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You didn't come to the bar that often. You tended to keep to yourself at night, the dip of light in the sky enough for you to stay out of town. The night air lingers crisp against your skin yet heavy in your lungs, the darkness a perfect cover for all things you typically set to avoid. Yet you find yourself walking to a familiar place, turning into an alley with the splash of runoff beneath your feet. Everything is cool and dark and grey, awash of color. The path lit by flickering street lamps and cheap neon signs ends at a metal door surrounded by brick. The alley is quiet, as are the streets, but for the drip of water that falls from the gutters and the soft scuffles of little claws that scurry behind dumpsters and loose trash.
Fumbling a folded paper out of your pocket, you hold it close to squint at the scribbled instructions. The parchment pinches between your fingers as you draw your fist to the door. It whips open before your first knock, your knuckles touching air, and you jump out of your skin. You scramble back off-kilter, nearly tripping on worn pavement. Your breath is a ragged gasp.
A synth blocks the doorway. The figure towers over you with a familiar round face tilted down to acknowledge you. The bot glows, literally. A corona of deep large rays lay behind a set of smaller points lit with neon– a blue base which fades into a vibrant magenta pink. The disk of his faceplate twists, a piercing swaying from one of his rays–on the left– a gem embedded in the ring glints with light passing from behind. For a moment you swear you see a dark brow pinch in a look of confusion, but it must just be your eyes struggling in the dark as it vanishes in an instant. Optics that burn like flames flick up to you.
“Ah, so you are the coisinha that has strayed to me,” His smile is sharp and dangerous, incisors peak just past his lips that stretch to smirk, “Not the kind of gatinha I was expecting, I will admit. But I am not one to complain about such a generous delivery~.”
He can’t help but laugh at your unamused glare, shoulders bouncing. The deep timbre jumps the distance to buzz across your skin and it warms something in you. The array of feathers that protrude from the collar of his jacket sway with the dance in a very convincing mimicry of a peacock’s display. When he reaches for you, you catch the scent of wood, fruits, the lingering spray of alcohol fizzing from a bottle– his hand engulfs your shoulder, sangria tipped claws snagging against your jacket. He radiates warmth, bathing you in the glow of his eyes.
“It has been a while, no? I have been waiting for a ring–” he lets his opposite arm fall from against the door frame to imitate a phone(a landline, with his thumb and pinky extended to be the speaker and receiver) with his hand to the side of his faceplate, the tassels along his sleeves jostle as his wrist twists with the sign to ‘ring’, “You did not lose my number again did you, Estrelinha?” You swallow at the nickname and fight the urge to crush your lip between your teeth.
Through the fabric his palm warms you can taste a hint of a lime fresh squeezed and smoke and thick oil that flows and flows and fl– “No, no, I still have it! I’ve just been,” you huff and his optics train on to the wisps of your breath as they sail past your lips, “pretty preoccupied, is all.”
His eyes are alight with his usual mischief, knowing and prowling and vibrant. The knock of glass against a counter draws him back. “Come, Come inside. Take a seat at the bar, by the back,” His head cocks to the side before he releases you, sliding off from against the frame to slink back to his post, “And don’t go running off now, Gatinho .”
You cross the threshold and instantly feel the buzzing warmth of the room– like passing a bubble-thin fizzling barrier from the cold outdoors to warmth and machines. The tile is smooth and clean, a polished black granite that you can see your reflection in. The tables, chairs and stools are all a reinforced dark oak with black metal legs that twist like vines in a complex architecture. The booths that line the left wall match, dark wooden caps and metal bases with inky red cushions. The walls are pristine and cluttered at the same time, sleek black walls with clashing brick splash. They are littered with vintage photos, artifacts, and signatures. The bar smells like warm wood and spices and worn metal (and oil and smoke and electricity).
As you enter you are quick to acknowledge that you are the only human in the establishment. Chatter draws hushed, a few fizzling pops of morse when you walk by, optics narrowing and following the trace of your form as you wander to the farthest end of the bar to the very last stool. It makes sense, you think. Not many humans would come to a hidden bar full of illegal synths. Or would even be able to find it, for that matter.
You plop atop the cushioned stool, a soundless sigh escaping at the weak fizzing Sight you get when your fingers graze against the metal base. You let your knuckles fall atop the varnished wood counter, the taste of spilt drinks and metal clashing seep through your skin and trickle down your throat thick like oil. It’s hard to swallow. Warm colors swirl in small potpourri trays, a cinnamon stick, dried flowers, orange slices, and the wispy frays of small objects woven of wood and fiber. It’s an odd touch, but pleasant nonetheless. You See the twinkling of glass in the overtop light; the whispering against wood of the same menu drinks sliding down the way over and over again; the sound of liquid rushing till it drips past the brim and the soft popping foam that forms a collar in a tall glass.
You don’t pay mind as the bartender sails from one table to the other, the strong carry of his voice traveling until he makes it behind the bar–the opposite end of you. The waist high(on you) cafe door parts against his thighs as he passes.
You watch idly as he works, hands precise and experienced, voice confident and spirited. You’d seen someone in their element before, but it sends a wave of something content through you. Something about it is pleasant, reassuring. It’s nice. He serves the synth across the bar with the drag of tinted claws before he twists away to walk towards you.
He settles across the bar from you in quick time, arms folded neatly on the counter. The numerous leather tassels splay in a frenzy against the wood and a claw mindlessly taps to the barely-there music overheard. His faceplate is tilted to match your gaze. Eyes that meet yours are a vibrant glow against black, the peak of teeth behind a grin the same. You clear your throat, keeping your voice low, “I’ll have–”
He lifts a hand to stop you, “* Now* , now, querida,” he croons, his knuckles settling back against the oak with a soft knock, “I am not sure you are in any state for that, I'd like to keep you on your feet tonight.” His grin softens at the edges seeing the way your face scrunches. “I will get you a drink, algo perfeito , if you will stay around until I close shop,” his voice is light, carrying humor and the deep rumble of his chassis, “then we can chat. Privadamente. Is that agreeable?”
You squint, digging into his expression for a catch. All you see are patient eyes that pinch with promise, something maybe even fond. You catch the Sight of his oath, like oil and blood and the polish of glass and reverence , a glimpse of deep pinprick claws curling around your hair, and your own eyes looking into his as the loose strands are tucked behind your ear. Your gaze darts away from the slippery memory– it straightens out like a wispy string gathering to spool in your chest.
The sound of thrumming inner-components brings you back. You worry your lip, conceding to the bartender’s deal. His smile is proud, yet pinched in a sliver of relief that you can taste–cranberries and fizz and spice and hands on skin and wires and sparks. The bartender’s gait is steady yet inhumanly paced as he rounds the bar to guide you off your seat. Boots that barely make a sound lead before the soft step of your sneakers that pads on the tile. He takes you to the closest booth to the bar, one of the ones with a heavy blackout curtain along the back wall. These are for private groups, deals, and whatever sort of otherwise dubious happenings one may host in an underground bar for underground synths.
The eclipse pulls the curtain back with a flourish. You have to duck under his arm to clamber into the space, leather strips clinging to your hair as you pass. “There we go, let’s get you all settled in now, estrelinha.” He nabs a cushion from the opposite seat and tosses it to you. It’s a coarse woven decoration, like something you would find in a fancy waiting room or on someone’s sofa they never sit on. It's firm beneath your grip with the promise of lumbar support. Sombra draws the curtain closed and you watch as the silhouette beneath the curtain fades.
The air is no less sheltered from electricity and smoke as it is beyond the curtain, but the little basket of herbs and essential oil-soaked wood that centers the table is still nice. The seat gives under your weight comfortably, offering the Sight of spilt drinks and the shuffle of cards, papers and ink. The smooth texture threatens to cling to your clammy palms, so you keep them folded together on the table. Looking up your find scattered framed photos and artworks on the wall, with a low-light chandelier hanging above. It’s not overly ornate, curls of metal and frosted plastic cover the single bulb so the light is warm and just enough for a human like yourself to be able to see.
Your gaze darts to the returning shadow that seeps in beneath the dark partition. A moment later there are deep magenta digits peaking along the side, curling into the sturdy fabric and tugging it along to reveal the bartender’s charming grin and crescent eyes. Yes, charming. It’s hard to deny that much. The light he gives sticks to your skin in a gradient of neon and warmth. It reflects in every corner of the tall booth. Your eyes travel down to see a colorful swirl of liquid in a short bar glass clasped in his other hand, but the trail of your gaze lingers down the path to carved casing that mimics a clavicle to the exposed metal of his chassis. The angle in which he bends into the booth accentuates just how much work went into building his look.
You dart back to his face at the clink of glass on the table, the drink sliding over to rest before your hands with the press of a single hooked claw. It comes to a scuffling halt and the shimmering blue liquid on top threatens to spill over the rim. His eyes are pinched with an amused gleam. “ Desfrute ~.” He rumbles, letting the curtain fall and you’re left alone again under the dim light.
Your throat struggles over your own tentative hum, a stuttering strangled sound rumbling behind your teeth. Other times you had stumbled to Sombra’s door he would delight in watching you savor your drink, made just for you, carrying you through his chatter like a dance. You realize a little too late that maybe coming without warning could have been a bad idea.
You blink and suddenly it's been hours(the numbers on your phone's home screen helpfully supply) that have painfully trudged by as you stare at the long empty glass between your fingers. Your lids slug heavily across your eyes. The crust of sleep gathers like glitter on your dry skin. The bar is quiet, quieter than before you arrived. Your head nods and you almost welcome the contact your cranium would make against the furnished wood, leaning back against the bar seat instead. That's when you notice a slip of pale beside where you sit.
You choke around a yawn as your hand heavy with interrupted sleep fumbles to lift the newfound note to the table. It's a sheet of notebook paper crisply quartered, with a fine spill of ink that spells your name on the front. Your brow furrows. The mercenary was quiet when he needed to be, sure, but how did he sneak this by with your drink? Surely you hadn't nodded off that hard, not while you were still sitting up…
You rub the heat away with your hands, unfolding the note to read,
“Don't be shy~ come around to the front once the lights go out. The door is unlocked. And remember to wear your jacket out or you will freeze and become picolé fofo .”
As if on queue, the dim table light above you cuts to dark. The curses under your breath are met without reward. A peak around the privacy curtain reveals an empty bar and the inky dark. You spare no time in shuffling out of the warmth you accumulated in your little corner, leaving your glass on the bar counter on your way. The door groans as you shove out into the alley you came from.
The remnants of night chill wiggle beneath your layers to seep into your skin. With haste you navigate down the alley path to the other side of the building. It's dim and grey with lack of sunlight. Clouds in the sky blot out the whisper of a fresh morning’s light.
Your breath mists before you, little cloudy wisps that dissipate in the early morning chill. The coir of the welcome mat crunches when you step to the door. Stupid cold. When you wrap around the metal handle it is like ice that sticks eagerly to your skin. Stupid, stupid cold. The place looks locked up, an anxiety pounding in your chest at the sight of the metal shutters that cover the glass shop windows and the shut door blinds. You take another breath, the air cool and expanding, and settle your nerves. The note said it should be fine, remember? You tug at the handle and the door pops open with a resounding chime.
You step inside and the lights stay off. It is almost entirely dark but for an emergency light dimly lit at the cafe counter and the sliver of morning that barely peaks through the shutters.
The synth does not startle you this time, as he is easy to spot in his own light. Gradients of neon and warmth draw your eye to the lounging figure, his eyes following you like the cats that linger around him. He is splayed along a lounge chair, reinforced and resized yet still just too small for his frame. Despite the comedy of it, he still looks as though he belongs perfectly on his leather throne.
At the sound of the door and the sight of you, a few cats hop away to take cover, a meek grey cat scrambling off its perch on the bartender’s shoulder to dive beneath the chair.
“Come in, come in,” He chimes with a voice smooth and timbre, “And lock the door behind you, Amiguinho~. The cold bites far harder than me.” His smile is all teeth, sharp and bright and predatory . The door slips shut with a rushing suction of air and the bell rings once more. The lock twists easily and you find yourself awkwardly toeing the welcome mat before tentatively stepping toward the beckoning claws.
A cat far more brave or social than its playmates sits back lazily in the crook of Sombra’s arm, tail swishing curiously at your entrance with its hind legs up like it pays rent. You supposed it does, at least in part. You know for certain the bartender has many ways to maintain his businesses. And cat adoption definitely contributes. It's likely the only good money that circulates in the entire block.
The pudgy cat's thick cream fur makes it look more like a pillow than a feline. Robotic claws dig in perfectly against the sweet spot behind its ears and the tiny beast rattles like an engine at the contact. Its eyes dilate as strips of leather wave enticingly, a single paw tentatively batting away at the fabric.
At some point you must cross an invisible boundary, as not even head scritches are enough to keep the beautiful ball of hair from tumbling out of the animatronic's lap and sauntering away. “Ah there you are, sleepy anjo that you are.” He tuts, voice a rolling flame of warmth, “Can't have you sleeping all night in a bar, now can I?”
Your mumble of ‘wasn't sleepin’ is smothered with the simmer of his humor, “Of course not~.” You can hear the sound of paws retreating on tile and the distant ring of bells. Looking up you see a catwalk that lines the walls and takes splintering paths along the rafters. Big green eyes peer down back at you. “So, how was work?” You test.
There is a glint of something more serious in his expression as he speaks. “Business is as business goes. It would do us both much good if you picked a better time to come to my establishment, encrenqueiro ,” he muses, yet a warning is thick in his words. Before you wither where you stand he continues, “My door is of course always open, but all sorts of walk wander in a night as late as the ones you find yourself in.” His mouth seams shut, lower lip pouting out as he muses a thought.
You swallow, “Right. Right, yeah I get it. I’ll try not to come in so late,” the words stumble and the taste of your own guilt swirls like glitter in peach schnapps and sprite,”It’s just been--,” you bite out the words and the Sight of a cocktail cherry sweet and red oozes past your tongue as it’s crushed between hard molded molars, “ Really difficult to get some sleep. And that’s not an excuse, not really– I just mean that I wasn’t paying attention to all that until I showed up and–”
“Shush now, come here, ruidoso . I have something for you.” He beckons with his hand drawing digits to you as a college freshman does to a stray alley kitten with the hope of bringing the muddy and flea-ridden thing home– the soft brush of fur under metal and silicone a sudden memory on your skin. You get the inkling that you’ve already fallen for this trap.
It is much like a dance how his hands solid and warm wrap eagerly around you when you stumble within arms length. His heat seeps into your skin like a summer breeze and a shot engine bleeding fresh with oil. Ripples ice make in a glass of scotch scatter in little bumps along your neck, down your back. He pulls you against him, tugging you sweetly across his lap in the chair, a single claw smearing against your lips when you yelp and stammer. You give little fight to the handling, your weak resistance is mostly out of instinct despite knowing the mercenary has no plans of dropping his catch. The synth cradles you to his chest, your head coming to rest against the space between leather and the metal of his chassis.
The heated metal is like a balm when it roams the curve of your shoulder and kneads . Your eyes flutter as you ease into the contact with a heavy sigh. The fatigue and pain embedded into your skin and muscle beneath simmer and scream in joy at the relief the pressure brings. He massages your back with expert precision and you feel like you are melting– tongue heavy with the sugar sweet spill of drinks and sparks with the salty sour of sweat and corrosive acid.
“I think you might just be my favorite gatinho, Gatinho . Look at how you purr just for me.” You’re too red and flustered and comfortable to say anything but groan. Your arms dangle on either side of the chair, almost jolting when a timid furry contact ghosts your fingers.
The next time your eyes open there is a noticeable weight, like you’ve been dozing. There is a gentle rumble against your ear and something soft and warm against your middle. Squinting down you see a fuzzy ball of gray that curls against you, purring happily. Your mind feels full of cat fuzz and your body like lead. Sleep whispers against the curl of your cheek. For a moment you blink, stuck in a state being rest and awareness, barely able to register the low tone of the synth’s voice humming. Eventually you shift, tilting your head to gaze at the burning gold of his gaze. “What happened to not having me sleep?” You grumble with a voice thick and soft. “Ssshhh, just rest. Close those eyes, * lindo*. ” And you do. Your eyes slip shut without question despite the uncertainty in your loose-ended thoughts. You are soothed to sleep by cats, warm arms and the swell of long-familiar Sight, and the silky smooth song the bartender sings.