Chapter Text
It was cold, and late. An intelligent citizen wouldn't be caught dead here- not on this street, not at this hour.
Rodion was running, hands stuffed deep into her pockets, wool scarf and hat pulled to obscure her face. Snow crunched beneath her feet, fragile and powdery in the deep chill. She had experienced far worse, however.
She nearly cried with relief when her destination came into view- the windows were still lit, the neon “OPEN” sign flickering.
The building was unassuming- while pretty much every backstreets building was a little run-down, this place looked like it has been through more than most. A dusty window, covered in blinds that were always shut. A weather-beaten wooden door that squeaked loudly at the slightest touch. The only decoration was the sign above the front door- luxuriously painted and spotlessly clean, with paintstrokes like intricate blood spatters: “R. B.”
In the not-too-distant past, Rodion would have turned up her nose at such a shabby place. Life in the backstreets had come as a rude awakening to a woman who slept in velvet sheets and wore elaborate gowns.
But, in the backstreets, she wasn't starving. So she had to get used to places like this, even if she had to hold her nose at first.
R. B. never kept regular hours. While it was open later than almost anywhere else most nights (running right up against the sweeping hour), other times it was closed for days at a time. The only explanation was usually a scrawled note on the door saying “O. O. I.”. Underneath, in a different, messier hand: “Out of ingredients.”.
Thankfully, they seemed to have scrounged up some ingredients today, as Rodion was ravenous. Work today had taken more out of her than usual. She pushed open the door, only flinching a little as it loudly announced her arrival.
The bistro was small- there was one dining room, with eight tables that could only fill simultaneously if everyone was willing to get quite cozy with one another. The floors were dark wood, the walls painted maroon, and the lamp-lighting low and moody. One could say that the interior was designed for a romantic atmosphere, but Rodion suspected it was because stains weren't so obvious that way.
Unusually, however, right now, the ceiling lights were on full-blast, making the whole place look rather old and cheap in their fluorescence. The room reeked of a rather unique combination of soap, blood, and smoke.
To explain this, a lone man stood on the far side of the floor with his back to the door, a mop clutched in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His long dark hair was tied up in a ponytail, but a few loose strands had escaped and hung around his face as he squinted at his work through smudged glasses.
A white chef’s coat and apron were haphazardly tossed over a chair next to him, while he was clad only in an undershirt. His right arm was mechanical all the way up to the shoulder, and, from the looks of it, was definitely built for cost-effectiveness over appearances. He was vigorously scrubbing something on the floor that was obscured from Rodion’s eyeline by a sea of black tablecloth.
At the sound of the door, he released a deep, exhausted sigh, and then turned to face her. However, when he saw her face, his amber eyes immediately brightened and his back straightened out of its usual slouch.
“Hey, Rodya.”
The man quickly pushed his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and yanked on his uniform before turning to face her. As usual, he rolled the starchy white sleeves all the way up to his elbows. A few flecks of rusty brown dotted one side, though one could pretend they were from his prosthetic arm, which certainly looked like it could use a power-wash.
“Hiya, Greg. Mind if I come in? Or are you closing up?”
“I don’t mind, but lemme ask the boss.” Gregor ambled over to the set of double-doors along the back wall, and poked his head in while buttoning up his coat. “Hey, Ryoshu, got one more. Think you could get a B. P. with extra sauce ready?”
A set of grumbles that Rodion could only half-hear but sounded a lot like expletives emitted from the back room.
“C’mon,” Gregor said, “it’s a regular.”
A few stomps later, the owner’s head popped out of the doors. Ryoshu’s red eyes narrowed as she scanned the restaurant floor, and the look the woman gave Rodion felt a lot like a glare. Rodion tried to smile cheekily, but Ryoshu’s gaze was penetrating in a way that made her feel a little antsy.
After ten seconds of sustained eye contact, Ryoshu blinked, and then shrugged. “I’ll make it,” she said before turning and disappearing back into the kitchen. “Gregor, if we’re not closed up before 2:45, I’ll S. Y. N. C.”
Gregor turned his head to Rodion and exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I wanna get swept as much as you do,” he called back to his boss. Once the sounds of pots and pans banging started to reverberate around the kitchen, he walked back over to retrieve his mop and start working again.
“I didn’t even tell you what I wanted,” Rodion said with a chuckle as she sat down at the table next to him, examining the floor with scholarly curiosity. She couldn’t really identify what he was mopping, but it was dark and oily.
“Did ya want something else?”
“Nah.”
A smile ghosted over his lips as he ducked his head down and pushed the mop into the bucket. “Then we’re good.”
Rodion reached out a leg to gently bump him with her foot. “You seem pretty satisfied with yourself,” she chided him.
“Gotta be good at these things, if I’m gonna run my own place one day,” Gregor replied.
“What? You’re saying that you don’t want to keep working for her for the rest of your life? She’s so agreeable.”
Gregor leaned sideways towards her and whispered conspiratorially. “Keep it down, or she’ll have your ass.”
Rodion scoffed. “I can take care of myself,” she said.
“I dunno,” Gregor said, “she’s kinda a professional ass harvester. You see our menu?”
“I can take care of myself,” Rodion insisted. Humans were no threat to her, especially not when she was using her real power. The only ones that were, well, they were far away, and they didn’t know where she was. Ryoshu would be easy prey. Really, Ryoshu should be afraid of her.
Gregor pulled away quickly. “Just tellin’ a joke,” he mumbled, pressing the mop back onto the floor with a squelch.
Rodion’s hands hurt. She looked down to see that she was clenching her hands into fists, her long fingernails carving crescents into her palms. She let out a long breath through her nose and sat back in her chair, trying to relax her tense muscles. He is not calling me weak, she reminded herself. Even if he is, it doesn’t matter. It’s better if everyone thinks I am.
“Long day?” Gregor asked.
“Yeah,” Rodion sighed, massaging her temples.
“Ya know, you’re pretty lucky we’re even still here right now,” he said. “If we hadn’t had an- umm… incident, with one of our ingredients, we’d have been gone an hour ago.”
“Lucky me,” Rodion said, though she didn’t feel like she was, particularly, not after today. “I needed this.”
“Tough job?”
“Shouldn’t have been,” Rodion mumbled. “If I could just do what I’m good at, it would have been easy.” But, instead, I had to swing around a stupid little spear. So I looked like a weak little Grade Nine, wet behind the ears and pathetic.
“But you couldn’t?”
Rodion was happy his back was to her, so he couldn’t see her face. “Yeah. It was a stealth job.” It wasn’t, not really. She just had to rough up some thugs who had been extorting a local prosthetics-maker. The woman was hard-up enough that she only had enough scratch to contract the pathetic office Rodion had fallen in with, and she needed the paycheck if she was going to keep sleeping indoors.
However, every day in the backstreets felt like a stealth job to Rodion.
“Didn’t go well, though,” she sighed. “I blew it.”
If only that smug little asshole hadn’t looked at her like that. Like she was inferior. Rodion just… couldn’t handle that.
“Probably gonna need a new job,” Rodion said. “You guys need a hostess?”
“Not sure we can afford to pay anyone else,” Gregor said. “You don’t wanna work here, anyway. Dirty work.” To punctuate this, he slopped another layer of soapy water onto the ground. It quickly turned brown.
“Dirty work doesn’t really bother me much,” Rodion said, forcing a giggle. “I know it’s a surprise, given how great I look all the time.” Hair, nails, makeup- always perfect, even after a long fight. She had plenty of time to practice that stuff, when she was starving. “So,” she leaned forward, a little anxious to shift the topic away from her day, “what happened with this ingredient?”
“Probably shouldn’t say,” Gregor said. “I think it’s best to leave a bit of mystery behind the process of how this place runs.”
“C’mon. I’m a regular, aren’t I?” Rodion rested her chin on one hand and smirked. “You think I don’t know what you cook with?”
“Mmm, fine.” Gregor adjusted his glasses and squinted at the floor, before setting the mop aside and sliding into the chair across from Rodion. She extended her legs under the table so that he’d bump into them as he sat down, though she’d never confess to the action.
The two chatted for a little while until the clattering in the kitchen ceased. Gregor spoke with a lot of euphemisms, but Rodion was pretty sure she got the general gist. Some syndicate had it in for Ryoshu, and they snuck one of their members into one of the latest deliveries to the bistro. The guy had taken some sort of drug that made him appear dead, and had hidden his weapon on his person in a very inventive place. He had made quite the mess of the dining area (and injured several of their customers) before Ryoshu subdued him. She was in such a foul mood after the whole affair that Gregor had ended up being the one to deal with the aftermath, including the cleanup and offering of vouchers to the shaken clientele. Gregor said that he couldn’t complain too much, though- Ryoshu beheaded the guy with a single throw of her sword in a fashion that was so astounding that there was applause afterwords.
Gregor was back up and mopping as Ryoshu swung open the doors. He gave Rodion a little wink while the woman trudged over. Unlike Gregor, her uniform was well-fitted and spotlessly clean. She wasn’t particularly large or physically intimidating, but there was something intangible about her presence that made Rodion feel like she had been caught misbehaving somehow.
Despite the obvious irritation on the head chef’s face, the small, dark-colored pie was elegantly plated, with a neat, even drizzle of red sauce on top and a little spring of parsley on top. Evidently, she didn't allow her feelings to get between her and her cooking.
It was fresh and steaming, and the smell immediately made Rodion’s mouth water. She rubbed her hands together and gave Ryoshu a smile. “Thanks, Shushu,” she said. “Looks great, as always.”
The woman snorted and looked away, but she did look a little pleased with herself as she drew out and took a puff on her own cigarette. This one had a far harsher scent to it than Gregor’s, filling Rodion’s mouth with a bitter taste. It hung in the air even when the woman made her typical hasty exit, but that did little to dampen Rodion’s mood.
There were two reasons Rodion still came here, and the first was that that capricious woman’s cooking was absolutely divine. Rodion wasn't really sure how this dish would appeal to a human with a normal palate (the pie was quite liquid and gooey), but to her it tasted like pure connection. A flood of experience that filled her stomach and her heart, even if just for a moment. Was this what it felt like to have a real mother? A parent who didn't make your life a living hell?
She had tried other restaurants (Ryoshu’s particular style of cuisine wasn't too hard to find in these parts), but none had been the same. Other places nourished her body, sure, but still left her with an aching craving in her soul. Ryoshu’s dishes managed to nearly mimic what it was like, to drink from the source. And, after burning through so many of her resources today, Rodion needed to stock up.
She probably ate a bit faster than she should have. Rodion hardly registered that she had started eating before half of the dish was gone, and her second reason was watching her with an amused half-smile, hands balanced on the top of the mop’s handle.
“Need seconds?” he asked.
“I think Ryoshu wouldn’t like that,” Rodion said, fighting back a burp.
“I could try to brave her for you,” he said, “maybe if you give me a-”
Knock, knock. The sharp sound of a fist rapping on glass.
Gregor clicked his tongue in irritation as Rodion sighed. She had been genuinely interested in where that sentence was going, but now Gregor had to slap his customer service face back on and run over to the door. It complained loudly as he opened it.
“Hello!” a smooth, familiar voice trilled.
Fuck me, they’re here?!
Rodion ducked beneath her table in a moment, not caring about the soapy water that immediately began to soak through her pants as she pulled up the black tablecloth and crawled in. Fear and hatred twisted in her gut, and her fingers twitched with old instinct. Her mind swam with images of blood splatter, headless bodies, limbs smashed to a pulp. Stumbling down an alley, soaking wet, fingernails gone, and covered in bruises, trying to just get away.
Was there enough blood in the water here for her to use? Maybe on the plate, as well? It wasn't much, but if she had the element of surprise, she might be able to spear somebody. Maybe even all of them, if she had a lot of it. There had to be more blood in the kitchen, maybe she could use that…
“I’m sorry, we’re just closing up. I can getcha a coupon if you wanna come in some other time,” Gregor said. He sounded a little annoyed, but otherwise calm. Of course he was, he had no reason to fear them.
“Oh, no, that’s fine! We’re not planning on ordering anything. We just wanted to ask a few questions.” The man’s voice was casual, maybe even sing-song. There were some fainter mumbles and rustles- probably some other people behind him. Rodion lowered herself even further, pressing herself against the floor to pull the tablecloth up just a tiny bit. The tiling was cold and a bit gritty, making her flinch at the thought of what kind of stains she was going to have on her slacks after this. She peeked out with one eye to count her enemies.
Gregor stood in front of them, blocking their entrance as he slowly lit a cigarette, exhaling before giving the fixer a response. Rodion got a rather magnificent view of his backside, but couldn't see anyone besides that and the man directly at the door, who smiled as he waited. He was bundled up in several layers of winter clothing, to the point that he couldn’t fully lower his arms to his sides, but the glowing fluorescence of his cyan eye, as well as his smooth voice, made him instantly identifiable.
“Sounds like work,” Gregor said slowly. “I don't really like working for free. Arm needs a tune-up, and those can get pricey.”
“Oh, where are my manners?” The fixer said with an obviously fake laugh as he patted around the front of his coat. “We’ll make it worth your while. If you're helpful, of course~”
“Hmm. Well,” Gregor glanced back behind him. For a moment, Rodion caught his expression- frowning, with his brow furrowed in obvious confusion. He was probably wondering where Rodion had gone, and she was happy to keep things that way. His gaze then flicked over to the double-doors to the kitchen.
There was some rustling as the fixer, after removing one of his mittens, grabbed something out of his breast pocket and showed it to Gregor, who whistled.
“It's getting late,” he said, “I can chat for a bit, but I really want to get back before Night- this place isn't residential.”
The moment Gregor began to take a step to the side, the fixer pushed past him into the restaurant. Four lackeys of mixed size, winter gear, gender, and degree of cybernetic enhancement trundled in behind thim. “Wo-ow. Nice place you got here.” The lead fixer had almost a foot’s worth of height over Gregor, and, from the way he smiled as he looked over him, he had noticed that. A large spiked hammer was strapped to his back, and he drifted his fingers over the handle absentmindedly.
Gregor flinched as the man bumped into him, but didn't stop him, taking a second, much longer drag on the cigarette while the lackeys arranged themselves at one of the nearest tables, shedding coats and blowing on their fingers. Rodion thanked her lucky stars that that ingredient had made an obvious mess near where she was hiding, or otherwise these idiots might be kicking her right now.
She only recognized the leader man from her past experiences. His uniform was a little more elaborate now, with a few more bits of embroidery on his leather longcoat. He probably had been promoted since she last saw him. She could guess why. The Fanghunt office had helped subdue a dangerous Urban Nightmare-level phenomenon, after all.
“So, what questions do ya have?” Gregor asked him, taking a few steps backwards, towards the kitchen.
One of the other fixers, a freckled woman with long red hair, piped up: “There was a murder-”
Gregor raised a hand. “This is the backstreets, bud, you're gonna have to be more specific than that.”
“We’re looking for a bloodfiend,” the lead fixer corrected. “There's a rumor that there's one somewhere near here. Well, not too much of a rumor. We’re pretty sure. Have you ever heard of La Manchaland?”
Gregor scratched the back of his neck with his prosthetic hand. Rodion dug her fingernails into her palm, so hard she could smell the pinpricks of blood that oozed down her wrist. “Can't say I have,” Gregor said, glancing back towards the kitchen.
That made sense. It was so far away. Part of the reason she had come here, in the first place. So that nobody would know about her. Of course these fixers would be here to shatter that. How the fuck did they even get here so fast? Was the office loaded enough to get WARP tickets for their whole crew?
“An entire amusement park, made of human blood,” the fixer said, “staffed entirely by bloodfiends.”
“Heh, sounds like a fun place,” Gregor’s voice wavered slightly.
“Unfortunately, it's too late to pay it a visit! We destroyed it a few months ago. But, we think a few of its employees might have escaped. And they're really quite dangerous! They can manipulate blood in mid-air to make weapons out of it. There were quite a few stabbings.”
“...yeah, and?”
“We’re obviously looking for one-” the redheaded woman began, but she was quickly silenced by her boss.
“Somebody was murdered earlier today, and we hear that the killer was throwing quite a bit of blood around. If you don't know much about them, not all bloodfiends can do that. The filthy creatures usually inherit their abilities, so hardblood arts are a dead giveaway for a La Manchaland vampire. Maybe even a higher kindred!”
“So?”
“My office has taken on the task of clearing out the survivors. We’re altruistic like that, you see? They're indiscriminate killers.”
“Uh, okay. I'm still not sure I understand why you're asking me about all this.”
“You’re our last stop,” the redheaded woman grumbled.
“We hear that your restaurant sells human blood.” the leader said cheerily.
Gregor smarted. “Ya know, we usually don't put it like that. It's a little crass, don'tcha think?”
“But you do sell it, don't you?”
“...yeah. In a manner of speaking.”
“So, have you had any interesting customers lately? Started coming by less than a few months ago? Red eyes, and a preference for bloody dishes?”
Before Gregor could respond, there was a great clattering from the kitchen. The door swung as Ryoshu appeared, arms crossed over her chest. She looked so miffed, Rodion was surprised there wasn't steam coming out of her ears.
“W. T. F. is going on here?” she glared at Gregor. “We are leaving by 2:45. No more customers.” She stomped across the floor over to the fixers, and began pulling the chairs (with their inhabitants still in them) away. She must have had some augmentations hidden somewhere, as she could toss the Fanghunt fixers around like dolls.
“G. O. We’re closed.” Ryoshu clarified to them, as the redheaded woman began to protest.
“We don't even want any of your damn food!” the woman complained. “We’re here for-”
“I. D. C. Out.”
Rodion wanted to hug the woman- if Ryoshu could drive away the Fanghunt guys through sheer irritability, she wouldn't have to fight them, which would do marvels for her cover. Blasting out from underneath the table and stabbing them with hundreds of tiny hardblood shards was not going to convince anyone to leave her alone, even if it was extremely satisfying in the moment. She had learned that, the hard way, earlier this morning.
If these guys didn't find anything at all, maybe she wouldn’t have to run too far. And maybe Gregor and Ryoshu wouldn't put the pieces together and she could still come here, or, worst-comes-to-worst, she could just pay some backstreets kid to deliver her meals to her…
“Oh, shit.” The redheaded woman was struggling against Ryoshu, who was in the process of trying to pull her out of her chair by the arm. However, she froze as she looked at Ryoshu’s face.
“Red eyes,” another voice noted, quietly.
Gregor’s eyes widened. “She’s not a-”
The room abruptly erupted into chaos as the seated fixers leaped up and rushed Ryoshu. The irritation on the head chef’s face turned to amusement as she bounced backwards on her feet, evading a sweep of a hammer.
“Needed more ingredients anyway,” she muttered, chewing on the final dregs of her cigarette before disappearing from Rodion’s view.
Their dark-haired leader remained in his position next to Gregor, smiling faintly as he crossed his arms over his chest. Clearly, he didn't care to intervene in the ensuing fracas.
Gregor grabbed his shoulder. “She's the owner of this place, for goodness’s sake! It's named after her!”
“Oh, is it?” the fixer asked. “Is that what the R. B. stands for?”
“It stands for-”
Rodion’s attention was drawn away from their chat by a large crash behind her. Dirty water seeped over the tiles underneath her and soaked into her pants. She shifted slightly under the cloth to get a view of the shouts that were now echoing behind her, trying to ignore the bile that rose in her throat at the feeling of icy water.
The fixers fanned around Ryoshu, one holding down each of her legs while one wrestled with her sword from behind and the redhead stood in front of her, the wooden mop bucket empty in her hands. Ryoshu, her white coat now stained with dirty water, looked like she was going to explode. Mouth in a flat line, eyes wide and glowing, her entire body vibrating. She spat her cigarette (along with some good old spit) at the woman with the mop bucket. Then, in one swift motion, she jerked one knee back, freeing it from one man’s grip. Then, she swung her leg forward hard, kicking him in the face. After the loud crack of his head hitting the floor resounded, the guy holding her other leg had second thoughts and quickly scuttled away from her.
The woman with the mop bucket, however, had not given up, and was now trying to crack it over her head. One lightning-swift slash of Ryoshu’s odachi (wait- was it even unsheathed?) later, though, she was stumbling away, clutching a heavily bleeding arm to her side. The scent was piquant, and Rodion’s mouth watered a bit. God, she really wanted to finish that pie…
The dark-haired fixer called out, “Let her go, guys! Looks like she's not a bloodfiend. Just a little unique, is all~”
However, while this made the other Fanghunt fixers hesitate mid hammer-swing, the redhead was running for her life, vaulting over tables and kicking aside chairs as Ryoshu followed her in hot pursuit. Every swing of her odachi flicked a line of mop-water against the walls.
Gregor, meanwhile, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, watching his boss’s rampage with a look of dismay as he sucked on his cigarette, occasionally tossing glances to the lead Fanghunt fixer’s placid expression.
“Mind talking her down for me?” the fixer asked.
Gregor looked back at him, a little hesitantly, but then lifted his right arm. He slammed his metallic fist down on the table, emitting a loud bang. A bolt bounced out of it and clattered onto the floor.
“They’re going to pay us, Ryoshu!” Gregor shouted. His voice sounded hoarse and awkward; he clearly wasn't used to raising it. Ryoshu paused, her odachi poised to slam against the table right over Rodion’s head. Her gaze narrowed to a squint and she appraised her sous-chef carefully. Then, she pointed towards the redhead, who was backing away from her, an expression like a feral cat’s.
“Oh, really?” Ryoshu asked. “They can go if they give me her,” she pointed towards the woman, who dropped the bucket with a loud crash.
“What the hell do you mean, you crazy bi-”
“Unfortunately, Ishmael’s not on the menu. We can offer some ahn, though,” the Fanghunt leader said, once again withdrawing a bag from his pocket. “We’d just like to ask a few questions- and we’ll pay extra for your dry cleaning, of course.”
Ryoshu continued staring at the redhead for a few moments, and Gregor speed-walked over to her and leaned over to whisper something in her ear.
The dark-haired woman sighed and lowered her odachi. “You have F. M.,” she said to the Fanghunt leader.
“Five minutes,” Gregor added. “...or fifteen.”
“Five,” Ryoshu said. “Start asking.”
“We’re looking for a bloodfiend,” the blue-eyed fixer said. “Rumor has it there’s a pretty high-level kindred around here.”
Ryoshu withdrew a cigarette from the breast-pocket of her coat and attempted to light it, letting out a loud tch when it was too soggy to light. Gregor handed her one of his, and she took it with a look of mild disgust. However, she lit it anyway.
“I’m not one,” she said.
“Ah, yes, we did get that. You didn’t react at all to Ishmael’s blood, after all,” the fixer said, gesturing to the redheaded woman, who was attempting to stem some of her bleeding with some napkins from one of the tabletop dispensers. They stained a deep scarlet, and Rodion forcefully tore her gaze away after a few seconds, trying to not think about sucking on them.
“We were just wondering if you’ve had any interesting new customers lately. In the past couple of months, maybe. Someone with red eyes, who prefers a lot of blood-heavy dishes? They probably don’t really eat much else, either.”
Blood pie, extra blood on top, hold the side. Rodion kicked herself for her extremely bloodfiend-coded regular order.
Ryoshu raised her eyebrows, but then glanced to the side. From her position on the floor, Rodion could easily see Gregor press his foot on top of hers. The woman didn’t react to the step at all, and just looked back up at the fixer.
“I’m usually in the back,” she said, “don’t really look at faces. Talk to the S. C.,” she elbowed Gregor’s side.
“I was going to say,” he said exasperatedly, “before everything got out of hand, that I did have someone in mind.” His voice was a bit more high-pitched than usual, the words running together.
Rodion’s blood ran cold. For some reason, she felt a little betrayed. But why did she? It wasn’t like he owed her anything. They just had some nice chats, sometimes. Stupid, stupid.
Well, then. Maybe she wouldn’t have to feel quite so bad, if she had to kill him during her escape.
Gregor glanced back towards the kitchen. “A place on sixty-sixth just hired a new guy, a few months back.”
Rodion bit her lip to hide the gasp that tried to escape her mouth. What the hell was he doing? Was he covering for her?
“It's got a big ol’ picture of a shark on the front window, can't miss it. Looks like it's coming right at you. Called Flayer’s Fins.”
Rodion knew that place, of course. She had tried every single restaurant in these streets, in triplicate. That one, she hasn't cared for. The food always made her adrenaline spike. And, while Ryoshu frequently threatened to kill customers, she didn't usually follow up on it, in stark contrast with the Flayer’s Fins owner.
“Dunno his name, but, y’know, we go to the same supplier. We’ve chatted. He's got green, like, bright green hair. Prosthetic eyes, so no way of knowing if they're red or not. Anyway, he acted real weird when it was raining- avoided that stuff like the plague.”
He paused in his story to look at the Fanghunt fixer again. The man nodded and mm-hmmed attentively, encouraging him to go on.
Gregor scratched the back of his neck with his prosthetic hand. “Anyway, I notice that he's been picking out the bloodiest meat, when given the chance. But I can't say for sure that he's a bloodfiend, you know. But that's about the closest I've got.”
The fixer’s placid smile did not shift an inch. “Thank you,” he said. “Of course, you must understand that we'll have to look into this before we pay you, right? Can't just go around giving money to anyone who’s got a story, right?”
“Yea-” Gregor started to speak, but Ryoshu shoved him aside and placed a hand, palm-up in front of the Fanghunt fixer. “Laundry. First,” she said through gritted teeth. “Or I'll S. Y. N. C.”
“Oh, of course. How much is that, a few hundred ahn?” Gregor visibly startled at the absurdly high figure, but Ryoshu nodded, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
The coins clinked as they landed in the woman’s hand, and she hardly paused to count them before jamming her hand in one of her coat-pockets. “We done here, then?” She asked. “N. I. T. B. is soon.”
“Actually, there’s one more thing-” the fixer said, glancing around the room. Then, he reached out with one hand, and pushed Gregor to his side easily. “I want to just have a quick look around the kitchen,” he said.
“Wait-” Gregor reached out to grab the man’s arm, but the fixer was nimbler than him and bent out of the way of his rusty prosthetic. A few seconds, and he was pushing the door open.
The fixer let out a soft whistle at whatever he saw there. “I’m sure they’ll find this very amusing,” he muttered.
“W-what are you talking about?” Gregor asked, a half-step behind him, craning his neck to peer around the taller man into the back room. His voice was sounding more and more nervous. “This kitchen is very standard, for restaurants in this area of the backstreets. Honestly, we keep it a lot cleaner than other places-”
The conversation ran like this for a few minutes, Gregor babbling about how this or that thing was actually perfectly legal, with the fixer making worryingly vague comments. Ryoshu stood by the kitchen doors, eyeing the clock.
After a little while, Ryoshu rapped the handle of her odachi against the door. “Your F. M. are up,” Ryoshu said. “G. O.”
The Fanghunt fixer exited the doors first, looking pensive. “Hmm. Nevermind,” he said. He almost sounded… disappointed? “I suppose we should move on,” he said.
“Yeah, we had better! I don't want to get swept,” the redhead said, the bleeding on her arm now slowing and starting to coagulate.
The fixer leader started out, his entourage falling in behind him. Just as he got to the doorway, however, he glanced back over his shoulder to the room. Then, he put on a radiant smile and gave the room a big wave, before disappearing into the frozen night. Once he was out of sight, Ryoshu returned to the kitchen, and Gregor retrieved a winter coat from near the host’s stand. It was a dark linen, patched and threadbare.
Rodion gave it a minute or so, waiting for the smell of the bleeding redhead to fully recede before creeping back out from under the table, her back smarting. As she got up, she dusted off her front, and frowned at the wet spots on her calves, knees, ass, and elbows. While the white blouse was part of her fixer office uniform (and thus she was unlikely to need it again), she didn't like the thought of wasting perfectly good clothes.
Gregor nearly jumped out of his skin. “Holy shit, Rodya, you were there the whole time?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Rodion said. “At first, I thought you were getting robbed.”
“Glad to see that you’d help me out, if I was attacked,” Gregor said sarcastically, bending over to retrieve the discarded mop-bucket.
“If you were, I’d totally do something,” Rodion protested. “I was in perfect ambush position. But then, y’know, it turned out that they weren't attacking you. But things were real tense and I didn't want to mess up the mood by popping out.”
“Sure, sure,” Gregor waved his free hand, not sounding convinced. He placed the bucket by the kitchen door as Ryoshu bustled out, dressed in a stylish black trenchcoat. She reached out one hand, and Gregor wordlessly supplied her with a fresh smoke as she stopped at the door to survey the area.
“We open early tomorrow. To clean,” she said, casting her eye over the room- tables in disarray, tablecloths soaked, a brown stain encroaching over half of the floor, Rodion’s half-eaten meal upended, blood spattered on the floor.
“Yeah, yeah,” Gregor said with a sigh. “Too late now…”
Ryoshu glanced at Rodion. “You're still here?” she asked, sounding about as concerned as Rodion had ever heard from her, “N. I. T. B. is soon.”
“I live nearby,” Rodion said with a shrug. That wasn't necessarily true, but she wasn't really that afraid. If anything, maybe getting to splatter some sweepers would make her feel a bit better.
“O. K.,” Ryoshu said, tossing open the squeaky door and letting a fresh gust of cold air and snowflakes flow into the restaurant. Gregor and Rodion followed shortly behind her, with the man stopping briefly to shut off the lights and unplug the OPEN sign. Rodion stood underneath the small overhang in front as Gregor fiddled around with his keys, struggling to lock the door with cold, shaking hands.
She couldn't help it- she didn't want to leave, not yet. She was curious. What did he know?
He jammed his hands into his pockets as he walked up to her, squinting.
“Ya don't have to wait for me,” he said, his breath a puff of steam. “You should really go home.”
“Just remembered that I forgot to pay you,” Rodion said, reaching into her pockets. Unlike him, there was very little fiddling involved- it was nowhere near cold enough for it to bother her. However, she pretended that she was struggling, to give herself time to organize her thoughts.
“Look, you don't have to,” Gregor protested. “It’s not like you got to finish it.”
“But you made it, even though you were closing. I wanna reward that kind of behavior, y’know?”
Gregor took a few steps away from the door, starting down the street. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “You can pay us back later, okay?”
Rodion followed him, her heart in her throat as she grabbed a few random bills. It was hard to come up with a way to ask for what she wanted without just saying it, and that really wasn't her style.
Did he know she was a bloodfiend? How long? Was he going to out her the minute she turned her back?
“Are you following me?” Gregor asked, sounding exasperated.
“No, I just live this way,” Rodion said as she easily fell in step beside him, tossing her hair with one hand.
“What a coincidence,” Gregor said flatly, speed-walking down the road. He stomped as he moved, perhaps to express his displeasure, perhaps to try to cut a fresh path through the newly fallen snow. Rodion followed lightly in his footprints, preferring the thought of not getting her clothes any more wet.
A few minutes passed, the two of them looping around corners and disappearing into more and more obscure roads. Alleys off of alleys off of alleys, no streetlights. The only source of illumination was the dim glow of light pollution against the cloudy sky.
Gregor paused at the foot of a metal staircase that was bolted to the side of a brick building. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Persistent, aren't you?” he asked.
Rodion merely shrugged.
“Look, what do you actually want? Are you here to kill me or something?”
That shocked a laugh out of Rodion, so much so that she had to lean against the wall to keep herself from doubling over. Gregor stared at her as she did so, his expression unreadable. That sobered her up pretty quickly.
Rodion opened her mouth, then paused. Finally, she gave up and told the truth. “I want to know why you said what you did, back in the restaurant.”
“Oh.” Gregor glanced up behind him, then back at her. “I, uh.” He bit his lip and watched all of the dark windows looking out onto the street. “Don't think I have time to get into it,” he said.
“C’mon,” Rodion pouted. “Don't you live somewhere around here?”
“Yes, but- aaah, do you really want to go there?”
“Well,” Rodion batted her eyelashes, “if you leave me out here, I might not be able to get home in time.”
“And whose fault is that?” Gregor hissed. Then, he glanced around, and lowered his voice. “Look, if you really want to know, you can come in.”
Rodion smiled, even though something deep inside of her pointed out that she probably shouldn't be walking, alone, into the home of a known cannibal.
“I do.”