2024.09.20: Fake IDs and fateful decisions

The girl wanders in far too late on a school night - or a university night. Perhaps she’s just a very youthful college student, but usually students come in groups. Her clothes are loose layers, modified at home with wrapped ribbons, badges and patches of anime characters. Her trainers are darkened with mud, hair dip-dyed too soon before the previous color faded. She heads straight to the bar. “Lone Star,” she says, asking for a glass of what passes for beer in Texas. Her accent isn’t local. Mid-Atlantic.

Lizzy's behind the bar, working a bit later than she usually does. "Got some ID, sugar?" she asks lightly, which is standard operating procedure for unknowns who look under 30. Lizzy would get carded under her own policy.

The girl nods, and pulls out a tattered wallet, half-wafting what is probably the worst fake ID in Texas. Unless she really is called Coraline Jones (that movie is super old), is 24 and from Wyoming. And no longer wears glasses. Or cuts her hair in a pudding bowl.

Lizzy raises an eyebrow. "Try again."

The girl rolls her eyes and, with the same ID this time takes it out and waves it around like she’s performing a magic trick. “OK? That OK now?”

Lizzy looks her straight in the eye. "No." Lizzy raises a hand to catch the attention of Mr. Buchanan.

The girl scrunches up her nose. “Oh c’mon, you looked cool.” With a noise that is either ‘kkkfkkfkkph’ or ‘pfhhhwweefffph’ depending on your audible range, she flops down on the chair defeated. “Fine. Just... Dr Pepper. Or Coke. Just... let me stay.” There is a barely audible please at the end of the sullen murmuring.

She nods, pouring her a Dr. Pepper. "You okay? Somethin' on your mind?"

“No,” she says with a shrug that basically means yes. “Just this stupid town, I guess. Is she singing tonight? The... is she the Blue Devil? You know. The singer with the voice.” She widens her eyes at the ‘the’. Lost. Clinging on to the one thing that she can find that means something in New Albion.

"She sings when she wants to, darlin'. I don't always have a good handle on her schedule. And trust me, I feel you on this town sometimes. I lived here before it became what you see now. I was workin' out at the Tailspin when the whole thing started. Got to see a lot of the anti-gentrification movement opposing it up close."

“Tailspin’s cool,” she says, hinting that she might well have gotten away with the fake ID there. “North of the river’s just soulless hipster stuff. It’s like this whole town has just had a load of shiny new toys dumped on it to nuke whatever vibe it had once.” She pulls a cheek, which is almost a smile, sips the drink. Up close she looks scrawny but not impoverished; middle class girl who doesn’t know what hardship really is but is too lost in her own angst. The red in her eyes might be tiredness or that she’s high. Mostly she just seems lost. “Why’d they even build this place? It’s not like Texas is...” somewhere fun? Interesting? She trails off, catching herself before insulting the bartender’s heritage.

"Ever heard of Elon Musk?"

“Guy who sent his car into space?”

"Yeah. Fuckton more money than sense. Similar concept, but instead of frivolous shit, Marcus Gordon decided he wanted a whole city. Building a place where people could do some good. The decision on location is an interestin' and complicated one, and the only reason I know anythin' about it is because I was pourin' drinks for the other side. Of course, it'd probably bore the shit outta you to talk about Mexican manufacturing plants just on the other side of the border."

“Mexicans have rights to jobs too, no matter what wall-building duckweeds have to say about it.” There’s a shrug. “I get why you want a big shiny super-city. But a city should be about more than just doing stuff. It’s a collective soul. It’s like this Gordon guy focuses only on achieving something and doesn’t put the emotion in.” There’s a flap of an over-long hoodie sleeve and another drink. “Without emotion the whole thing’s just sterile anyways, so why bother?”

Lizzy looks a little pained at that, but she swallows it to answer the girl. "That's just it. It's the people who come here bring the emotion with them. Any city without people is as emotionless as the next. Even breathtakin' architecture can't fix that."

“Yeah,” the girl falls silent. Finishes the drink. Way too late for that much sugar and caffeine but doesn’t look like she’s sleeping anyway. “I guess I’m trying to find that. It’s why I was looking for the singer. There’s some tags out in the southeast of town, too. Y’know, down by that garage and tow hub? Like, almost at the Arbor Metro. Street art’s more honest than some corporate statue. Feels like actual people are getting shoved to the edges.”

"That happens, especially when a city grows faster than it normally would." The 'or has any right to' remains unspoken. "And the south end of town still has some of what's left of Hibernia, the town that was here before New Albion sprang up."

“Maybe I’ll check it out. Hibernia’s Ireland, right? Family is Irish, way back. Or Scottish. I dunno. Something around there.” Jones being a totally un-Irish surname from Wales, but you already saw through that. “Thanks, uh...”

"Lizzy." She smiles softly.

“Abi.” That at least sounds genuine.

"Pleasure to meet you, Abi."

A half-smile. “Does my ID really suck that bad?”

"The singer" is at her usual table, apparently helping her tweenaged son with his Latin homework. As she is dressed down considerably from her stage attire, the auburn-haired woman in oxford button-down and slim fit bluejeans draws no attention. Although the apparently twelve-year-old boy might draw attention.

"Yes. Yes it does. The haircut's atrocious." Lizzy smirks, then she spots Doris taking her usual table while Lizzy had been busy enforcing state law. "I'll... be right back, darlin'," she says to Abi before slipping out from behind the bar to head toward Doris. She bows her head to the twelve-year-old before whispering into Doris' ear.

Doris flicks a glance at the underaged girl at the bar, then at Lizzy, than at what is presumably her son. There is a shrug and a muttered response.

"Up to you," Lizzy says with a shrug. She then gives both Doris and her companion a little two-fingered salute and heads back to the bar. "Put a good word in for ya," she says to Abi. "Ya might luck out."

Abi looks confused and spins around, only then realising that the singer is right freakin’ there and goes into what can only be described as ohgodohgoddon’tstarebecoolbecool mode.

The staring-not-staring is politely ignored.

Lizzy continues her nightly bartending duties, but now grinning at the ripples of that little whisper.

Abi goes back to her drink, which is now drunk, and swirls the ice around.

"Refill?" Lizzy asks, looking back in Doris' direction, then at Abi.

“It’s free refills, right?” Because she has totally been to a proper bar before.

Doris is being A Good Mom. Lizzy knows that Work is being done and that Doris will sing only if and when she gets through it in a reasonable amount of time. Why it involves one of the Prince's childer is probably above her pay grade.

"Normally no, but I'm feelin' nice tonight."

There’s an appreciative smile, and a ruffled note to actually pay for the first drink. Which may not have been offered if it wasn’t free refills.

The Latin conference comes to an end. The boy nods rather solemnly and shakes Doris' hand. Odd.

Abi does keep glancing over at Doris and the weird formal boy. But she doesn’t seem to think it’s supernatural, more... well, 12-year-old kids are weird. Besides, her completely subtle glances are more focused on the singer than her... son?

Doris smiles slightly, which is more of a grimace. So serious. The boy shows himself out, oddly self-possessed for someone who looks like his life should be LEGOs and cartoons.

Abi is blatantly staring-not-staring at Doris, looking at her even as she tries to drink her soda in a cool way and, failing, manages to poke crushed ice against her nose.

There is a mild bustling of packing up the rest of her work. Doris is clearly preparing to switch gears from mother and possibly business owner to entertainer. Or she is preparing to leave. Hard to tell.

Abi’s hand dips into one of the layers of clothes, pulling out a phone. It has very clearly, a wall of missed calls and text messages from “MOM” and “STEP-ASSHOLE”. There is an eye roll and more soda.

And then she is gone, off in the direction of the "employees only" area.

There is almost a physical deflation and her exit. “Told you this fucking town is fucking shitballs.” She says to Lizzy. “See you around, I guess.” The final clause practically drips with emo petulance. Hands are thrust in pockets as she goes to leave.

One of the not-Lizzy staffers comments offhandedly, "It's early. If she sings, she normally doesn't start before eleven."

As she turns towards the door, a tall man walks in and first nods to the apparent child before doing a double take amd glancing towards Lizzy. "Is she even legal, darling?" There is a not of laughter in his deep baritone. He turns towards the girl, questioningly, as though to ask "what is a child doing in ANY bar unaccompanied - never mind THIS bar?

Abi - who at 18 damn well considers herself old enough - produces both her terrible fake ID and a middle finger, one from each hoodie pocket. “You mean like that weird-ass sixth grader you just nodded to?” She asks.

He takes one look at the ID, and smiles, sadly. "This is terrible. I couldn't even make it passable." He turns to the girl "Whoever sold you this ripped you off. You clearly know that, so why did you pay for a third-rate fake ID to walk into this bar?" He slides a white business card into her hand "For when you need the job done properly."

Before turning to Lizzy, blowing her a kiss, and taking his drink towards the piano.

There is a huff, and Abi retreats, lost and clutching the card, to one of the booths. And stays quiet.

After what is entirely too long for Abi's youthful impatience, Doris emerges from the back. Tonight is all wiggle dress and pin up glamorousness. And all black. No shoes, but her pedicure is on point. Was she wearing shoes earlier?

The man at the piano lifts his glass towards her with a smile from the piano

Doris pads over to murmur in her accompanist's ear.

He grins, nods, and the first notes out of the piano could have been from a church organist - a repeated trill and resolved triad. Though any classic rock fans would recognize the intro for Black Sabbath's "Changes"

Doris begins humming as he warms up, making small circles on the stage. She seems to be listening to something. Acoustics? The exact pitch of the piano's current tuning? Who knows?

Abi leans on her table, chin in palms, watching intently. Absorbed. Heady with anticipation.

The humming slowly evolves into singing, a simple, old song. The haunting melody weaves itself in and out of the pianist's warmup. "Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose,/Will I ever see thee wed?/I will marry at thy will sire,/At thy will./Oh poor bird,/Why art thou/Flying in the shadows/of this dark hour?"

An echo and counterpoint sings back: "Heigh ho, nobody home /Meat nor drink nor money have I none. /Yet will I be merry." The round quietly fills the room.

Abi is entranced: there’s no other word for it. She’s trying to piece together how the hell you do that with your voice, never mind what the song is. Her eyes are wide. Mind. Blown.

Doris continues to run through her warmup, singing "Now the Green Blade Rises" next. Then Leonard Cohen's "Nightengale."

Abi seems to just marvel at it, but... something gnaws at her. Basic, human decency. She quickly shuffled over to the bar and leans over to Lizzy. “Uh, is that kid going to be OK?” she whispers. “Isn’t it like, way too late for a kid to be walking home alone?” The hypocrisy of this question whiffs above her head without a moment’s realisation.

Meanwhile there is a pause in the music. Doris is now conferring with her accompanist, possibly selecting a set list.

Marcus looks over at the somewhat sulky teenager and grins at the singer. He gives the piano three quick taps to set the time, and begins a playful, danceable melody over top of it.

The music is allowed to settle into itself before Doris adds her voice to it. "When you're in love, there's no time and no space/There's a permanent smile on your face/Your friends all complain that you're going insane/But the truth is they're just afraid..."

Marcus is chuckling - let the emo kid cheer up a bit.

Lizzy had retreated to the back, as her shift had finished up somewhere in there. She's out of the wiggle dress and into yoga pants and a hoodie. She doesn't look all that different from Abi out of work drag. Maybe with a slightly higher budget.

Abi mostly just listens, now stranded at the bar, eyes sometimes on Doris, eyes sometimes closed. Listening.

There is a grin, and a kiss blown towards the now-dressed-down bartender before he leans in to the microphone on the piano, joining the chorus in counterpoint to the Siren on stage.

The song is infused with a lounge singer aesthetic, the singer swaying slightly in time. No microphone and able to soar above or cut through the piano and Marcus voice without overwhelming them. "Hey somewhere,/you threw your fear in the Sea of No Cares/Hey somewhere,/you threw your fear in the Sea of No Cares."

There might be tears. Emo tears.

He lets his voice trail off as she finishes the chorus, playing the intro melody a couple of times leading into the next verse

"When you decide that what counts is inside/Your friends all say it's a lie/But there's no brighter light than the look in her eyes/When you're walking her home through the night." The Siren's gaze flicks between her accompanist and her assistant manager with the tiniest smirk at the corner of her mouth. She does not miss a beat.

The pianist also flashes a smile at the assistant manager/bartender, as he leans into the microphone for the chorus

Another round of the chorus. She is still keeping time with her whole body subconsciously. Her eyes have closed, focused internally on the music.

The pulse in Abi’s neck rises and falls with the beat. Drumming like sanguine thunder.

Lizzy sidles up to a seat next to Abi, just in case she needs to sob emo tears into a friendly shoulder.

Last verse: "Back at the bar getting cynically stoned/Your friends are drinking alone/But it's funny, they don't even cross your mind/When she asks you into her home."

There is wistfulness and something slightly sad in the singer's attitude. The song seems to mean something else to her than the melody and words imply.

“She’s awesome.” Muttered. “I can’t stay. But she just... resonates. You know?”

Lizzy nods. "I can see why folks think that. I might be deadened to it a bit from seein' it every night for three years."

“I don’t want to be deadened.” That, for the first time, is the complete and total truth.

"Then treat moments like this as transient and infrequent. 'Sometimes food,' as it were."

Nod. “I’m gonna check out Hibernation.” Hibernia. “Not tonight. Supposed to do some test or whatever in the morning anyway.”

"Go rest. You'll thank me later." She grins. "Good luck on your test."

Abi shrugs. Eyes are now pretty much fountains but determined to not freakin’ cry. There’s a sort of... sullen grunt. And a last look at Doris. “Later.”

Lizzy narrows her eyes, then shrugs. She then checks her texts, then looks over at Marcus with a little frown.

“Thanks.” Again, barely said. And eyes never drift from the stage, even if the eyes are raw with something lost trying to find a home. And then Abi walks out. Drifting loose into the night, presumably back to parents worried sick and an inevitable shouting match about life and sleep and... middle class privileged overhyped drama.

Marcus catches the bartenders' eye from the piano and offers a reassuring smile, as if to say "all is well."

The last notes of the song fade away. As the primary audience has gone home, Doris does not continue with the set. The general buzz of bar conversation resumes..

Marcus steps down from the piano and walks towards Lizzy. "You got my message, darling?"

"I did." She nods. "What did you wanna talk about? I know I got lots to say, but I'm not sure how much of it is appropriate for wider consumption."

"I have some work to do, and I had thought you could help - and I could try to show you some things you need to know." Even in the safety of the Elysium, he is going to be vague in this. "My car is outside, if you're off."

"I am off. I was stayin' a little late cuz folks were runnin' late." She smirks. "Management."

"I heard that. I need more staff." Dryly.

"I shall find a woodworker to make you one." Equally dry, but ever teasing

"Mind your tongue, boy. I tend towards Mister Gordon's sin of finding more work for impertinent underlings." Tart.

"Well, speaking of work, we are about to embark upon the Crown's business this evening." He turns to Lizzy. "Shall we, darling?" Offering her his arm.

"Try to be more circumspect this time. My son is not going to always be willing to be your wheelman."

"This is simple observation, and in a public place. I have never taught before - this seems a chance to be safely instructive."

"I shall keep my mobile telephone nearby." Doris does not sound convinced.

He nods. "Thank you. I shall be discreet."

"There is a first time for all things, I suppose."

"There are SOME times when a discreet application of chaos theory are inappropriate to the task."

Marcus receives a noncommittal grunt. Lizzy gets a faint smirk and a subtle eyeroll. Boys. "Be careful, girl. I would not like to hear that you were gone. I look forward to your report."

This time, he levels his eyes towards the Siren "I protect what I value. You know this." Seriously.

"I cannot miss you until you leave..."

"Y'all done?"

He smiles at her broadly, and offers her his hand. "Yes."

She then takes it and waves to Doris. "I'll be careful, mama."

He walks with her out the door, and escorts her to her car with a sly grin. "I DID say we could take yours some time." teasing her, as he opens the driver's door for her.

Lizzy smirks, then gets in her car. "If whatever we're doin' jeopardizes or destroys this car, you're gettin' me a new one." That's not a joke or a request, from the sound of it.

"If you'd like, I could just get you a new one. Would you prefer a Mercedes-Benz, or a Porsche?" His delivery is ... dead-pan? Or perhaps he's being serious. "Though not tonight - tonight, we have a small job to do."

"Uhhhhhh... neither, cuz that's showy as fuck. Where'm I goin'?" she asks, buckling up and starting the engine. She doesn't actually move the car until Marcus is buckled up.

"We are going to go and observe a waitress who is likely more than she appears." The answer is somewhat vague, as he tries to figure out where to begin. "Thus far, I have tried to protect you from the horrors that exist in our world - partly because of my desire to see you safe, and partly because of my desire to not use you as a tool. I have been remiss, in that, and I apologize. I have a duty to you that extends beyond being your lover."

And with that, they are out of earshot...

An indeterminate amount of time after Marcus and Lizzy have left, Doris frowns, pulls out her phone, and sends a text. Then she goes back to work. Office hours for the newly-minted Seneschal are slightly busier than for the Keeper acting as Seneschal.

Sheridan arrives late. Deliberately. Changed into relaxed attire, hoping to see the new Seneschal. He comes into the bar, giving a quick scan to see if there’s some kind of queue like the end of Beetlejuice.

There is no queue. Just Brownian motion. Doris is still in her black dress and barefoot. The laptop has reappeared.

Sheridan makes his way over. And gives a polite indication of his presence while obeying the overly formal and yet beyond stupid in terms of practicality and social interaction rules about not talking to Elders until they talk to you first

"Are you going to hover there all night?" Doris does not look up. "You are standing around like a schoolboy desperate to take a piss but terrified of teacher."

“Well, I didn’t have a chance to apologise after court. I was... having a difficult time. So I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you like a human or like whichever title you currently hold.”

"Titles come and go." A tiny smile.

“Nothing lasts forever. So what makes love the exception?” He tilts his head up. “Scootch.” And takes a seat. “Like I said, apologies for the court. But I’m actually here about the little sewer safari. I don’t know what you’ve been told. And I imagine if it was told, it would be through a lens.”

Doris waves over a staff member. The order is placed. "You provide a different lens. I am curious."

“Well, neonates are going to neonate. Marcus’ plan was basically to descend into the sewers in the centre of Chinatown in a tactical vest and assume we wouldn’t be noticed. I did my best sewage worker and cones, but a little more prep - a work order and van - would have helped. Once down, we trusted to his cameras and Cerriphan, who is rather talented at both sneaking and seeing, led on. I mostly kept to the walls. If I understand her, a trio passed before us. Angel, a lizard of some description, and a Nosferatu.”

"I wonder if Mister Crowley is aware..." Doris purses her lips. Sheridan is waved to a seat. Being able to talk to important people as if they were people is refreshing. "What did Miss d'Galdis see?"

Gavin seems not to have known that was Cerriphan’s last name, but goes with it. In a remarkable, though not supernatural, impression of her: “Shedding the crumbling mask. Ah, there she is to going. Another-- all the same route. Different faces to going through. And a scurrying rat?... Rat-child... gator... Nos-fer-a-tu.” This is not done out of mockery, but to let Doris surmise the meaning without interpretation.

"We knew she was hiding her face. I did not know she was at any time tracked..." Another moue. "Continue."

“We walked as far as what appeared to be solid wall. At this point the Nosferatu seems to have turned back. We found a keypad, well hidden, and a door. Unsure whether we could get out once the door closed behind us, we decided to head back. At which point we had all the fun with the cameras, losing our way, and ending up six blocks from where we should have been. Prank. Warning. You decide. From there, you know the rest.” Sheridan’s tongue runs over his teeth. “One more thing. There is nothing in the sewer. No rats. No mice. Nothing with a pulse bigger than a spider. And that... is what unnerves me the most.”

"It might be connected with the other entity. I would not want to live in the same place as that."

“No. Most troubling thing about that is that it’s a hydra. Kill it and you’ll get two.”

"Fire always works." Coolly. Where the charming socialite went is anyone's guess, however this new hardass seems to have her shit together.

“My point,” Sheridan says, “is this is a new city. Ancient tentacled Eldritch horrors grow where light does not shine over millennia or a hundred years - not two or three. If you don’t nullify whoever created it or put it there, they will just do it again with a worse pet.”

"Eight. And the existence simply suggests its owner has apprentices helping in excess of the one currently enjoying the hospitality of Gordon Tower." Sardonic.

“Well that isn’t good.” Sheridan scratches his nose. “You know this is an opportunity for peace, right? I don’t know if anyone has suggested such a radical notion. But 36 missing dock workers and eyes popping out across town is bad for business in Chinatown, too. Someone should talk to them. Tell them to back off with their drug mule nonsense and in exchange we’ll work with them in dealing with these sewer beasts.”

"I know. I believe we require just a touch more pressure..." Doris chews her lower lip a moment. "The fact you are not dead for trespass suggests they might be amenable."

“I still think we should sit down for tea. Although...” he twists his lip. “Your piano player is too cocksure. This is Personal for him. And your bartender, if only she knew. It’s not for the Cathayans.”

"She knows. And I understand all of this. It is only personal for me because I am a possessive shepherd who dislikes her flock being disturbed."

“Oh.” There’s disappointment.

"What is it?"

“I was hoping you were doing it because it’s the right thing to do. Unless you mean that you cast yourself as shepherd for the whole city. In which case, I take it back.” There’s a tension in Sheridan’s arm. Thoughts to a recent conversation. “Why can’t we build something perfect? When we entered this life, we left the people who cared about us with only questions they never answered. Why can’t we make things... make things perfect? And clean?”

"A king needs a queen." She sounds like she is quoting someone, down to the burr and lilt of accent.Then she continues: "But this is an imperfect world and we are still imperfect beings. We can only strive to the limits where the falling angel meets the rising ape." Her voice is soft.

“Perhaps that imperfection is why we need to try.” There’s a brief flash of a smile. “Do you want me to talk to the Cathayans? I’d also suggest talking to the Anarchs. I’ve never met one that didn’t like a fight, and if Marcus - and it’s inevitably going to be - is going to re-enact the end of Alien 3 in the sewers, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

"My son is already organizing the Movement." A tiny smile. "I had opened negotiations, or tried to. Perhaps we can push a few more buttons now that there is illness in their district."

“Yes. Isn’t that a coincidence.” There’s a nod. “Do you know who the second gang in Chinatown is? I saw the news.”

"I might." A tiny smile.

A smile. "As long as it's in hand. I'll see if anyone else wants to go for tea. I still haven't met a lot of the city, I feel. It's not somewhere to go alone. But I'll go without artifice." He sighs and smiles. "There's... something else. I might..." he furrows his brow, eyes turned away. "I'm going to ask you a favor in the future. Right now, I'm in control. But there will be a time when I ask - I won't be able to resist, the whole of my blood will be screaming in my ears. If you are the shepherd you say, please treat it seriously. And please don't take advantage of me."

"I understand. And I swear to you I shall not." Soberly.

The smile returns. Tension lifted. "Thank you. Well... I'm sorry I won't get to hear you sing tonight, even if you look dressed for it. I suppose being Queen has its tediums. "I'll leave a message with my primogen if we do go to the Cathayans, detailing who and when. In the meantime, I'll keep my ear to the ground. Just... not near any sewer grates." Sheridan mimes some kind of... tentacle going into his ear.

"That is a horrifying thought. I plan to go to our other neighbors and ask for an explanation. I expect to have to argue my right to do my job." There is a smirk. "Perhaps you will get to hear an entirely different performance."

"Perhaps. But right now, we're well past a reasonable hour, I've got a song in my head, and this isn't a kareoke bar. I should go. Goodnight, Miss Ashview. You know how to contact me."

"Were you offering a duet?" Flirtatious. "Goodnight, Sheridan. I know your face and thus you are never more than a whisper away."

Sheridan nods, gives her a very odd look, then walks up to the bar, claims his drink, and saunters off into the night.