Chapter Text
Damian had the best job in the world. It wasn’t a typical job, oh no. He didn’t clock into some sweatshop or factory or tiny cramped office at eight bells and clock out long after the sun had set. He didn’t break his back for nobody’s sake except his own.
He was a member of the Dregs, which was only the best and most deadly gang in Ketterdam. Though there were all sorts of sorry folks who’d probably disagree with that statement, they clearly didn’t know their hats from their tails.
Damian’s job had changed quite a bit over the years. First, he was an errand boy, then he was a rum runner (the two titles were a bit similar, but the distinction was highly important), then he was a bruiser. After that, Kaz had properly cemented himself as Haskell’s best lieutenant, which, according to the natural order of the universe, meant Damian was Kaz’s best soldier.
Kaz’s name became synonymous with big, cool things. Danger. Blood. Money. Damian’s name became synonymous with Kaz. It was equally as cool, obviously.
He considered himself what some might call a creature of habit. It wasn’t because he particularly liked habits. It was more like spontaneous fate. Yesterday was always so hard to grasp, but the vague outline of it, the familiarity, was all tomorrow had to go off of. The two tangled in a dance.
Not a pretty dance. More like a lazy, sloppy one Damian would see on the streets of East Stave outside the cheaper establishments. Tomorrow and yesterday were always knotted tight like thread, and it left little room for today.
So, yeah, Damian was a creature of habit. Every morning, he woke up, got dressed, and took a skip down the hall of the Slat’s second floor. He knocked on Jesper’s door four times and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. Then the doorknob turned.
“Yes, yes,” Jesper huffed as he threw his door open. “I’m awake. I’m always awake. Saints, I don’t need a personal alarm.”
“That’s what you always say,” Damian replied in amusement. “But if you had it your way, you’d sleep ‘til noon, Fahey!”
“And that’s not a crime.” Jesper frowned, looking no more or less grumpy and Jesper-ish than he did every other morning. Even his sleeping shirt, like everything he wore, was a fun colour; a light red. “Got a job?”
“Not yet,” Damian said with a smile.
“Breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
Jesper sighed. “Fine, okay. You get Kaz, I’m getting dressed. Then food. I’m not working on an empty stomach.”
He shut the door in Damian’s face. “You got it!”
Damian raced for the stairs again, climbing all the way to the attic. The day Kaz had turned fifteen – or had it been sixteen? – he’d moved out of the room he shared with Damian and into the attic. He’d been disappointed at the time, because he liked sharing a room with Kaz, but also excited, because he’d never had his own space before.
Turns out, having his own space was just as boring as being on his own. Who would’ve thought.
Kaz converted the attic into a sort of evil lair; an office-slash-bedroom. It was pretty evil, as far as rooms go. There was a desk and papers in it and everything.
That felt like forever ago. It might’ve been forever ago. Back then, Damian had been the youngest of the Dregs. He still was the youngest, but now most people just thought twice before they swung at him.
He knocked on Kaz’s door four times.
“It’s open.”
Damian pushed the door open to find Kaz, surprisingly, not perched at his desk. In all of Damian’s fuzzy memories, Kaz was always sitting at his desk when he left, and still sitting there when Damian came back. Kaz didn’t sleep. Well, okay, surely he did sleep. It just wasn’t something Damian really ever saw.
He stepped in and glanced about, then rounded the corner to the threshold where Kaz kept his bed and other boring stuff on the other side.
His eyes immediately caught on Kaz’s crow-headed cane leaning against the wall, glinting in the gray early-morning light. Beside it stood Kaz, sleek and lean and fixing his black tie in the dirty, cracked mirror on the wall.
“Hiya, boss.”
Kaz didn’t turn to face him. All he said was; “Dame.”
Damian began to rock on his heels, folding his hands behind his back. “Lookin’ spiffy. D’ya hear about last night?”
“The Crow Club?” Kaz clarified, just to get under Damian’s skin. He grabbed his cane from the wall and finally looked at Damian then. “Another brawl broke out, yes, I heard. I also heard you and Bolliger had it handled.”
Big Bolliger. One of their bouncers at the Crow Club. A numbnut, really. “That oaf? Please. I did all the dirty work. He just held the back door open.”
Kaz’s gaze didn’t waver. “Well, I hope the bloodshed helped you release some of that pent up energy.” His cane tap, tap, tapped along the wooden floor as he passed right by Damian. “Jesper’s awake?”
“Up and at ‘em,” said Damian cheerily. He trailed after Kaz, watching him reorder something or another on his desk. It wasn’t really a desk, just an old door, but he figured that door ought to be proud of itself. It made a very good desk. “Orders?”
Kaz handed Damian a slip of paper. “That’s for Inej.”
Damian didn’t open it. He couldn’t read Kerch very well to begin with, let alone Kaz’s horrific handwriting. “And Jes?”
“You and him can go scope Fifth Harbor.”
“Fifth?” Damian echoed, brow furrowing. “But that’s our turf. Why would we need to scope our own turf?”
“Because someone’s been redirecting our shipments somewhere else, and I want to know who.”
Damian blinked. “A gang’s moving in?”
Kaz lifted a shoulder in the barest hint of a shrug. “What else is new? The more we grow, the more ballsy other gangs will get.”
“But scoping is so boring!” Damian exclaimed. “Don’t we have other operations going on or something?”
“Not at the moment,” Kaz scoffed. “We just nicked a mercher’s painting, Dame. Forgive me if I’m still planning our next moves.”
Damian put the paper into his vest pocket and fixed Kaz with a dirty glare.
Kaz let out a short, irritated sigh. “I just need you to watch the afternoon ships roll in. Two hours tops. Specht will be down there, he’ll have some documents you’re going to get for me.” He reached out, setting Damian’s crooked glasses straight. “Then you’ll have an evening shift at the Crow Club. It’s a light day. Appreciate it.”
Damian frowned, now staring at Kaz’s gloved hands as they withdrew from his face. “So I’m playing errand boy?”
“For today, yes.” Kaz walked right to the door and opened it, implying with one brief gesture that Damian had about fifteen seconds to leave. “You play it so well.”
Damian rolled his eyes and shuffled out the way he came. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kaz snapped before slamming the door.
A day at the docks. Fun. Damian headed back down the stairs and stopped at Inej’s room. He knocked only once.
She opened the door quietly, already dressed and ready for the day. Sometimes he wondered if she slept with her hair braided like that, or if she redid it every morning. It looked very long and complicated, so surely she wouldn’t have time to do her hair every morning. But if she slept with it every night, wouldn’t it look more messy?
“Mornin’, toots.” he greeted.
“Good morning, Damian,” she returned. “Are you bored of Jesper, or do you have something for me?”
There was a sudden burst in his chest, small as a candle flame, that always appeared when he talked to Inej. It was soft and warm, like pride, but better.
Inej was the only other Suli person in the gang besides himself. He wasn’t sure why that was important, he just knew that it was. Before joining the Dregs, he hadn’t even known what the word ‘Suli’ meant. He still didn’t really know. He’d never cared for the term; Inej seemed to like it very much, though.
He clucked his tongue and pulled out the slip of paper. “You know me so well.”
She took it from him with a small smile. “Where are you off to today?”
“Fifth Harbor,” he answered with no small amount of disappointment. “And I’m babysitting Fahey.”
Inej winced. “Ah, mornings are always a little slow.” She looked down and unfolded the paper between his fingers, carefully glancing it over. Her reaction gave nothing away. It never did. “I’m sure things will pick up after sunset.”
Damian hummed dryly. “Tell your knives I said hi.” He ditched her before she could close the door on him, too.
Downstairs in the main room, Jesper was waiting impatiently. He looked like a whole other man now. Cleanly kept and finely dressed in all the most visually offensive patterns, shining revolvers holstered at his hips.
The way Jesper and most other gangsters dressed could only be described as what Kaz liked to call ‘Barrel Trash’. But, the kicker was, Kaz dressed like a merch. Black suits and dimly coloured vests. Damian was fairly certain his boss had no room to talk when it came to fashion taste.
“We’s heading to Fifth Harbor,” Damian told him. “Boss man thinks some other gang’s rerouting shipments or some shit. Paranoid little creep. And Specht’s got papers we have to grab.”
Jesper only grinned sardonically. “Sounds thrilling. Breakfast first, though. I’m starving.”
“Yeah! Quick, before the others start wandering about.” Damian was eager to leave before the Slat got too lively. Not because he didn’t like lively things, but because someone always ended up saying something that made him confused or angry.
Inej was right about one thing, though; things would pick up once the sun set. They always did. The Dregs were night owls by nature of being a gang. Where mornings were lively due to the sheer multitude of people coming and going, with big important things to do, the nights were lively because they promised real, hard action.
So, he and Jesper went for breakfast. They got eggs and toast at some measly place one block over. It was a newer stop, for certain, trying to make its name off the fringes of East and West Stave the way so many dining places did. They all came and went like the wind off the sea.
The Dregs used to have a cook at the Slat, technically, back when Damian and Kaz had been smaller. Damian couldn’t remember what happened to her. If she’d been there at all.
“Can I get more?” he asked when they were finished.
Jesper leaned back from where he sat across from Damian and laughed. “You’re just asking ‘cause I’m paying.”
He wasn’t. Not really, anyway. Damian was just always hungry. All food sort of tasted the same to him. It always had. Bland or sweet or spicy or salty, he’d never known the difference. Someone, Jesper maybe, had once said something about how that must take all the fun out of eating.
Damian hadn’t known it was supposed to be fun. He didn’t care. He’d eat anything because he was always hungry.
He didn’t get any more food.
They got down to Fifth Harbour just after ten bells. Allegedly. Damian didn’t really trust clocks. It was about as bustling as one would expect from a harbor in a city that mostly relied on imported goods for their economy. Whatever that meant. Kaz had yet to explain what an economy was.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Jesper asked, turning his head this way and that as if the answer might be round the corner.
Damian shrugged. “Hell if I know. Let’s just find that old pirate first…”
“Specht’s not a pirate,” Jesper snorted, “he used to be in the navy, I think.”
“Pirate,” Damian decided firmly. “Where is the little bugger anyhow?”
The little bugger in question was standing along the furthest pier, looking rather… whatever the opposite of brooding was. Specht actually looked like he was in quite a good mood. He was your usual Kerch bloke, broad in the shoulders, not particularly tall, dressed all scraggly but just put together enough to look employed.
Specht turned to watch Damian’s approach with a little smirk. “Well, if it isn’t the runt.” Then his gaze lifted to Jesper. “Fahey. Good to see you.”
He handed Damian a small brown satchel, to which Damian gave a curious sound. “These for the boss?”
“You bet,” Spect replied with a singular nod. “You here ‘cause of the missing ships?”
Jesper crossed his arms. “How many ships are we talking about here?” He was practically bouncing where he stood. It was one of the many things Damian and Jesper had in common; endless restlessness.
“Only two so far,” Specht answered. “I’ve been tasked with documenting everything personally for the next two weeks. Brekker doesn’t want anything else slipping in or out.”
“By hand?” said Damian incredulously. “Saints, you got your work cut out for you, huh?” He pointed to the small ship docking at the berth to their left. “What’s in that one?”
“Liquor, I think,” Specht grunted. “For the club.”
When Jesper went back to asking questions about the missing ships, Damian shouldered the bag and immediately wandered off. The docks, to him, always felt like another world. The ocean wasn’t like a canal. The shape and colour and size, even the smell of it, were all different from one another.
While the harbors were a vital piece of Ketterdam; the ocean didn’t really fit into the picture in Damian’s head. The True Sea seemed so far away and impossible. He found it hard to believe he was staring right at it.
Ships were another piece of the dumb puzzle. Another thing he didn’t get and didn’t want to get. He honestly didn’t even know what half of their shipments brought in.
He knew some of them were for the Crow Club and the Slat, but most of the time they were actually for other people. Groups and establishments all along the Barrel. They all had to pay taxes, not only to exist on Dregs’ turf, but to use the Dregs’ harbor to import their goods. A portion of proceeds goes to charity, and all that jazz.
He couldn’t imagine how many people could need so much stuff, though. Fifth Harbor saw at least three ships coming or going a day. Probably more. Were they all carrying booze?
A hopeful wish. But highly unlikely.
Damian made it to the last berth at the pier before Jesper grabbed him by the arm.
“Kid,” he hissed breathlessly. “I was calling for you. What’re you doing?”
“Walking away,” Damian said bluntly. “All that talk was boring.”
“I know!” Jesper let go of him with a groan. “You think I wanted to handle it? That was torture. Do you like torturing me? Is this fun for you?”
Damian smiled. “Only a little! Say, what’re the odds you repeat any of what he said back to the boss?”
Jesper pulled a face. “Uh, slim to none.” He crouched down in one swift motion to be at eye level with Damian, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t think he said anything too important anyway. These guys are just as clueless as Kaz right now. No one knows what’s going on.”
“Kaz ain’t clueless,” Damian defended. “Even if he is, he’ll figure it out in no time.”
“One can only hope,” Jesper muttered as he stood back up. “Look, I don’t want to stay here and watch them document cargo. You don’t want to stay here and watch them document cargo. What say you and I ditch this post?”
Damian got excited very suddenly. Typically, he didn’t like abandoning any work Kaz gave to him, but the thought of just hanging around with Jesper sounded fun. Like, massively fun. He couldn’t even believe Jesper suggested such a thing, as if maybe—
“I’ll see you tonight at the Crow Club,” Jesper added smoothly.
Oh. He wanted to split up. Of course.
Damian plastered on a big smile and nodded. “Sounds like a plan. This place is lame, and we’ve both got better shit to do.”
♧
Damian didn’t have any better shit to do. The rest of the day was a blur. This is how the middle-part of most of Damian’s days played out. His mornings were always the same, and so were his nights, but the afternoons were often left to change. It was why they were so unimportant.
Sometimes he’d get assigned another job. Collecting payments, delivering supplies, scaring recruits, blah blah blah. Sometimes he’d walk the length of the Barrel and then up the East Stave to look for Inej. Sometimes he’d go looking for something else.
What he did with the middle of his days never really mattered. All good things happened at night.
By seven bells, the Crow Club was booming. Every table was full on both floors, every dealer was busy, every stool at the bar was taken. It was all dark and smokey and noisy. It was Damian’s favourite thing in the world.
He sat perched on the top of the stairs and watched it all. Jesper was at his usual table, playing Makker’s Wheel beside two Dregs that Damian probably should know the names of but didn’t.
Kaz was at the bar. Unusual. He always liked to watch the floor, the games, liked to catch people cheating or swiping or show off a fancy sleight of hand when someone else got sloppy.
Now, Damian couldn’t play cards (Jesper kept trying to teach him, but he always forgot he rules), and he didn’t keep any money on hand to gamble with (you can’t pickpocket a broke podge), so one might ask; what does a handsome hero do at a gambling den all night?
Damian wished he could say drink himself silly, but that went against the few rules Kaz actually enforced upon him.
Kaz’s rules for Damian were as follows:
- Damian was not allowed to drink alcohol.
- Damian was not allowed to wield a gun.
- Damian was not allowed to take orders from anyone but Kaz.
So, what did Damian do at the Crow Club? He watched and waited for trouble that was always threatening to boil over, and when it did, he was right there to swoop in.
Speaking of trouble…
He jumped to his feet and turned around to find Rotty chatting up a lady by the far railing overlooking the first floor. He tugged on Rotty’s sleeve until Rotty stopped talking, turned to face him, and the lady walked away with a frustrated huff.
“What?” Rotty snapped. “This better be good, brat.”
“I saw Inej heading for Dime Lion turf on my way here,” Damian said. “What’s all that about?”
Damian was easily forgetful. Jesper was easily distracted. Inej was easily invisible. Once you reached the end of that line, Rotty was usually the next best person to ask when it came to Dregs business.
Rotty smiled then, a hungry thing, meaning he had a good story to tell. “Ah, yeah, that. I heard Rollins got his hand on a Heartrender. Fresh off the boat and everything.” He gestured vaguely. “Brekker wants her, I bet. The Wraith’s recruiting.”
“A Heartrender?” Damian mumbled, the word unfamiliar to him. “Like, a witch?”
“Sure.” Rotty rolled his eyes. “A witch. Leave me alone now, yeah?” He didn’t tack on a threat to the end of that sentiment. Rotty had been around long enough to know better.
Damian watched him chase after his lady without another word. Inej. Recruiting someone. Beating Rollins to the punch. And nobody had told him?
That definitely sounded like Kaz.
There was a very good chance that Damian had been told of this plan and simply forgot. He tried to recall what he and Kaz talked about this morning, but the earliest thing he could remember clearly was handing off that satchel of papers to Kaz. That had been after lunch.
Still! It was the principle of the thing!
However, they hadn’t had a new Dreg in far too long. Fresh meat always meant one thing for certain; the promise of something new to play with.