2022-06-15 - The Hellhole of the Pacific

Sometimes, walking through a door is enough. One moment you're in your living room heading out to get the mail, and the next you're God only knows where -- and when, and how. Life in Gray Harbor for those who have the shine, the song, the Art -- whatever your preferred term might be. Falling out of one reality and into another is something you get used to after a while. Or maybe you never get used to it, but it happens anyway. Whatever door this was -- kitchen, bathroom, entrance to a shop, office door, anything -- it leads to the wrong place. Again.

The wrong place, today, is the right place for some. It's definitely the right place if what you hoped to find was a smoke-filled room with round wooden tables in front of a long counter behind which sits a large, rectangular mirror. It's not too bright in here, and the one thing that might suggest that this is not a take from some saloon scene in a spaghetti Western is the nature of the sparse light: The chandelier overhead holds bulbs, not candles -- and the sparse wall lamp uplights too are gas lights.

Not the wild frontier, then. But somewhere that's not far removed.

The historically apt may recognise the clothing of some of the men sitting around at the tables, with bottles, shotglasses, and playing cards. A little too modern for the wild frontier, too; not enough Stetson hats, not enough spurs on heels, not enough reek of cow. Somewhen slightly later. And somehow, bits of knowledge bleed from one reality to another.

The bartender is a small woman in a luxurious bustle dress that leaves very little to the imagination in terms of cleavage. Her name is Suzette -- though whether she's French or Quebecois is anyone's guess. A lot of temper on that one. She doesn't own the place -- some Addington does -- but she runs it, and she's the one who named the saloon The Mouse Ballet. Why? Because she and her girls are mice who dance (and more) for hire. Gentlemen can go here and tell their wives they went to the ballet, geddit?

There's Jasmin; she's got the dark eyes of her Chinese mother and the pale skin of her English father whose name she doesn't know. She is one of Suzette's mice, and very sweet to boot.

There's Beau John; a giant of a man, black as ebony. A freed slave, he's the son of slaves, wandered up north after the end of the war. He doesn't say a lot, and some think he's a bit slow. Suzette keeps him on as a retainer because a small woman needs a very large man sometimes -- usually when it comes to depositing some trouble maker in the gutter outside.

The men at the tables are not familiar; a mixed lot -- sailors, some of them. Others, mountain men come into town to sell pelts and get drunk. Some may be loggers -- the logging industry is booming and there's work for anyone who can use a saw or an axe.

The calendar hanging on the wall behind the little bartender reads June 15, 1900. Baskett's Stomach Pills, Best In Gray Harbor, Never Suffer Another Intestinal Worm. Inquire At 48, Spruce Street.

There's one door you pretty much always have to close, and that's the bathroom door. Especially when you run a business. So when Eden opens it to step back out into the office proper, it's a little bit startling to find herself stepping into a saloon instead. The scent of smoke, lack of showers, and bad decisions hits her in the face like a hammer. Or rather, hits Helen Blakely in the face, but at least she's used to it as hers is the familiar face at the saloon. The woman stands at five foot five but carries herself with the attitude of a man with at least six inches on her. The attire is mostly leather, from the vest to the coat, to chaps and boots. There are spurs, of course, and a dark hat fitted over her disheveled braided hair slung over a shoulder. There's a gun on either hip, hidden under the coat, but a glint is revealed with the shift of her footsteps towards the bar.

At least there's liquor, Eden thinks to herself as she makes her way to the bar, shuffling through Helen's mind as she glances over the crowd and pieces together what information she can gather about who is who and what might need to be avoided. "The usual Suzette," comes a low tone for a woman, gruff around the edges, probably from having to constantly deal with the fact that she's a woman, wearing pants, probably doing men's work from the look of her. At least in this town, some of the people are a bit more accepting.

Not all of them. But some.

The Door thing? It's beginning to get kind of old. Oh, it's interesting enough, generally, but-- sometimes a man actually is looking for some alone time in the head (not like that, okay? Just a man and a newspaper), and not... a sudden shift from boat to bar, from Mikaere Hastings to Mountain Mick. It's a strange casting choice: the loner from the woods, man of few words, more inclined to sit at the bar and sip his whiskey than partake of the girls... though he'll stare at them plenty, don't think he won't.

It takes Mikaere a few moments to code-switch, stumbling slightly over his own feet as he attempts to navigate, though Mick? Mick knows the way, even with his vision half-obscured by the hat he wears, made with one of his furs. He's here only on occasion, the kind of man people know in passing rather than personally. He takes a seat off to one side, pulling off his hat and holding it awkwardly between both hands, his eyes sweeping the room in obvious discomfort. Too many people for Mountain Mick; and for Mikaere, a chance to scope things out, to see who he recognises.

Now what?

Ariadne Scullin has no idea what's going on. One moment, she's breezing from the living room to the master bedroom in her apartment, coffee mug in hand and on a hunt for her Kindle --

-- and the next, Clara Doyle is on her way to her usual table with her mug of...coffee (some of her paltry secretary's paycheck goes towards Suzette keeping a secret stash) and the weekly printing of newspaper. At least she's in something fairly comfortable, where the cotton is breathable and allows her legs movement. She could take or leave the patterning of the shirt-waist, but her other shirt was lost to exploding pen ink last week and damned it all, it's going to take weeks for the catalogue order to reach them. Her hair is done down into a low-pinned braiding; this time, the celestial hues hide away rather than display strikingly against her dark-auburn hair, but someone with sharp eyes might still catch them. A golden necklace gleams around her neck with its diadem hidden away beneath the blouse's neckline.

She glances up and finds herself slowing despite the obviousness of her travels. Is that -- Mikaere? With a fur hat. He gets an uncertain, lingering look. Mountain Mick is always alone. It's odd to see him here, almost like a rare species. The woman at the bar is someone she's seen before in passing -- Clara has, around town -- and has always wondered at precisely what the woman does for a living. It leaves Clara -- Ariadne -- briefly standing by her table, looking mildly confused.

Fern had just sat down with a glass of soda and a slice of pizza when she instead found herself standing by a bar, expertly holding three mugs of beer and being pointed towards a table of...sailors? She swallowed heard as the smell of alcohol and cigarettes filled her nostrils. What the fuck was going on? "Move Abigail! They aren't going to wait all day!" It wasn't Suzette chiding her, it was one of the other girls. Abigail was the newest addition to the Mouse Ballet and still learning the ropes and trying to not be such a klutz. Her attire consisted of an emerald green bustle dress - not as nice as Suzette's, but nice enough for the potential clients.

"Right. Yes. Sorry!" Abigail managed to stutter out, quickly hurrying to the table - inadvertently sloshing a little on poor Mountain Mick - "Sorry! I'm so sorry!" The same apology is echoed to another patron at a nearby table before she finally reached the sailors. "Here you go boys! So sorry for the delay!" Fern was so...confused about what was happening and about who this Abigail person was. Were they in her head? Was she Abigail? Maybe she needed a mirror. Her gaze swept the area, trying to spot any familiar faces. This had to be a Dream.

Damn, she needed a drink.

It's rowdy at the Mouse Ballet tonight. One of those nights where nothing in particular has happened -- it's not pay day and it's not a special calendar day, and there's no US Navy frigate just docked and releasing rowdy, horny sailors into the town they call the Hellhole of the Pacific. It's just Friday, and anyone who isn't Jewish also works on Saturday (and the Jews work on Sunday instead). And yet it's one of those nights.

"Watch those loggers," Suzette murmurs to Jasmin and Abigail in passing. "I don't like the looks of Fidelity Johnson's face." Her accent is a strange one -- it does not ring clearly Parisian and it doesn't ring clearly Quebecois. If anything, it has a strange tinge of Spanish.

The big one is a giant man with a coonskin cap and a highland clan patterned flannel shirt under his coat. Fidelity Johnson, they call him. No one knows whether that's some kind of joke or his parents were very Biblical. Sometimes, a man needs to just be grateful he's not named Mahershalalhashbaz, after the second son of the prophet Isaiah.

Fidelity Johnson likes little Jasmin very much. And so does Francois, the Quebecois trapper. They're presently sitting across from each other at a table, playing a round of poker with a big, blond, and blue-eyed man whose Swedish name no one can pronounce. It's been Englished into Gustav or Gustaff, but that's not quite right, either. A weaselly little East Coaster called Rudy is dealing, and no one who knows him doesn't think he's cheating. His shotgun, resting against the table next to his foot, however, says he's not. At the next table over sits a Chinese looking fellow -- long braid and all -- whom no one knows. Probably a rail worker, or the son of one.

All's well. The cigar smoke is thick enough that you can cut a slice and save on buying your own. The cheap whiskey is flowing. Somebody put a coin in the mechanic piano, and it's playing a piece by Chopin -- too slow, as always.

At least until Gustav announces, in his thick Swedish drawl, "Du fuskar mig! You are cheating! I have in my hand the boy -- the red boy, not the heart -- and now you have it too!" The jack of diamonds, he means.

"You're drunk, Gustave," Francois says, pronouncing the unpronounceable like a Frenchman would.

Gustav -- whose actual name is Gösta, and it will never go on record as such among non-Swedish speakers -- stands up and in doing so, barely manages to avoid an accidental table flip. He reaches for his big hunting knife. "Du fuskar mig," he repeats and those blue eyes shine with glacial fire. You fuck with the big Swede only so far before he lets his fists do talking. Rudy and Francois should have realised this.

"Sit your ass right back down," Francois snarls. "You finish this game, you big connard, so help me God." An attack is the best defence, after all.

"Everybody better calm down now," says the calm and reasonable voice of Beau John, the large, black man whose main criteria for getting his job is that he's twice as big as most other men, and most white men are terrified of him, and of the fact that he remembers what it was like, living under a white man's whip. Beau John never speaks of his past, but he's certain to have unsettled scores.

Fidelity Johnson of the unfortunate name picks up his shot glass. "You're cheating," he agrees. And then, for some reason that must make sense in the universe of Fidelity Johnson, he empties the shot glass over the head of the Chinese man at the next table.

It's going to be one of those nights at the Mouse Ballet.

Once a drink is in hand, Helen takes her time giving the room a good once over checking for cover, exits, and who has what visible weaponry. It's a standard security sweep that any room would get, but especially a Dream saloon with a bunch of drunk, rowdy men with possible guns. No sooner does she finish with it does someone go reaching for a knife. That drink in her hand is tilted back as Eden inside Helen smirks with amusement. The long drink is taken before she starts to stride deeper into the place and away from the bar. "My kinda place."

There's no attempt to defuse the card table or the antics and cheating going on over there. It looks like the hired muscle is going to do a fine enough job of that on his own. The drink being poured on the Chinese man's head, however. That one draws her attention. Her angle shifts just enough to have her yanking out a chair at his table and settling heavily into the seat. "Looks like the idiot forgot where his mouth was." The words are spoken in Mandarin as her whiskey glass is settled in front of her.

Mountain Mick really isn't a voluble man: Abigail sloshes beer on him and he merely grunts at her, while Mikaere, within, attempts to figure out how to make the words come out. That's the weirdest thing about being inside someone else: sometimes they don't want to do the thing, and how do you figure out how to force them? Weird.

If talking's difficult, observing is thankfully less so. Mikaere turns his head, managing to catch sight of Ariadne-- Clara-- who is familiar, even if no one else (yet) is. She gets the faintest of nods, which is basically as much as Mick seems inclined to offer; Mikaere clenches his fist atop the table, working at his fingers carefully: see, you know how to move. Let's move. Let's--

Waiiiit a second.

Mick may not be a joiner, but the sight of Fidelity Johnson dumping the contents of his shot glass over the head of someone not even at the same table? That's something to attract the eye, and something, in turn, to draw the big man to his feet again, fists up.

All she wanted to do was read the newspaper and drink her coffee. Now, Clara knows she could have gone to a different place in town, but Suzette has her stash. It was a risk, coming here, and especially because it was quiet.

She looks up over the newspaper as Gustav's voice suddenly rises. Great. This guy, again. Another sip from her chipped tea cup and she tries to go back to reading.

It's impossible: watching the shot glass get overturned on the unsuspecting Chinese man's head one table over, her mouth drops open in sheer disbelief. "Fi-DELITY!" It slips out of her mouth before it can be helped because, apparently, Clara has opinions about this behavior. Maybe Fidelity is a regular at the office? Or works with the office. Either way, Ariadne wants to face-palm a la Picard.

Abigail always keeps an eye on Fidelity Johnson and his croonies. She doesn't like them - not after what happened to her brother. Fern doesn't really like them either just on first impressions. Too rowdy. One of the sailors is flirting with Abigail and Abigail is flirting right back with that sweet smile and those wide doe-eyes of hers.

Until Fidelity pours a shot down on a random patrons heads. "Oh no." She murmured, or was it Fern? She quickly made her way closer towards the bar as some of the sailors started to stand, attention on what was brewing at the other end. Fern might be up for a fight but Abigail wasn't much of a fighter. Fern decided to agree with that instinct for now - stay near the bar, try not to down a whole bottle of whatever they were serving and just observe.

"Devils, the lot of them." The Chinese man nods at Eden -- and then stands up. "I'm supposed to say something wise about cocks crowing and making a lot of noise for very little, aren't I? But this is America. If a man pours his drink in my hair, I plant my fist in his face."

Maybe it's for the best that Fidelity Johnson does not speak Mandarin. Maybe it makes no difference, as the Chinese man swings at him with a fist that looks like it knows where it's going.

It's another Friday night at the Mouse Ballet and the first punch is being delivered. Hold on to your hats and false teeth, because one minute from now, this place is going to be looking alive.

Oh, he's standing. Eden shifts her hair back, despite having just sat down. It's just easier this way for if she needs to get back up again in a hurry. "Something like that. But I don't think I'd be very relaxed if someone poured a drink in my hair, either. Even if I don't suggest starting a fight." It's going to happen either way, because both Helen and Eden know that shine in a man's eyes. That's a fighting look.

Fidelity goes down in a single blow, a brow twitching up on the woman's face. Her free hand moves to settle on the gun at her hip so that it's ready to draw if need be. The other is still wrapped around her glass. "Well," she offers in English towards the crowd. "He didn't start the fight, but he ended it. Don't suppose you gentlemen will let that be that?"

That... that was a punch. It doesn't seem to make much of a difference to Mountain Mick, but his modern-day counterpart (if that counts) is... okay, yes, a little bemused. He takes half a step backwards, though really, it's nothing more than a defensive mechanism against-- something.

Maybe that'll be the end of it? The point has, surely, been made.

Surely.

(Hahahah.)

"FIDELITY!"

Clara cares about the man enough to stand up at her table, fisted hands pressing knuckles against her face. That was such a hard hit!

Ariadne, on the other hand, is torn between mild schadenfreude and plain awe. One punch, down for the count. Talk about earning some serious street (bar?) cred in a single swoop! She wishes she'd been paying more attention to Lee's form and not to the gossip column of the paper. Who cares if James Townsend III (he's not even a III, that shit's made up, her gossipy memory supplies) was caught with his drawers down in the sewing room of the Widow Berkley? Lady should get laid too, geez, the barista thinks to herself.

Fern's eyes were wide and Abigail gasped out as Lee punched Fidelity so...solidly. "Christ he can hit." She murmured. It felt like the air was thick with tension after that punch. Like a calm before the storm - seconds before all hell would break loose or people would go on their merry way.

Abigail reached for a shot that someone had left unattended while the action was happening and downed it in one go before Fern could even think to stop her. Herself? Did it count if she was in someone else's persona? Too late now anyway.

No one expected this turn of events -- least of all Fidelity Johnson who is presently face to the floor, listening to the canaries circling his head. The only one who does not look surprised in the slightest -- is the Chinese man, Lee.

And possibly Gustav. The large Swede stands up, looming over the table, glaring daggers at Rudy and Francois. What does it matter to him that some local bully emptied his whiskey glass in the hair of some railroad worker? He is being cheated! "I want my money back!" he declares in his heavy Swedish accent. "Jävla fuskare!"

"Don't play the game if you can't dish!" Rudy snarls back at him and reaches for the shotgun that rests against his chair in a very obvious manner.

"You take that back!" Francois yells in his Quebecois drawl. The fur trapper has to -- if he lets himself get known as a cheater, he's done for as a card shark. A man's honour is his bond in these times and these parts.

"Anyone else need their white arse handed to them?" Eden is probably the only person present who understands Lee's actual words -- but the message is clear enough from his stance. Anyone else in here wants to pick on the Chinaman? Anyone else in here wants to join Fidelity Johnson in bird watching at ankle height?

"That's enough," rumbles Beau John -- the giant bartender and bouncer of the Mouse Ballet. "Next man to raise a fist gets thrown out."

Jasmin and Suzette both are doing the smart thing -- dashing behind the counter because once punches start to fly -- it's going to be every man and woman for themselves in here. Suzette is small. Jasmin is frail. Neither of them wish to get caught in the crossfire.

Like several other people are about to be, unless they too dive for the corners and the stairways.

Why is it that Mikaere always ends up in the role of 'big, dumb and quiet'? (Don't answer that.)

Now that he's standing, he doesn't quite seem to know what to do with himself-- and maybe that's especially so because Rudy and Francois are not exactly de-escalating matters. It's the gun that concerns the tall Kiwi, far more than anything else. A few punches is one thing; a gun is quite another. Clearly, however, he has not learned his lesson about getting out of the way of violence: instead of sitting back down, or moving out of the way, or doing anything of real use, he just stands there--

-- and turns his mental energies towards Rudy, focusing his thoughts into a single emotion, to be super-imposed over the man's own: peaceful, happy calm.

There's amusement shining in Helen's eyes and it's hard to tell if the amusement is Helen's or Eden's. Either way, she's clearly enjoying the show. There's no scampering to hide, though the legs of her chair do scoot back just a little bit farther once again. She's angling herself. Like Mikaere, her concern is the shotgun she saw leaning nearby.

Eden isn't going to interfere with any punches, but she is going to make sure she can tug that gun out of the way before anyone else can get to it if it comes down to it. But for right now, she just sips her drink and watches.

Fern positions herself further behind the bar with Jasmin and Suzette, but she's keeping a watchful eye on the people looking to fight - ready to break them up before they start. Abigail hates fighting and Fern figured it'd been awhile since she stretched any of her abilities. Why not kill two birds with one stone, hm?

This is definitely going to make the gossip column this week. Hell, Clara might even write and submit it herself, as entertainingly as she can manage.

She remains by her table and standing both, curious despite apprehension to see whether or not the shotgun's going to come into play. That's the real issue here above all else: fists can be stopped, buckshot tends to leave larger issues. Like holes.

Ariadne's not one for standing around overlong though. Her focus goes to Gutav in particular and she tries sending her own wisp of calming influence: yo, bro, use some common sense here, there's a shotgun.

Things happen in rapid succession. In the corner, Old Man O'Leary nods at Pops O'Malley and the old men silently agree that as far as bar brawls go, this one's pretty lame so far. There's angry men, there's knives, and there's a firearm -- and so far, no one's gotten hurt. "Five cents on the Chinaman," O'Malley ventures hesitantly -- because he only gets to gamble when his old woman isn't watching, and she's not setting her foot in an establishment like this.

Rudy holds the shotgun at face height, its muzzle still pointing towards the big Swede. There's a strange glazed expression in his eyes, though -- like his thoughts are a million miles away, and pulling the trigger is really quite irrelevant at this moment. He starts to lower the firearm because whatever it was that upset him a moment ago doesn't matter now: He's happy and calm, even if he doesn't quite know why. And then he's not holding the gun anymore, because Abigail is. It probably should upset him. Rudy's feeling too chill right now to care.

Francois flails and reaches for the shotgun -- leading to a bit of tug-o-war in which at least nobody is getting shot because nobody has their hands on the actual trigger. Silver linings, and all that jazz. (Where the only man present who would really know jazz is probably Beau John, given that as of this time, jazz is a dance music of the black communities, and the white world has yet to discover it).

Gustav is still staring down Rudy, even if the other man is not returning his glare. He raises a meaty fist -- and then his shirt is moving backwards in that age-old trick of Gray Harbor physicalists; you can't move living matter, but if you move a man's clothes, he tends to come along all the same. He stumbles backwards at the pull, and looks around behind himself to see who dunnit.

Behind him is the counter, and behind that, the women -- tiny Suzette, and almond-eyed Jasmin. The big Swede frowns. "You stay out of this," he tells them, angrily. And wonders how they, Suzette in particular, reached all the way up to his shoulders from down there.

Meanwhile, the large bouncer slash bartender is about to do his job: Beau John hops over his counter in an amazing display of agility, and heads straight for Abigail -- who is an employee of the house, after all. "You leave the girl alone," he rumbles. "Miss Abigail, you get behind me, ain't nobody pickin' on the mice of this ballet." His intent is clear; the Quebecois who somehow ended up holding on to the other end of the shotgun is going to be exiting, on foot or feet first.

And behind him, railroad worker Lee -- who has endured a lifetime of insults, ranging from gook and Chinaman to far, far worse -- finds himself threatened by some white man with a shotgun once too many in his life. He floored one of these fuckers already. He can take down another. The big Swede is nearest.

The big Swede groans as a well aimed Chinese kick takes out a kneecap; he stumbles and swivels because suddenly, the confrontation is taking place behind him. Who is this short, dark-haired fellow? Gustav doesn't know. All Gustav needs to know is that Lee hurt his leg, and he's going to return the favour now.

Francois stares blankly at Beau John's meaty fist as it makes its way through the air in what seems like slow-motion to him. He can hear his ribs crack as it impacts. The last thing he sees to his mind's eye as his face impacts with the sandy floor is a face on a poster sometime back in the day: A large black man, and the words, prize fighter. Where do boxers go when they grow too old for the ring? To the saloons to work as bouncers, that's where they go.

One down, several to go. Beau John has a job to do, and no one threatens Miss Suzette, Miss Jasmin, or Miss Abigail on his watch.

The gun being handed around like a puppy at a primary school is not entirely the outcome Mikaere was hoping for; though the fact that it is not now being aimed at anyone is certainly an improvement.

He wades in. Mountain Mick may not be a joiner, but Mikaere? He's a goddamn Paladin. Beau John has Francois under control, and that leaves the Chinese man and the Swede. It's the latter that he focuses his attention on: he steps right up to the pair (opens his mouth; nothing comes out) and then just gives up and continues his reign of... well, calm.

Gustav gets it this time: such a lovely, floaty sense of calm and tranquility.

The gun is getting passed around, people are getting knocked out, and now the big guy is getting involved. Hey, both big guys. She looks at Mountain Mik and Beau John. It's turning into a mess. Eden/Helen swirls the rest of the liquor around in her glass before knocking it back. "How about we all just chill out?" Her voice isn't particularly calming, but for the few that she's aiming for, she's hoping the not-so-gentle shove of emotions will be.

Calm

It's aimed across multiple minds. She doesn't know Mikaere is already working on Gustav, so the poor lad is getting a double dose, Lee, Rudy, and Beau John, they're all getting the nudge.

More punches thrown, more bodies drop, and Ariadne has to give credit where credit is due: that was a helluva hit.

But what if there's suddenly a table between gun and potential targets?

Or no, better -- what if there's no more gun?

Clara might be standing there still, torn between inaction and making her own little stand in this brewing fiasco. The barista decides that gun is going goodbye. Across the room. Hopefully.

Fern feels a twinge of victory as she pulls the Swede back- Abigail is confused and nervous. She gasps when Beau hops the counter. "Y-yes. Right. Behind you." Abigail manages to get out, moving to indeed get behind the larger man. "Be careful Beau!" She adds, peeking out from behind him - just in case Fern need to use her powers again. But it seems like hopefully this might be settled soon? Were all tavern brawls like this?

Some bar fights involve a lot of swinging in chandeliers, flipping tables, throwing spittoons and shooting at random strangers. This one isn't one of them. The only thing that goes flying is Rudy's shotgun -- which he somehow manages to drop, and somehow it slides across the room to appear in the hand of Clara. Gravity works in mysterious ways.

As do people.

The big Swede, Gustav, suddenly throws his arms around Rudy. "Förlåt mig! I'm so sorry! You're my friend, you would never cheat me in a game of cards!"

Rudy (who absolutely would cheat Gustav, or anyone else in a game of cards) looks very surprised. But not as surprised as Lee, who gets hugged next -- the Chinese man coils up like a spring coil.

Then, suddenly, he relaxes and returns the hug. Maybe he really needed one. Maybe it's that he's been the target of enough awful jokes and abuse from white anglophones to feel he's got something in common with the big Swede who is clearly also thought stupid by the locals.

Which leaves Beau John about to punch Rudy in the face -- though he ends up pulling his hand back when the other man stands and stares blankly at Gustav.

Suzette and Jasmin look at one another. This is definitely not how fights usually go at the Mouse Ballet. It's almost as if somehow, somebody is spreading the gospel and the peace of Baby Jesus in a house of sin where the preacher won't enter.

Tentatively, Suzette ventures, "Everyone's friendly now? Beer on the house, no more fighting?"

Mikaere looks-- well, a little bemused, actually. So much for wading into the middle. So much for fighting.

Not that this is a problem, mind. The tall loner turns on his heel to venture back towards his out-of-the-way seat. Inside, Mikaere shrugs his shoulders at himself and elects... well, not to worry.

This is fine.

Twisting and turning on itself in its flight, the weapon, and Clara (Ariadne internally) the secretary manages to fumble-catch the long-barreled shotgun without it going off.

Little mercies.

Now holding the weapon firstly aimed at horizontal -- and then after an 'EEEP!' of shock, off to one side -- the redhead stares at the group suddenly evincing the concept of Good Buddies Just Pallin' Around, hah-hah, you punched that one guy, good times, let's have a drink and play more cards.

"But -- but Fidelity!" A twitch of the gun's dual-muzzles towards canary-sporting Fidelity still sprawled like a rug on the (probably sticky, ew) wooden floorboards.

Fern was fully prepared for this fight to break out. But then it didn't! She was a mixture of relieved and disappointed - the disappointment from her and the relief from Abigail. Abigail smiled up at Beau, "Thank you for jumpin' in and protecting us nonetheless." She offered before moving towards Suzette and Jasmin to check on them and then help serve drinks to everyone. Fern swallowed hard, maybe one more drink wouldn't her either.

Eden looks all kinds of smug as the group of men start getting all huggy and relaxed. "Oh, I reckon that's only going to last about five minutes or so," the woman in the cowboy hat at the table calls back towards the group closer towards the bar. Mikaere, if anything, will understand what that means. "Just enough time for you lovely ladies to get to safety. And to get that gun outta here. Much more fun to watch the show when it's just fist on fist."

She laughs, picking up her empty glass and sweeping out of her chair. "Can I get a refill?"

Another night at the Mouse Ballet. Punches get thrown and occasionally, somebody gets tossed out on their arse. They call this town the Hellhole of the Pacific, and it's a reputation well earned -- nowhere else on this coast does so much booze get consumed, so many vows broken, and so many hangovers slept off in the gutter.

Sometimes those gutter sleepers wake up in a bunk at sea, wondering how they got there, and getting welcomed to their new life at sea by a grinning quartermaster. Sometimes they end up in the nearby labour camp, on charges that seem more or less phony, because work needs to be done and roads aren't building themselves.

Sometimes they go back into the woods and the mines and the lumberyards to eke out another day's pay to be spent in some shady watering hole, living hand to mouth and the Devil take tomorrow.

Some day, Gray Harbor is going to turn into a sleepy suburb of Olympia. Some day, it's going to be a nine-to-five town with nothing in particular going on, like so many other towns by the sea. There'll be a gated community separate from the town proper, and there'll be a glittering Casino on an artificial island, neither of which have much to do with everyday life in Gray Harbor. There will be memories of a time when things were lively around here, and most people will think of the place as probably getting gentrified into insignificance sometime soon.

But for those brave few who know the past and the future. Those few in the know whose minds are tossed about on the stormy sea of the Veil; the ones who will wake up in their own bodies and wonder whether Big Gustav or little Suzette ever actually existed or this was just another fever fantasy conjured up by entities that feed on misery and pain.

And if they do -- maybe there is a strange gratification to be had in knowing that least this time, the Them did not get what they ordered off the menu (not counting Rudy's headache in the morning). Maybe the way Fern feels in the morning after her Abigail persona pulled her off the wagon is enough?

Mountain Mick has no words-- but then, when does he ever? It's a relief for Mikaere, waking up in his own bed, able to open his mouth and express himself, even if it is only to himself.

There's torture; and then there's torture, and sometimes the two are two different beasts indeed.

Abigail had a drink in her hand, poised to sip it - and that's when Fern woke up with a slight start. Like when you're falling from a cliff and your body jolts you awake before you can hit the bottom. She can still taste that first shot of whiskey on her tongue and she just stares up at the ceiling for several long moments.

Maybe she needed to start rethinking what this town was doing to her.

Or maybe she just needed a few weeks away to get her head back on straight.

Back in her apartment, Ariadne sits up with the exclamation still blurting from her mouth: "Fideli...what the fuck." Her hands and arms are even lifted and shaped to be carrying a shotgun she doesn't actually have. Her hair is every which way and straggled in some pieces across her face. She lets her hands fall to her comforter-covered lap and peers blearily around her bedroom.

Samwise the Windhound is a comfortable ball of dog, impossibly small despite his legs, and sound asleep. It's early morning by the red numbers of her bedside clock.

"...this's nonsense, 'm going back to sleep," mumbles the redhead and does precisely this. Screw you, Veil, she can deal with you after a few more hours and some coffee.

Rolling over in her bed, Eden stirs and cracks an eye open with a quick survey of the room. Alone. There's an annoyed grunt as she shoves the blankets off of herself and shuffles off towards the kitchen. "Guess I'll get myself that refill."