Step City

Full thread title: "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."


[ X-112]

It would soon be time to close the Court Luxe, and its bartender was wiping the bar with a rag.

Dwight had only started working at the Luxe a few... was it days, weeks, or months ago? It felt already like he'd been here forever, with the speed he'd had to learn how to mix the drinks, disinfecting the glasses properly, manning the bar and making sure rowdy patrons didn't try to get on stage when Vel did a number, or Noir--

Dwight frowned at the bar, wiping it more vigorously than intended. He didn't know what to make of Noir yet, nor of their boss, Renard. After the Stupid Bot his predecessor vanished, they had zeroed in on him, as he shared the damn thing's name.

Or rather, it was the damn thing that had stolen his name; in addition to vanishing, the STUPID BOT former bartender had accrued a debt.

Again.

Dwight grit his teeth as he went to start lowering the music for the night.
You promised, he thought bitterly to himself, you promised you'd get your shit together, and instead I'm here to clean up your mess.

He now had a deal with Renard, taking the other Dw THE STUPID BOT!! his predecessor's debt, and putting himself as a bargaining chip to prevent the other's deal from being truly severed, thus having both of them hanging by a thread.

At least the tips were good.

Still, none of his simmering rage was in his voice as he reached to the DJ console and spoke into the microphone.

"Last call for drinks," Dwight intoned. "We're closing in thirty minutes.You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

The announcement was a pain. DC hadn’t seen Noir all night, and it was looking like she wasn’t going to get to. The cowboy must have had something else lined up for the evening, which left her without the entertainment she was craving.

Which left the next best victim…

The new bartender was a little less lively than his predecessor, a little less genial. DC had mostly ignored him for the few hours she’d been there except to order a drink or get a glass of water for Dascha. He’d done serviceably, and been more motivated to do a good job than the bot, in her opinion.

If he was going to be here for a while, though, she might as well get to know him, right?

“Hey, I need another.” DC called to him, wiggling her empty glass. She’d been slowly working her way through several cocktails, all of them stupidly fruity.

“You’re not the bartender I’m used to,” she’d start with an innocent probe for information, whenever he was back from the DJ booth to heed her demands.

Dwight was none the wiser that there was a proverbial target on his back. As soon as the woman at the bar wiggled her glass, the barman nodded, thinking nothing of it.

He'd seen this particular woman for a long part of the evening; she was a bit hard to miss, with her service dog, that nasty burn on her face, those purple digs that made him feel a bit on edge... And how she was giving him a run for his money for how well he could pull the fruitier cocktails on the menu.

As he came back from the DJ booth and was behind the bar again, making another cocktail as she had requested, Dwight paused at her quip. He frowned slightly as he poured, but managed to keep himself from scowling. Sort of.

If a bartender turns away under the excuse of grabbing the grenadine syrup and scowls when no one can see him, does he make a sou--wait, wrong metaphor.

"Yeah, I'm not," he replied as he turned back to look at the one-eyed woman's dog like it was his current customer, trying to keep his face neutral. "He quit."

Ooh, someone sounded unhappy. This wasn't the smooth banter of an experienced bartender who liked to engage with his customers for tips. Interesting.

"Did he? Do you know why?" DC smiled like she was in on a joke neither of them were telling, watching him work. "He was always pretty fun, but maybe not the best at his job."

Don't frown, don't frown, don't frown--

Dwight frowned.

In addition to lacking the smooth banter of an experienced bartender, the Luxe's new barman had no pokerface to speak of, and it was plain as day that he hated being compared to his predecessor.

"I've no clue why, ma'am," Dwight groused, putting the grenadine down and pouring orange juice and tequila into the iced glass, "I'm just here to fill in for him."

The barman garnished the cocktail with an orange slice and a cherry, then slid it towards his customer. Her smile was staring to irritate him, like she was in on a joke.

He wasn't in on the joke.

"But I've been told my cocktails are better," Dwight couldn't help a wry smile. "The little bastard never had the patience to bother learning the drinks, or so I heard."

"I'll agree to that," DC said easily, and would have even if it wasn't the truth. She plucked the cherry out of the cocktail to chew on while she gave him another once-over. Cute enough.

"What's your name?" she asked, as if it had just occurred to her. "And how'd you end up here? Noir pull a fast one on you, or are you just enamored with one of the dancers? Because, cocktail quality aside..."

She shrugged. "You don't seem like you're enjoying this much."

As the mystery lady agreed Dwight cracked a smile, faint and wry, but a smile nonetheless, and he reached for his glass of water to take a sip.

At her questions--and Noir's mention; a friend or former friend of his, maybe?--he quirked an eyebrow over the rim of his glass before placing it on the bar surface.

"I'm Dwight," he said, trying his damnest to tread carefully, "and Noir didn't pull a fast one on me--"

Renard did, he thought, but kept it to himself...

"--but we've got a deal going on. He needs a barman, I need the creds." Dwight half-shrugged, trying to be dismissive. "And I enjoy this job as much as any other one."

He took another sip of his glass, before turning around to tidy the back of the bar a bit.

"And what's your name?" Dwight asked over his shoulder. "Are you friends with Noir or something?"

"Wait, wait." DC shook her head, completely ignoring his questions. There was a lot he said and none of it was important except the very first thing.

"You're Dwight. The last bar-bot was also named Dwight." And he replaced him so quickly, with a 'deal.' That could mean quite a lot of things with Renard involved. "What are the odds?"

Dwight froze, like a cat caught in a headlight, before bristling defensively.

"And?" He asked, more brusquely than he intended. "What about it? There's a handful of people named Steven on the island, and that doesn't make them related to the UG guy either. "

He didn't need to tell her that the dumbass bot spent the first year of his life thinking they were Dwight, either.

But what was her deal?

"Who the hell are you?" The barman asked, sitting at his side of the bar.

"You're being really defensive for just a funny coincidence, Dwight." DC put extra emphasis on the name, amused by the whole thing. Especially how snippy he was getting.

"No need to get snippy. I'm DC." She said it like he should know it, though she doubted he would. Noir probably wouldn't think to warn the new bartender about a volatile old flame. "One of Noir's friends. Is that a problem?"

"I'm not on the defensive," Dwight replied, visibly on the defensive. His shoulders seemed to be on a race to see how fast could they reach his ears, and as he initially laid his hands on the bar he had started to close them into tight fists before opening them again.

"I just don't see why you're so interested in that bot, if he wasn't so great of a barman, either."

As an afterthought, he tucked his hands underneath the bar.

He wasn't sure he was liking this chick--DC, it must have been her initials--nor the fact that she was holding onto his and the bot's name, and least of all the fact she was presenting herself in a purple outfit and referring to herself as a friend of Noir's.

Didn't he have a beef with the Mafia?

The barman had a feeling he was either too tired or too sober for this conversation, and it was out of some probably ill-advised impulse that he quietly and quickly poured himself a finger of whiskey.

If anything (or if anyone asked), he was just accompanying DC, that was all.

"If you're one of Noir's friends there shouldn't be any problem unless you make them," he said, "so you should be fine as long as you're not out here to trash the place."

Most of the remaining customers, Dwight noted from the corner of his eye, had already filed out after paying their dues in their booth consoles. That wouldn't do much for his tips, he supposed.


"Anyway," Dwight took a sip of his drink, "I think you need to finish that cocktail soon. I gotta close the place for the night."

"The bot was funny. Fun to talk to. Imagine, if we could combine you two, we'd have a conversationalist who could put the right amount of alcohol in a drink twice in a row." DC knew she was getting under his skin, but, honestly, she barely had to try. This man seemed to be ready to jump on any offense he could fabricate.

"I'm never here to trash the establishment, no. I'd like to keep coming back to meet all the new faces." DC watched him down the finger of whiskey, amused. "Besides, do you really think I could cause that much trouble? Me?"

She laid a hand on her chest daintily, as if she could never imagine. Dascha's ears flicked above the counter a moment but disappeared again. "Renard's got plenty of muscle to prevent that, I imagine. But don't worry about me, darling. You can surely close up around me."

"Hm," Dwight pursed his lips. The bot was chatty, indeed. "I can put the right amount of alcohol thrice in a row, if that counts for anything."

Another sip of whiskey, he peeked over his glass in time to see the service dog's ears flick, and he raised a brow as DC put her hand on her chest, trying her best to look innocent and harmless.

"You're in Mafia colors outside of your turf for drinks, alone," the barman pointed out, "which tells me you're either strong or crazy enough to be confident you won't be jumped out in the streets."

He wasn't going to tell her that he had clocked her as 'probably both'.

"But," Dwight finished his drink, then got on his feet to go to the DJ console, "I am going to close around you, and if you want to stick around until then it's more power to you, I guess."

As he spoke, the barman selected the playlist he had lovingly labeled 'GO HOME YOU'RE DRUNK, Vol. III.'

"You'll just have to listen to some of my tunes, though," he smiled sweetly.

"I'm not alone. Don't you see the dog?" DC appreciated the quick read from Dwight, though it was hardly in-depth. "And it isn't like changing colors would make me less noticeable. Anyone who's spent any time recently trying to cross the wrong street knows what I look like. Dascha's a dead giveaway."

She let him go to the DJ booth, and her face screwed up as the song started playing. Not her taste. Maybe it wasn't anyone's, which was the point, surely.

Thank Groove, then, she could simply identify the closest speaker and angle her deaf side that way. It didn't cut out all the noise, but it certainly diminished it.

"You've got shit taste," DC told Dwight brightly on his return.

" I meant with another Stepper," Dwight replied, and for a moment he had the impulse to pet Dascha on the head, but he thought better of it.

He couldn't help a smile as he saw DC's face screw at the music, and angle her scarred side towards the speaker. The last stragglers at the tables, who had been dilly-dallying as they were chatting while putting on their coats, suddenly slapped some cred on the table and hastily left.

Good. The song worked.

DC, aside from her previous expression and her comment as he returned, seemed otherwise intent on sticking around.

"Wow, rude," Dwight replied, just as brightly, "but look, it works, now everyone's gone!"

"Careful, it's going to get bright in here." Dwight reached to a switch, and the dimly lit atmosphere of the Luxe gave way to... Well, just a bar past closing time, most of its magic gone.

"And if you think this song is bad," the barman trudged out of the bar with his mop and bucket with a knowing smirk, "it's going to get worse. So much worse. I went out of my way to make the worst playlist I could manage, it's much easier than trying to kick out drunks who don't wanna leave."

Now it was a challenge. DC could surely stomach the worst the music world had to offer from their intranet in order to needle a barman a bit. Was it really that serious? Was it truly that important? Well, yes and no. The important thing was that she didn't give ground.

Besides, he had to listen to it, too.

The bright light did take some of the magic from the place, though Noir's taste was gaudy enough to compensate. She ignored all his gloating about his drunk-dismissal playlist and focused instead on what he was doing. It was certainly strange how much drudgery was put on him...

"Noir hasn't managed to lift a cleaning bot for this place?" She leaned back to watch him, then regretted it when the song became clearer. "Or did that go missing as well?"

Dwight would have been impressed at DC's fortitude--or was it stubbornness--if it hadn't been a long day, and if he didn't want to go back to his flat and sleep. Instead, he weathered through good old Chacarron, knowing that the next song would bring the bigger guns.

As he mopped, he turned to quirk an eyebrow up at DC. "Far as I know, he--"

OOoooOOOhhh, YEAH YEAH YEAH.

Dwight exhaled through his nose, slowly. Right, he could handle the god-awful playlist he had curated.

"--he didn't get a cleaning bot, and since The Other Bot was supposed to sweep the floors, I guess I'm taking over this task."

The barman smiled. "So, where do you know Noir from, again?"

As the new song came on, even Dascha let out a soft whine. It was probably a bit loud for her, but any onlooker could take it for commentary on the song to match her owner. DC’s face had screwed up again.

“Where do you think I know Noir from?” DC pushed through, though her smooth demeanor was somewhat diminished by disgust. “You know he’s formerly of FM, right? Made a big splash when he left, I’d imagine even with the rest of the chaos of the Flares he merited a few news posts, turning on his own people in a tantrum.”

If Renard was nearby, DC was likely to get a smack upside the head, at best. But she wasn’t. It was the two of them at the bar.

“He nearly killed me,” she added, perfunctorily, as if it was just a fun fact. “How do you think I got this pretty face?”

Even the dog whined when Rebecca Black came on, and Dwight took DC's expression as a win of sorts. The smugness of the moment was short-lived, however, as soon as she opened her mouth.

He had figured that Noir and Renard were both from FM; so much had been obvious, but at the mention of the flares and of a tantrum made his jaw clench. "I was a bit busy trying not to die during the flares to notice," Dwight replied coolly.

It was no secret that most of the island's population had been deeply affected by the events in the years following the War, and Dwight himself thought of that time of his life as easily some of his worst years. In a sense, he hadn't truly recovered from it...

But as DC added that Noir had nearly killed her, the barman looked at her, truly looked at her beyond the politely dismissive cursory glances he had been shooting her since the beginning of the night, and his stomach dropped.

Not even Rebecca's excitement at it being Friday could have lightened the mood; Groove, she truly didn't even have half her face anymore, and he remembered the night he had been.... ah, solicited to come work here, and how he felt he'd been suckered into a mess made by a dumb bot who seemed only willing to show up in his life to turn it upside-down time and time again.

Dwight shuddered. At least neither Noir nor Renard had ever intended to harm him... For now, and now that he had a living testament to what his boss could do...

He gripped the mop handle tightly.

"So why are you here, then?" Dwight spat. "Noir's not here. I don't know or care where he is tonight, so if you're here for revenge then you're not gonna get any, and even if you stayed here until he came back you'd probably still wouldn't get your chance tonight."

Oh no. He talked too much whenever his nerves got to him. Still, his mouth flapped on its own.
"And what do you want from me? I have jack shit to do with either of your bullsh--your history, and if you'd try to get at me to fuck with the boss I doubt it would even work. I'm just a Square barman."

It was the babbling of someone who had the very distinct impression that he would be used to sweep the floor, if the petite Purple decided to do so.

Dwight’s sudden defensiveness was like a siren song, cutting through their obnoxious backing track to pull DC’s full attention. While she had been speaking casually, offhand about the frankly horrific trauma she had been through and survived, his sudden sharpness and babbling felt extreme.

Oh. Oh, he thought…

“Revenge?” She’d had some earlier, thank you. She’d wanted to see the fallout of that, and found Dwight, instead. “Do you think I waited until now to get revenge on him? He did this during the Flares, darling. Over a decade ago. You think I would wait that long to get back at him just to finish him on some random night in his gaudy strip club, when I didn’t even know if he was here?”

DC scoffed, leaning against the bar, watching him like a cat who’d cornered a rat.

“But that’s an interesting theory you’ve thrown out there. Just a Square barman? Someone not important to Noir at all?” Fingers tapped on the edge of her glass. “Are you saying Noir and Renard give no guarantees of safety to their staff? That neither of them would take it personally if something should happen to you?”

There was a coldness to her tone that twisted curious questions into subtle threats. “Are you sure?”