Ari stands nose to nose with Meg and holds her stare with a sneer.
“Threats aren’t your thing, Meg. They don’t even qualify as enforcement, you know.”
Meg lowers her arm as her eyes narrow.
“Oh, what would you rather I do, then? This is actually good. Let’s see if you can imagine the sort of enforcement I should be doing instead. Especially when a lost soul thinks you’re torturing them purely for fun? No. You can’t. Why would you even try to? You never had your bees resist because they think you’re a monster.”
“You think I enjoy running batches all day long? Reworking the recipe because the boss wants faster turnaround? I’m following the directive. Making it work. If there are edge cases–”
“Edge cases?” Meg cuts in.
“Twelve. Out of barely a hundred who took your green sludge. Twelve, and that’s just today. Couldn’t even tell me what they’ve ever done wrong.”
Ari takes a step back as his hands rise like he’s calming livestock.
“Side effects only show up if you ignore the instructions. It’s medicine, Meg, not magic. Follow the schedule and they’ll forget what they’re meant to forget. That’s the point.”
Meg sucks in a breath.
“Ari.” The name leaves her with a rasping sigh.
“I can’t hold anyone to an oath they don’t recall making, and I won’t stand by or perform that theatre.”
She braces her shoulders.
“I keep the ledger. Exactly as I’m supposed to. And now what? I’m being handed pages that have already been torn out.”
Val arrives at the dartboard, thumps her helmet down on the nearest table, and loops an arm through Meg’s.
“Everyone’s wound tight and loud tonight.” A gentle tilt of her glass towards Ari and Ron beside him does the polite nodding for her.
Ari shrugs as he keeps his eyes on Meg.
“You want queues that don’t riot? This is the price. Boss’s orders. Nothing else keeps them manageable.”
Val lowers her voice and aims her gaze at the dartboard rather than the faces.
“I’ve been keeping the records on who’s ready… for long enough that I should be able to spot the difference, well, at least between the ones who chose the risk and those who had no clue there was one. The boss issued the order for a reason. Queue violence was up forty percent before Ari’s protocols were expanded. We all saw the reports. It could be in our best interests, for our jobs or sanity, to accept that the boss knows what he’s doing.”
Her eyes find Meg’s for a brief moment.
“I don’t love it.” She pulls a face, smile and grimace battling for space.
“Yes, I’m aware… I’m not saying it’s right, either. All I can see is that the criteria stopped making sense.”
Ron dusts chalk from his fingers as he lifts his chin.
“I saw Merx’s reports earlier. The poor souls wait all that time, and they’re already gone before they get to cross anywhere.” He meets Ari’s eye straight on.
“That’s certainly something I don’t have a form for.”
Ari turns to Ron.
“Out of your lane, Ferryman. Everyone’s stretched thin. Two of the downstairs best got kicked off script, so this is just interim cover. Don’t get precious.”
Ron’s brows flick upward as if stunned. He casts a look towards Maz and Eli at the bar, before his eyes, slow to shut, slower to reopen, find Ari once more.
Ari takes a quick swig of his drink.
“How am I suddenly the villain in this?” He looks at Meg, then Ron.
“I’m the person who got the instruction. Like you. The formula works. I’ve tested it, and whichever way you want to look at it, the dosage is calibrated fine. If it’s being misapplied… that’s not the recipe’s fault.”
Meg folds her arms, letting her serpent cuff point at Ari.
“So your medicine’s worth all this now?”
Val’s grin stretches flat.
“Easy, Ari.” She gives Meg a sideways glance.
“She’s been itching to hit something worthwhile.”
Ari raises his glass in a private toast, nothing more than a slight tip of its edge as he rolls his eyes at it.
“Then I hope none of you are short on memory.” He walks away from the dartboard towards the bar.
The jukebox stutters back to the same refrain.
‘You’re never ever really home–’
At the bar, Maz catches Ron’s look and follows his sightline to Ari.
How do all these people know Ari? Is everyone on Viper? No, surely not.
She watches him veer away from a table where a man with a lyre sits alone.
Probably not your problem, but… How many stories run under the counter in this place?
Eli turns his gaze from the dartboard to the bar, his fingers drumming over the mint tin in his pocket.
Right. Obviously, none of that was weird at all. Meg’s ‘again’ blunder is somehow starting to make more sense, though. Everyone looks… too familiar, but I’m also sure I’ve never met them before. We should’ve at least ordered a drink.
Deon leans on the bar while they observe the dartboard as if witnessing the performance of the week. Without taking their eyes off it, they reach beneath the counter and slide out an unlabelled bottle with its cork stained almost black.
“Now this one is on the house.” They thump it down and pass it across to Maz with two fingers.
“Just in case you don’t remember what good wine should taste like.”
Maz pushes the bottle backwards a notch.
“Do you treat every new customer like this?”
Deon thumps a fresh goblet down and shoots her a look.
“New? That’s precious, Mazcal. The pair of you have more history with this place than this bottle.”
Maz’s hand wraps around the bottle’s neck, the cold of the glass making her sit straighter and shuffle back a little.
What did they call you? Or were they talking about the bottle? No. Probably. Well, now you have a nickname too. It’s just wine. Expensive wine. Nostalgic wine. Regretful wine. From someone who talks like they know your name before you’ve said it. You’re. Absolutely. Fine. Don’t make it a thing.
Deon turns to Eli and pours a bright blue liquid into a crystal glass. They place it in front of him.
“In case the weather finishes what the day began.”
Eli glances down at the drink, watching the ripple flatten out. He gives it a slight turn so its base aligns with a scratch on the surface.
Blue. Which is… What? I could ask and sound suspicious. Obviously won’t. Am I up for drinking this thing that smells like a… dare?
His fingertip passes across the mark on the wood as he opens his mouth as if to speak.
I remember feeling this bit, likely a while ago. Right, so, have I actually sat here before?
Laughter flares from behind Deon, followed by a man calling out from the card table on the other side of the bar.
“Deon, deal already. We’re about to turn into pot plants!”
Deon throws up their hands in dramatic surrender as they roll their eyes.
“Patience, petals.” They give the card table a smile over their shoulder.
“Stories ferment better when you let them breathe.”
They look at Maz, then Eli, and lower their voice.
“If you see a door, take it, darlings. Some doors only open from the inside.” They dip into a shallow curtsy.
“Useful thing to know. Eventually.”
After a wink and a twirl, they turn to the other end of the bar. Their sequins send back the pub’s light onto the glasses and bottles on the counter.
Maz turns the bottle in her hand before her other hand joins on top, looking for her own pulse. The sparkles bend through the glass where her reflection distorts. From either side of her, the surface collects people’s slaps as they laugh and the scraping of glasses after each clink, filling the absence of the heartbeat she seeks.
She pours the wine into her goblet until it spills over in a splash. Her hand reaches for a napkin from the side. It stains her skin as she wipes it away. She tries to rub it off. The colour bothers to come off after the cloth goes over it three more times.
Fine. You can count that as your count.
“This pub’s… a lot.”
“Yeah.” Eli runs his finger along the side of his glass before he takes a sip. His brows pull up in a subtle curve and hold there for a second when the candied taste of the drink sets in.
“I… I’m not entirely a fan of how much it seems to know us. Somehow.”
The jukebox attempts the same song again. The lyrics skip and change into a half-remembered dream at best.
‘You’re never – home–
–never – really gone–
–never – alone–’
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