under carports and in old carriage houses here.

The house they're behind is a hell of a place, fancy brickwork and at least three chimneys with a turret room in one corner. They can see a couple of lights on upstairs, and a curtain ripples briefly as someone on the ground floor glances out.

She comes around and hops out, pulling the door open for Itzhak (well, and Caliban, except it's for Itzhak). "I bet we're in time for dinner still," she says with a toothy grin.

"Jesus," Itzhak mutters, peering out the window at the god damned mansion. He was expecting ...well, not that. Maybe something more like Joey Kelly's place. A back alley kinda doctor, not a REAL doctor. He yanks Caliban out of the car after him, handling him none too gently. "Go. You give me trouble I swear to Jesus Gentile Christ I'll break your legs and drag you."

He doesn't need to fake the anger and aggression in his voice. It's all natural, easy as pie, pouring out of those bleeding furrows in his soul. But he looks at Ruiz, and his hazel eyes are easy to read. He's frightening himself.

The ride over is spent in relative silence from the Mexican. There's that angle of his jaw, all taut and unhappy at wherever this is leading them; they're becoming entangled, snared in whatever this Dream wants from them, and whatever it wants, it's getting. A glance over his shoulder at Itzhak tells him that, plain as day.

Then they're pulling up into one of the carriage houses, and he squints as he takes the place in. What the shit do the likes of them want with a guy who lives here? He studies it a moment more, then rubs at his nose with knuckles that shouldn't be inked in this day and age, but here they are. His door's popped, and he moves around to the back to let Miranda out as well. "Ven, por favor," he tells her with something not quite a smile. It's a little too wolfish. Is he content to be the good cop here?

For now.

Caliban doesn't struggle, but the fire in his blue eyes says he's going to be hell the second he's untied. Miranda continues to eye Ruiz warily, remains silent and withdrawn. She keeps her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she's afraid she might fly apart.

Their driver leads them up the back steps to the door, raps on it four times, sharp and precise. They see a flicker of light through the peephole, then the door opens and a young face peers out. He's ten, at most, with black, curly hair, a pale face, and dark brown eyes. His clothes aren't especially fancy, but in perfectly acceptable repair--much like their driver's, it's a period outfit, a little rumpled from a nap perhaps.

She grins at him. "Heya Vic. He up?" The boy nods. "You leave us any dinner?"

The boy grins, impish, and ducks back into the house, letting them in. A wash of warm air envelopes them as the driver opens the door.

It's dim inside; most of the lights are turned down for the night, but a lamp is still on in the kitchen, and here and there throughout the house. It's a cluttered place, full of the kinds of odds and ends someone collects throughout a lifetime of travel or similar. The boy guides them through the darkened curio cabinets, sideboard tables, looming statuary, and paintings to a door set in the stairs that clearly leads down into the basement. A single, bare bulb lights a rickety set of steps down.

Itzhak's never been someone who lived in this way, nor his family for generations. It makes him nervous.

"Swear I B&E'd this place when I was eighteen," he mutters, dryly.

The boy, he eyes with a certain twist to his mouth. Kids shouldn't be involved with business like this. But it happens. He knows it happens.

"C'mon, pick up the pace," he growls, hauling Caliban with one fist knotted in the man's collar.

Someone's got to bring up the rear, so that's what Ruiz finds himself doing. Gloves pulled back on as they traverse the house, click-clack of shoes on squeaky floorboards, and he touches the gun holstered under his coat. Just a touch, as if to remind himself of where it is in case he's in need of it. Then down they go, eyes on Caliban a little moreso than Itzhak as they descend. That guy starts any shit, he clearly plans on finishing it.

The boy holds the door open for them, leaves it cracked open once everyone (including their driver) is in. They hear the light patter of his feet on the stairs above them as they first begin their descent; presently, it's just the groan and squeak of old stairs leading down and down.

It's a large cellar, with half of it walled off into a private room of sorts, and the rest split between cold food and coal and firewood. The chute for the coal delivery can be seen over the bin holding the current supply.

The driver leads them to the room, which is nothing more than another bare bulb, revealing a cot, a heavy work table, and a few old chairs. She tips her hat to Itzhak and Ruiz, jerks her thumb at the door. "Be right out there, hollah if they get out of hand." She seems to consider this a joke, by her cheeky smile.

Itzhak smirks back at the driver, who really is quite adorable. "Get outta heah." He shoves Caliban into one of the chairs. "Don't you worry, princess," he says to him, smirk turning nasty, "ya turn is coming right up." He might still be mad about him flirting with Ruiz. "You," he points at Miranda, two finger New York tough guy style, long fingers in snug black kid gloves. "Talk."

"No te vayas padre," de la Vega replies, low-voiced, as their driver slips back out. Then he nudges the door shut after her, and slides his hat off his head. It's set atop the work table, and his coat unbuttoned with a slow flick-flick of his thumb as Itzhak tells Miranda how things are going to go. He doesn't appear to be paying Caliban much mind, but that - as with many things about the surly looking fellow - is probably a lie.

The driver winks at Itzhak, nods at Ruiz, and shuts the door behind her. They hear someone come down the steps--probably Vic, because there's not much weight to whomever it is--then clamber back up. Possibly he brought some of the aforementioned dinner to her.

Caliban lands in the chair with a grunt. He might be picking up on the reason Itzhak's being this way, because he smiles around that gag in his mouth, wild and a little off kilter. The mote in his eye has grown a bit since either of them last looked at it closely.

Miranda nods at Itzhak, still clutching herself. "There might not be much to tell that you don't already know." She sniffs, takes a breath to steady herself. "I ah, was working for the Rooneys. But I had a little bit of a gambling problem. Got in a bit deep with..." She shudders. "With her. And ah, before I could work out a payment plan, she cut a deal with Mr. Rooney directly." She gives them both a miserable look, like she expects them to know what that means.

"It's the same you already know from there. She put one of those," she glances at Caliban, "things in me, and...the stronger it got the less I could really do for myself. Took everything I had some days to not do some of the things it wanted to do." She clears her throat, seems to be refusing to cry. "Cal here, he's been with her a while. I think if you take it out," she glances at Ruiz, "he might not live. They replace parts of you with them, eventually. You stop being you."

Itzhak listens, scowling. Some of this story is way too familiar. He studies Caliban while Miranda talks. He doesn't like the way he's looking at him. Like he knows what Miranda's slice of darkness did to him. It makes Itzhak want to hurt him. Hurt him bad. His fingers flex, the soft leather of his gloves creaking.

He turns away from him, face tight, to look at Ruiz, and steps close to him to murmur to him.

"What the hell are we gonna do with him?" he whispers, bending his curly dark hair close.

Ruiz, meanwhile, has finished unbuttoning his coat. A gloved finger is slipped under the knot of his tie, and it's given an absent little tug; he hates having anything touching his throat, his wrists. Itzhak knows this about him, by now. Those dark, intent eyes are on Caliban as his taller companion rolls up to speak softly in his ear, and his jaw goes a little tight at the question.

What are they going to do with him?

"We try," he tells Itzhak, finally. His mouth barely moves with it, and his voice won't carry to the other two. "Será mejor, de cualquier manera. Whoever he was, this isn't him any longer."

Miranda watches them confer, looks askance at Caliban, who's staring hard at Itzhak and Ruiz. The only thing keeping him in that chair is the knowledge he can't do anything. It's bothering Miranda, though, and she edges away from him.

A new set of steps on the stairs, these a bit more measured and careful than Victor's. They hear their driver speak to someone, her tone less playful, more respectful with this person. A short pair of knocks on the door, then it's opened.

He's not as tall as Itzhak, but taller than Ruiz, and broad-shouldered and -chested. He's also a little older than Ruiz, maybe fifty, or somewhere about there. His face is angular, sporting high cheekbones and prominent, vibrant green eyes, and his hair's curly and black where it hasn't given way to bits of white and iron gray. There's a hint of stubble around his face, suggesting he forgot to shave today, or didn't bother. His movements would be fluid if he didn't hesitate now and then, like he can't move as freely as he expects, or is certain he's about to trip and fall. He's in a brocade dressing robe of black, red, and gold, black, silk sleeping pants, indoor, shearling slippers, and a white poet shirt. On his left ring finger is a silver and copper ring, swirls over mountains, like the wind in the southwest. "Gentlemen, ma'am," he says. His voice is a husky baritone. He eyes Caliban, then Miranda, finally turns an amused smile on Itzhak and Ruiz. "Busy night, I see." There's the faintest hint of a Western drawl when he speaks, something not quite Southern, not quite Midwestern.

Itzhak sighs deep, runs his gloved hands through his dark, curly hair. (Hair that's getting a wee touch long; he could use a trim.) "Guess that's our options," he answers in a matching near-silent murmur. "Let him run around with that thing in him, or help him die clean." Neither of them have the shaping Art that could save the man's life.

That hurts worse than anything else.

But when this other man enters the room, this stunningly beautiful man, the symphony of his Song reaches Itzhak before he even looks at him. Surprised, he turns, eyes wide and eyebrows up--and just stares at the dude. Holy shit. Out of all the beauties they've run into during this Dream, this man takes the prize.

"...Doc," he says, eventually. "Hell of a busy night. Help this lady, would ya? First check de la Vega, he inhaled somethin' weird."

The look on Ruiz's face makes it clear that, while he doesn't like their options, he also doesn't have any better ideas. One corner of his mouth twitches in what might have been intended as a smile, but comes out a little too rueful. He locks eyes ever so briefly with Caliban, seething in that chair over there, before looking to the door as the doctor arrives. And unlike with Itzhak, it's the force of his Gift that strikes him most immediately. Not that he's at all oblivious to the dazed look in his companion's eyes. Bemused? Certainly. Jealous? Maybe a tetch.

"I'm fine," he's quick to point out, bristling just a fraction at the notion that he'd need to be checked out. "We've got work to do, and this is already taking too long."

Doc nods at Itzhak, cuts a narrow-eyed, teasing look at Ruiz. "I'm sure you are," he says, tone bland. It's almost like he was expecting Ruiz to say that. "Still, since you're here..." His expression grows distant, and he frowns, turns to look at Ruiz more directly. He murmurs, "Now, Javier, what have you been putting in yourself," tips his head back and considers him down his nose. He grunts. "Seems it was supposed to weaken your Art for a spell." He raises a hand and gestures, like he's beckoning something, and Ruiz feels, for a moment, as though he's had a brisk drink of cold, clear water. It comes and goes in a moment. "There." Doc is flicking his fingers fastidiously. "Nasty shit."

No sooner is he done with Ruiz than does Doc approaches Miranda, eyes moving to the delicate scars now racing up her arm. His expression grows strained. "I'm sorry you went through that. This won't be so bad, though." He holds out a hand, which she reluctantly takes. The healing is precise and swift, like he's done this sort of thing so many times it's of little consequence; her burned hair shrivels away and is replaced with silvery white strands, and the angry red of the lightning burns heals up to white, gnarled scars. Even her dress mends, an afterthought. Doc relinquishes her hand and moves to sit on the edge of the table.

Itzhak feels the gentle flicker of Miranda's Glimmer; he's felt this before, like fingertips on his spine, when August has checked his Song and what it can do. Ruiz and Doc don't seem to notice, though.

"Let the man check you, ya grumpy alter kacker." Itzhak flips his hands out at Ruiz in half-real annoyance. The sound of Doc murmuring Ruiz's first name does something in Itzhak; that's hot and also the little green flame of jealousy in him gets fanned higher. A shiver goes up his spine, though, when Doc wields his Song. "Oy vey izt mir you're strong," he mutters. The ease with which Doc winds back the timeline of injury is terrible to behold, in its own way. And Miranda's burnt hair grows back silver. Itzhak finds all this way too interesting.

Miranda investigating his own Song he feels, and he deliberately locks eyes with her. "So whaddaya think?" he asks her, smirking again. "Am I any good?"

De la Vega, it seems, is oblivious to anything Miranda might be doing over there. All of his focus is on 'Doc' and the fact that Itzhak's fucking calling him out right now, when the last thing he wants is some sketchy ass pretty boy checking him over. He prickles right up as the guy calls him by his first name, and damned if he doesn't half look like he wants to bite that hand that makes the little beckoning motion at him. Well, not at him, but he might as well have.

Mercifully, the man turns to other things once he's done with that, and the gunman takes a lean against the workbench, hands pushed into the pockets of those tailored wool pants. His dark gaze passes over Miranda for a moment or two, but it's Caliban he's considering most carefully. This can't possibly end well, and he knows what he's going to have to do, if it comes to it. Does he like it? Does he hate it? No. It just is. Which makes his skin fucking crawl.

Doc doesn't seem perturbed by Ruiz's behavior; either he's used to it, or, he's too busy healing him. The small smile he gives Ruiz afterwards, apologetic almost, suggests the former.

Caliban, meanwhile, glares in a way which suggests he's hoping someone will drop dead from the sheer force of it. Ruiz especially, probably because Caliban also knows what's coming.

Doc grunts at Itzhak, amused. "Well that's not the first time you've tried to flatter me that way, Itzhak, and knowing you it won't be the last."

Miranda flinches at Itzhak's question; caught out, she looks terrified. Doc tilts his head, considers her thoughtfully, and she looks away. "Mmmmm. Of course." He looks from Itzhak to Ruiz, folds his arms. "Now what have I told you two about carting around strange Artists, neither of you have the shaping Song, and sooner or later one of them is going to make you regret it." He gestures at Miranda. "She could have split that car in two and run off, or worse."

Miranda blanches. "I w-wouldn't have," she insists. "They helped me. They got it out. I owe them."

Doc just sighs at her. "Lucky for them," he says, and gives the two a look if fond exasperation.

"And it's true every time," Itzhak tells Doc with a twist of a smile. "Anyway, them's the risks we gotta run, Doc." Cocky motherfucker. He tips his head at Miranda. "Mattie's people woulda taken her out back. Seemed a shame to let that happen to her after we got her clean. Waste not want not, am I right? This guy, if he coulda done anything he would have by now instead of lettin' me haul his ass all over the South Side like a sack a potatoes."

He's letting his mouth run, because he doesn't want to face what comes next with Caliban, either. Well, fuck it. Rip that bandaid off. "We cleanse him, can you put him back together?"

No commentary from Ruiz for the time being. He continues to observe quietly, dark eyes roving between Caliban, Miranda and the doctor while Itzhak talks plenty for both of them.

Caliban keeps his eyes on Ruiz. Is he going to pull some shit? ...yeah, he's going to. Or at least try. Well, at least he doesn't have Glimmer.

Doc sighs at Itzhak, smiles. "You're only immortal until you're not." He doesn't chastise or chide, though; there's a suggestion he's well aware he has no place to talk. Of healing Caliban, he says, "I'll try. It's not the first time, after all, with someone this far gone. Though, since he's not an Artist, there's no telling how well he'll recover." Another of his looks between Itzhak and Ruiz, like he's used to thinking of them as a combined concern and not individually. He slips off his robe, unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls them back. And there they are: the same root-and-lightning like scars, branching over both of his arms. There's tattooing on some of them; it's rather simple by modern standards, making true roots and branches out of certain portions.

Miranda stares at his arms a time, then says, "I'll help." Doc glances up at her, after after a few seconds consideration, nods. "Alright. Just remember, don't let it touch your scar, and, whatever you do: don't, fucking listen, to anything it says." He's talking to Miranda, who licks her lips and nods. She flicks a surreptitious glance at Itzhak. Doc follows that look, frowns a moment, but turns his attention to the task at hand. "All yours," he says to Ruiz.

Itzhak's own scars itch when he sees Doc's, all up and down his bow arm, on his right torso. "Don't fuckin' listen," he repeats in a low tone. He badly wants Ruiz, wants to hold him or hell even just hug him. He catches the glance Miranda gives him, and the followup Doc does, and flushes, setting his jaw and looking away.

Everybody in this room knows what Miranda did to him. He hates it.

"Ready," he says, fingers beginning to tap out a beat on his thigh. A song is waltzing through his head, rising up as it always does when the Song comes into play. Danse Macabre, with its rakish strong rhythm and its racing melody.

Miranda looks at Caliban, slowly growing calm. "I can--give you an extra push. If you wanted." She looks at Ruiz. "If you...I mean. If you'd trust me."

It's like de la Vega can hear it. The desire, unspoken, to be held. Comforted. Something. He doesn't approach, but he what he does do is reach out with his mind, however fleetingly. He's learned in recent months some finesse with this particular ability, and instead of a full-force ripping to shreds of those brilliant, delicate fractals that form Itzhak's mindscape, a slow, hot slink of his presence. Sleek, burning fur and bright eyes, that pale wolf sidles in close, and the voice in his mind is like clear bells as the wind picks up: <<I won't let anyone hurt you. You're mine. Don't forget yourself.>>

And then with a ragged snarl, it slips into the ether. And Javier pushes off the workbench finally, and finishes shedding his own coat. Shirtsleeves, too, rolled up to his elbows, he doesn't have the scars the other three sport; just the tattoos, mundane, if proliferous. He glances briefly to Miranda at her offer, thinks on it a minute. Then nods. "Si. Por favor." And in he prowls toward Caliban. Tense, cautious.

Danse Macabre is what Ruiz hears when he touches Itzhak's mind. Restless violin, strikes of timpani, urgent flutes and French horns all forming a soundscape like graceful people in dark, elaborate costuming waltzing swiftly on a bizarre ballroom floor. Something dark and fey and wicked. Itzhak's fractals reach out, hungry, reiterating themselves into constructs and tendrils, coiling around the sleek burning wolf of Ruiz's presence. He sighs audibly, eyes closing. Only for a moment--only that, but it did him a world of good.

<<Yours.>> The violin sings into the wind.

Then he opens his eyes again, focusing on Caliban, and it's real focus now, the kind of focus just before he launches a punch or flexes his Song. "Godspeed," he mutters.

Miranda dips her head at Ruiz and takes a step back. She's finally beginning to relax; maybe Doc healed more than just her body, when he finished off what Ruiz had started by kicking that thing out of her. She murmurs something under her breath, a fragment of a poem. "Tiresome heart, forever living and dying." Power gathers around Ruiz like a mantle or a cloak; he can feel the Song rippling under his fingertips now.

Doc makes a low sound. "Millay. A lovely choice." He sighs, flexes his fingers, stands ready. "House without air, we leave you and lock your door." He waits, poised, like a man who's faced demons this ugly or uglier.

And Caliban, well, he's hunched there, ready, and when Ruiz gets close enough, he explodes off that chair in an attempt to headbutt him.

"Only a question less or a question more." It's soft, barely audible, spoken like Ruiz is musing it over, contemplating that particular little puzzle to himself. Then he draws a breath, steps in close, and the guy fucking lunges at him. And he has a choice to make: stop and fight with him, or take the hit and do his job. It's not really much of a choice, not where this particular man is concerned. He's solid enough to take the hit with a grunt as it staggers him back, one solid arm attempting to hook the other man's midsection as he barrels in full force. And then the circuit's closed with a crack of his power being unleashed. Electricity shunted out of him and channeled into Caliban with enough current to cause him to feel like his heart's stopped for a moment - and then resumed again, the aftermath brief, like the scent of an electrical fire.

That Ruiz goes crashing into the wall a moment later is somewhat irrelevant; all that matters is that he's done what he meant to do. Has he?

Itzhak snarls without words. His power is potential energy like a thousand tons of lead hanging by a snippet of floss, and he slashes through that snippet and lets that sucker fall. And--it is a hell of a fight. Music swells in his mind but the shadow hisses back; it is strong, strong, strong. Itzhak bares his teeth, lifting his impressive-nosed profile, sweat rising on his forehead. The Danse Macabre lilts and wheels in him and it's--

oh, it is barely enough. Light bursts from the bare bulb, more than that bulb could ever produce in hundreds times its usage life, light like an explosion, but without heat. Itzhak gasps a few Hebrew words, his chest heaving.

As messy as the initial process is, Ruiz's lightning wreathes Caliban, seeking out the skygge-skapning and forcing it out into the room where they can all see it. Caliban goes rigid and screams; the eye with the mote in it fills with blood. But it works; the curling, sludgey darkness writhes out of Caliban with a keening wail that rattles the walls. Once the last of the black mark is out, Doc's shaping Song moves in, repairing the damage in its wake, healing what the lightning has destroyed by necessity. Not everything can be fixed; Caliban will have an impressive scar like Miranda and Itzhak, the mark of where Their actions have flayed his soul to the bone. His eye clears, though, the part which had darkened now an odd shade of gray-green, mismatched from the blue around it. Doc heals Ruiz as well, maybe by simple proximity. The bruising fades and clears.

Caliban collapses, coughing and sobbing and moaning all at once. Above him, the thing which Ruiz worked so hard to tear out flickers and whirls. It's much denser than the one they pulled from Miranda, bright flashes of white and blue at its heart. It oozes self-hatred and hopelessness like a fog over the whole room. For a moment, each of them feels it, hears it:

You are a selfish liar. You failed them. Abandonned them. You let them die.

The blazing light Itzhak summons slams into it, and for a moment, it truly seems the shadow might simply consume it. Pathetic. You lie and claim it's to protect ones you love but it's only to protect yourselves. You love no one, you know only fear. Given enough time you will betray them.

Each bit of light it devours costs it some of itself, and gradually they can see there isn't enough darkness to survive the light. It's barely enough--but enough, it is. The whispers of the shadow become moans, then pleas, then finally, silence.

Doc sags against the work table, doubles over. "God, I'll never get used to that," he says, voice rasping. He wipes a hand over his mouth and it comes back bloody.

Turning slightly, Ruiz almost looks like he's going to bare his teeth and snarl at the doctor when he weaves his Gift and heals that bruise. And he might have, if he wasn't so busy keeping his focus on the thing that's ripped free from Caliban. He pushes off the wall, stalks in a little closer to Itzhak, protective. Do those whispered words get to him? Do they slide under his skin like sharp knives, hard to notice until they're cutting him up from the inside? His eyes don't show it, and he doesn't crumple in the face of it; on the surface, he's steady. Stalwart, even. Like the doctor, there's a trickle of blood working its way through his beard. Another coming from his ear, both eyes reddened from burst capillaries.

You lie in the service of liars. You lie and say it is to protect the ones you love, but you lie even there, for you aren't capable of love, only fear, fear and selfish grasping lust...

Itzhak's shuddering, one hand over his eyes. Tears wet his glove. When Ruiz comes closer to him, he loses all desire to maintain any kind of front and goes to him and winds his arms around him, pushing his huge schnozz into Ruiz's neck.

I know. I know. I know. Every word is true.

They've taken back two of the Unshaped's weapons tonight. Why does it not feel like it makes a damn bit of difference?

There's a sound like a reverse sizzle, and the light...repairs itself. The room goes from darkening to lit once again, and they see Doc lowering his hand.

Miranda moves to Caliban, heedless of the potential danger, or maybe thinking she's earned it. "Cal?" she whispers.

He looks up, flinches back from her. "Who are you?" Though he's shaking, it's not with fear. Ruiz can feel the terrified danger wafting off him; that's adrenaline making his movements jaunty and fast. He's a coiled spring, ready to brawl his way right the fuck out of this room if he has to.

"Where the fuck am I?" he demands, staring around at all of them, at the room, with wide eyes. Now down at his burned and ruined clothes. "What the Christ, it looks like I was hit by lightning."

"You...sort of were," Doc says, and Caliban looks up at him, incredulous. Doc sighs. "Neverind, it's not worth explaining."

Caliban starts getting up. Did Doc really have to heal him all the way back up? Because now that he's not all beat to hell he sure seems dangerous. "The fuck it's not old man, I want to know what's going on right now."