Chapter Text
“Clover.”
His near-silent footsteps pause at the unusually serious edge in Melancholy’s usually flirty voice. The set of her ears is equally grave, the right ear flicking back at an angle in a manner not dissimilar to one of the shorter lived races crooking a finger to beckon one closer. No jest, no set up, and none of the light-heartedness he knows her for while on shift as the barkeep.
With a glance spared toward the entrance to Oblivion’s inner city hideout, Clover quietly sighs and stiffly approaches the bar as requested. He hopes desperately it’s not another case of his uncle deciding to pull off some heist or another.
They need to be lying low, not instigating and drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. Even if his… mother has a knack for drawing said attention wherever she goes. Rumors of her have already circulated throughout the vast metropolis in ways good and ill alike and he worries greatly that the Shetona will suffer more than ever for her deeds.
He leans forward on his arms to lean in closer to the barkeep herself, uncomfortable with the way the older woman’s eyes alight with admiration for the way his statuesque form folds in such a way that makes him approachable rather than intimidating, and dutifully awaits her report. A slight cant of his head to the left in inquiry is all he can manage at the moment with his thoughts racing at the possibilities of what went wrong this time.
Luck seems to smile upon him and offer a bit of mercy in that there is no quip, no overture or flirty comment to ‘break the ice’. This time.
“Long day already?” Sympathy and amusement combined as Melancholy wipes down the counter and fusses with a number of bottles beneath the counter. Keeping up appearances was crucial, after all. Clover offers a stiff nod, eyes following the way her clawed hands move. Coded movements, gestures with her elegant fingers as they run along the bottles and allows them to cover specific letters upon each stained label.
M-T-H-R. A-R-C. B-R-T-B-M-R.
He freezes. Heart stuck painfully in place within his chest. Blood drained from his face.
His mother has chosen to join the bloodsport at the Arcadion and is to face Brute Bomber.
“Why?” Sharper than intended, he flinches at the harsh bite of his own voice and the resulting surprise out of Melancholy. His ears immediately lower in apology and embarrassment, shoulders hunching as if he were but a mere kit scolded for getting into aught he shouldn’t.
Melancholy offers a graceful one shouldered shrug and shake of her head. Her eyes say another thing as she rearranges the bottles anew.
D-N-G. R-M-R. T-B-L.
Danger. Rumor. Trouble.
Hesitation, rare for the cheerful barkeep and spy, stills her fingers. Her own ears lower in an apology of her own, angle tilting towards sorrow as the bottles arrange themselves in a final order.
K-T-S.
Kits. Children.
Sour bile and hot rage turn to cold, dagger-like hurt arcing through his veins the way the eternal lightning forks across sky and rends the desolate earth beneath outside the safety of Solution Nine.
They knew, all of them, that the Arcadion preferred to lure in fighters with the promise of a better life; the more desperate and naive, the better. Their training started as young as thirteen and, should they prove themselves in the preliminaries, could make their debut at seventeen or eighteen years of age.
Yaana, known in the ring as Black Cat, was the youngest to secure a position in the Lightweight division in Arcadion history; her allowance to enter the ring professionally rather than held back was due to her connection to Wicked Thunder and the fanfare that’d come about from the announcement.
Others would have been denied, regardless of star potential, until they’d reached the appropriate age for their debut.
Of course his mother would have looked at that and gotten involved; the missing people, the use of souls for sport… it may as well have been an invitation handmade by the powers that be to lure her in. One hand reaches up and shoves his spectacles back up the bridge of his long nose. His eyes no longer on the bartender herself but on the surface of the counter. Tracing every last scratch, dent, and miniscule grain of crystal and glass that have embedded themselves deep within over time.
“Have you seen her in battle?” Conversational, the bottles are neatly back as they should be.
He shakes his head. He was taught everything he needed to survive from gathering, hunting, repairing and making his own weaponry, gear, medicine, and more. Combat included and he is quite capable of discouraging local fauna, flora, and the odd individual or three from ill-advised ideas if it’s necessary… but he would much rather not. The idea of watching a woman who he believed abandoned him even against his uncle’s insistence spill another’s blood, justified or not, sits ill with him.
Melancholy’s bright gaze, full of pride and hope, meets his own. “You should.”
Her voice dropped lower still. “I know not where she hails from, nor you or your father,”
Clover doesn’t correct her. Sky Blue may as well be his father, having raised him since memory could recall.
“-but she entered without the use of feral souls.”
She what.