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—The Barkeep
The man in the corner of the bar was… odd. He tipped well, kept to himself, always ordered the same thing. Never caught his name, nor why he always wore those gauntlets, and the bandages on his face. He came in with a girl at times. Couldn't be much older than, say… 25? At least, not by the looks of it. She wasn't much of a talker, either. She was analytical as all hell, though. Girl terrified me the first time she came in, and I've seen all manner of people.
“Barkeep. I’d like-” the man started, but I didn't give him the chance to finish. I just started to crush a sugar cube in the bottom of a rocks glass and pour some whiskey into it, mixing in orange and simple syrups, before garnishing with an orange peel and serving it. Same as always. He looked surprised for a moment, but eased up as I slid the drink over to him.
“And for your… daughter, I’m guessing?” I ask. I receive a pointed look from her, before getting the order.
“The same. An old-fashioned.” Her voice is resounding. Deep enough to feel it in your own ribs. The girl’s scared off more than a few of my more sleezy customers, and for good reason. She’s terrifying. Eyes dead like a hopeless soldier’s, the both of them. The girl had olive skin, and black hair. The man had burned skin, marred with other scars as well. I think he’s of a similar tone. I couldn't ever see his hair with the bandages and hats he always has.
“Coming right up. They're on the house tonight. Your father’s my best costumer, and I find it imperative to keep that going, or my business may go under. …But I think it’s about time I got your names. Maybe your stories, to go along with them?” I ask, attempting to be polite. Emotions were never my strong suit.
—The Archangel
“My name? My name is… Tribune. My daughter is Drachma.” I tell the barkeep. The man was a bit of a smartass. I think he overstepped his bounds with that question, but it’s best not to cause a scene. I only get so many days off. Besides, I’m already lucky that I’m not famous anymore. Keeping out of the limelight means I can relax. The kid needs a break sometimes, too.
“Tribune? That's an interesting one. Where’s it from?” The barkeep asks. …Does he know something? Unlikely. He’s probably just curious.
“It’s Roman. For the judicial form of government. Drachma’s a Greek name. Their currency. Believe me, the wife chose the name, I didn't get to pick.” I don't have a wife. But I wasn't lying when I said I didn't get to choose the name. Lady Athena chose it. Said “Like the coin, she should be worth something.” I think she was just getting back at me for failing my first operation with the kid.
“If you want my story, you'd best not ask why our names are ‘weird.’ But I guess I've kept my secrets long enough.” My vision fades. I find myself back in that burning battlefield. I could hear screaming from the rubble. The Spartans had just reached the Athenian front. I rush over to one of the piles, and practically rip the rocks and wood off of the wounded soldier. …The screams weren't from the soldier. Not fully. They were reflexive. …The kid was nearly dead. This… this isn't the real memory. No, I was… I was the soldier under the rubble. I was human at some point. And I was dying from that crushing wound. My blood stained the ground, and I found myself pushing myself despite it. The others needed help, they needed something, ANYTHING! I was scared. My hands were shaking, everything was so cold, but I kept moving. Dragging soldiers from the burning front, I didn't even notice that my back was beginning to burn until I brought the fourth soldier in. I immediately put it out. Five, six, seven, eight, NINE SOLDIERS! I brought nine soldiers home before I couldn't even move my feet anymore. I struggled, left on the front. But I was doomed from the start. …I died there. Lacerations to the chest, legs, and abdomen. Left shoulder broken, hands torn to shreds from the ropes I used to drag the soldiers, burn wounds from the wreckage. I woke up in… an odd place. Not Hades, but… a distant place. It was cold. Desolate. The grass was grey. There were only olive trees, and those looked just as lively as the grass. I began to trudge through the dead fields. If I was here instead of Tartarus or Asphodel, I must have been brought here for a reason. And there I found her. Athena. She gave me an offer. Work for the gods, and be granted new life. The answer was obvious. Couldn't be telling this story if I didn't say yes. The labor was crushing. Everything hurt. My body bent in unnatural ways, bones rearranged into the form of what is best described as “a hodgepodge of humanoid bird parts, with extra eyes.” I had talons, birdlike legs, six large wings on my back, and several floating eyes. A terrifying form, but I was able to bring it closer to human at will, with some effort. My extra eyes had to be stored inside my armor, which isn't the best in a battle, but it was better than nothing. My wings, however, couldn't be hidden, not without some sort of magic. I didn't have that. I still don't. Enchanted trenchcoat hides it all, now. I was called “War,” and sent on my way. I served for several hundred years in a deal with Athena. Eventually, I couldn't do it anymore. Too much on the psyche to be constantly fighting. So I was replaced with a nephalem. He was given armor like my own, a greatsword, and a red horse. …I was the trial run. He was likely the second. But to this day, he’s still working. Now I help him. Made Drachma to help me with my espionage work. The girl’s served me well through the years. I owe her much.
—The Barkeep
“Tribune… you're either off your meds, insane, or somehow telling the truth, and I genuinely can’t tell which is worse.” I release a sigh, and to Drachma. The question’s now directed at her. She seems to be like Tribune, but something still rubs me the wrong way about her. “And you? What’s your story? Your dad sounds like he’s off his rocker.”
—The Shapeshifter
“He’s not. That much I can tell you.” I direct a glare at the barkeep, taking a long sip of my drink, before relaying my story just as my father did. “I was created for this job. Purpose-built for versatility. Espionage isn't an easy job, not by any means. But for a shapeshifter? It’s a hell of a lot easier. Besides, being able to go from a 5’11 Greek woman to a 9’5 nightmare of flesh and metal in an instant is useful. Been through a fair share of ordeals with my dad. He’s… not the smartest, to be honest. But he’s scary, even without the claws, talons, and giant grey wings.” Strong, too. I've seen him pick up and move hundreds of pounds in the field, push aside men several times more muscular than he seems to look, and bear loads no man should be able to. He looks like an old vet, but under all that armor, gambeson, and bandages? He’s… well, he’s fucking ugly, I’ll be honest. The burn scars did him no favors. But if he didn't have all that, he’d look 32 on a bad day. Not that I’d just willingly say that to some random bartender in rural New Mexico. Suppose I should get on to the jobs… “When we were in the field last September, behind Russian lines, I twisted my form to look like a guard, and he, my prisoner. I mean, it’s not exactly unsurprising, the man can shapeshift, but not nearly as well as I can.” I got into the prison warden’s office, and retrieved a file from the cabinet with Tribune in tow, and he just… oh my god, he just ripped the handle out of the door. The alarms blare. I promptly open my chest cavity, and I stuff the file into my body, wrapping it in layers of muscle and offal, before attempting to get the window open. “Just my luck. We’re already surrounded—seriously, when did these idiots get faster?!” Ugh… Russians. Always on some bullshit. I streched my arm out, forming a black gathering of tendrils, wrapping them around one gaurd’s head and crushing his skull against a concrete wall with a sickening CRUNCH. As my arm reformed, I could feel my bones twist and pop back into place, before a bullet was pushed out of my arm, and the wound is quickly sealed. Likely took a shot from the scrambling guard before I killed him. …Huh. Most of them scream and beg before they make contact with any surface. He just… shot me. Smarter than most. Too bad. After spending far too long reflecting on the intelligence of an enemy soldier that I just turned to a spirit in Hades, I looked over to my right, at Tribune and another. He was already armed with a stolen gun. He disarmed the gaurd and managed to put his boot through the guard’s chest. Jesus… We ended up having to wade through pools of blood that day. Tribune took a bullet to the skull, blew the side of his head open. But he just got up after a few moments, and ravenously tore into the man. I lost sight of him after that. For an old angel, the man moves unreasonably fast. When I rounded the corner, I saw him wiping blood from his hands and face with water from a canteen, in full archangel form. Talons, claws, wings, floating eyes, the whole shebang. There was blood everywhere, and a mangled corpse on the ground. …I decided not to bring it up. “You done there, Archangel?” I ask, obviating the fact that he probably just ate a man to regain biomass. “Don’t get smart with me, Changeling.” And we haven't heard from the gods since then, aside from updates on the goings-on in places like Camp, or from other pantheons. Not even any word from Hades. We've been in the dark for months. Not even so much as a vision or a boon popping up in our living room to give us a message. So we came here. Settled in for now, waiting to hear from the gods in New York. It's… been a nice rest. Dad needed it. But the near-nightly drinking seems to be making him feel… worse. I need to get him off of it. He may not be human, and his liver may heal, but it’s still alcohol abuse. Old guy needs actual, proper mental therapy. …And probably physical therapy too, his legs are FUCKED, heheh.
The bartender looks horrified. Drachma and Tribune finish their drinks before leaving, with some heavy tips on their receipts, and some notes for the Barkeep to find.
“Tell anybody, and they'll find your corpse in Lake Superior.” —Tribune.
“Say a word, and they won't stop finding your body for weeks~! Keep it quiet, Miche.” —Drachma.
“How the hell did she know my name is Miche…?” The Barkeep pockets the tips and puts the payment in the register, before trashing the notes and getting back to work behind the bar, cleaning the empty glasses. He keeps the terrifying notes in the back of his mind for the rest of his shift.
FIN.