Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Welcome to The Pit, where we serve whoever, whenever, and what ever.”

He hasn't even sold anything and now the cafè was in a mess again. Thankfully, the books were on the other side of the cafè so none of the, uh, remains reached it.

Priam remained smiling. A boy was revealed when the headless body tipped and toppled on the floor and Priam noted that the boy held a gun in his hands. He was wearing a crimson school uniform of the sort—one that Priam didn't recognize. It must've been from the newly built, city-mandated school he's heard of on the radio.

"They still haven't paid for their order, you know," Priam said, his smile concealing the surfacing migraine at the back of his head.

"Fucker deserved it," the boy said, kicking the body. "He poisoned my dinner. My insides melted overnight."

Priam pointedly does not stare at the boy's unmelted stomach. "That's none of my business. Anyway, seeing that they're," he nods towards the bleeding yet quickly regenerating customer, "not in the condition to pay, are you willing to pay for his order then?"

A scoff. "What did Fucker buy?"

Priam squinted at the blood-stained monitor. "Two egg sandwiches and iced coffee."

"Make it four and add a chocolate-chip smoothie."

Priam punched in the order, accepted the payment, and went to the kitchen to make the order. He paid no mind to the bloody mess surrounding the counter. That will disappear later, he thought.

When he came back with the order, the blood and remains had all crumbled to dust, and the first customer—Fucker, the boy had called him—now had a newly healed head and was in a shouting match with the boy. Priam served them food, and they both thanked him before proceeding to sit down at the table nearest to the counter. They continued their shouting match there.

Priam fetched the vacuum cleaner and proceed to clean the blood and bits that had turned to ashes.

"Sorry 'bout the mess this early in the morning," the man called Fucker apologized, looking sheepish.

Priam nodded. "Be sure to do it away from the counter and books next time, please. Preferably outside."

"Noted!" the boy said grinning, and Priam decided to ignore him. He was still upset about the mess the boy had made. At least it all turned to ashes; unlike the first time, one of his customers was brutally stabbed with the cafè-owned utensils. Cleaning the ichor stain off the wooden table and floor took almost four hours.

Priam does not want to clean any mess made by his customers unless it's caused by the food he served.

The chimes echoed and a woman with corn snake dreadlocks sauntered to the counter. Priam had already stashed off the vacuum cleaner and was wiping off the remaining ashes. He faced the woman and stretched his mouth to a forced, customer service smile. "Hello, welcome to The Pit. What do you want?"

"Hi, can I get uuuuuhhhh..." The woman trailed, eyes glued on the menu overhead. Many of the corn snake dreadlocks watched Priam, flicking their tongues as if assessing him. He maintained his smile, unfazed as some of the snakes were already in front of his face, flicking their curious little tongues.

He tried humoring himself since the woman was still occupied oogling at the menu. He stuck a little bit of his tongue out, hoping that it would entertain the snakes.

The snakes retreated beside the woman's head in a snap as if Priam had just spit on them. They looked offended.

Priam was also offended.

How rude.

"Oh!" the woman seemed to have finally concluded. Priam readied himself to type out her orders. "I'll have an Iced Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato, with sugar-free syrup, with an extra shot, light ice, and no whip. Also one Blueberry Pancake with whipped cream on top."

Priam blinked at her. He immediately caught himself, typed out the order, accepted the payment, gave her change, told her to wait for him to serve her order, and immediately marched towards the kitchen.

Dear Gehenna, his mind was screaming. She ordered a fucking complicated ass drink.

He opened the fridge, cracked open a large can of Hell, and drank all of it in one go. He needed this. Screw the caffeine content and warnings of moderate consumption.

Then he proceeded to make the order. He was in the middle of making the pancake when he heard a gunshot from outside. It was followed by the boy's angry yelling, then there were sounds of glass breaking.

He sighed and flipped the pancake.

Priam has an exhausting day ahead of him.

Chapter Text

There are bees inside the café, and they're making a hive above the doorway. Thankfully, it was Sunday. Priam doesn't open the café during Sundays.

Luckily, Priam had managed to unearth a beekeeping suit from the storage, one that his friend from uni gifted years ago. He decided to wear it as he wiped the wall pane to avoid being stung by the bees flying about inside the café. There was always the unnerving sound of buzzing as he did so, but it gradually faded to background noise the longer he cleaned.

He began dusting the bookshelves, wiping the tables, then tidied the materials on the counter and machines in the kitchen. Lastly, he patched up the deep claw marks on the dining area's wall with plaster. He had already rinsed off the blood splatters the night before and was displeased that the claw marks defiled the mural he personally commissioned from an elusive artist he managed to snag from the 19th century.

Now he had to make do with an artist skilled enough to replicate the clawed parts of the mural, which costs a lot.

He stretched his arms, sore at squatting for too long.

Screw that werewolf for causing a scene in his café. It was certainly not Priam's fault that her mate rejected her because she "kept eating their dog's food"—whatever the hell that meant. Why did she have to damage café property during her outburst? Not to mention clawing her mate's eye out, which resulted in yet another blood splattering extravaganza.

For Gehenna's sake, he just scrubbed that wall the day before because of a separate incident involving a blood feud between siren and mermaid descendants. He has had enough of the police coming in to take his statement regarding incidents that his customers cause.

Werewolves, especially, were temperamental customers. He occasionally had to deal with one or two (usually with a tranquilizer or a pepper spray imbued with a sleeping spell that he had purchased from an auction months ago) but they were tamer than the woman who clawed the wall yesterday. Priam was tempted to ban them from ever entering the book cafè but decided against it. After all, it's not all of the werewolves' fault that his prized mural was destroyed.

Yeah, he should just hunt down the woman and charge her for the damages instead. She came to the cafè in a Lamborghini so Priam was pretty sure she wouldn't mind a few donations to the cafè.

Then he could ban her afterward.

He was in the middle of rewriting the menu on the chalkboard, that he detached from the wall and placed on the floor when the door opened accompanied by the echoes of the chimes. Unaware of the crazed buzzing that grew louder as the bees' movements became frenzied, he calmly said, not looking towards the door, "I'm sorry but the store's closed for today. Please come back tomorrow if you need something."

There was silence save for the buzzing of the surrounding bees.

Now, if Priam had spared the effort to look up, he would've seen a man standing in front of the doorway. At least, it looked like a man. He was wearing an old, denim jumper and leather boots. He wore no shirt and was completely covered in what seemed to be bees squirming about his upper body, trailing down his wrists, as if they were his twitching, sentient sweater. (If sweaters were made of bees, that is.)

But Priam kept his head down, still immersed in perfecting his wobbly calligraphy on the chalkboard. He was struggling due to the beekeeping suit he wore, but that didn't stop him because he's a stubborn git who refuses to hire a graphic designer to make his menu and print it for display. No, he wanted it handwritten for authenticity despite the trouble it causes.

He makes his life hard like that.

It was not until a bee had managed to climb inside his glove that he jolted in surprise, cut out from his stupor. He straightened up in irritation as he took off his glove to flick the bee off.

Then he froze when he saw the man standing steps away from him. His immediate thought was that the man had a really peculiar shade of blonde hair and an equally peculiar taste in clothes. (Seriously, bees? Priam tried not to judge because he'd seen customers stride in the cafè with only their extremities covered, but seriously, bees?)

Priam voiced none of his thoughts. He never does.

They stared at each other for a good few seconds until Priam noticed the mess on the floor. There was a sticky-looking trail of some sort from the doorway that followed the man.

It was on the floor that he had just cleaned.

Sweet Gehenna. Not again.

"Excuse me, the shop's closed for today. Do you have any business coming here? Do you need something?" he asked, deciding that he was too exhausted to feel mad at the mess.

The man opened his mouth to talk but bees swarmed out instead. He looked annoyed at this and wrinkled his nose, only for something to drip down.

Priam's brow shot up. Hold on, is that... honey?

A troubled look flashed across the man's face. He flailed his arms, attempting to communicate, as more and more bees circled him, the bees on his body twitching and buzzing even more loudly now.

Priam, noticing the man's agitation, immediately said, "Okay, uhm, wait... Wait here, I'll get some pen and paper so you can tell me. Can you still write?"

When the man nodded, Priam went to the counter and rummaged the drawers. He found a pen and notebook and gave them to the man.

The buzzing bees had calmed down along with the man's frustration.

The man wrote smoothly, bees and all, and quickly filled a whole page. When it was handed back to Priam, he squinted at the paper.

It read:

Hello,

Sorry for coming here unannounced. I was following the song of the bees.

Thank you for taking care of my bees and not destroying their hive. They escaped the farm yesterday and somehow strayed here. They seem to like this place. I'm sorry if they made a mess or disturbed you. I only came here to fetch them. I'll be taking them back to the apiary now so you wouldn't have to worry about them anymore. Thank you very much for not calling exterminators.

- Sennett Wood

When Priam looked up, the man was smiling at him. He looked so thankful that it caught Priam off guard.

"Oh, uhm," Priam cleared his throat. "I-It's fine, I guess. I-I don't really condone killing insects mercilessly so I just let them be. They weren't hurting me so it's okay. Uhm, uh, you're welcome, I guess? And uh, thank you for coming here to take them back."

The man chuckled, and so did the bees around him. He wrote: Nice suit. Old design but it looks nice.

Priam smiled. "Yes, thank you, a friend gifted it."

The man then turned to the beehive above the doorway and snapped his fingers, and Priam watched, fascinated, as the bees stilled and slowly flew to the man. They meshed into the man's... bee sweater... with no trouble.

There were no bees left. Only the empty beehive above the doorway.

"Well, uh, that was... quick," Priam mused. Seeing that the man was now worriedly eyeing the beehive that was still above the doorway, he immediately added, "Oh, don't worry about the hive. I'll... uh... take care of it myself. You've been a great help in taking the bees."

The man shot him a look: Are you sure?

"Yes, don't worry about it. Oh, and if you have time to spare, you're very welcome to hang out here in The Pit. We have great desserts and drinks." Priam smiled. This time it was sincere.

This seemed to have convinced the man. He wrote one last "Thank you, goodbye" before smiling, then he went out. The door closed with a clink, the chimes echoing throughout the cafè. Only now, there was no buzzing, no bees.

Priam eyed the trail left on the floor as soon as the man left. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was also honey.

He went to the storage to fetch a mop.

Worrying about what to do with the beehive will have to wait.

The following day, there were two large jars of honey outside the cafè's doorstep. There logo of a sticker that says Wood Farms, along with a sticky note on it that says: Thank you for yesterday! - S. Wood.

Priam decided to alter the menu into something more honey-centered for the whole week. His made-up recipe of a Sweet Honey Cake was the cafe's top-selling dessert.

He never saw the man again but few bees would stray inside the cafè occasionally. He usually let them be because they weren't harmful, but when a customer had almost squished one in annoyance, he quickly catches them one-by-one to release them outside.

They stopped coming a few days after that.

Chapter Text

The day was going smoothly. There has been zero bloodsheds, no sign of impending chaos, the unusualness non-existent, and, surprisingly, the customers who come and go are well-mannered. None were making a ruckus so Priam's work went smoothly. He was blissful as he took orders, serving the food with a faint skip in his steps.

Of course, he shouldn't have spoken too soon.

"Ah fuck, hot!" a man with fiery, red hair exclaimed from his seat beside the window. He sneezed and his tongue plopped on his empty plate.

Silence reigned the café.

On the counter, Priam was preoccupied with arranging the displayed pastries.

The three girls sitting on the couch adjacent to the red-haired man stared at him, shocked and frozen. The man, realizing that he was seen, smiled and waved at them bashfully. This effectively cut the girls off of their stupor as they promptly screamed then ran outside, leaving their half-eaten pasta and nachos behind. Their screams faded into the distance.

Now, it was only Priam and the red-haired man left inside the café.

Carefully picking out his tongue from the plate and shoving it back in his mouth, the red-haired man turned to Priam. "What the hell was that?" he asked, confusion evident on his face.

"Dunno," was Priam's response, still occupied in his work. He noted in his mind to clear up the table of the three girls later.

"Did I do something wrong?" the red-haired man now looks concerned.

Priam shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, it seems like most of your coffee got spilled. I can remake it if you want? Free of charge, of course."

"Really? Is it okay?" The red-haired man was delighted at the prospect of a free drink. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem."

Priam made a new coffee and gave it to the red-haired man, who looked nearly crying when he accepted the large cup. "No one's given me free food before," he said. "Thank you."

Priam didn't know what to say to that. He was about to return to the counter when the man stopped him, told Priam to wait, then rummaged his pockets.

He placed something cold and smooth on Priam's palm. "Here, take it," he said. "Think of it as a thank you."

Priam stared at his hand, mildly curious.

It was an eyeball. A fake one, he hoped. It has a chain attached to it as if it was meant to be a dangling charm.

"It can protect you from people wanting your skin," the red-haired man told him. "Prevents you from being flayed alive."

Why anyone would even want to flay him, Priam didn't ask.

Instead, he smiled like he always does. "I see. Thank you very much."

After the red-haired man had left, Priam cleared the tables containing leftovers. He had just returned to the counter after he threw the dishes on the kitchen sink when the door opened and chimes rang.

A girl entered, the edges of her eyes gleamed with kindness. And—huh, wait.

Well, that was odd.

Kindness wasn't an impression Priam usually had when it comes to people, much less from his customers. He craned his head at the girl as she looked around the café.

Priam noticed that if he tilted his gaze slightly to the right, it all looked strange somehow. Her eyes shone manically when it hits the light. She had thick curls with an auburn hue, slightly pointed ears, and nails that should be referred to as claws.

"Hello, welcome to The Pit," he greeted automatically. "What do you want?"

The girl grinned, flashing her too sharp teeth. "Your left-hand looks fresh," drawled her sickly sweet voice.

A siren, he realized. The voice immediately gave it away.

"It's not for sale," Priam shot back, his smile immaculate. "Sorry, let me rephrase that: what can I get for you that's on the café's menu?"

She huffed before squinting at the menu above. "I'll get some cheese fries, fried chicken, and a large mango smoothie."

"That'll be 375 paiges."

She glanced at the monitor flashing the price, grimacing. "Do you accept a different kind of payment?" she hesitantly asked.

"Depends." Priam hoped that she wouldn't pay using human teeth. Someone had once paid using a ziplock bag full of teeth for a large sandwich and Redbull. Luckily, he managed to sell it online at a pretty hefty price. Who knew people actually bought human teeth? What do they even need those for? Regardless, he hoped to never handle human teeth ever again.

She gave a smile, hopeful. "Pearls?"

Inwardly, Priam heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh definitely, sure."

She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out faintly glowing, iridescent pearls in various sizes. Priam had never seen that kind of pearls before so he didn't know how much it would cost.

She picked three of them and handed them to Priam. "Here. Guess these will be enough."

He gingerly accepted the pearls. After a moment of uncertainty, he said to the girl, "I'm afraid I don't know how much change I'll have to give you. If you'd like, I could pawn these off for a good sum then I'll deduct the amount of your purchase today. Of course, I'll return the remaining amount to you."

(In the future, Priam will discover that each pearl is worth more than the book café's annual income.

He will weep.)

She waved her hand dismissively. "Just keep the change. I have more pearls at home," she said. Cocking her head, she leaned on the counter, grinning ear to ear. "Besides, I like it here in The Pit. It's calming. My brother recommended coming here. Too many traces of those damned mermaids for my liking but still, it's better than the bar at the beach that blares sea shanties at midnight."

Priam nodded, obviously not listening after she said "keep the change", as he reviewed her order on the computer. "Oh, um, okay. Anyway, please sit down for a bit so I could make your order. You can read a book while waiting. We have plenty." He gestured at the bookshelves on the other side of the store. "Also, here's your waiting tag," he added, handing her a transparent blue dice with the number 2 etched on all its sides.

"Do you have books written by Teus Moth?"

"Maybe. Any kind of book is on the shelf. Just pick a random book; it'll always be the one you're looking for."

"Sounds ominous."

"It does, doesn't it."

The girl looked like she wanted to ask more but Priam had already walked off to the kitchen to avoid lengthening the conversation. He prepared the ingredients for her order and started to get to work.

When he came out with the order, he saw the girl seated on the couch beside the shelves. She looked giddy, smiling ear to ear as she flipped a particularly large book with such speed that Priam feared she might tear the pages.

"You didn't say you had our books!" she exclaimed once he'd gotten near. On her hand, there's a soaked, leather-bound book with bits of dried skin clamped on the pages. "It's written in ancient Sirenian language! I thought these books were banned by humans?"

Priam placed her order on the coffee table. He took the dice, too, once he confirmed that she had no follow-up orders.

She continued gushing, "And it's practically in good shape! Neptune's beard, if my brother found out, he'd lose his mind! He's been collecting these for his work at the Mortimer Institute!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The books here aren't for sale," Priam quickly said. "Every book is owned by The Pit."

She wasn't listening and was already pulling out her phone in excitement.

"Austin!" she says to Austin, whoever he was, on the phone. "Hey, guess what, I'm here in The Pit! Remember, the book café you've been recommending me for, like, weeks now? You're right about the dude here is hot but he's not my typ—oh yeah, I like it here very much but fuck you for not mentioning that it has mermaid stench! So anyway..."

And she chattered on.

Priam tried not to feel offended when she said that the café had a "mermaid stench". He failed. He quite liked the mermaids.

At least the mermaids paid in decent paiges and not glowing pearls. At least the mermaids handled the books with care, knowing that it's sacred to The Pit, and didn't flip the pages carelessly.

Also, the stench she was referring to wasn't even that bad. It was just the smell of the salty sea breeze left whenever some mermaids came by the café. He kind of liked the smell.

Priam then belatedly remembered that sirens and mermaids still had this ridiculous blood feud going on. It had cost him his limited edition tea set because, apparently, they tend to immediately rip each other's face off on sight. Unfortunately, the usual site of their altercations happens to be the café, much to Priam's ire. They've been one of the customers that caused so much collateral and property damage in the shop that Priam personally chewed out both the clan leaders in the court.

They paid for the damage afterward. Thank Gehenna for that. Both sides of the conflict also begrudgingly agreed, albeit forced, to an armistice whenever they're within a mile radius of The Pit.

And that was four months ago. No further incidents had occurred, which meant the truce had worked. Priam doesn't have to worry about sirens and mermaids causing an uproar in his shop.

They both know better than to cause a ruckus in The Pit now.

The girl was still talking on the phone. She looked happy enough so Priam decided to go back to the counter. He's quite sure she won't be taking any café property with her if she valued any of her body parts.

He was in the middle of wiping the espresso machine clean when the girl walked up to the counter. She was shaking, looking afraid and pale. A stark contrast of how she appeared when Priam last checked on her — gladly talking on the phone, that is.

But well, these things sometimes happened when certain customers read a book, so it wasn't all that concerning.

"Oh, what happened to the book you were reading?" Priam asked, his tone careful. "The one that's... in your language?"

"It showed me a prophecy regarding the blood feud and how it would doom both our clans. I, uh, put it back on the shelf."

"Ah, yes, the books tend to do that," he said, now wiping aggressively. "I sure hope it didn't affect you badly?"

"Nah, it's chill. I'd never felt scared like that since I witnessed my aunt dig out a man's beating heart. It's quite thrilling, really."

Priam chose to not mind most of her statements and focused on wiping the syrup bottles beside the machine. "Mhm. Good to hear. Did you enjoy The Pit?"

At this, her face brightened. "Super! I'd give your place five stars if the mermaid stench hadn't irked me," she said with a flick of her hand, and Priam saw that the claws were manicured and well-kept. "But meh, I know you're just serving customers, so it's no big deal. I'll give this place four stars in Yelp, definitely. Also, the books are nice."

Priam didn't know if that was a positive review but was thankful anyway.

Suddenly, she fished out something in her coat pocket and handed him a card. Priam politely accepted it on autopilot.

The card had the name Audrey Swain in fancy, cursive font along with her contact number underneath. It also indicated that she works as a yoga instructor. He ignored the bloodstain on its corners.

"Oh, what's this for?" he asked, confused.

The girl, Audrey Swain, looked equally confused about her actions. "...I don't know, really? Just felt like giving you my card."

How odd.

"Uh-huh, okay then," Priam starts, pocketing the card in his apron. "Maybe I'll need it someday. Thank you, Ms. Swain. Do you need anything else? Another order?"

"Uh, no, no, I'll... I'll go see Austin. Tell him about the prophecy, maybe."

"I see. Have a good day, Ms. Swain."

Audrey Swain all but fled to the door. When she left, Priam cleaned up her leftovers. He looked at the clock — 3:17 PM.

Right. He still has time to kill 'til the next rush hour. The street outside was empty, with people mostly at work, so there seemed to be no customers coming in just yet.

He picked up some scones, tossed them inside the warmer, and poured himself a glass of fresh milk. Picking up a fashion magazine, he sat back and relaxed as he waited for the scones to warm.

Priam was about to take a bite when the door opened and in came a mother with her squealing toddler. She looks like in desperate need of caffeine as she marched to the counter with purpose.

Oh well, he thinks, there goes his break.

Chapter Text

The first time Priam served a customer who was a vampire, he suffered immensely. Well, he might be overexaggerating but listening to someone go on a spiel about their preferred blood type five minutes before closing time still counts as torture.

Whoever established the stereotype that vampires were recluses had clearly never met June Fitchett Dorotheus McCoy VII.

("Call me June," the vampire had told him in-between ramblings.)

June was, devastatingly, a talker. Painfully so. Taking his order meant getting an extra one-sided talkathon ranging from the intricacies of Baroque architecture to some mundane topic about a horror podcast Priam hadn't heard of. Mostly, it's about something Priam has no interest or knowledge in, which meant that he had to nod along to whatever June was rambling about out of politeness.

Priam just wished June didn't do it minutes before closing time.

Unfortunately, like other vampires, June doesn't like spending time under the sun for too long. This is because they're naturally nocturnal creatures-("Just like bats and owls!" June said, then proceeded to rant about society's common misconceptions of vampires)-and not because sunlight burns them. They just think the sun is annoying, at best.

Sadly, June being a vampire meant he usually comes to the café at 8 PM-the one he jokingly calls "breakfast time". It also means that he comes in thirty minutes before closing time; just when Priam had already draped a cloth over the counter in preparation for closing up the café. It irked him how June just vainly saunters in and orders food as if he hadn't seen the 'CLOSED, FUCK OFF' sign outside.

It doesn't help that June rambled as Priam frantically made his order. Despite his best efforts in making June leave, he still ends up closing the café an hour later than intended.

Looks like today wouldn't be any different, too.

"-And you see, I was thinking about making fanfic about the two podcasts I was listening to. D'ya remember yesterday, I told you about that one episode of a vase that ate this one dude's husband? It was spooky and, quite frankly, hilarious. I've burned through three seasons for a week and can't bring myself to listen to the next season yet because my god, there was lots of angst in it. Also, fuck Elias, he can go choke on his own dick. Anyway, that's why I decided to listen to another podcast called Welcome To Night Vale, and now I just want to make a crossover fanfic of the two podcasts-"

"Here's your order, June."

Priam passive-aggressively slammed down the paper bag consisting of a cup of pumpkin spice latte and heated croissant on the counter. Thankfully, it snapped June out of whatever it was he was driveling about.

Upon seeing the paper bag, June raised an eyebrow. "Why is it in a paper bag?"

"Because you can't eat it here," Priam said with a drained tone.

"Why? It's a book café," June said as if it wasn't obvious and he's not talking to the owner of the said café himself.

"Yes. It also closed an hour ago, June. Did you not see the sign outside?"

"Oh yeah, I did," June said. If he saw the flicker of irritation on Priam's face, he gave no implication that he noticed and continued, "And, uh, I was hoping you'd make me an exception...?" He then smiled sheepishly, and it took Priam all his self-control to not deck the fool.

Dear Gehenna, please give him patience. Strength is also preferable because he can use it to throttle this twink ass of a vampire.

"There are no exceptions, June," Priam patiently informed, laying out a cloth to cover the counter. Then he went out, took June by the shoulders, and started pushing him towards the door. "Come, take your order and be on your way. I'm closing the café."

June remained stubborn but didn't resist being pushed. "But I like it here!"

"So do I, but that's not enough reason to extend business hours. Off you go then." He pushed him more vehemently until they've reached the door. June now had a vice-grip on the doorframe and wouldn't budge. Priam decided to drop the pretense of civility to outright scowl at him. "Let go of the goddamn door, June. If you want some entertainment, just go to that bar you've been babbling about last week."

June's face soured. "I don't like it there. Most people there are flavored O plus, and you know I prefer the blood type AB."

Priam doesn't give a fuck what flavor their blood is. He just wanted to sleep.

"That's not my problem, is it. Please go already." He was now trying to pry away June's grip on the doorframe. Futile, obviously. He considered grabbing the nearby figurine and use it to bash June's hand. But his distaste for careless assault made him decide against it.

Treat customers kindly, he recited in his mind, which was immediately followed by a mental scoff. Yeah, right. During business hours, that is.

"But I don't have anyone to talk to at this time!" whined June. "Let me staaay!"

Why the hell are vampires strong? They're undead. It doesn't make sense. How can their grip be so strong? It was starting to tick Priam off.

"Go to that new strip club down the street then," Priam hissed in what he considered as polite but is actually not. "There are lots of people there to talk to. I hear the bartender Ollie is pleasant company. Surely you can entertain yourself there?"

"I've already met him and everyone there last week, and the music is too loud to chat. It's boring!"

That's it.

"I honestly do not care. Get out!"

"No, pl-"

Priam shoved June out with a surge of strained strength. The vampire stumbled out with his paper bag, and before he could spin around to react, Priam slammed the door to his face then flipped June off when he started banging loudly on the glass door.

It was when Priam closed the blinds of the café, snickering in triumph as he watched June dejectedly march to his expensive motorbike, that he realized how poorly he treated a customer.

He glanced at the clock-10:03 PM. An hour past closing time.

Screw it. He'll deal with it tomorrow. He's too exhausted to think. For now, sleep.

Priam was taking off his clothes in his bedroom when he noticed a letter tucked into his apron's pocket.

"Oh, so that's why he's stalling," he whispered to himself.

The letter was an old parchment paper sealed with wax. The symbol stamped was a cluster of poppies-the flower June mentioned as the McCoy family insignia.

He read it.

Dearest friend,

You are cordially invited to the celebration of June Fitchett Dorotheus McCoy VII's 201st birthday.

The party will be held on the 24th of November at the McCoy Estate located at the top of Mt. Closen.

Sincerely,
T̸h̸e̸ ̸M̸c̸C̸o̸y̸ ̸F̸a̸m̸i̸l̸y̸
June ;)

"How pretentious," Priam scoffed, though it held no bite in it. "All that fuss just because he wanted to give me a birthday party invitation?"

Priam was tempted to crumple the letter. In the end, the card was tossed in his bedroom drawer where a small portal leading to god-knows-where appears at random.

He never responded whether he'd be going or not.

The next morning was similar to other mornings in the café. Bland, insignificant, repetitive. The sun that rose screamed ceaselessly as always. Priam loved it, nonetheless. He always liked the morning rituals of opening The Pit.

Priam greeted the owner of the flower shop across the street as he swept outside before opening. He was pretty sure she'd wave back had she not lost an arm to her flowers.

There was a bee perched on top of the café's signboard. Priam smiled and went inside. He flipped the hanging signboard on the door from CLOSED, FUCK OFF to OPEN, WELCOME TO THE PIT!

"Good morning, Officer Joaquim," Priam greeted the last customer in line. The morning rush had died down and only a number of customers were left in the café. "Strange seeing you here. Late for work?"

The officer grinned sheepishly, scratching his bearded cheek. "Uh, yes, my colleague liked your ube cakes and asked me to swing by before clocking in at the station. And, morning to you too, Mr. Pan...jebab..."

Priam hummed, amused. "Close, but not quite. I'm looking forward to the day you'll successfully pronounce my surname, Officer."

"It's not like anyone here in town can actually pronounce it any better than I do," grumbled Officer Joaquim.

Priam chuckled at that, then proceeded to take the officer's order.

Many of the police officers that met Priam during the many incidents at the café had somehow taken an interest in his (and he quotes:) "incomprehensible surname". For reasons still unknown to him, the officers took joy in butchering the pronunciation, in an attempt of getting it correct, whenever they stop by the café or see him around town.

Rather than being annoyed, he found it amusing. His surname wasn't even that hard to pronounce.

He let the police be since it wasn't harmful in any way. Most of them just caved in and called him "Mr. Priam" in the end.

He was handing Officer Joaquim his order when the door swung open. He automatically turned to greet, his lips stretching into a tight smile.

"Hello! Welcome to-oh, June?" Priam narrowed his eyes as a disgruntled-looking June in pajamas entered, beelining towards the counter with a stumble. "What are you doing here? It's 10 AM. The sun is up, you're supposed to be asleep."

"I need coffee!" June slammed both hands on the counter, eyes bloodshot. None of the seated customers paid him any mind except for Officer Joaquim who flinched. "Screw my health! Put the maximum amount of espresso shots in it. I haven't hosted a party in six decades, how the fuck should I know that I can't just mass purchase blood from the blood bank?!"

Officer Joaquim looked confused but politely stayed silent as June raved on about his party preparations going sideways.

"Shouldn't you just tell them that you're a vampire who needs it for his 201st birthday party?" Priam asked, currently busy concocting the strongest coffee he could come up with.

"No, the last time I did that, they looked at me as if I was a lunatic. I'm offended. Do I not look vampire enough for them?" June threw his hands up, almost smacking Officer Joaquim standing awkwardly beside him. "What do I need to do, put on a cape, act like fucking Dracula, and scatter into bats? That's so old school and cringe as fuck."

"That sucks, man," Priam commented blankly, clearly not listening as he poured steamed milk on the mug. "Here's your coffee. Careful, it's strong."

June took the mug blearily. It was amusing how June, despite how knackered he is, had managed to make his voice merry as he said, "Oh god, thank you! You're heaven sent!"

Priam really isn't.

Especially when he watched as June drank the whole mug in one go, slam it on the counter, let out a choked gasp, and then pass out immediately. Officer Joaquim, with his fast reflexes, had managed to catch him before he bashed his head on the edge of the counter.

"W-What the hell just happened?!" Officer Joaquim yelled.

Some of the customers are now curiously glancing at them. Priam just waved at them with a smile, a gesture he hoped they took as something that meant that the situation is none of their business. Somehow, it worked and only Officer Joaquim was left panicking.

He slung June's arm over his shoulder to stabilize him, looking worried. June's figure was limp, his skin pale, which was his usual skin color, and his eyes peacefully closed. A stark contrast to Officer Joaquim's broad stature, tan arms, and eyes wide in panic.

"What happened to him?" the officer demanded once again. He had this hard, despotic look on his face.

"Couldn't handle the coffee, obviously," Priam said matter-of-factly. He grimaced when he spotted a deep crack on the mug June drank from, then tossed it to the bin. "He may be a vampire but coffee transcends beyond the realm of mortals and immortals alike. Also, the coffee beans I used were given by a witch I met at an auction. Pretty sure she put a spell on it, though I don't know what kind."

Officer Joaquim gaped, his brain trying, and failing, to comprehend what he just heard.

"That violates the health code," was what he managed to say.

"June will live. He's had worse." He better be alive, Priam doesn't say. He needs to pay for the cracked mug.

"Mr. Priam, I can't feel his pulse," Officer Joaquim said, once again panicking.

"He's a vampire; he doesn't have a pulse."

"What the fuck," spat the Officer, now looking at Priam as if he just sprouted another head. "I thought that was a joke?"

Priam suppressed a groan and ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Look, Officer, I don't joke during working hours. Now, could you please drag June away to one of the couches so he could lay down? It looks like he needed to rest anyway." He pointed to the vacant antique couch near the bookshelves, the one that customers gave a wide berth because it allegedly feeds on their lifespan.

Officer Joaquim eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. "Did you make him pass out on purpose?"

"No," Priam nearly hissed, slightly offended at the accusation. "He specifically ordered the strongest coffee, did you not hear? 'S'not my fault he couldn't handle it. Are you done with the questions? Please drag him away. I still have to make some follow-up orders."

Officer Joaquim grumbled under his breath but proceeded to drag the unconscious June towards the couch. Upon realizing that he'd already been half an hour late for work, he immediately grabbed his order, went out, and drove away in his car. He said something about the importance of health code before going away, though Priam hadn't been listening.

Priam didn't bother saying goodbye. He was busy juggling orders, smiling at the next surge of customers, and trying not to break down from it.

It was the usual day in The Pit.

When June woke up, the sun was already setting as it hummed a lullaby and there were few customers left. Priam gave him a blood bag that he randomly found inside the fridge, buried in several cans of Hell. His fridge somehow does that but he never really questioned it.

"It's on the house," he said when June handed him paige bills. "But the mug that you broke this morning is not. I'll take it," he added, plucking the money from pale hands.

"My tongue feels like it's been baptized with an ungodly amount of coffee beans," commented June, rummaging his pockets as he held the blood bag in his other hand. "God, where the fuck is my metal straw?"

Priam gave him an amused look. "You keep a straw with you?"

"Yep, you never know when you'd get hungry-aha! Here it is!" June pulled out a black, thin metal straw with a grin.

"Do you seriously just stab people with a straw to drink their blood?" Priam asked in disbelief.

"Well, yeah, if they consent. Also, I bite them first then the straw. Like an oversized injection needle," June informed. He was stabbing the blood bag, biting the tip of his tongue in concentration.

Priam blinked at the information. He shrugged then went back to the counter to organize some ingredients on the cabinet. June followed behind him, sitting down on the stool that was beside the counter.

"It's AB flavored!" June exclaimed happily, leaning his arms on the counter. "It's so good."

"Glad you liked it." Priam took out the bag of coffee beans from the boxes. He started filing it in the cabinets. Then he recalled the letter from last night. "Oh, and June?" he called.

June raised his head. "Hm?"

"I'm afraid I can't go to your birthday this November. I'll be out of town."

June's face fell. "Aw, man. My family wanted to meet you. They liked your cooking. Remember that dinuguan you gave me? Shit's wack." He gnawed at the straw and winced when he realized it was metal. His shoulders finally sagged as he said, "But well, it was worth a try."

Priam smiled as if to apologize. "Yeah. Sorry about that." He went back to organizing the cabinets.

June fell silent as he tapped his fingers to the counter, humming something. A group of students came in that Priam immediately entertained. June scooted to the side so they could line up and took a magazine to entertain himself. He ignored the glances they threw at the blood bag he was drinking.

The students left shortly after they ordered their food. Priam promptly went back to taking out ingredients from the boxes to arrange.

It was minutes later when June piped up. "Hey, who was that dude beside me this morning? That tan one in a police uniform?"

"Officer Joaquim?" Priam asked, confused.

"Ohhh, so his name's Joaquim." There was an off-putting smile on June's face. "Interesting."

Priam suddenly had a bad feeling.

"June, what are you thinking," he blurted, then saw an all-too-familiar look on the other's face. The one June uses when eyeing someone that struck his fancy. "Oh no, you've set your sights on him?"

June didn't even bother hiding his wide grin, displaying his fangs in full view. "Hey, I may be sleep-deprived but I know a hottie when I see one."

"Eugh."

"I mean, honestly, have you seen his biceps? He was hot!"

Priam turned back to organizing the tea leaves in the cabinets. "I want to hear none of this."

"Aw, c'mon! Help me get his number, please?" he says, making Priam fake a gagging sound. "It could be fate! Or love!"

"I'm aro-ace. Can't really relate."

June didn't seem to be listening. He giddily took out his phone and was already tapping away. "Do you think he has Instagram or Twitter? What's his full name? There are thousands of Joaquim's."

He's done. Priam is done. June is dead to him. "Nope. I hear nothing."

"Found him!" June announced.

Priam groaned and brought his hand to his face.

"His name is Charles Joaquim?" June said. "How fitting. Oh look, he has a three-year-old daughter. Awww, she's cute-ah, holy shit! Priam! Priam!"

"What," Priam's voiced was muffled in his hand.

"He's divorced."

"Dear Gehenna."

"He's a DILF!"

"Dear Gehenna."

Whatever words June said next fell to deaf ears as Priam quickly grabbed the headphones in the drawer, connected it to his phone, and blasted the loudest screamo he could search. When he couldn't hear June's voice from the booming music, he relaxed and went back to his work.

June left when his mother called him. Her voice was booming and vile, and she was demanding where he was when there was still so much to prepare for his birthday.

Priam realized later on that it was the first time that he had closed the café on time ever since June started coming.

Chapter Text

Despite being an atheist, Priam had the unfortunate opportunity of meeting few gods. Or at least, what was left of them. A majority of them had perished during that one global event he heard being broadcasted on the community radio. It was called Armageddon, but he was in the shower that time, so he's not really sure if he heard correctly.

The first god was a customer who had too long limbs, a senile smile, skin dark as obsidian, and manic eyes all over every exposed skin they have. They order a single black coffee every time they come to the café. And never drank it.

In the end, it was an angry archangel who made them stop coming. It may have involved an unsanitary use of café-owned utensils, deicide, and the wrath of two suns being combined as one. But those details are inconsequential, in Priam's opinion.

Only the stain of ichor seeping through the wooden table and floor remained. It took Priam four hours to wash off the stain.

The second god owned an arcade down the street. He never really went to The Pit that much, but he usually came when the weather was dreadful. Said he preferred it when there were fewer customers. His eyes held stars and galaxies and freckles on his skin connected glowing constellations. The foods he preferred ordering were s'mores and milk tea.

The third set of gods are...

Well, they've been regulars for as long as The Pit stands. In Priam's biased opinion, they're not really pleasant company.

"Hello, welcome to The Pit!" Priam greeted as the doors opened. However, upon seeing the two who entered, his smile dropped. "Oh, it's you two again."

"We promise we won't make a mess," the man called Fucker immediately blurted out, seeing that Priam was ready to throw the tip jar at him.

Priam fought the urge to roll his eyes. He put the jar down. "That's what you said when the kid shoved a spoon in your eye last Monday. I don't trust your words," he spat, unnerved. "Look, Mr. Fucker, it's none of my business if you two have issues but I've had enough of cleaning after your ashes every week."

"What 'kid'?" the man called Fucker sputtered. "You mean Sibyl? He's six centuries older than you! And what did you just call me?"

"Please don't change the subject, Mr. Fucker."

"My name isn't Fucker!" the man called Fucker throws his hands up in indignation. "It's Emmett!"

"Fine, whatever," Priam pinched his nose, yielding. "Mr. Emmett then."

"Fucker, I'll have a large parfait!" called the boy, Sibyl, from the two-seater table beside the window. His clothes are the same as always—a crimson school uniform—but the edges of his sleeves were burnt. "The largest one!"

Priam narrowed his eyes at the man called Fucker whose name was actually Emmett.

"It's a nickname he picked up in the streets," Emmett defended hastily. "He was raised in the streets before we met. He calls me that as an insult and it kinda stuck."

"I thought he's centuries ol—"

His reply was immediate. "Well, he's from the streets centuries from now, obviously. Nasty times, really. Don't ask."

Priam only narrowed his eyes at him once again but didn't question him any further. He sighed and massaged his forehead. "Okay, okay, fine," he says, more to himself than the person in front of him. "Fine. I'll take your order. Just don't make a mess, I beg of you."

Emmett looks relieved. "Oh, thank you. We're really, really hungry," he said as he gave his order. He also included what the boy said moments ago then attempted small talk. "The other shop's out of town freak out when they see us. I try to maintain our vessel as humane as possible but sometimes the image just bleeds out, you know?"

No, Priam does not know.

He nodded blankly, then recites back Emmett's order as confirmation. When there was nothing wrong with the order, he told Emmett to wait and gave him a waiting tag, which was a centipede preserved in a circular ember scratched with the number four.

"Your order will probably take around ten minutes to make. In the meantime, please try not to make a mess."

Emmett smiled. "You got it!"

Of course, Emmett still ended up getting slit on the throat with a bread knife. Some kind of squabble about who's the better Marvel superhero caused it. It seemed that whenever Sibyl felt pissed at Emmett, his immediate reaction is straight-up violence. Not that great of a habit, really. They needed therapy, this bit was obvious.

Priam didn't even have it in him to care anymore.

He took out the vacuum cleaner and proceeded to clean the blood that had turned to ashes. Emmett apologized nonstop when he healed back, but Priam only scoffed at him.

However, as both of them went on their way, they dropped a staggering amount of legitimate golden nuggets on the tip jar to the point of overflowing. Priam glared at their retreating backs.

He will forgive them, for now. But they're on thin fucking ice.

The next time Emmett and Sibyl came to The Pit, it was brief, thankfully. And there wasn't much bloodshed involved. (Yay? Nay.)

Upon their arrival, Emmett had yanked a certain customer, who was eating and reading at the side, by the collar and yelled "WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, ANTIGONE DUKE?!" with such volume that it thundered throughout the café. Sibyl also looked similarly angered as they both angrily dragged the kicking customer outside.

It was then that both of them started to glow golden, and with a burst of light, their forms changed. Priam blinked at the sudden brightness, momentarily blinded. When he regained his sight, Emmett had iridescent hair, far too sharp set of teeth curled in a snarl, and eyes with ever-changing colors at each blink. Sibyl, on the other hand, had golden hair and eyes that held swirling ichor. And he no longer looked like a boy.

It was ethereal and blessedly blinding.

No, really, it was literally blinding a customer who sat nearby the window. His eyes were melting but he didn't scream.

Oh, wait, hold on. Priam knew that customer. His name is Max and he's made of wax, apparently. He ordered really hot coffee once and melted his tongue in the process. A masochistic chap, really. He seemed to be enjoying the misery of having his eyes melted.

Well. At least Priam needn't worry about another hospital fee.

He turned back to the glowing figures of Emmett and Sibyl. Suddenly, they promptly blinked out of existence along with the customer before Priam could check if he wasn't really hallucinating.

The silence that stretched afterward was deafening.

Huh. Well, that was...

Priam shrugged and decided that work was more important. He turned to the woman next in line still staring outside, gobsmacked.

He snapped his fingers, cutting her off from the trance. "Hello, ma'am," he said, smiling gently, "what can I get for you?"

"U-Uhm, d-did you see what just happened?" she stammered, still in her shocked state.

"Hardly," he said. Who the hell could see in that blinding light? Clearly not him. "Do you have a café coupon to get 50% off on the pastries?"

"U-Uh, n-no?"

"Are you interested in getting one?"

Priam went on with the distraction tactic for as long as he could. It had been his tactic ever since he realized that not all of the customers who come to the café are acquainted to the unwonted ones. Priam couldn't blame them, but he had no time to deal with their freak-outs when he still had work to do.

It's not the best tactic there is, though it proved to be helpful in catching some of them off-guard.

He was handing a large cup of iced tea to a student, who was occupied playing a puzzle game on her phone when it suddenly boiled. Priam yelped, burnt, and immediately flung the cup to the floor as the liquid sizzled to thin air, leaving only the strong smell of burnt tea. The student didn't seem to notice, still immersed in her game.

Priam whipped his head angrily at the only culprit he could think of. "MAX!!!"

Max, whose eyes are still melted, didn't react. He sat stiffly on the spot, in the same masochistic grin he had when he was exposed to the blinding light. His mug of hot chocolate was boiling, and Priam realized that all of the drinks he served his customers were also boiling.

Oh shit, wai—

He whipped his head to the machines at the workstation holding any type of liquid and saw that they were also boiling profusely.

The remaining customers are now screaming in fear and scrambled to doors until only two customers were left. Max didn't move. The boiling continued. The student was still occupied with her phone; it was a miracle how she managed to ignore her surroundings.

Priam massaged his head, feeling a headache surfacing, then reached for the telephone on the counter. He slammed his fingers on each button, quickly dialing the City Museum's number. He tried to ignore the smell of every single burnt beverage wafting the air, making him nauseous.

It was a woman's voice who answered. Priam recognized her; she was Nadya, the museum's receptionist. "Hello, this is the City Mus—"

"Nadya, one of the museum employees is in my café! Please extract him right the fuck now! He's boiling all of my drinks dry!" Priam bellowed, all pretense of formality discarded. From the side, the student didn't as much flinch. "I just restocked the syrups and juices last week! God-fucking-dammit!"

"Oh crap," he heard Nadya exhale. There was a shuffle as muffled voices had a conversation on the other line.

"Nads, who dat?" asked a deep disembodied voice. "Dude sounds mad."

Nadya responded, "The owner of The Pit."

"Shit! What did our employees do now?" the disembodied voice sound panicked.

"It's Max. He's, uhm, boiling the drinks in The Pit... again."

"He—W̸͔̗̤̱̦̳̯̓̾̓̽̋̔̿̉͐͝H̸̛̬̽̌̓̇̽̓̅̊̈́͐̄͝͝A̷̧͍̦͖̤̼̹͈̟̪̦̩̮̅̆͐̈T̸̳̫̯̮̝̣̹̼͕̭͉͕͍̝̤͂̋͊͗̈́̅̎!"

Priam heard the sound of what seemed to be an unholy screech that came from the depths of hell itself before Nadya spoke again, her voice shaking. "U-Uhm, hello? Don't worry, Mr. Priam! W-We'll be sending out the crew to take Ma—"

A can of Mountain Dew from one of the tables exploded.

Priam belatedly yelled "Duck!" but it had already hit the oblivious student square in the head. She passed out cold on the floor. Cursing, he slammed the phone down, hopped over the counter, and gathered the unconscious student in his arms to shield her from what's about to come.

Priam eyed the coffee machine as it started rattling, the coffee visibly boiling within it. Several syrup bottles started exploding in succession. He barely managed to duck underneath a table when the shards flew, arms still cradling the student.

This continued for several minutes, and Priam's arms were getting sore. He hid underneath the table to avoid the shards, but one still managed to graze his cheek. He waited, the anger in him drying to acceptance.

Until the City Museum security staff and retrieval team finally arrived.

"Max! What the fuck, man!" shouted a cacophony of high-pitched voices. At the door stood three wooden nutcracker soldiers, human-sized, color-coded in primary colors, and unaffected by the glass shards hitting them.

Priam's dried out anger had boiled over once again, and, with the wrath of a café owner whose shop has been repeatedly subjected to property and spiritual damage, immediately snapped, "GET MAX OUT OF MY DAMNED CAFÉ BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND, FLAMETHROWER HIS ASS, AND REMOULD HIM TO BRITTLEASS CANDLESTICKS!!!"

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the three wooden soldiers said in unison, and immediately went to work.

Work, apparently, meant hauling the stiff Max out of the café and inside their truck parked outside as the two remaining wooden soldiers proceeded to douse-spell the café to keep the boiling down to a simmer until it thankfully went out altogether.

There was a nauseous smell of mixed beverages in the air. Priam went out of hiding, put the student to the couch unreached by the shards, and surveyed the mess.

"Fuck," he says, and terribly wished he'd get his hands on a time-turner to rewind the damages. But no, all he had was an unspoken multitude of profanity at the tip of his tongue and a full-fledged blooming headache.

"...We'll reimburse the damages," the blue soldier said once they finished clearing the boiling spell unleashed by Max. "We apologize for Max's misconduct. He's usually subdued when in public."

"You'd better," Priam huffed. His eyes trailed the syrup bottles and smoking machines behind the counter and grimaced. "Or else I'll sue your asses."

The blue wooden soldier creaked nervously, which probably meant it was agitated in wood language.

"We'll make sure to inform our boss and they'll pay you in no time! Nadya says hello, by the way!" the red soldier said, happily waving from the driver's seat, its joints creaking at every movement.

Priam made face. It stopped waving and faced the road.

From his peripherals, the yellow soldier was kindly sweeping the shards. Priam would've thanked it, but wisely stayed quiet as it opened its jaw and tossed the dustpan full of shards inside its mouth. The sound of glass being chewed followed.

At least their dousing cleaned out the stains and splashes of water. That's a plus.

The horrid kaleidoscope of scents was still there but it's nothing a good ol' humidifier can't fix. A really, really sentient, scent-devouring humidifier. Priam's not really sure if that's how humidifiers work but it got rid of the smell so he's not gonna start questioning it now.

Once the wooden soldiers were away, leaving a promise of reimbursing the damages and delivering it by the weekend, Priam closed the shop despite it being only five in the afternoon. The machines were melted from the inside and the syrup bottle and ingredients are out of commission, so he couldn't really make a decent drink even if he wanted to. Not to mention his favorite ice cream machine was also broken.

All that's left was the student, who was comfortably curled on the couch.

From the ID on her lanyard, Priam found out that her name was Io Sengoku — a part-time instructor at the local university and on her way to getting a master's degree in parapsychology. There was a number of her guardian at the back of the ID but no one answered when he called.

He hefted the unconscious student over his shoulder and marched to the back of the kitchen, where a portal to the nearest community hospital was conveniently located in the walk-in freezer.

Good news: the student was safe and away from harm. A minor concussion, maybe, but nothing too life-threatening. Priam paid for the hospital bill and fled when a nurse questioned why the student was unconscious in the first place.

Bad news: there wasn't a portal leading back to the café so he had to walk. It was a thirty-minute walk, and by the time he arrived, two police cars were parked outside the café.

Officer Joaquim was there along with his partner and two officers. They wasted no time in bombarding him with questions the moment they see Priam walking down the street. It seemed that some customers called the police because of the boiling incident.

Sweet Gehenna. He really just wanted this day to end.

Chapter Text

So far, the most unusual payment Priam had received was the exact time and date of his death. If you ruled out the bag of human teeth, the jar of Leonardo da Vinci's allegedly preserved heart, a fancy box of screaming chocolates, and the hourglass containing the ashes of an ancient demon, that is.

It seemed unusual enough that the date given was December 13, 1997—the day Priam was born. But he chose not to dwell on it too much because the payment was given during rush hour. He was much too occupied with entertaining a hoard of customers so it was immediately forgotten as soon as it was given.

"You're not alive, are you?" asked an orange tabby cat. It was perched on the windowsill and seemed to have entered the café along with one of the customers.

"Are we truly even alive?" Priam shot back as he haphazardly maneuvered a tray of drinks to their respective owners. He ignored the looks thrown his way; curious eyes that questioned why he was suddenly talking to himself. "Are any of us significant in this vast universe? We are not even comparable to a single grain of sand on a beach of how large everything is. Centuries later, we will be forgotten just like dynasties and empires that have fallen. We will be at the mercy of time and the memories people hold of us. Memories that will soon fade because people die and with it the memories of us. We are nothing but flotsam in the river of life."

One family enjoying breakfast was unfortunately within hearing range, and collectively mouthed a "What the fuck?" in his direction.

They were ignored.

Priam's words had effectively silenced the cat, though it still regarded him with undisguised suspicion. A girl wearing a crimson school uniform swept it away after she ordered a takeout. Priam waved the cat goodbye.

He sighed and went back to shoving ice shavings into a plastic cup.

A question about his mortality and existence was not a conversation Priam wanted to have so early in the morning. Most especially from a cat. He has orders to make and customers to entertain.

He was also utterly tired. Bone-deep tired.

Downing two cans of Hell first thing in the morning did little to help the headache that he woke up with. Maybe he should have drunk medicine but knew it would do no good. Medicine usually makes his insides melt, specifically the ones given by the witch from the auction. It's an inconvenience when your insides are out in the open as you work, not to mention unsanitary.

It was around 9 AM when the rush of customers died down. Priam was occupied in making drinks for the three people left in line: Fink, who just finished her early morning jog; a loud man who chatted with her one-sidedly; and Sol, whose red hair stood out as he leaned on the counter, absentmindedly drumming his fingers.

Priam held up a drink, squinting at the name he wrote on the cup. "Here's a smoothie for—"

"Oh, that's mine, thank you!" the loud man interrupted and took the cup.

"Wait, that's not for—" Priam trailed, but the man had already sipped from the straw before he could finish his words, "—you... Uh, well... I hope you like fingers in your smoothie, sir."

And that's when the man froze mid-sip, blanched, stared at the smoothie in horror, then proceeded to chuck it to the ground. He began retching once he saw severed fingers poking out the smoothie's spilled contents.

"You drank my smoothie...?" was Sol's weak statement. His lips trembled as sickly, yellow pus started streaming down his eyes; presumably tears. He made the mistake of rubbing his eye too hard and it popped out, dangling by a red vein. "Oops, sorry!"

The man screamed in terror, and scrambled back.

"Hey, quit it! You're so noisy!" Fink scolded, hissing, the snakes on her head also doing so.

The man blinked at her, then his eyes widened, and he froze.

You see, humans usually can't comprehend oddities and the sheer bizarreness of other entities. For example, on their jog they see a woman with snakes for hair and their mind decides nope, haha, you didn't see anything, and bam, they just see a normal-haired person leisurely jogging instead. But there are instances where their minds are forced, eyelids forcibly stretched out in a metaphorical sense, making them see and comprehend the very thing their mind stubbornly rejected.

Three things happen in succession: fear, panic, then lastly, flee.

And that's what the loud man did.

"What's up with him? Never seen a finger in his smoothie before?" Priam asked, watching as the man attempted to not-so desperately run away, knocking his hip on tables in the process, before barreling towards the door. "Also, he forgot his strawberry smoothie," he added, then shrugged. "Oh well, less work for me, I guess."

"Hah, look at the sucker go!" laughed Fink, schadenfreude laced in her voice. Her snakes seemed to have thought similarly as they flicked their tongues in mockery.

Priam glanced at her. "You okay there, Fink?"

"Hell yeah." She smiled at him, relieved. "Thanks, by the way. That git was following me during the whole jog this morning. He keeps insisting that he buy me shit and go on a date. Like, I told him several times that I have a wife but it didn't get through his dumb head. I wanted to turn him to stone but decided that he wasn't worth it."

Priam nodded, unsure. "Huh, I didn't really do anything. He's the one who grabbed the wrong drink then suddenly ran away." He paused, remembering that fallen smoothie, then faced Sol. "Mr. Wallace, about the ing—"

"He drank my smoothie!" Sol wailed, interrupting Priam's words. He gazed morosely at the blood-red smoothie spilled on the floor. "He drank my smoothie and had the gall to spill it!"

Fink patted his back, her snakes poking his cheek in apology. "There, there, Sol. I'll, uhm, buy you another one."

"That was a custom order. I was the one who brought the ingredients here and had it made," cried Sol, popping back his dangling eye. "Do you know how hard it was to get a finger from a fresh corpse? I trespassed a private cemetery for that finger!"

"Never confess your crime in front of me ever again, Sol."

"You'll be surprised how many blackmail materials my customers confess on a daily basis," Priam mused, now distracted.

"They must really fear you then."

He barked out a laugh. "I highly doubt that."

"Yes, we do fear him," Sol, the traitor, said as he wiped the dripping pus from his eyes. "He's a force to be reckoned with."

"You speak lies."

Fink snorted. "Everyone is pretty much aware of how you managed to chew out the olden ones of the mermaid and siren clan."

"In court," Priam pointed out.

"Yes, but still, you're one scary dude."

Priam rolled his eyes and got back to working on Fink and Sol's orders. Sol had decided to order a mixed smoothie as a substitute for his fallen drink. It will be sorely missed. "They almost destroyed the whole shop during their altercations. I had to change tiles and furniture multiple times because of the damage. Not to mention the trauma it caused to some customers. I had to pay for eight hospital bills and therapy."

"Oof." Fink winced, her snakes snapping back as if flinching. "No wonder you were mad. Therapy ain't cheap."

"Didn't you chase out that one bearded werewolf with pepper spray once?" Sol suddenly changed the subject. All forlorn he felt towards his spilled smoothie forgotten, his expression was now amused. "I was having dinner here when it happened. It was an interesting thing to witness."

"He went bonkers because it was a full moon. Werewolves, remember? And the pepper spray was rigged with sleeping potion," Priam informed, trying to recall the person of the topic. "But he's a great guy, actually. He's a marine biologist and manned a submarine. He spends most of his life cooped up in the submarine because he just wants to run away from the moon."

"Oof." Fink scrunched her face. "Poor sod."

Sol nodded in agreement.

"Yeah. But he's cool. Unlike some werewolves—" Priam then turned to glare behind them. Fink and Sol looked at where he was glaring and saw a woman in a black leather jacket, a tank top, and faded ripped jeans enter the café. Holding a blood-stained metal baseball bat menacingly. And she looked...

"She looks like shit," Sol blurted, which earned him a smack from Fink.

"What are you doing here?" Priam demanded sternly, voice booming. "You are banned from The Pit, Charlemagne !"

Without warning, the woman charged at them with a feral growl, arms morphing to furred claws, startling the three chatting patrons by the counter.

"Woah, what the f—?!" Sol exclaimed. From panic, his left ear fell and he wails, "My ear!"

Fink startled, side-stepping as the woman's bat swung in her path. Her snakes hissed wildly as they snapped in the woman's direction. "Hey, hey! What—"

The woman jumped at the counter, lunging towards Priam. There were alarmed yells from Fink and Sol. Before she could bring down her bat, a loud bang echoed and she crumpled, falling unconscious to the floor.

"Sweet Gehenna, I hate werewolves," says Priam tiredly. He now held a tranquilizer and seemed to have shot the woman point-blank on the forehead. "I hate this one specifically."

"What the heck?" Sol demanded as he connected back his fallen ear.

"Excuse my damn French but," Fink starts, clearly not in French, "what in the flying fuck just happened?"

Priam wiped his face with a hand, exhausted despite the day being only half-past nine in the morning. He has a sinking feeling that being exhausted was his default state now. "Someone thought they're in the revenge arc of their life story and decided to assault me for their sins."

Sol was confused. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Elaborate 'their sins' for us mere customers," Fink quipped.

At this, Priam pointed to the curtains covering the large wall at the café's side, the one with the still-defiled mural painting. He never did get to find an artist that could patch up the mural painting at a reasonable price. "That sin."

"She's the one who clawed the mural painting?" Fink realized.

Priam nodded. "Mm-hm."

"The one that's hella expensive?" Sol asked.

"' Hella expensive ' doesn't cover how expensive it really was," Priam said. He then crouched and hefted the unconscious werewolf over his shoulder with a grunt. "The payment was my whole right arm."

"Your arm?!" Sol exclaimed, then he squinted at Priam's (clearly visible) right arm. "But you still have it though."

"Who says it's my arm?"

"Woah, woah, okay," Fink interrupted, waving her arms as the snakes also swayed along with the movement. "Firstly, Priam, that's some creepy shit you've just said. Please refrain from saying anything like that in my presence ever again. Secondly, why are you carrying her?"

"I'm dumping her in the alley," Priam answers immediately.

"What." Fink frowned. Surely she must've misheard an—nope, she heard it right. Priam's face was dead serious. She had seen that look on his face too many times to know that he genuinely meant it. " Why? "

Priam raised a brow. "Because I want to."

Fink, ever the sane one despite her messy locks of venomous hair, shook her head in retaliation. "What! No, Priam, you can't do that!"

Priam seemed to have taken her words as a challenge. "Yes, I can. I will. Gladly, even."

"Look, she has bruises all over her face! She's hurt and—"

"She attempted to assault me, Fink," Priam cuts off. "This woman was banned but still had the audacity to come here and attack me. Throwing her in the alley is mercy compared to what other establishment owners would've done. For instance, Hana would've fed her to the rafflesia she keeps in her flower shop basement."

"Hana's flowers are mean," Sol comments from the side.

"Yes, Sol, we know," Fink says. She turned back to Priam. "I was just saying that she clearly needs medical attention, so pl—"

"Hey, isn't this the eldest daughter of the Silver Moon pack's alpha?" Sol interrupts once again, curiously leaning towards the woman's face. Fink sighs, irked at the disturbance, and Priam offers her a pitying look of solidarity. "You know, from the pack two towns from here?"

Priam merely glanced at the woman he was carrying like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. "Huh, yeah, she is," he says flatly. "But that's unimportant. I'm still dumping her in the alley." He made a move towards the door.

"Nope," Fink grabbed his arm. "Put her down. I'll call a doctor to see her condition."

Priam narrowed his eyes at her as the snakes of Fink's hair started hissing in hostility.

"No. Dump now, doctor later."

"Are you seriously like this just because she clawed your murals?" she said, exasperated at Priam's stubbornness. He could relate, but that doesn't mean he'd budge. "Didn't she already pay for the damages?"

"Don't forget the attempted assault that happened just minutes ago," Priam informed sharply. "And no, her parents were the ones who paid for the damages once I filed a complaint to the police. She may have been driving a fancy car but she's months away from being legal."

"All the more reason to not dump her in the alley, yes?"

"What's being a minor got to do with it?"

"Oh for Medusa's sake!"

In the end, both of them compromised and had thrown the unconscious werewolf on the couch beside the shelves (whether it was a normal couch or the one that allegedly feeds on lifespan, no one knows). She was shoved into a straightjacket that Priam managed to unearth from the storage, much to Fink's dismay.

"I don't trust her enough to not go batshit crazy within my property," Priam reasoned, which, okay yeah, fair . Judging from what happened minutes ago, Fink sees the point.

She'd figured it was better than throwing the poor pup in the alley so she kept her mouth shut as she phoned for her personal doctor to come quickly.

Sol watched all of this unfold with morbid interest. He didn't bother reminding Fink that they were already thirty minutes late for work at the dance studio. Forget the dance routines, this was premium-quality entertainment right here and there was no way he'd pass the opportunity to witness it.

Also, he really enjoyed the café smoothies.

"So, uhm," Sol starts when it was clear that neither of them was going to talk, "why exactly are you dead set on hauling her out of here, Mr. Priam? Look, I know you have no tolerance for destruction of your own property but—"

"It's Briar who painted it. He painted the murals. And she," Priam tilted his head at the unconscious werewolf, "clawed it because of a tantrum."

Immediately, Fink and Sol's faces paled at the mention of Briar Montgomery. Memories flitted through their minds; mostly ones that involved severed limbs demanded as payment, maniacal laughter, and the nauseous stench of paint that followed his godforsaken path. They've had their fair share of experiences with the infamous artist and would like no repeat of such happenings, thank you very much.

"Doctor's a few blocks away," Fink announced, and the conversation ends there.

No one brought up Briar Montgomery.

As soon as the doctor arrived, Priam went back to the counter to serve the customers coming in for lunch. That left Fink and Sol to accompany the doctor checking over the werewolf's wounds.

"So you're telling me that she got these bruises because she's exiled from her pack?" Fink hissed angrily.

"Yes," said the doctor, pulling off his stethoscope.

"They beat up a minor?"

A pause, then reluctantly, the doctor says, "Yes."

"What the fuck is wrong with their pack?"

"Many things," said the doctor, now moving to pack up his kit. "It's none of the town's business, though. They don't know how to handle that pack."

Fink throws her hands up. "That's it! I'm taking this pup home with me!"

Sol looked up from his phone. "Fink, Nadya hates children."

"This pup is seventeen, Sol."

"Children, for Nadya, are species who haven't even reached half a century. This werewolf here," Sol pointed the unconscious werewolf wrapped in a straightjacket, "hasn't even reached two decades yet."

Fink groaned. "We'll work it out somehow," she said. Turning towards the busy Priam at the counter, she cups her hands and calls, "Mr. Priam! Thanks for lending your couch! I'll be taking the pup to my house since it doesn't look like she has anywhere to stay."

Priam sighed aloud. "Whatever. It's none of my business," he says, skillfully setting down one order after another as he distributed it to the customers in line. "Just remind her that she's banned in The Pit and not allowed to set foot here or else I'll inject a bullet into her brain."

Fink grinned and gave him a thumbs-up before carrying the werewolf in a straightjacket over her shoulder. The door shut behind her with the chimes ringing as Sol followed suit.

"Be sure to tell Nadya that you've got another stray," reminded Sol's fading voice.

"My wife would love this pup!" was Fink's exclamation before they disappeared from the window's view.

Priam finally turned to the next customer in line with a smile. "Hi, welcome to The Pit! What can I get you?"

Recording #20561005

Property of The Mortimer Institute

A brief conversation between Priam [Redacted] and Officer Charles Joaquim regarding the first young master of the McCoy Family.

Acquired by Austin Deneb, Researcher.

[CLICK.]

[Birds and the wind rustling trees could be heard. There was also the occasional chatter of people in the background.]

[Footsteps could be heard approaching, gradually getting louder and louder.]

PRIAM

Oh, hello, Officer Joaquim.

OFFICER JOAQUIM

(Softly) Hi, Mr. Priam, uhm, I just want to talk to you about your friend.

PRIAM

Friend? Who?

OFFICER JOAQUIM

Yeah. The vampire one. The one that passed out last week, remember?

PRIAM

(Quietly ) Oh, you mean June? Go on.

JOAQUIM

Uh, I met him here at the park around sunset last Monday, and uh, (inhale) is he dangerous? Will he drink my daughter's blood? Should I be worried?

PRIAM

Woah, woah, okay. (laughs)

[A slight rustle could be heard.]

Anyway, firstly, June isn't dangerous unless provoked. And by provoked, I mean don't talk shit about his interests. Second, is your daughter's blood type AB?

OFFICER JOAQUIM

(Confused) No. My daughter is O positive.

PRIAM

Oh, well then. You're safe. He dislikes that blood type.

OFFICER JOAQUIM

(A pause) ...Why do I feel insulted.

PRIAM

You shouldn't be. (Chuckles softly) June's just a picky eater, that's all.

OFFICER JOAQUIM

Right. Thank you, Mr. Priam.

PRIAM

Anytime, Officer. Bye.

[Footsteps getting farther and farther.]

[Silence. Birds are still chirping. There's chatter in the background.]

PRIAM

(sighs) ...You know, it's not polite to eavesdrop and record people's conversations.

[A sharp intake of breath. There's a panicked rustling, a soft thud, then a new voice yelped. Another thud, then a groan.]

PRIAM

(sighs, exhaustedly this time) Hello, Mr. Deneb, were you hiding behind the tree this whole time? (sternly) Come on, get up. The ground is dirty. Sit beside me.

AUSTIN

(whispers) Oh—

[The rest of his words were static.]

[A rustle and a wooden creak; presumably Austin sitting down beside Priam.]

PRIAM

I'll give you one minute to give me a reason to not call the police on you and charge you for stalking. Start now.

[A faint rush of static getting louder. Louder, louder, and louder. Drowning out Austin's response.]

PRIAM

Huh, I see. Well, I'm still filing a complaint at the institute's HR and I'll sue your goddamn boss for letting you do this kind of work. (sigh) This isn't researching, Mr. Deneb. This could get you arrested.

[The static is wobbly now. But still enough to drown out Austin's words.]

PRIAM

Good. I'll be off then. I only took a day off today because the café's still in renovation. It'll open back tomorrow.

Oh right—

[A rustle of fabric, and Priam huffs.]

PRIAM [CONT'D]

Here are some coupons. I know you love frappes. You can use them once you swing by the café.

[Static once again.]

PRIAM

Say no and I'll tell the police what you did.

[Silence.]

PRIAM

Good. Goodbye, Mr. Deneb. I hope to see you at The Pit. Oh and, (mirthfully) tell your sister that there won't be mermaids coming for a week so she can also swing by.

[Receding footsteps could be heard.]

AUSTIN

(groans) ...What the fuck just happened?

[CLICK.]

This recording has been deemed unimportant to our institute's research and is, therefore, to be discarded.

Jean

Head of the Research Department

Chapter Text

Priam never really bothered getting to know most of his customers at first, aside from their appearances and his first impressions of them. (Except for June. Dear Gehenna, that twink is insufferable enough to the point of being unforgettable.) He more or less knew the customers who frequent the café on a daily basis, those who stir up trouble, and those who are tame.

June obviously stood out the most. He's the only obnoxious one to swing by the café at an ungodly hour and have the gall to demand food. Though he's mostly an annoyance rather than a troublemaker. His orders are usually lattes or coffees paired with simple pastry. Priam may not say it, but out of all customers he'd met, June was the one he knew most. Not willingly, no. In fact, it was because he'd tell Priam many things about himself despite not being asked.

An elderly couple had once asked Priam who June was for him, and his response: “He's like the brother—"

"—you never had?" came June's interjection. "Aw, thank you, Priam. My heart is flattered."

"—I never asked for," he finished. Priam rolled his eyes at June's pouting face. He stared at the vampire, eyes blank, soulless, cold, as he repeated, "Like a brother I never asked for."

Anyway, Priam had no choice but to listen to June info-dumping about himself from time to time. And with listening comes knowing.

Sibyl and Emmett are a close second. They're regulars and stop by the shop many times a week. They also mutilate each other at every opportunity. Priam was quite sure that their ashes alone had filled up a whole bin by now. For retired gods who once had a hand in saving the world, they were a rambunctious pair. They'd already scourged the whole menu for Priam to tell what their preferred food was, though Sibyl usually paired smoothies with everything.

Fink comes in third, of course. She swings by thrice a week during her morning jogs. They usually only exchange pleasantries. But if she's not running late for her dance class, she'd sometimes talk fondly of her wife, Nadya, who works at the local museum, and their cat named Heracles.

Then there were the mermaids and sirens who are pleasant only if they are not on each other's radar. The ones who distinctively stood out among the sirens were Audrey Swain, who had given Priam her business card randomly, and her brother named Austin Deneb. Thankfully, Audrey Swain had recently stopped paying in pearls and was now using paiges.

Austin Deneb was a regular long before Priam even knew his name. He's always this one man wearing slacks that seemed too short for him, showing his mismatched patterned socks. Priam was mortally offended by the socks at first but got over it as time passed by. Austin, despite his poor taste in socks, was a pleasant and soft-spoken customer who sometimes does his work in the café. Though he always prefers his drinks with a concerning amount of whipped cream, be it water, frappe, or sodas.

One interaction with Austin that stood out most was when he stayed at the café for a whole day, his table full of paperwork and typing away on a laptop. He had apologized to Priam beforehand and informed him that he'd be working at the café for the day. Priam didn't mind but still asked why, mostly out of curiosity.

"I'm on the run for murder," Austin admitted casually, squinting at his laptop. Briefly glancing at the screen made Priam's head hurt. There were stickers surrounding the laptop—sigils similar to the clothes he'd seen on sirens. Must've been for protection, then. "But I didn't do it. I was framed by a coworker who's quite skilled at hiding evidence."

Priam doesn't have time or the mental capacity to unpack all that, so he decisively ignored it. "Right. Does Ms. Swain know about this?"

"No." There was a beat, then the siren admitted, "Yes."

Priam nodded. "Good. Whatever is happening in your life is none of my business, but it's good to hear someone knows your side of the story." He glanced outside when a police car blaring its siren passed by, heading downtown. "Question: why are you here instead of being on the run? The café isn't exactly a good hiding place, Mr. Deneb."

"No. I... I, uhm, there's a book here that changes my appearance." Austin waved a paperback book with a blank dented cover. "It'll probably be effective for a while."

Priam studied Austin's appearance. He didn't look any different. Still the same academic-looking researcher as always. Wavy auburn hair is similar to his sister's, pointed ears, and a sharp yet placid smile. "Huh. You don't look any different, though."

"That's because the books don't deceive their owners."

"Makes sense." Priam shrugged then glanced at the wall clock. "I'll go back to work now. Best of luck, Mr. Deneb."

Priam hadn't heard of Austin Deneb for a week afterward. Then one morning, Audrey Swain bursts into the café door, arms circled on her brother, who looked flustered and three seconds close to burying himself alive, then loudly declared, "Guess whose brother got exonerated of murder, bitches! This calls for a celebration!"

And the rest was history.

The mermaids, on the other hand, sometimes, if not always, came into the café soaking wet. Sometimes they come in completely nude with only their long hair covering the extremities since clothes weren't really the norm in the ocean. It wasn't distracting for Priam in any way. He knew oddities were part of working in customer service.

Speaking of oddities, though; what baffled Priam was that all the mermaids he met were named Fish. But in different languages. He once asked a particularly stout, yellow-eyed mermaid for her name so he could write it on her cup. She said her name was Yu, which she said is Chinese for fish. Another gave him the garbled word "fish" in Yiddish.

It was comical in a weird sort of way. But he's not a mermaid and knew none of their cultures, so who was he to judge? Maybe they were just fucking with him, who knows.

Then there was Sol Wallace, who was a ghoul and co-owns the famous dance and yoga studio in town with Audrey Swain. He was red-haired and kept dislodging his body parts whenever startled. Custom orders are his usual requests as he provides some of the main ingredients. His usual orders were smoothies of fresh human fingers that he'd procured from somewhere Priam is not keen on ever knowing.

Next was Officer Joaquim, who either came to order pastries for his co-workers at the police station or to survey yet another incident at the café. There's no in-between. Priam felt that the officer was already questioning why so much chaos occurs in the café, and honestly, he doesn't even know why himself.

Then there was Briar Montgomery, perpetually 29, reluctant time-traveler, and well-known artist during the 19th century. Also known as the one who originally painted the mural on The Pit and had the audacity to demand Priam's right arm as payment.

When asked why he wanted Priam's arm rather than money, he only replied "It looks neat," and ran away snickering when Priam brandished a longsword at him one-handed.

And on one fine day, two years after that debacle, he's back and had managed to bring a demon with him.

Priam lost how many shots he had pumped into his coffee that day. He finally thought fuck it and swigged the drink raw, ignoring the burning feeling in his throat. He was never a fan of coffee, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Alright," he started, wiping the coffee off his lips and turning to the two customers, not even bothering to plaster on his usual customer service smile, "what can I get you two?"

"The blood of the adversary," the demon said quickly.

Priam doesn't bat an eye. "That's not on the menu. Kindly please choose another one." He turned to Briar who was squinting at the menu. "Montgomery, your order?"

Briar tried to greet him back, only to wince when he felt his tongue burn as the words died before they were uttered. "Damn, do the faes still have your surname in possession? I thought you'd retrieve it by now."

"What." What the fuck does that even mean?

"Oh. Oh shit, wrong timeline. Ignore what I just said, please."

"Whatever. Are you gonna order? I don't have all day."

Briar ordered waffle pancakes with an ice cream scoop, saying how much he missed it since he'd been trapped in a post-apocalypse era where cafés were scarce. His companion insisted on getting something that involved cadavers and souls, which Priam exhaustedly explained that they don't have.

In the end, the demon got a chocolate chip ice cream at Briar's vehement coaxing. The demon seemed to like it and gave Priam a tattoo sticker of a summoning circle, saying, "If you ever need serious help, just summon me using that."

Apparently, " serious help " meant life-threatening situations that involved the demon saving Priam from peril and not hauling a full truck's worth of food supplies inside the café. The demon, who had introduced themselves as Humor during the summoning, grumbled all throughout the ordeal but still helped in setting the new supplies (courtesy of the City Museum) inside the café.

Priam's thoughts were cut off as he felt cold metal pressed on his forehead. He blinked.

"Hand over all your money!" yelled a man with a poorly covered head. He looks like one of those cliché bank robbers from the movies.

Great. A robber. How wonderful.

"Shouldn't you be robbing big-time businesses rather than local shops?" Priam drawled, still bored. "Shit, man, have mercy on small business owners like me. Fuck capitalism, yeah?"

In response, the robber released a shot and the bullet grazed Priam's cheek. He didn't comment on how the robber was shaking compared to him, the one who was being threatened.

"I-I s-said empty the register and give me all your money!!!"

"Hey," Priam tried again, hungry for a good chat to stave off boredom. "Do you think crabs see fishes as flying?"

The robber responded with more deranged yelling. Then he shot Priam's right arm, which, instead of bleeding, cracked and showed hollowed-out darkness as the bullet dug into it. There was a loud clank, the tell-tale sign of the bullet going inside.

Priam merely blinked. "Ow, okay. That was rude."

"What the fuck? W-What the hell are you?!"

"The owner of The Pit."

"Bullshit! Give me your money now or this next bullet goes into your brain!"

Dear Gehenna, the volume of his voice is headache-inducing.

Priam sighed, already bored of the interaction, so he opened the cash register, took a handful of money, and threw it at the robber's face, who yelped and stepped back. Some of the bills shuddered mid-air and started folding in on themselves as they quickly morphed into miniature butterflies, while the others poofed into colorful confetti.

"They're counterfeit," Priam realized, watching as the bills-turned-butterflies fluttered harmlessly around the stunned robber. "I shouldn't have accepted that magician's payment."

"Wh—"

Taking advantage of the stunned robber, Priam quickly pulls out a gun from his apron's pocket and shoots. The robber froze, then toppled soundlessly, a dart sticking out his neck.

"Don't worry. It's a tranquilizer," he reassured.

"Fuck you," was the robber's muffled response.

"Disgusting. I politely decline." Priam shot the robber once again, this time knocking him out for good.

Afterward, he phoned the police station and told them what happened. Officer Joaquim arrived minutes later, sighed exasperatedly at the sight of the body, slapped cuffs on the unconscious robber, and hauled him to the police car.

"Are you injured?" the officer asked.

"Yes." Priam raised his right arm, a webbed crack lining from the hollow hole caused by the bullet. Strangely enough, it wasn't bleeding. There was only the clanking sound of the bullet inside as he moved his arm.

Despite the lack of blood on the wound, Officer Joaquim says, "...You should probably get that checked at the hospital. How about I'll take you there while on the way to the station?"

"Nah, I'll just call someone to fix it, probably," Priam waved a dismissive hand. "Thanks for the offer though."

Officer Joaquim felt sick at how nonchalant Priam acted but managed to strangle a soft "Right, okay. Good day, Mr. Priam," before he left with the robber.

Priam turned back to the counter and immediately slammed his fingers on the telephone, dialing a number.

"Hello, is this the Travelling Circus?" he immediately greeted the moment the call connected and, without waiting for a reply, continued, "I'd like to talk to the one in charge and file a complaint. You see, one of your magicians paid me using counterfeit money. I'd like proper payment or else I'll take this up to the police station. You really wouldn't want that, do you?"

It's quite difficult to sue the Travelling Circus since they come and go faster than one could blink, but not impossible. The only reason Priam had them on speed dial was because of blackmail and a jar full of preserved eyeballs. No, he won't elaborate.

Rumor also has it that the circus master was a sentient body of silver fog in a fancy trench coat. And as unreliable as rumors were, Priam knew that it was the truth.

After all, the circus master was the one who gave him a very sturdy beekeeping suit.

The phone call ended in a civil manner, and he was paid accordingly without much of a fuss. Priam went back to work satisfied that no money was lost. He failed to tend the wound on his arm, which he had honestly forgotten because he's a responsible being to anything but himself and had to be personally dragged to the couch by Fucker ( Emmett, his mind corrects), who panicked the moment he stepped in the café and saw Priam's wound.

So, now he's on a couch with two of his most-despised regular customers hovering over him like worried parents.

He glared at the boy who flipped the shop's sign to CLOSED, FUCK OFF, and sealed the window curtains shut with a flick of a hand. "You are not authorized to close the shop as you please," he said.

Sibyl raised a brow at him. "And you are in no condition to work."

"Mr. Priam, what happened to your arm?" asked a fumbling Emmett as he examined Priam's arm. He sat beside Priam on the couch while Sibyl stood by the shelves, sipping his drink.

"Got shot."

Emmett looks constipated. "And why are you still working if you got shot?"

"I can still work."

"It's cracking the more you move," Sibyl points out, loudly sipping his juice box that somehow comes off as mildly threatening. "You'd have broken it to pieces by the end of the day."

Priam grumbled, "It wasn't that bad."

As if to prove a point, Emmett gently poked his arm and it crumbled even more. Three of them stared as the hollowed void on his arm widened like an eggshell. Sibyl stared at Priam, and the shop owner wisely avoided eye contact.

Finally, as if pulling teeth, Priam conceded that he might've been slightly negligent of his own well-being in favor of work. He let Emmett check his arm to appease the panicking god and avoid death by Sibyl's stare alone.

"Right, right, let me look." Emmett lifts Priam's arm. "Huh, well, the good news is that it's nothing severe. Jus' let me remove the bullet and then heal your, uh, arm? Is this an arm though? Seriously, it's hollow and has no flesh so it's as fragile as porcelain. Not that human flesh isn't fragile but—"

Sibyl clicks his tongue. "Fucker. Get to the point. Now."

Emmett continues, looking sheepish. "Right. I'll get on with it," he says, then looks at Priam. "Uh, you might want to close your eyes. Divine light can melt your eyes off."

Priam closes his eyes immediately, no questions asked. "Lay it on me, boys."

"Was that a meme?" Sibyl squawks and was followed soon by the sound of choked wheezes. Hah, he deserves it.

There was a tingly feeling on his arm followed by the faint smell of vanilla. He hears Emmett muttering something but wasn't too keen on losing his auditory privileges for listening to divine chanting so he mentally replays the song I Want It That Way that had managed to earworm itself in his brain for the past three weeks. Weeks ago, Priam made a mistake of asking June for any show suggestions because the vampire had immediately gone on a full-blown lecture using his ungodly list of shows, complete with a surprisingly well-made 100-paged PowerPoint presentation, all while sobbing hysterically on how killing off villain characters is a bad redemption tactic. June was mid-rant when Priam turned off the video call and asked Officer Joaquim instead, who suggested Brooklyn 99 at the speed of light.

So now he has the song I Want It That Way by Backstreet Boys playing on his head rent-free.

It's a nice song.

"By the way," he hears Sibyl say, and Priam knows that tone. It's the tone of making small talk that he dreads daily but can't do anything about since he's working in customer service. "Are you bringing back your sweet honey cakes on the menu? Those were my favorite desserts."

Oh thank Gehenna, Priam mentally sighs, it's café-related talk.

"No, sadly. The shop's sole honey supplier is currently indisposed," he answers.

"Who's the supplier?"

"Sennett Wood. He owns a farm and apiary two towns from here and has been supplying my shop honey for half a year now. Though there was a forest fire a month ago that destroyed half of his apiary so he couldn't continue supplying me." Of course, he'd also sent out money to help Mr. Wood knowing that the man was devastated by the extent of the damage. Priam may have only met him twice (first was during the beehive incident and second when he personally visited the apiary to offer a proposal) but the beekeeper had proved to be a pleasant business partner so he doesn't mind denting his bank account to help out a friend.

"What caused the fire?"

"The sprites living in the nearby forest had a, um, let's just say, mild altercation," he says mild altercation like one would to mass murder. "I've already lent Mr. Wood a lawyer and they're currently processing everything in court."

He hears Sibyl hum distractedly, knowing the kid ( god? ) has already lost interest in the subject. And he dearly hoped that that was the end of the conversation.

Thankfully, it was.

Emmett's chanting ceased and the tingly feeling on his arm disappeared. "Alright, ya can open your eyes now, Mr. Priam."

When he opened his eyes, his arm was as good as new. As expected of gods. He stood up and stretched, feeling that his arm felt as normal as can be. He wondered where the bullet went since he couldn't feel it clanking inside, but oh well, it's best not to question the ways of gods.

"Neat," he comments, massaging his arm. "It's as good as new. Thanks a bunch."

"Oh, yeah, uhm," Sibyl starts, "our services aren't for free."

Priam froze, a look of horror dawning on his face when he realized he's been had.

Oh god, this was their scheme, was it?

He whips his head and narrows his eyes at the two dastardly customers giving him sly yet playful grins.

"Fine," he relents, since he isn't an ass and knows when to be grateful for another's service. "As thanks for mending my wound, you two can have a free meal twice a week for a month."

Emmett and Sibyl whooped and cheered. Priam has a feeling that he made a grave mistake.

"I fucking knew it," he exclaims to no one in particular, slamming a tray full of food on the table. He glares at two dastardly gods who had the audacity to order the entire menu at fuckass o'clock in the morning on a Monday.

"Hmm?" Sibyl, the sleazy brat, blinks innocently at him as he slurps his large carbonara. Meanwhile, Emmett was demolishing the biggest burger on the menu with little effort.

"Enjoy your goddamn food," he hisses instead and stalks away.

If the two customers heard a loud yell followed by breaking glasses coming from the kitchen afterward, it was ignored.

Chapter Text

"Alright! Time to get some of that sweet, sweet water, my childr—"

It was a fine Saturday when Priam was greeted with a blast of an explosion the moment he opened his bedroom's window, with a watering can on hand, about to water the succulents he perched on the windowsill. Really, he hasn't even said anything that warrants an explosion to his face, what the fuck.

Angered yells below soon followed:

" Antigone Duke!!! "

" What the hell?! Montgomery?! "

Ah. There goes his peaceful day. Gone.

Priam coughs up dust and squints at the two figures causing a ruckus down the street. He vaguely registers the mop of silver hair that terribly matches Briar Montgomery's and a man who has pitch-black hair and golden eyes. He recalls the man hanging out with Emmett and Sibyl during the weekends when Priam occasionally passes by the karaoke bar three blocks down, which means there's a possibility that he's a god.

Damn gods and time travelers and their penchant for destruction.

"You motherfucker!!! What are you doing here?!" he hears Montgomery rage screaming once again.

"Walking to my apartment to get some sleep, you psycho!" spat the pitch-black-haired man.

Montgomery throws something that explodes in a colorful rainbow mist, which was quickly swept away when the man with pitch-black hair honest to god whips out a huge golden steel fan, fanning like mad as if his life depended on it. Priam just stares at the ongoing brawl he is currently witnessing, wondering what he'd done in his past life to deserve this bullshit at four in the morning.

Dear Gehenna, what has this neighborhood come to?

Irritated at the noise and interruption from watering his succulents, Priam puts down his watering can gently, then pulls out a sniper rifle beneath his bed. He points it out the window towards the two imbeciles duking it out on the street at fuckass o'clock in the morning and pulls the trigger with no hesitation twice . Through the dust and his half-asleep state, he barely registers two writhing bodies snagged by a large metal net, stuck on the road.

"YOU TWO SHUT THE FUCK UP! SOME PEOPLE ARE TRY'NA SLEEP!" he bellows as he perched a foot on the windowsill. Realizing that the two are staring at him wide-eyed in fear, he continues, "IF YOU TWO FUCKERS WANT TO DUKE IT OUT, GO TO THE SANCTIONED CITY BATTLEGROUND AFTER ASKING FOR GOVERNMENT PERMIT! GODDAMNED FUCKERS."

Silence.

Then it was Montgomery who first laughs with a choked wheeze, "He said Duke it out ! Hahaha! Brilliant pun!"

Beside him, the man with pitch-black hair also bursts out laughing like they weren't after each other's heads a few moments ago. "Oh my fucking god! You're right!"

And then the street was replaced with howls of laughter instead of rage.

Priam inhales.

Fuck.

He's too tired for this.

Priam shoots them again with a tranquilizer for good measure and shuts his bedroom window close to block out their dying laughter. He debates calling the police but then he hears the blaring sirens fast approaching, he settles for climbing back on his bed.

He then decides to take a day off and locks himself in his room to get a well-deserved sleep. For 24 hours.

"Dada!"

Priam lurches when he feels a weight barrel into his legs. He'd been late-night shopping for supplies at the grocery store because he ran out of baking essentials. For a moment, it seemed as if it was only him, the occasional dead-eyed employees sorting through the aisles, and the background music playing a 90s song on repeat, that existed in the world.

Well, that was until something launches on his legs that nearly sends him toppling to the ground had he not grabbed onto the shelf.

He looks down. Only to find a child in a unicorn onesie staring up at him with wide glistening eyes.

"..."

The child tightens its hold on his legs. "Dada?"

"What?" he squawks, his brain too stunned to fully comprehend the literal child clinging onto his legs. "What the fuck?"

"Fuck!" the child says because of course, a curse word is what its pea-sized brain first latches onto. " Fuck! "

In his panic, Priam tries to shush the child and pry off its hands from his sweatpants. Of course, unless he wants to break the child's fingers through sheer force, he couldn't do it successfully so he settles with a more verbal response, namely screeching. "What the h—let go, brat!"

The child just continues to happily chant "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" at him, his voice echoing throughout the aisle.

He debates pulling out the rolling pin from his cart and bashing the child's head with it. Then he promptly shoves away the invasive thought, knowing that murdering children is not good on his records. No, wait, no, any murder is not good on his records.

While he was in the middle of trying to coax the child to get its hands off, to no avail, a person skids into the aisle, calling out in panic, "Itocchan, no! Stop terrorizing customers!"

Priam squints through his exhausted eyesight which was made worse by his current predicament. "Wha...?"

The blur of a person zaps to clarity as it approaches. It took Priam a moment to realize that the woman's face is familiar and most probably a customer he had served. Now, if only he could remember the name...

"Itocchan!" The child was immediately pried off his legs (thank god) and swept up to be carried by the woman. "Didn't I tell you to behave?"

The child called Itocchan breaks into a grin and hugs the woman's neck. "Auntie! Auntie!"

"God, you're such a nightmare to look after," says the woman. "You're lucky I love you, kid."

Priam looks at the giggling pair, specifically the woman, then it suddenly clicks. "Hey, you're that student, right? Uhhh, you're—" he wracks his brain for a name, "Io Sengoku, was it?"

When the woman looks at him, her eyes shine in recognition. "Ah! You're the owner of that weird café!"

"What."

"And you paid for my hospital bills, too!" she cries, and Priam is quite sure she'd bow had she not been carrying a child. "Oh gods, thank you very much for that, sir!

He flusters. "U-Uh, d-don't mention it?"

As it turns out, the child's name is Ito Date, who is Io Sengoku's one-year-old nephew. A gremlin of a child, apparently—at least in Priam's eyes.

"He is not!" Io denies quickly, ignoring Ito gnawing the neon tips of her hair. "Itocchan behaves around family! He's just showing off to strangers, er, probably. He honestly is a behaved boy!"

As if to disprove his aunt's words, Ito chooses that moment to lunge at Priam, uncaring that he's still in his aunt's arms. Unluckily, Priam has the reflexes of a traumatized store owner who's subjected to the horrors of his own café being damaged weekly and steps back on instinct, so naturally, the child falls. Luckily, before the child can splat on the floor, Io cries out in panic and snaps her hand forward. Ito freezes mid-air, inches from the floor, levitating.

"Oh god, oh fuck," Io breathes, eyes wide. "That was too close. Saotome-san will have my head if anything happens to Itocchan."

Priam regards what happened with mild interest. Mostly because it has been years since he's seen someone with telekinesis.

"Auntie, make me fly fly fly!" Ito demands and wriggles in the air. Much to Priam's consternation, Io starts moving her hand in a circular motion so that Ito is circling around the top of his head. It would've been okay if the child kept his hands to himself instead of pulling onto Priam's hair. "Dada, your hair soft!"

"Itocchan, that's not your Dada," Io thankfully informs the child with a smile. "That's Mr. Priam. He helped me once."

Ito scrunches his face up as if thinking. Then he turns to Priam, tilting his head curiously. "Pee-yam?"

Io almost lost control of her powers due to how much she couldn't stop laughing.

"...I am too tired for this." Priam sighs, gesturing vaguely at everything.

"Mood," says a store employee sorting pancakes on the other end of the aisle.

"God, if you're out there," Priam whispers solemnly as if it actually helps his current situation. "Please give me a sign not to commit senseless homicide right now."

God, as omnipotent as many people claim him to be, does not respond nor give a sign.

He takes that as a go sign, of course.

Priam sighs and picks up the ax hanging on his kitchen wall, before barreling out the kitchen and towards the café door. He delivers a kick with too much untapped rage and the door slams open, hinges torn off from the sheer force. And then he comes face-to-face with a group of frozen teenagers loitering the front of his shop at the ungodly hour of three, all looking at him like newborn fawns caught in headlights.

"Good morning, you fucking brats ," he greets, baring a smile. He doesn't know what he looks like under the dim light of the doorway, but from the fear in the teenagers' eyes, it's obviously something good. "What the fuck did you do to my front window?"

The teenagers took one look at Priam's appearance—with mouth far too upturned to be friendly, eyes manic, in a blood-stained (it's chocolate, actually) nightgown, and wielding a glinting ax—and came to the unanimous decision to book it. One had barely dodged the ax that came hurtling her way before she screams even louder, which prompted the others to pump more energy in their legs to run faster.

"Don't come back here, you brats!" Priam barks as they finally disappear down the street.

He turns to survey the damage on his windows, winced at all the blood and gore, and grumpily marches inside to fetch a pressurized water hose. When he went back outside, there was a police car parked at the front with the familiar exhausted face of Officer Joaquim slumped on the car's open window.

"Mr. Priam, for the love of all that is holy and cursed, it's 3 AM. Why did Hana call the station to file a noise complaint?" the officer says. Priam flips the window lights on and the officer almost chokes on air at the sight that beholds him.

"Brats," Priam spits with so much venom. "Ghoul brats, to be specific. They vandalized my windows a gain . I've informed the orphanage of their mischief but those nuns never care."

"Vandalized," says the officer faintly, blinking at the brutalized window. "With intestines and blood?"

"Oh trust me, this is much more preferable than spray paint. That thing's a pain in the ass to remove," Priam says and starts spraying the window. "The stench is even more of a pain in the ass to remove though."

Officer Joaquim just stares as Priam starts spraying the blood and entrails from the shop's window.

"I'll... I'll just report this to the station," he says faintly after a minute of gaping. "God, I am never taking night shift ever again."

Priam grunts and doesn't say anything even as Officer Joaquim drives away. He's heatedly glaring at a particularly stubborn stain that won't come off.

Fucking ghoul brats.

June will die today, and it's entirely his own goddamn fault.

"I'm sorry!"

"Shut up! C'mere so I can slice that neck of yours."

"It was a harmless prank!"

"A prank you're going to p̴͚̲̿̄͌a̸͎̻͊y̸͙̣̺͝ ̵̦̗̏f̴͉͚̞̾ơ̷͓͂͑ r̸͉̩̾̾."

"It was just mint in your drink! Sorry!"

"It's not just mint, McCoy! It's the bane of my fucking existence! How fucking dare you defile my tongue with mint, you fucking bloodsucker!"

A well-known fact among The Pit customers was that Priam loathes mint with a burning passion, though nobody knows why. There must've been a rule engraved on a bloodstone somewhere that says to never put anything mint-related and Priam within close proximity.

It was also a rule that June naively ignored because he is an idiot with a death wish.

"I'm sorry for putting mint in your drink! Please forgive me!" June wailed pathetically, running away for dear life as he dodged the variety of sharp utensils Priam keeps tossing his way.

"Denied!" was Priam's gritted reply. "You have ultimately chosen death by countless stab wounds!"

"I'm sorry," Officer Joaquim sighed from the booth at the side of the café, "what am I looking at?"

"An ongoing murder attempt," Sol replied casually. He was on his phone, updating Fink of the chaos currently ensuing at the café. It was a chatroom that was supposed to be for work purposes. Not that Fink minded, but the other studio staff surely did.

"Shouldn't you stop them?" Audrey Swain asked the officer. She sat at the seat beside them and was worriedly glancing at Priam attempting to maim June on the other side of the café.

"Oh, please don't, officer," Emmett called out from his seat, his phone recording the chaos. "It's entertaining."

Sibyl, who sat opposite of Emmett, watched unblinking as Priam tossed an ax he pulled from the café's numerous cabinets. "How many weapons does he have here? And why does he berate us when we do it?"

"Because I don't make a bloody mess when doing it!" Priam yelled at Sibyl. True enough, all the weapons he'd tossed only ended up dissipating into golden dust before it could as much damage the furniture and walls of the establishment. He then proceeded to pry off a section of the café's floorboard and pulled out a massive scythe.

June screeched in horror and decided to book it, but was stopped when the doors of the café slammed shut, the locks bolted. He glared at Io reading a Calculus book in the corner, who happens to be the only motherfucker with telekinesis in the establishment, with so much hate it rivaled Priam's loathing for mints.

"What he said," Emmett grinned. Sibyl miraculously didn't maim him on the spot.

"You should stop them," Audrey Swain told the officer once again.

Officer Joaquim glanced at Priam expertly swinging his scythe at June, who had managed to dodge with ease as he jumped from table to table, and elected that it's way too early to deal with The Pit shenanigans on a fine Tuesday afternoon.

"Nah," he said and bites his ube cake. "I'm on my break."

And thus, life on The Pit continued.

"Are you hiring?"

Priam throws his head up, inhales, and counts to three, before turning to the owner of the voice. Doesn't matter that he's out throwing garbage on the dumpster at the back of the café or if he's at the arcade letting off steam. Even on his off-hours, he still can't seem to catch a goddamn break.

"No," he tells them. He sees that it was someone wrapped in a full-body trench coat and a fedora. Not suspicious at all.

"Oh, well," the trench coat person pulls out a gun, and manages to shakily point it at Priam's forehead, "are you hiring now?"

Priam squints at the shiny barrel and wonders why guns are the new staple in this neighborhood.

"You could've just asked nicely," he says then slams the dumpster lid close, unfazed at the threat of death at close proximity.

The trench coat person considers this and lowers their gun. "Uhm, can you please hire me?"

Priam inhales and considers the pros and cons, but only managed to a conclusion that he badly needs sleep because all his brain gave him was a deranged chant of it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, make it stop! so he says, "You know what? Yeah, sure, whatever. I'm too tired for this. Clock in tomorrow before 6 AM. Don't wear something that can be easily stained. Bye." He then walks back to the back door and shuts it, not even sparing a glance at the person who was fist-bumping themselves in triumph.

He forgets this particular encounter an hour later due to exhaustion and would come to regret it the next day.

Lo and behold, the next day, he stares dumbly as a very familiar, very banned werewolf knocks on the shop's window with a sheepish smile on her face. She's wearing a familiar trench coat, this time without a fedora covering her face. Unlike the last time he saw her, she's actually decently dressed with her wavy brown hair braided in a crown of garlands that suspiciously look like the ones Fink grows in her rooftop garden.

He swings the door open with far too much force he prays the hinges didn't tear off. "What the fuck are you doing here, Charlemagne?" he practically snarls.

Charlemagne, the werewolf whose ass he banned from The Pit, merely blinks at him. "Uhm, you hired me last night, remember?"

He doesn't remember, but he'll be damned before he admits that. There's only one thing left to do: improvise.

Priam lets out a string of expletives that would make his grandmother whip out a walis tambo and beat him with it point-blank. After promptly going through the five stages of grief at lightning speed, he whips his head to Charlemagne with a gaze that made the werewolf squirm. "Do you have credentials for this job?"

Surprisingly, she procures an envelope from the inside of her trench coat and hands it to him. "Yes."

"Great." He takes it, tears it to pieces, and tosses it into the wind. "You're hired."

She gapes at the pieces, dumbfounded. "Uhm, did you—"

He takes her by the shoulders and starts pushing her towards the kitchen. "Frankly, I don't hire employees after the Armageddon incident, but if you think you're ready to take on the hell that is keeping The Pit intact, then I can lift the banned label on you and let you suffer with me," he says, then pulls out an apron from a cabinet. Charlemagne politely takes it and tries to ignore the faint ichor at the center. "I can show how hard it is to maintain the status quo in this place and maybe you'll regret tearing the mural on the wall that cost me my right arm."

The werewolf looks like she's ready to bolt out but since we can't have that, Priam locks the kitchen door. He beams once again. "Welcome to The Pit, Charlemagne," he says, maybe smiling a bit too wide that shows more teeth than normal, but that's beside the point. "I'm honored to have you here."

"U-Uh, likewise?" she hesitantly says.

"Good, now," he points towards the ice cream machine, "you have exactly an hour tame that monstrosity of a machine. It keeps insulting me, the wench." From behind, the ice cream machine hisses indignantly at him. He flips the bird at it and barks, "I don't want your attitude, you child of a machine!"

Charlemagne looks wholly confused and scared.

"In the meantime, I'll check if I still have the employee handbook. Can't have you disappearing through time portals like the part-time employees after all. I'll probably stop by a shop that can make you a nametag. We can move the opening hour to 9 AM to get you accustomed here. Is that okay with you, Charlemagne?"

"Uhm, just Arle will do," Charlemagne says. "Charlemagne is a bit long. Arle is okay."

Priam considers this then nods. "Okay, Arle. I'll get going now," he says, then turns towards the door, only to stop when Charlemagne calls.

"Uhm, Mr. Priam, I'm sorry for... for what I've done. And, uh, thank you for letting me take this job," she mutters.

"Oh you sweet child," he says and squeezes her shoulder in a way that was supposed to be comforting but came out as ominous anyway. "Just don't let this job take you too much and you'll survive. I'll forgive you if you don't die on duty for two years. Also, avoid the walk-in freezer lest you want to get transported to the hospital."

Before Arle can process the words, he walks out of the kitchen.

Maybe finally getting an employee can help him loosen up the workload.

It started with Arle getting bored. And that's never a good thing.

Priam may have been working with her for three weeks now, and while she has the workings of a decent barista, she gets infuriatingly bored easily that he'd have to pile work on her to keep her occupied. Sometimes it gets to the point that it could be considered as overworking an employee and while Priam has the spite enough to fuel a single nuclear powerplant, he's not a monster .

So even at the cost of Arle's antics kicking in, he minimizes the work he's assigned her.

And here's one of what happens when she's bored:

"THE FLOOR IS EIGHT HOURS OF PROPER SLEEP!" Arle hollers from her spot behind the counter.

Half of the customers just faceplant to the ground before Priam could even blink. The rest were looking around in confusion because what in fresh hell just happened.

"...Oh wow, it actually works," he hears Arle whisper.

Priam sighs but rides with it anyway since this wasn't the first time something like this happened, so he cups his hands over his mouth and shouts "THE FLOOR IS STUDENT DEBT!"

Then he bears witness to grown adults practically clambering on any available furniture in panic at the declaration.

From beside him, Arle has to duck under the counter as she doubles over, wheezing.

"Bossman, do you take constructive criticism?" Arle says just as they were closing in for the day. Priam was currently wiping the counter, while she was tasked to unscrew the menu board so he can rewrite it since most of the chalk has smudged.

"I only take cash or credit," he replies primly.

"Bossman," Arle ignores him as usual. Unlike her first week at work where she'd been a nervous wreck, she now has the confidence and audacity to act mischievously in her fifth week. Priam blames Fink for her pep talks. "Don't you think it's better to just print a menu board from a printing shop? It's a hassle rewriting the menu every day, right? I know someone who's good at graphic designing, so maybe I can ask them to make one that fits the café theme."

Priam stares at her, the words still processing in his tired brain. He stares some more, and then finally, "Don't. The chalk menu is for authenticity. Thanks for the offer, though."

Arle snorts. "I've seen nicer fonts that appear more authentic."

"Insult my handwriting to my face again and I'll cut off your salary," Priam warns with no bite, but the threat is still there.

"Bossman, your handwriting is basically chicken scratch," Arle says fearlessly, akin to a level one mage offered to the mini-boss like a lamb to the slaughter.

"The customers can read the menu fine," Priam argues, wiping the counter a bit more aggressively.

"That's because many of your customers are not human!"

" What? " he gawks. "What does that have to do with anything? Dear Gehenna, Arle, most of my customers are mortal and they can read my menu just fine. That menu has been here ever since the café was established."

Arle looks doubtful. Priam narrows his eyes at her, then at the menu board in her hands. It takes a moment for something to click in his mind, but when it does he quickly scrambles to search for a book from one of the drawers.

"Uh, bossman, what are you doing?"

"Wait, I think I know now. Hold on a sec, Arle." Priam dips his hand inside the drawers, the portal inside as cold as ever, and reaches into the abyss for the sole book he stashed in it. He could've just picked a book from the shelves, but between the six steps he needs to take to get there and the two to the drawer, Priam prefers the latter. He fumbles until he manages to grip on something he hopes is a book, and pulls it out. Thankfully, it was a book that he vaguely remembers that belonged to his Mama — a personal recipe book. He points to the cover. "Alright then. Arle, can you please read this to me? Loudly, if you may."

Arle squints, grimaces, and then cranes her neck forward for a better look. It took her a long time before she whispers, "It looks like chicken scratch."

Well, that just cements Priam's theory then. "Have you considered that you have dyslexia?"

Arle blinks, then understanding dawns on her face. "Huh," she says. "You mean like that one Bollywood movie called Every Child Is Special?"

"Yes, yes it is," he says, not really knowing what it was. Arle only hums thoughtfully. "Right, well, I'm calling your guardians to inform them." He reaches for the telephone, buzzing at this sudden discovery. "Fink will surely help you with it."

Arle does, in fact, get diagnosed with dyslexia after a week of visiting the doctor. Priam scours his bookshelf for all the books regarding dyslexia he can find and lends it to a sobbing Fink under an oath that torments the borrower should the books be unreturned. Nadya tries to offer him a ridiculous amount of paiges, which he refuses to accept even at her ridiculous threats of bodily harm.

Seriously, they acquire one (1) daughter and immediately go all out.

Arle is his employee after all and, despite her past acts of aggression, his responsibility.

"No," he deadpans and heatedly glares at Io's bespectacled face.

"Please?" she begs. "Just for two, no, three hours?"

They hear something breaking from a distance and Priam doesn't need to turn to know that Ito has broken yet another one of his porcelain figurines.

Io winces, clearly seeing what had just happened. "Uhm, sorry, he broke a figurine again. We'll pay you tomorrow for the damages, promise. Or buy new ones at the mall."

Priam is too exhausted to tell her that the figurines were real fae cursed to be porcelain and cannot be bought at the department store.

"AUNTIE!" came Ito's excited scream. "THERE'S A TEDDY BEAR IN THE TREASURE CHEST!"

Priam whirls to Ito with such speed that made him almost breaks his neck in the process. "SHIT, NO, KID! THAT'S A CURSED ARTEFACT!"

"Itocchan, NO!" Io flicks her hand at unimaginable speed and makes a pulling gesture. Ito immediately comes soaring into her arms, giggling as if he wasn't about to touch an artifact that (allegedly) offers quick instantaneous death.

Priam smiles tightly at Io as if to prove a point. "Still think I should be watching him for three hours, Ms. Sengoku?"

"Why do you even have a cursed artifact in a café?"

He fixes her with the blankest stare imaginable. "Io, I have two rambunctious gods as regulars, a ghoul who brings me fresh body parts for custom order smoothies, a descendant of Medusa who's persuading me to attend her yoga classes, a two-century-year-old vampire hell-bent on fucking up my closing time, two sirens possibly plotting the theft on my books... yadda yadda, the list goes on," he drawls exhaustedly. "It's quite obvious that a cursed teddy bear is the least of my worries right now."

Io appears to be contemplating. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, okay, you got a point there. Uhm, but isn't that artifact supposed to be at the museum at least? For safe-keeping, ya know."

"The museum gave it to me as a peace offering." Priam wants to roll his eyes even at the memory alone. He had vehemently rejected it when they attempted to give him the cursed thing but they insisted strongly, saying that he could even auction it since it racks up a pretty large sum. That interaction had almost ended badly, mostly because it occurred at 2 AM, but thankfully it's over now.

"So... how about an hour?" Io says after a moment of silence. Priam wants to groan at her stubbornness. "It'll be very quick, promise? Pretty please?"

Oh for the love of—

"Io, it's still a no. "

"Goddammit."