Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An untouched drink sits on the counter of the bar, moist from condensation, droplets of water having streamed down the side and pooled at the base of the glass. His arms rest to the left and right of it, his back slouching forward, his expression set and stiff. He had his first drink before the triplets left, and something in his gut told him to wait for them to return before downing this next one.

Ricardo stares at the liquor he'd ordered an hour ago—the ice within which has entirely melted. Business here's been slow, which doesn't help the minutes tick by any faster. A few patrons make their way in and out, but no one besides Ricardo lingers in this place.

Maybe that was Ana's intention from the get-go? Since she was held up with business elsewhere, making the most of the handsome knight she's just got her hands on, the boss lady sent Ricardo and the triplets on ahead to get familiar with this part of the capital. Sure, they've swung by a handful of times now, but given her plans for the Hoshin Trading Company's newfound presence in Lugunica, they'll be doing a whole lot more than just visiting from this point on.

For this particular trip, Ana's chosen for them to stay at a locally owned inn in a quieter part of town, whose owner she personally knows. He's glad they've gotten this chance to experience more of Lugunican culture—the parts of the city that they did get to see before were rather bougie and uptight for Ricardo's tastes, having stayed at an inn mighty close to the noble district.

Though, probably doesn't make much of a difference, seeing as Ricardo himself's not taking advantage of the opportunity at the moment. His favorite pastime is the same no matter where in the world the boss lady's business takes them, after all. 'Course, the triplets on the other hand can't sit still in a place like this after a long bit of traveling, so he let them run off to explore the markets and buy some snacks. For their sake, it's good to get in touch with how the locals live.

"And I'm here holdin' our spot, huh?" Ricardo sighs and glances at the innkeeper wiping glasses behind the counter. As he looks over, Ricardo sees a man—who'd only just come in and placed an order—turn around and storm off without so much as another word to the innkeeper.

"Fucking animals," the man mutters on his way past Ricardo. "Bet the food'd have fur in it too."

Ricardo clicks his tongue at that. The innkeeper's a demihuman, a sheepman with a bushy beard that stretches up the side of his head and obscures his expression from any angle but face-on. The man took all of thirty seconds, and one long look at the innkeeper, before deciding this place wasn't worth his time. Only after the innkeeper sent his order to the kitchen of course, bastard. Couldn't reveal his true colors a moment sooner, could he.

"Oi," Ricardo calls out to the sheepman, who'd turned around to cancel the order. "I'll take that burger instead. Knowing Mimi, she'll want one the moment she gets back."

The innkeeper gives Ricardo a curt nod and goes back to wiping down glasses. A man of few words it seems. Ricardo can't help but respect that. He's no stranger to gritting his teeth and working on through people wronging him. Especially those who do a favor before a betrayal, like the pain'll sweeten if they're nice about their back-stabbing—or in the innkeeper's case, like his pockets'll be full from just the intent to do business.

In a situation like that, it's best to be grateful for what he's been given and just move on forward, Ricardo thinks. That's the mindset that's gotten him as far as he has in life, so the innkeeper's stoicism is something that resonates with Ricardo. Must not be easy. Even with just a couple days of hanging around the capital under his belt, Ricardo can tell Lugunicans ain't the most tolerant folk.

He rubs his neck with his hand, feeling the spot where his slave collar used to be. Ricardo carried it around for a while, even after earning his freedom. When it had its binding power, though, he was put through targeted torture by the guards of the slave camp for months. An old friend managed to give Ricardo a brief respite through his kindness, but ultimately that same person deceived Ricardo, escaping slavery while leaving Ricardo behind to be beaten half to death.

Ricardo learned the hard way that no one else but yourself will give you salvation from a hellish experience. Fighting spirit got him in trouble, nearly got him killed more than once, but it's what kept him alive for long enough to liberate himself through hard work. It may not have brought him up off the cold, hard floor of the punishment cell when he first became acquainted with that tanuki, but it damn well did every time after.

Though, that's not to say Ricardo's one for revenge, or bitter confrontation. Being helped and being tricked are two different things. A promise is a promise so Ricardo will always respect a debt he owes. But paying that off came years later once he was free. It's a whole other story, and not something he likes to linger on. Reisel chose his own fate, and Ricardo did right by him when asked.

The part of his past as a slave that more easily comes to mind has to do with how that inactive collar got removed from his neck. In the end, it stayed on him until lil Ana mustered up the will and the funds to take it off. Or rather, just the funds. Even as a brat, she's never been short of will.

The first time he met Ana, she was running from some slavers, distracting them so that they wouldn't nab another pair of kids. On a whim, Ricardo stopped them from putting a collar on her, gave her some food, and found her a job. At the time, he'd've been proud if she'd just remembered him down the line—assuming this bratty kid named after a hole in the ground ever lived up to the hope Ricardo had in a passing moment of whimsy.

Ana's always been an audacious one, though. "Today I'm gonna take advantage of yer kindness! But don't ya forget. When I make it big, the first thing Imma do is buy ya. I'll take that slave collar off ya with my own hands!" she'd told him back then, and it was only a few years later that she kept to her word. Even so, he'll never forget that day.

That kinda bond, that kinda understanding—is that something Lugunicans can ever come to?

Ricardo's not a well read fella, but even he's heard about the demihuman civil war. For all of his home country's problems, Ricardo thinks that Ana's put the work in to set things right. Banan alone is already unrecognizable, so how come the Lugunican capital can't keep up with that progress? Did more blood really get spilled in that conflict than sweat dripped from the brows of Kararagian slaves? Is that why years later, humans here still can't give demihumans a lick of basic respect?

If the innkeeper was a soft-spoken human, nobody'd bat an eye. Might even be a draw for some people. As things stand though, Ricardo can tell the sheepman being the face of his own business is hurting his sales. All that courage, all that mercantile talent, and the innkeeper isn't given half the chance of a human. Damn shame.

Ricardo's lounging about probably isn't helping much either in that case. He knows how people see him, the first impression people get of him. Ricardo the Hound. He smiles and the first thing everyone looks at are his teeth.

The point of spreading that name around was to serve as Ana's watchdog when she was young, ensuring that no one would even think to lay hands on her. One glance at Ricardo and most folks would turn tail and run. It's a boon when protecting those he cares about, so it doesn't bother Ricardo much, but he'd be a fool to ignore its hindrance. Driving people away ain't usually good for business, whether it's the boss lady's negotiations or the innkeeper's clientele.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and exhales. Fat lot of work he's doing here anyway. Not a damn person has come to sit next to him, let alone occupy the whole bar space. Ricardo's never been one to shy away from a bit of solitary drinking, especially when the owner's giving him the good stuff, but he can't help but feel a little restless waiting as long as he has.

Tapping his nails on the countertop, Ricardo stares at the probably room-temperature drink. He traces the lip of the glass with one finger, then takes it into his right hand. It's as wet as it looks, and as warm as he expected. Damn. Maybe he should—

His ears twitch as he hears a bang behind him, the doors to the inn swinging wide open. Ricardo turns his body around, still holding the liquor in one hand, and breathes a sigh of relief at what he sees:

Strolling in with confidence and a smile, Mimi points her staff straight forward after using it to fling open the doors. "Mimi's back!" she announces, marching on over to the counter. "Just in time for dinner!"

The corners of Ricardo's mouth slant upwards. See, what was he all worried for? Ricardo begins sipping at the lukewarm liquor as Hetaro trails in after Mimi.

"One burger for Mimi please!" she says, then plops down on a stool a few seats to Ricardo's right.

"May I please also have a burger?" Hetaro asks. He clambers onto the spot next to Mimi, steals a glance at her, then adds, "And a second one for big sis? She'll be needin' two."

"Captain," Tivey says, and Ricardo turns back around to face the boy, "I've prepared a debrief report for ya, if ya'd like to hear it."

'Course Ricardo wants to hear it. Ricardo gives Tivey a nod, then downs most of his drink in one swig. After waiting so long, he's in the mood to get it over with rather than nurse it for minutes on end. The drink's been a little watered down from the melted ice, but it's still a big step up from what he used to chug when he was young. He savors the feeling of heat in his throat as he hones in on Tivey's report.

Tivey adjusts his monocle before starting with: "After perusin' the wares and goods on sale in the merchant district for some time, we—"

"We saw a buncha cool stuff!" Mimi cuts Tivey off. She bolts out of her seat and tumbles to Tivey's side, jumping up and down in place as she exclaims, "There was an angry guy with fruit! And lots and lots of people!" Tivey sighs from beside her, watching her with an exasperated smile.

Ricardo listens to Mimi in good nature, but his eyes drift to inspect the state of her clothes as she continues. "There're not so many beastfolk 'round these parts, not like back in Banan!" she says, and Ricardo notices the dirt and scuff marks all over her white cloak.

Not just dirt, but—"But we did see an otter guy! Don't know if he can swim, but Mimi will find out next time!"—the back of her clothes have been torn, and—"We also fought some mean guy, but Mimi was asleep for most of it!"—there's a red stain on Mimi's chest.

"Big sis! Yer food is ready!" Hetaro says from the other side of the bar. The innkeeper brings out her order, leaving a tray in the spot she'd claimed earlier, along with a glass of water for each of them. As fast as she came, Mimi bolts back to her seat. In a swift motion, she takes a bite big enough to devour half the burger in one go.

"What," Ricardo says, flat. It was hard to tell after downing that alcohol, but did he get a whiff of iron off Mimi too?

Tivey clears his throat, drawing Ricardo's attention again. "As elder sister was sayin', we were attacked while perusin' the merchant district. An unknown assailant got the drop on elder sister, and used some kinda drug ta knock her unconscious before attemptin' ta kidnap her."

"Hah?" The glass in Ricardo's right hand cracks, then shatters. What remained of his drink splatters onto his wrist, the liquor seeping into his fur. But Ricardo doesn't give a damn that he'll smell even more than usual. He sets the broken remnants of the glass onto the counter, with a distant sort of calm, and asks Tivey the obvious question—

"Mimi got kidnapped?!" Ricardo blurts out in a near-shout. "Are there traffickers in the Lugunican capital?!"

Tivey holds a calm expression, but answers with gravity to his words: "I'm not so sure about that, since it seemed like a targeted attack. They did it in broad daylight in the most public place possible, after all. If they wanted just any child—demihuman or otherwise—they'd've had a much easier time swipin' someone in the slums."

Ricardo brushes his left hand through the fur on his head. He should've gone with them. Why'd he leave them to go out on their own in the first place? They've grown since the boss lady swooped them up, but they're still just damn kids. It's a good thing that more hasn't happened to them, but if they got caught in something worse—

He can't even finish that thought. He'll protect them no matter what.

"After the assailant knocked out Mimi, they fled the scene of the crime," Tivey explains, eyes wandering to the floor as he recalls the events in detail. "I took elder sister's staff after it fell to the ground, makin' chase before they could break line of sight. Hetaro's hands were full with shoppin' so I was the one ta go after the assailant, but I urged Hetaro ta get help as I went."

Ricardo's head snaps right around to look at Hetaro, who immediately shrinks down under Ricardo's gaze. "Why didn't ya come back here and fetch me?" Ricardo asks, his tone lowered, more confused than angry. Ricardo's whole damn job was to be here if something went wrong. Hetaro's got a good head on his shoulders, so then why didn't he—

"Heharo gah hwost!" Mimi interrupts through a mouthful of food. She swallows it down and continues, "So he dragged some green merchant ta come help instead! He was really loud and annoyin', but it helped wake Mimi up!"

Ricardo slumps his shoulders and heaves a deep sigh, rubbing at his eyes after giving Mimi and Hetaro a long glance. Goddammit, he can't get mad at them. Figures that Hetaro would lose his sense of direction with Mimi in trouble—he's always been especially sensitive about her. Poor kid probably couldn't tell left from right, his mind racing the whole time about where the hell Mimi and Tivey ran off to.

Even considering that though, Tivey probably made the right split-second decision. Limited options, limited time, and they all made it back in one piece. As exasperated as he feels, Ricardo's proud that they handled it as well as they did.

They're vice captains of the Iron Fang for a reason.

But Ricardo's brow furrows as he lets his gaze sink. What's that say about him, then? He's the captain who was slacking off in a bar while his subordinates needed his help. In the shattered remains of his drink, he can see the faint outline of his own reflection. Ricardo's the one who should've been there to stop this from happening. If anyone's to blame, it's him.

"Dontcha worry, captain!" Mimi shouts from her seat. He looks up at her to see she's holding the last third of her first burger in one hand and wrenching her arm around Hetaro's shoulder with the other. "Mimi already talked with Hetaro 'bout it. I'll be the best at wakin' up on time from now on!"

Mimi tosses the last of her burger in her mouth. As she swallows, Hetaro pushes a glass of water closer to her. "Big sis, ya gotta drink or else yer gonna choke," he says.

The innkeeper emerges from the kitchen with two trays, a burger on each. He glances at the shattered glass Ricardo's set on the table, ignoring it to exchange Mimi's finished meal with the new ones.

"Big sis, please," Hetaro tries again, still held in her free arm. It's in vain; Mimi doesn't so much as look at the glass before swiping up the next burger and shoving it into her mouth.

Ricardo can't help but shake his head at their usual antics, scoffing with a growing smile on his lips. What's he doing, getting all hard on himself for? If anyone's to blame, it's the bastard that tried to kidnap Mimi. He'll make damn well sure whoever pulled that stunt pays.

After all, once the boss lady finds out what happened, Ricardo'll never hear the end of it. Not only did the triplets get threatened, but they roped in some stranger too.

Ana's never taken kindly to being in other people's debt, and Ricardo's never been the type to forget a favor. Turning to Tivey, Ricardo says, "So, what's this about a green merchant?"

Adjusting his monocle once more, Tivey picks up where he left off. "I followed our assailant through multiple streets and alleyways. They proved rather agile, and though my stamina ain't as extensive as big bro and elder sister's, I easily kept pace with the kidnapper. My intentions were to keep 'em at a distance, buy time fer elder sister ta overcome the drug's effects, or perhaps even track 'em to their base of operations but…"
Tivey's brow furrows. "I believe they realized my ploy, and forced a confrontation. They brought us ta a dead-end alley at the edge of the slums, and—" His voice wavers. "—began ta threaten elder sister."

Bringing his hand up to his cheek, Tivey holds it there, pausing for a moment.

"Hetaro returned with the merchant at that point," he continues with a sharp exhale, "and through a series of altercations, Mimi awoke and our combined efforts were sufficient to drive off our assailant."

"Although," Tivey says, his gaze sinking to the ground, "I'm unsure what I woulda done if Hetaro'd come even a moment later."

"But he didn't," Ricardo replies, and Tivey brings his small face up to look at him, "and y'all made it out. Got some scratches and stains, but you're safe. That's what matters."

Ricardo reaches his arm out to leave a gentle pat on Tivey's head, Tivey's ears flattening under Ricardo's touch. "Ya did good, Tivey. I'm proud ta call ya my vice-captain."

Tivey stays quiet at that, but he visibly relaxes, the tension in his body fading as his tail lightly sways from side to side. That brain of his can sometimes be his worst enemy—overthinking things can get you beating yourself up for doing what's right. Though, in Ricardo's case, he sure could use a bit more thought.

Ricardo retracts his hand with a toothy grin. Tivey stares at him wide-eyed, just for a moment, before taking a deep breath and putting his usual polite expression back on. "Excuse me, captain," Tivey says with a small nod. "I'd like to go make my order now."

Tivey turns away and clambers onto the stool beside Mimi. "I'd like a burger too if ya don't mind," he tells the innkeeper, who simply inclines his head in response.

"But Tivey," Ricardo calls, drawing the boy's attention again. "What happened with this merchant? Did ya get his name?"

Tivey opens his mouth to reply, but Mimi answers much faster. "We left him asleep on the ground! In the merchant district!" she declares before finishing off her second burger with one big bite. She still hasn't let go of Hetaro—she pulls him in closer as she looks over to Hetaro's tray and asks, "Ya gonna finish that?"

"Big sis, if ya eat too much, yer gonna get a tummy ache," Hetaro says, his ears drooping. "But if ya really want it…"

"Thanks, Hetaro!" Mimi grins as she swipes up her third burger.

"Big bro," Tivey chimes in, "if ya just let elder sister do whatever she wants, we'll end up sharin' that stomach ache."

Ricardo wants to laugh along, but—"Ya did what? Left this random merchant asleep on the ground? Did the fella get knocked on the head or somethin'?"

"He did, but that's not why he's unconscious," Tivey explains. He takes a sip of water from the glass Mimi's left untouched, and the innkeeper goes on to provide a third fresh glass for Mimi without being asked. Tivey continues, "Hetaro said he saw the merchant get drugged with the same cloth as elder sister. Though I assume he'll be unconscious fer longer, considerin' he's a human and all."

Heaving yet another sigh, Ricardo pushes himself to stand on his feet. He straightens his back, cracks his neck, and stretches after sitting down without moving for so long. Reaching into his pocket, Ricardo fetches out several coins of the local currency, placing down a few on the counter to pay his tab.

"Sorry about the glass," Ricardo tells the innkeeper, adding another coin to the pile. "And here's to cover the kids' meals." He adds even more coins to the pile to pay for the burgers. The innkeeper sighs, but he gives Ricardo a small nod and a polite wave goodbye.

Returning the gesture, Ricardo faces the triplets. "Stay put, and stick together. We gotta tell the boss lady about this when we see her tomorrow, but fer now…"

Ricardo has to go find that merchant. To make sure he's okay, to thank him for his help, and to apologize for any inconvenience. Most importantly, Ricardo's gotta figure out how he'll pay off their debt to this guy, one way or another.

Taking a breath, Ricardo smells the liquor clinging to his fur and the inside of his mouth. Maybe shoulda held off on that final drink too. He needs his senses as sharp as they can be.

Ricardo takes a step forward, reaching to push open the door, when he suddenly remembers— "Ah," Ricardo says, turning back toward the triplets, "What'd ya say the guy's name was again?"

"Owwww," Otto whines into the table. His hours-long headache is splitting his skull in two, so he decides to solve the issue by letting his head fall down onto the bar with a loud thud.

For some reason, it doesn't help.

Otto flops his face over, resting on his cheek. "Nooooo," he groans, pulling at his hair. Squinting, he sees only the tiniest drop of alcohol left in the empty glass in his hand. "I ran out."

"Say, bartender," Otto starts without even looking up. He'd just be on the receiving end of the man's scowl anyway. "Isn't drinking s'pposed to stop you from being hungover? It isn't even—" He glances at the darkness outside the window. Definitely Earth Time. Fuck. "—the—the next day yet!"

Out of the kindness of his heart, Otto decides to ignore the bartender glaring at Otto like he wants to cut off Otto's tongue. A lot of people do that with Otto though, like the other men in the bar trying to ignore Otto's existence, as per usual, so the familiarity is really comforting right now.

It's only Otto. Alone. Surrounded by the usual hustle and bustle of people and creatures with all their noise. Of course, that doesn't overpower his headache at all. Makes it worse, actually. But on the bright side, this is only his second rock bottom this week. So all things considered, he's doing positively splendid!

Ah, who is he kidding? "I was gonna make it big in Gusteko! I was gonna be rich, but noooo, all I got are four coins and a headache and a ruined outfit." He sniffles, but there aren't any tears in his eyes. Because he's a heartless fuck, and that's why drinking won't even remove his thoughts anymore. Goddammit. "My grandfather must be turning in his grave seeing his cloak all ruined like this. I should really fix it."

The problem is that Otto woke up a few hours ago to the absolutely rancid smell of dirt, blood, and sweat. It took him two full minutes and fighting off the urge to puke before he realized that the smell was coming from him and not some nearby corpse.

The normal person that he is, Otto did the sensible thing anyone in his situation would do. First, he figured out how he got back to his wagon. Sure, Frufoo had to tell him, "Laddie, you should really thank me for protecting you after those triplets dropped you off like a sack of tatoes." But details, what matters is the rest of the process.

All on his own, he deduced where his headache came from—definitely not from an attacker drugging him or children bonking his head on the ground—and came up with a solution. Drinking is a reliable answer for any problem! And, bonus, now he's got plenty of time to plan for the future too.

His next step will be saving some money to restore his outfit to its former glory so he doesn't disappoint his family. Again, that is. Of course, four coins already went into step one of his plan, which was rewarding his effort to save a child today. By drinking. So, the fifth coin's gotta be a good investment too, right?

Otto weakly lifts his head off the table and raises his glass. "Bartender," he calls out, "I'd like to order anothe—"

Looking ahead, Otto sees the bartender's turned around and halfway through the back exit of the bar.

"No, no, no, come back, I was trying to order!" Otto cries. He slams his glass back down on the table just to shake his fist at the closed door. "Walking off from a paying customer—do you have no sense of business instinct?!"

There is no response because there isn't a damn bartender attending the counter anymore.

Otto glares at the door the bartender left through, then sighs and rests his head on the table again. The sticky texture of the blood in his clothing makes him want to rip his skin off, and a dull rumble shakes his hollow insides. Great, he's disgusting and hungry. At least having no food in him made it easier to get drunk, which is a good money-save. But if he can't afford meals, he'll have to start eating dandelions off the side of the road.

Again.

"I'm never getting that small shop, am I?" Otto groans into the table. He stares at the wood's texture for about a minute, maybe five seconds. Hard to tell with the grain of the wood being so entrancing. Anything to get his mind off everything. The waves of discoloration stretch out for the length of his vision before it blurs. The material's lacquered in something too. A reflection of the bar lights beam into his eyes, leaving everything a shimmering mesh to his unfocused gaze…

Alright. So maybe he's been zoned out for more than five seconds.

But his Divine Protection moves onwards no matter what he does, passive in the background as it usually is. Insects are a constant everywhere he goes, present in every distant land he travels to. Other tiny creatures as well, always going about their lives and their days, no matter how short their existences may be compared to his. He likes to listen in whenever he can. Have some small talk if he's out of sight from prying eyes.

Bars and taverns like this usually have the same old, same old groups—rat chittering underneath Otto's feet and above Otto's head. The occasional cockroaches or termites. Flying insects, sometimes. He can sense many of them now in this specific bar, too, and he spots an adult rat up in the rafters squeak out a faint, "Thanks," as another adult rat grooms the other's head with their claws.

A different rat, smaller in size, likely a younger adult, pokes their head out of a loose floorboard near Otto's feet. Otto makes sure to turn his own head to the side, muttering a quick and quiet, "Take care, don't be too near humans," from behind his hand, using his shoe as a wall for the rat to hide behind as they duck back into the floor. There's more rats, of course, scurrying around, but then Otto realizes—he shouldn't be able to hear creatures like them so clearly over the noise of a busy bar.

The entire place has gone silent, he notices. Some man comes marching over, taking the spot right next to Otto.

Otto heard the sound of the guy's footsteps before he sat down, but someone sitting adjacent to Otto in a bar of their own free will rather than because it's the last seat available? That's so rare that Otto can't remember the last time something like this has happened. And on top of that, this man rendered the entire tavern speechless. A quick glance through his hazy memory gives no clue as to who would be so unique to get that kind of reaction, let alone be interested enough in Otto to interact with him again. It must be a stranger, then.

Otto hopes they aren't connected to any law enforcement.

On more than one occasion, Otto's made enough of a ruckus, in self-defense, to get local guards to break up bar fights that he just so happened to get involved with. Once though, they came too late to stop things from escalating, and—and a building ended up burning down.

It's not Otto's fault that seven men couldn't beat him in a drinking contest, of course. Or that they went to fetch the local lord from down the road to report the public nuisance that, again, Otto did not start. Honestly, the people of Abiate don't deserve his merchandise anyway if they were going to hold grudges like that; it's not as if Otto was there to cause trouble on purpose! He hadn't meant to add another municipality to his list of places to avoid! Besides—arrest warrant or not, it's not like he'll ever have a reason to trudge down there again.

Regardless, it's nigh impossible that someone from a small town to the south came all the way to the capital to brand an insignificant merchant like Otto a criminal. So Otto raises his head, intent to catch a glimpse of who exactly is sitting next to him.

The man is massive, and Otto has to pull himself fully upright to see more than just his shirtless, chiseled chest. He stops himself from staring too long at the man's pecs and gets a half-decent, bleary look at the stranger's face. Otto feels the first half of a gasp come to him, and with it the smell of liquor wafting off the man's fur—which is honestly an improvement over how Otto himself smells. But the smile this person gives… The fucker is smirking at him, with that wide row of teeth, all handsome and charming, and getting lost in the shine of it makes Otto completely forget about anyone else in the bar.

But Otto bets this man is looking down at him, a second away from mocking him. That look has to be smug, not a genuine display of happiness. People who can act like that right off the bat are usually either too good to be true or so good that they're eventually chased away by Otto's everything. For example—

"See you when you're back here black out drunk at Earth Time," Frufoo told him, for the second time in one day, and Otto heard the—the worry in her voice without even needing to look. And the worst part? She said it the one time he didn't! It was still Water Time when he woke up! So fucking what if he comes back black out drunk in the dead of the night? It's been a busy fucking day, alright!

"Don't you laugh at me too!" Otto whines at the stranger. He chose to sit right next to Otto with a dozen other seats free so he's practically asking to hear about Otto's frustrations. And Otto will damn well use the opportunity before the poor, unlucky bastard starts making fun of him for it, just like every other person in this world. The words are already flowing right on out of him anyway, so it's no use holding back anymore. "First with the hangover then the bloodstains then another hangover!"

Otto slams his hand on the counter and the glass tumbles over. "I didn't even drink for this hangover! I got assaulted in an alley! Again! And for what? To have my ground dragon lecture me like she always does?!"

Running out of breath, he mumbles the last of his complaints. "So what if I always bring her trouble? It's not like it's my fault."

Otto's whines ring in his own ears. Maybe he shouldn't have stolen a random stranger's precious time. Maybe he should've let that air out as the other half of a gasp instead of a rant. Maybe some fucking kidnapper shouldn't have tried attacking children in broad daylight. Maybe he should've accepted Henry's offer and paid his debt with Henry's stupid stint of lust towards him, the one time he's ever heard anything about himself desired like that. Maybe the government could've kept the border open for one extra goddamn week so it didn't slam shut right in his face. Maybe Otto could've stayed out of Diadora's business and avoided disappointing his whole family and steered clear of the mess that is his life in the first place.

But the world doesn't work on maybes. The world is unfair and Otto's gotta deal with it in the only way he knows how: whining to anyone who'll listen and drinking with anyone who'll put up with him.

…shit, he can't even stick to his philosophy of being nice and polite to avoid more people hating him.

His grandfather's inviting and pleasant green trader clothing won't do anything if Otto himself is a hopeless case. He should really put his usual merchant face back into place—make himself come off as personable instead of a ranting drunkard—before the stranger sitting next to him walks off and leaves without a word.

Otto opens his mouth to speak, only for the door behind the counter to swing open and reveal a whole new bartender—a woman with long green hair. Naturally, the bartender switch has nothing to do with Otto drinking enough for several men or his generally being a nuisance. Not at all. Surely, it's just a normal shift change.

Before he can question his own judgment, a voice rings out near Otto in a warm and gravelly baritone. "Barkeep, gimme a whiskey, neat," the stranger sitting beside Otto says, sliding a few coins onto the counter, "and another one for bro here."

Wait—what? Otto jolts upright and whirls around to face the man with a wide-eyed stare. "Are… Are you really giving me a free drink?"

Oh, this is too good to be true, but the man's still grinning at him with an amused little slant to his lips and he's—he's just being so friendly! He's offering free drinks with pure intent even though Otto did all the usual things he does that chases people away! Who even does that these days?

Otto makes sure to add a bit of pleading in his expression to fully secure his free drink and free companion.

"Really?" the man asks with a cheery laugh. "That's what you're worried about, bro?"

Otto's answer is immediate. "Of course!" he says, flawlessly casual. "I don't get anything for free! There's always some trouble and headache involved." Out of the corner of his eye, he can spot the bartender finishing up with the order. Otto gives a dopey little smile at that; so he really did succeed in finessing a free drink out of a handsome stranger! "A free drink, however—"

The bartender slides both glasses to them from across the counter. Otto readily swipes one into his hand. He almost raises it to the stranger, but he's not sure if the man would reciprocate.

"This can fix me," Otto declares instead with a half-hysterical laugh, "and I get to keep what remains of yesterday's profits!"

"Well," the stranger grins back. "Glad I can give ya at least that much." He takes his drink in hand and raises it toward Otto. "Ta health and good fortune…"

Otto would blush if he wasn't already flushed from alcohol. The man did reciprocate in the end, thankfully, so now it's Otto's turn—"Otto Suwen," he says with the raise of his own glass.

"Ricardo Welkin," the man answers warmly.

Their glasses clink.

Otto tips his head back and downs it all in one go. It's a little impolite to drink neat whiskey so quickly, but Otto hasn't had the chance to splurge on it in months and he's desperate to squash that rising feeling of sobriety that's been crawling up his spine ever since the other bartender left. It's a relief feeling the liquor burn the length of his throat. The initial taste lingers, then develops into a rich twist of flavors that settle onto Otto's tongue. This is way better than the stuff the other bartender was serving him… was he watering it down?

Otto glances over and Ricardo finishes his drink too—a measured amount slower than Otto's chugging, but still much faster than most people—then places it on the table. "Ah, Lugunican whiskey," Ricardo muses. "I'll always prefer sake m'self, but ya gotta respect the local flavor. Barkeep, mind giving us both a refill?"

Oh, Ricardo must be Kararagian, Otto realizes. Now that Ricardo's gotten more words out, Otto's finally noticed the accent lilting Ricardo's statements. And only a traveler passing through Lugunica would refer to its whiskey as being local, with sake being a notable beverage of the western city-states.

Or so Otto's heard. It's not like he's been in any position to get his hands on some with his financials as they are. But why's a kindly foreigner buying Otto drinks without any ulterior motives, anyway? Otto furrows his eyebrows and asks, "More drinks, Ricardo-san?" Is this what a drinking buddy is like? Otto's never had one of those before, so his voice wavers when he continues, "What'd I do to be so lucky?"

Ricardo grins. "Sometimes—" He gives a casual little shrug. Otto's gaze stumbles back and forth between the sharp line of Ricardo's shoulders and the softness of Ricardo's smile. "—it's just a matter of bein' in the right place at the right time, bro."

The words roll over him just like the liquor's heat. Warmth bubbles up from inside, seeps in through his ears, engulfs him in a comfortable buzz that blocks out his usual cold, skeptical thoughts—that attitude of his which always cuts right through any contentment he finds the moment it comes to him. Otto's grinning now too, he realizes. Tiny and sheepish, but it's a genuine gesture. Maybe Ricardo really is the perfect drinking buddy.

"Said like a merchant," Otto says with a satisfied nod. It's a compliment, of course. A quintessential statement of mercantile ideals already in their first conversation? From a man who clearly looks more like a fighter than a haggler? Otto's sold, but—"But you don't seem like the type…?"

"I leave allat ta the boss lady," Ricardo replies. There's a personal fondness to his tone and to his intent when he speaks of the boss lady. "Me? I'm just here ta stand 'round and look pretty."

And that's when Otto realizes—shit, all this talking and Otto hasn't even given Ricardo a proper smile back after he's been so, so nice to Otto. Otto's had a rough start to this week, but he's somehow struck gold just this once with Ricardo. Ricardo, who's apparently the muscle to another's brains. How humble of him, using his own specialized skills to serve someone he cares about! Ricardo, who's the first person outside of Otto's family to actually listen to Otto. Like Otto's a real person who deserves nice things, not just some walking nuisance! Ricardo, the only one outside of Frufoo in this whole city to not spend every moment of their interactions evaluating his worth, deciding whether he's valuable enough to put up with.

Even with the debt hanging on his neck, Otto probably would have skipped town today—fleeing drunk in the middle of the night for greener pastures, looking for some other rich, lovestruck fool to offload his oil onto since all the capital's brought him is trouble and only enough coins to fill one palm—if Ricardo hadn't shown up and made it worth sticking around. So Otto stretches out that tiny grin into a small smile of his own. It feels as real as the bloodstains on Otto's cloak when Otto says, "Well, you're a sight for my sore eyes. Even if your job is to just sit around and drink all day, I'm happy to be talking with you, Ricardo-san."

Maybe I'll let myself have a bit of hope for the rest of this week after meeting you, Otto wants to say. He swallows the words back, keeping their warmth inside.

Ricardo laughs at that, full belly and loud. "Bro, it really does feel like that's exactly my job some days." He gives Otto a slap on the back, and it knocks the wind out of Otto's lungs. Otto flops onto the bar like a fish out of water, or like—like an otter or something, and before he can second-guess it, Ricardo's laughter takes over Otto to the point where he starts melting into giggles too.

Otto can't help it. The sound of Ricardo's laughter is so earnest in this moment that it's beautifully infectious. To be earnest is admirable. Throwing all caution to the wind just to showcase all your passion, all your heart, against all odds—he finds it charming. He finds it worth more than every holy coin in the kingdom. Ricardo laughs at him again, and Otto doesn't mind this time. It's neither judgmental nor condescending.

He looks up at Ricardo just to admire the sight of it, face still pressed into the wood. And out of the corner of Otto's eyes, he sees the bartender preparing their drinks again. Otto sighs in relief at that. Good. He's been looking forward to getting his next free drink, even if he did forget about it for a moment because of—

The liquids in the glasses swirl in a hypnotizing spiral. The bartender's finishing up mixing the first drink when Otto remembers that whiskey isn't supposed to look that clear. Ricardo didn't order a cocktail for the second round, did he?

A sinking feeling drags down Otto's guts as he watches the bartender slide the drink forward to Ricardo. Otto peels his face off the bar to choke out, "Ehrm, Ricardo-san…"

Ricardo swipes up the drink without looking at it, his eyes still on Otto. "I've gotta say, yer one interestin' fella, bro. I wonder how ya've wound up so down on yer luck." And Otto would normally be rejoicing at having a new friend, just like he was only a few seconds ago. Or Otto would complain some more about being down on his luck again.

But that dread in his stomach won't fade, the warmth he'd felt giving way to a bitter, sobering chill. Ricardo probably thinks Otto's just fooling around like he was earlier, and suddenly Ricardo's laugh isn't helping Otto's anxiety. "Maybe it's 'cause ya keep blowing yer profits on booze!" Ricardo concludes, with his usual cheer, and raises the glass to his lips.

Otto knows it won't work, but he blurts out anyway, "Ricardo-san, wait—"

Ignoring Otto's whining, Ricardo downs the drink in one big gulp. Otto freezes in place. Ricardo slams it onto the counter, his face scrunching up. Half of the liquid in the glass remains. All Otto can do is watch as Ricardo blinks a few times before looking over at the bartender with a disgruntled expression. "What's the big idea, huh? The hell'd'ya put in my drink?"

The bartender takes a frightened step back from the bar, but the hand she places on her chest is steady. When she speaks, she's loud enough for the entire tavern to hear them. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir. Please don't raise your voice at me, it's beginning to sound like a growl."

"Why you—" Ricardo frowns at her, all innocent unease, and that's when Otto notices the other patrons for the first time since Ricardo walked in.

Everyone is staring at them. They probably were the whole time, eyeing Otto from the moment he walked in and started whining his head off, eyeing Ricardo from the moment he happened to be a demihuman in a majority human bar, but now the whole place has gone quiet. And they're staring.

"Sir, if you can't control yourself, I'll have to ask you to leave," the bartender says, her voice shaking as she presses her back against the wall behind her.

Ricardo raises an eyebrow and scratches his head. "What're ya on about? I—"

"Sir," the bartender cuts him off, recoiling away from him. But her intent doesn't match her demeanor at all, and it tastes like the bile rising up in Otto's throat. It sounds like— "Please don't swipe your claws at me!"

—chairs scraping against the floor. Several bar-goers stand up and start trying to make their way to the counter with purposeful, drunken steps and twisted, ugly expressions. Otto should've seen it sooner; alcohol drives a certain kind of honesty out of people, so these men must have been itching for an excuse to get rid of Ricardo.

The bartender makes eye contact with Otto for one brief moment. Innocent unease is what Otto heard from Ricardo, but that same projected emotion from the bartender feels as stained as the cloak Otto's wearing.

Turn the rest of the bar against Ricardo, is what her intent read.

Otto yanks his gaze away from the bartender, turns to Ricardo, and mutters a warning under his breath, "Ricardo-san…"

"Huh?" Ricardo says, looking over to see the small crowd that's formed in front of the exit. And Otto has no goddamn clue how many people there are exactly—thirty? Forty? Fuck, it has to be at least fifty. All the other noise of the tavern faded away with Ricardo's entrance before, but now, with that damn green-haired bartender's influence? Otto turns back to the bar. It's the quiet before a storm, and one of the culprits is—

The bartender is gone from behind the counter.

"Shit," Otto grits out. He shouldn't have gotten complacent, shouldn't have let the warmth of alcohol and company relax him like that. This is so embarrassing, he should've been paying attention. This isn't even his first barroom brawl! And—and Ricardo looks plenty strong and all, but—fuck, this is so troublesome.

"Why don't you get on out of here," one of the men says, taking a staggering step forward. He's middle-aged, a large bald spot on his head and an unshaven stubble clinging to his neck. His beady eyes narrow in on Ricardo. "Your kind isn't welcome in Lugunica."

There it is, Otto thinks, leaning away and giving a frantic glance at the nearest exit door. The first stone was thrown. And a first glass could be thrown next, from a man near Otto holding a tumbler in a vice grip. There are scars running along his arms, and his other hand is missing three of its digits, only the thumb and ring finger remaining.

Another man stands beside that one with dull orange hair and deep shadows under his eyes, his hand wandering to a hidden blade stuffed in the layers of his clothing. He wears a gray, baggy cloak with frayed ends, and a shawl partially obscures his expression as he slinks back amongst the crowd with a crooked smile. But his example is not unnoticed.

Several others fetch knives and sharp objects from wherever they can find them. The least subtle of them is a man near the front. The leather armor on his chest is dull and scratchy from use, his face wrinkly and sun-dried. There's a frown deeply etched onto his lips as he reaches for the pommel of the sword strapped to his side.

The drunken mob arms themselves, and Otto suppresses the instinct to bolt right then and there. This isn't like all the other bar fights Otto's been involved in anymore. This is a proper battle with weapons. The disgruntled drunks border on forming a militia over their shared prejudice.

"Fought a whole damn war and you're all still damn savages!" the man holding the tumbler shouts, jabbing a crooked finger on his free hand in Ricardo's direction—displaying the aged wound for the whole tavern to see. It's personal for him, a deep feeling of bitter loss carried across with his every hateful word. As if Ricardo himself stole those fingers away from him however many years ago. It's a ridiculous notion, but the threat underlying it is very real.

Otto follows the man's gaze to Ricardo, and Otto desperately hopes that Ricardo knows what he's doing. There's a small pang of guilt in his chest for that—depending on Ricardo when Ricardo's the main victim of the attack, how pathetic of him. But if it means Otto gets to live another day…

"We let you drink in our bars and walk on our streets and you're still causing trouble!" yet another man chimes in from the back of the crowd. Otto can't make out much about his appearance from so far away, but the eye missing from the left socket of his face is impossible to miss—along with the jagged scar that traces its way from his forehead, across that empty hole, all the way to his chin. His statement of abject frustration is met by a chorus of cheers in agreement.

The stray shouts of anger grow in number, morphing into a murmur of curses. The hostile intent washes over Otto, forcing goosebumps to scutter down his arms. He wants to run, but with that hate clinging to his skin like a cold sweat, Otto is held still.

Relying on Ricardo is the only way he'll get out of this alive. A merchant knows when to cut his losses, and Ricardo surely understands the same—having learned from whoever the boss lady is—and the fact Ricardo hasn't moved in the face of a mob of racists is proof that there's no chance to just walk away from this fight.

"Damn him!" the swordsman with leather armor yells, with the raise of his blade drawn from its sheath. The entire crowd roars with him, their combined voices drowning out the sharp inhale Otto gives at that sight, when that man sneers, "Let's teach that dog a lesson!"

The mob presses closer. They're boxing Ricardo and Otto in, circling around them in a swirling mass of bodies and nauseating ill intent. Once all of them have their weapons drawn, there's a small lull in the air—a tension where Otto readies himself for—for something. Another damn fight in a bar, except Otto's the only one unarmed. Not that he'd know how to use a blade the same way a mercenary or a knight could even if he was; his only weapons have been depending on other creatures for help or hoping his own words get him out of the trouble they always get him into.

Him, and the people around him.

Otto's the one who whined his way into this bar, yet Ricardo's the one who chose to sit by Otto. Nothing is keeping Otto here besides the selfish need to protect himself. They're stuck in this mess together, but if Otto had the option he'd skip town at the first sign of trouble like he always does.

Yes, Otto's just waiting for his opening to run off back to Frufoo. His persistent presence is a matter of circumstance and nothing more. Escape is impossible for now, talking down bigots is a fool's errand, which leaves making himself hard to notice while trying not to worsen the situation for Ricardo as the only option Otto has left.

Any other merchant in his position would have the same mindset, surely. It's all a matter of optimizing the pros and cons.

Ricardo stands up to meet the crowd, and Otto's ready to make the balance shift in his head. Or at least, he should be. Otto should be keeping a keen eye on when it would be best to run, but Otto can't help but be distracted again, just for a second, because Ricardo towers over everyone there. Because there's a cold steadfastness to Ricardo, a certainty despite the spiked drink and the nasty comments. Because Ricardo steps in front of Otto. Because Ricardo's shadow falls over Otto, and Otto can't help but think—fuck, even if whatever drugs he's gulped down haven't had much of an effect on Ricardo yet, he's been drugged. And despite that, he's still taking the time to try and protect Otto. Snivelling, whiny, weak Otto.

And like that, running away stops being an option for Otto. If Ricardo insists on protecting Otto, Otto should use that to his advantage. It's—it's not as if Otto is worried about Ricardo. It would just be a waste to abandon Ricardo now with an opportunity like this. A callous, hideous waste of a valuable asset. Otto's need to stay only comes from Ricardo's martial prowess in this situation, and has nothing to do with his potential as a drinking buddy.

The pros and cons in Otto's mind don't treat such sentimental things as factors. The pros and cons in Otto's mind don't act in counterproductive ways toward his mercantile ideals. He was raised better than that.

Continuing to make himself small, Otto keeps a close watch of Ricardo, waiting to see his next move—for the sake of coordinating a resolution to the situation, of course—and that's when Ricardo takes a deep breath, followed by a heavy sigh. Otto's eyes catch on the steady rise and fall of Ricardo's chest, the way it puffs in and out, the way all the relaxation leaves Ricardo in one moment. Ricardo stiffens when he breathes back in, his feet planted firmly on the ground in a purposeful stance, just like when…

A shout chokes itself down Otto's throat. He makes a mad scramble out of his seat—glasses shattering to the floor, spilled drink soaking into his pants—and flings himself over the counter. With all the grace of a river fish flopping on land, he hits the ground hard, forearm to floor first, the ache ringing all the way through his bones as he rolls over with a strangled groan. Get up, he thinks, half-delirious, half-hysterical, get up, get up, and definitely don't feel sad about your wasted-and-probably-drugged drink too. So he drags his torso up enough to get a good look over the counter. Slaps his hands over his ears, and grits his teeth as he watches Ricardo's mouth open wide into a—

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN!"

A shockwave tears through the air, same as with the triplets earlier today. And before Otto has time to question if they're connected at all, the ground shakes underneath Otto. Vibrations send a tremor through him as the whole building shudders from the intensity of the scream.

The men standing around Ricardo take in one hit of the shockwave and start dropping like flies—weapons clattering to the floor, bodies falling with dull thuds, the tumbler held in one of their hands shattering with a noise that Ricardo overpowers.

Otto would feel more sorry for them if they were flies.

Ricardo turns his head as he continues his scream, and Otto watches it all with wide eyes. A strategic attack on Ricardo's part: the men's faces twist in agony as they're pushed back, limbs tripping and collapsing after a futile attempt to keep themselves upright, until Ricardo's scream carves a path through the crowd and blasts right into the very brickwork that holds up the front of the tavern.

Related to the triplets or not, the difference in power between what Hetaro unleashed in one last desperate attack and Ricardo's steady, full-bodied howl is night and day. The building continues to shudder for each moment that passes with Ricardo's shout. A jagged piece of debris crashes from the ceiling right in front of Otto, and then another falls off to Otto's right, and then yet another near the front doorway, and then another.

The debris kicks up a dust cloud that crawls into Otto's lungs and suffocates him until he has to cough it back out. A few heaves. An ache in his forearm, his fingers digging into his hair. The seconds go by, and then Otto can finally start to hear his own hacking rasps more than the explosion of noise coming from Ricardo's mouth.

The shaking of the building eases up, so Otto unclasps his hands from his ears, wiping away the dust that got in his eyes to get a good look at the final results of Ricardo's attack. Blinking to clear his vision, the first thing Otto sees again is many of the fifty or so men knocked to the ground.

Most are down, but not all. A dozen remain standing, even if barely, while another dozen are peeling themselves off the floor. Those that remain conscious hold tightly to their weapons, their gazes pointed directly toward Ricardo, what groans of pain Otto can hear ringing out with a frustrated malice.

These men who withstood the initial strike are not strangers to battle, so there's a good chance they are mercenaries or retired soldiers, if the scars and aged wounds weren't enough proof of that. So treating this place as a battlefield, their mindsets as individuals give way to a mob mentality. The resistance Ricardo put up that incapacitated over half of their comrades serves to strengthen their resolve to fight, a need to avenge the fallen that fails to acknowledge their position as aggressors.

Despicable, close-minded people. They're probably looking down at their collapsed racists-in-arms and seeing it as their point being proven. Or rather, the bartender's point, since she's the one who really started all of this. Lost in self-righteous zeal, the crowd never notices how they're dancing in the palm of another's hand, acting out the will of an unseen manipulator who takes advantage of their years of pain and frustration only to vanish after getting the ball rolling. To what end? For what benefit? To where did she run off to?

That bartender is the spark that lit the flame, and with the chaos in the room, Otto can't find her. Without the instigator in sight, all Otto can do is turn his attention back to the fight.

Ricardo steadies himself, taking on a neutral stance, looking down on the men who are sure to launch a counterattack. But with their numbers thinned, with their focus solely on Ricardo himself, with Otto largely hidden from view behind the counter—Otto is in an ideal position to circle around while they're not looking.

Running away in the chaos is a possibility that floats through Otto's mind again, but there's no telling if they'd catch him on his way through the door. Otto needs to trap what remains of the mob in a pincer maneuver if he wants to get out of here. Or at least, he has to take some kind of advantage of their tunnel-visioned focus on Ricardo.

For Ricardo and Otto's shared benefit, of course.

Who knows, maybe this way Otto will finesse his way into another free drink? What's better, getting away unharmed or getting away with liquor he doesn't have to pay for? The answer to his lists of pros and cons is clear: wounds don't have a price tag while alcohol is worth every coin. So really, Otto should keep scanning the room for—

Sword in hand, the wrinkly man in leather armor breaks free of the crowd. He staggers forward with a hateful grimace, his steps accelerating until he's lunging toward Ricardo. Otto flinches at the sudden movement, watching while stock still behind the counter. The man's sword raises above his head, held tight in a white-knuckled grip, and he lets out a guttural shout as he charges toward Ricardo.

Ricardo doesn't even brandish his own weapon in response. Taking a casual step to the side, the man's blade misses its mark entirely, flying though where Ricardo was just standing—standing, in front of Otto.

"Fuck!" Otto yelps, scurrying back. The blade slices clean into the wood of the bar right where Otto was just peeking over it, and Otto tries not to imagine it slicing through his skin instead.

"Ah, my bad, bro," Ricardo says. With a tap of his elbow against the back of the man's neck, the attacker falls to the ground, unconscious. "My heads's all fuzzy. Forgot ya were even there."

Grasping the handle of the blade lodged in the bar, Ricardo rips it out—a sizable chunk of wood tearing off with it, still clinging to the sword. He heaves it over his shoulder and flashes Otto a toothy grin, before turning back to the mob of attackers.

Otto can't help but let out a nervous chuckle at that sight, rubbing his eyes at the jovial tone of Ricardo's words—the intent coating them like he was apologizing for accidentally stepping on Otto's shoe. Otto finds a small, temporary smile creeping up onto his face again, at those echoes of that warmth Otto felt when joking with Ricardo earlier, and it calms the cold panic this bar fight has drenched Otto in.

Even while drugged and on the receiving end of a fifty-on-one battle, Ricardo is still so damn friendly and earnest.

The nip of guilt at the thought Otto had of leaving Ricardo vanishes, gone with even the possibility of abandoning his drinking buddy. It was only a few minutes of connection, sure, but it's more than Otto's ever been given in his entire life outside of his family.

Otto won't let some random bartender and a gaggle of racists ruin this tiny bit of luck he's finally stumbled across. If what's needed to keep Ricardo around is to make that fifty-on-one into a fifty-on-two then so be it.

Though, it goes without saying that, in the end, this is all still a selfish decision. Otto's only a merchant making an investment on his drinking buddy. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Dragging himself up to the counter again, Otto spots the man with dull orange hair sprinting toward Ricardo. Otto can't tell when the man made his way from the back to the front, or when he even began to sprint Ricardo's way—possibly in the moment Ricardo turned his back to speak to Otto—but his strategy is clear.

Holding his body low and moving with swift steps, the man is aiming for Ricardo's legs. There's a glint of intensity in those baggy eyes, their focus honed in on the foundational weak points of the body. It's a much less reckless approach compared to the swordsman, and with the flowing, tattered cloak draped over his shoulders it's impossible to tell what else the man has planned for when he gets close enough to strike—the shape of his own body concealed by his billowing cloak.

Otto sucks in a breath, pushes down that fear response rising in him again, and tries to remember Ricardo's strength. Ricardo's a trained fighter, the muscle to some successful merchant's brains. He has to be more powerful than many of the people here, judging from his scream and his physical capabilities and his aloof attitude.

And Otto's proven right, because the orange-haired man's maneuver is countered by Ricardo with blinding speed. Pulling his sword back, Ricardo swings in an arc—a motion done with a swiftness Otto doesn't expect from someone of Ricardo's build, and it's clear his attacker thinks the same.

Using the sizable wood ripped from the bar still clinging to the metal of the sword as a makeshift hammer, Ricardo bulldozes right through any stealthy tactic the man was using to conceal his form in an attack too broad to dodge.

The orange-haired man's crooked smile vanishes and his tired eyes widen. He attempts to turn away, pivot to minimize the damage, but it's in vain. He only moves enough to move the impact from his shoulder to his chest—trading a destroyed arm for bruised pecs and a broken sternum.

If nothing else, Ricardo's borrowed sword never even reaches the man. A loud cracking sound akin to a tree falling over fills the tavern, the force of the blow shattering that piece of the counter. The wood attached to the steel smashes into him instead of the blade, and propels him right across the room before he can be stabbed in addition to the blunt force trauma.

As he's thrown from the impact, the orange-haired man sputters out saliva and blood, reaching a hand to grab his chest. He quickly pulls it back, though. Dozens of tiny pieces of wood stab into the skin of his palm with that reflexive motion. A trail of splinters is cast into the air as he goes, falling from the hundreds lodged in his torso and hand both.

He lands shoulder-first on the ground, and the scream of pain that climbed up to his lips is cut short. The orange-haired man rolls over several times before slamming into the wall—chest-first, surely driving the shards of wood deeper into his skin. His gray cloak provides no protection, only serving to wrap him up in cloth that's now been riddled with countless tiny holes from all the splinters.

The tavern goes silent. The other men in the room pause, hesitant after watching one man after another get smacked around like it was nothing.

A dull groan sounds out from the orange-haired man crushed against the wall. Somehow, he survived, Otto notes with a wince, then turns back to Ricardo, who's resting the flat side of the sword on his shoulder. "Guess that leaves me with a proper blade," Ricardo says. He glances back at the other men in the bar again and sneers, "Now then, who's next?"

"He can't take all of us down at once!" someone shouts from the back. Otto squints to see that it's that—that bartender again, standing near the entrance to the tavern. She lowered her voice to sound more masculine, and it's spurred the crowd on for a second time. Goddammit, Otto can't just stand here, he has to act.

The crowd charges at Ricardo, and Otto steals his chance. Allowing instinct to take over, Otto vaults right over the bar.

Deafening footsteps, more shouting and yelling—Otto lets it all fade into the background and grabs the nearest stool, angles it just right, then slams it down onto the counter. The chair falls apart in his hands, and he drops the rest of it on the floor in favor of using the makeshift stake he broke from one of its legs. While the crowd's distracted, Otto can just—

"And that damn merchant too!" the bartender yells. Her voice comes out gravelly, and that paired with the nauseatingly genuine ill intent makes Otto realize she's changed her voice again to incite the crowd for the third time now. Of course she'd sick them on him right as he gets an opportunity to make a difference in the fight. "Teach him what it means to share space in these savages' kennel!"

Several of the men in the crowd break off from the coordinated assault on Ricardo. The balding man who was first to speak out, the one-eyed scarred veteran who spoke up from the back, a tattooed individual with markings like snakes on his neck—those and more turn their attention to Otto while the rest keep Ricardo preoccupied. Preoccupied—so Otto has to handle this himself.

With a muffled yelp, Otto curses his luck. His persistently ill fortune caught right up to him again. That always catches up to him no matter what Otto does. At no fault of his own, Otto keeps on getting dragged into mess after mess and there's no one to blame but this cruel, unfair world. Or maybe the government, but Otto dashes that thought before he can get lost in figuring out who he should hold responsible for Lugunica's racial tensions.

Can't afford to get distracted when every second counts. Holding the stake in his hand tight, keeping his sights trained on the men approaching him, Otto tries to move away from the chaos of Ricardo's fight. Staying still, cowering behind his drinking buddy, is not an option.

But Otto needs to put something between him and them. So he walks parallel to the bar, toward a group of unoccupied tables by the far wall. It's fine, Otto tells himself. He can handle this. It's just a few drunk racists. If he can beat this many men in a drinking contest, surely a proper fight is no big deal. The only outstanding factor here really is the hidden manipulator behind the scenes.

Otto looks past the men heading his way, finding the bartender standing behind the group of them. Her eyes shine with a vicious kind of light. They're brown, a common color to see, but somehow the warm, pale yellow tint that stretches to the corners of her pupils feels familiar.

That fleeting sense of understanding is broken when she snaps, finger pointed in his direction, "Teach him to stop betraying our kind!"

The men accelerate, speeding up to intercept him. Otto flinches away from that and the malicious intent of her words both. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was not what Otto had in mind for the start of his week. He looks at the blades of his pursuers while gripping the makeshift piece of wood in his hand. It's enough to avoid getting killed, has to be. And if not…

Otto grits his teeth and digs deeper into his Divine Protection again, dunking all his senses right into it. All the usual background noise, all those usual background presences—the volume on them turns right up as Otto moves the dial, as Otto feels it tug at his heartstrings.

The pitter-patter of cockroach footsteps, the soft clicking of termites—no, he can't use those. They could eat up all the food in this place, sure, but the entire building is already hanging on its last legs, and they're far too small to attack a human. With the amount of people in the room, it's likely that at least some of them could be crushed.

Otto reaches the other side of the tavern. There's no more distance to walk. His pursuers have arrived, and from across the table Otto's standing behind, the one-eyed man swings a dagger.

He retreats with another yelp, trying his best to duck out of the way. His back hits a wall, the sensation faint amidst all the noise—rat chattering. Rat squeaking. Agitation. Fear. "Run, run, run," they shriek. "Take everyone, run, don't leave anyone, run." Nervous scurrying, just like all the insects trying to scatter away from the chaos. They're split in different directions now—the floorboards, the walls, the ceiling. The ceiling…

That'll have to do.

Raising his makeshift stake as if to defend himself from the next swing, Otto hides his mouth from his attackers' view. Have to be more subtle about it than with that kidnapper earlier given the increased number of potential witnesses, and he doesn't have much time to do it with everyone fleeing—that way, it'll look to the humans like they just got startled by all the fighting and chaos.

Contorting his face into one of fear, Otto squeaks out, "Help! Don't want to be left behind! Run! Get those humans back and run free!"

"Take this, you traitor!" the balding man says, making his way around the furniture. With a swift swipe, he sends his shortsword careening down in front of Otto. It cuts through the half-hearted defense his stool-leg provides, narrowly misses his arm, but swipes close to his chest.

Otto can't back up any more than he has, so he grits his teeth and looks down to assess the damage. The only red he can see is his bow, and the pale skin underneath is clearly unscathed. But seeing it at all is still terrible news.

The cloth on his chest has been sliced clean through. For fuck's sake! Can't Otto get one calm night with his new drinking buddy? Why does he have to get a whole goddamn room of drunk racists to vent their pent up frustrations on him and Ricardo? Well, they chose the wrong peddler to meddle with. What happens next these men have brought down on themselves. There's no need to spare any more sympathy for them. They started it, so they should reap what they sow, their odds of survival be damned.

This man in front of Otto was the first to speak out. With that unshaven stubble and unsightly bald spot, he had the audacity to tell Ricardo that he doesn't belong here, that he should leave? How about he hears the opinions of the actual residents of this tavern who they think should stay and who should go.

Otto meets the beady eyes of the man in front of him. As the bastard winds up another attack, a chorus of rat calls come from on high. Otto listens to it, music to his ears. "Help! No leaving behind! Get the humans!" they screech, as they pour down onto the enemy from the ceiling.

"What the—AH!" The balding man looks up, and then screams. He loses focus and balance both. They crawl onto his head, gripping on what little hair remains, and fling themselves down his back. The rats flow into his clothes, tearing holes into his tunic, scratching and nibbling at every bit of skin they touch—serves him right, it's only fair for him to experience the violent violation of his own outfit after what he did to Otto's shirt.

Otto drops the wood in his hand, and reaches for the hat on his head. Yanking it off, he feels the weight of his life's savings slide down to the secret pocket's edge. Everyone's doing their part, trying their best, all for Otto's sake. So he'll put his money where his mouth is and contribute.

Gripping the base tight, Otto winds up his hat-turned-flail with an aim for the man's bald spot like it's a bright red archery target—where no rats are scurrying and scratching at him, having all moved into his clothes. Putting his full body weight into the strike, Otto slams down on the man's head.

A dull thud rings out, and the man collapses to the floor. The rats flee his crumpled-over body, several escaping to the outside with declarations of "Run free!" while most continue on to the next man.

"The humans! Get the humans!" they declare in unison, swarming to crawl up the legs of the tattooed individual. There is no fear of the snake on his skin as everyone tears into it, climbing higher and higher. They aim for his neck, to get away from the ground, to attack him in reverse order of what they did with their previous opponent.

Straightening out the wrinkles in his hat, Otto puts it back on. The rats switched up their approach, and so will he. Otto grabs an empty bottle from the table next to him, and hurries forward to the tattooed man before he can start stomping down on everyone.

"Shit, get off me, you pests!" Thrashing about, the man tries to shove the creatures away. It's a futile effort. For every rat he pries off, five more crawl further up. It's especially foolish, since that leaves him wide open.

Cranking his arm back, Otto swings for the man's temple. With a crash of glass, the bottle breaks open against it.
He falls, more rats retreat, and Otto regards the next opponent. Need to keep up this momentum, attack as many as possible before this portion of the crowd shakes off their confusion and charges all at once. Otto isn't Ricardo; he can't fend off a swarm of humans. He'd probably survive, but someone might get hurt, and Otto can't allow a single rat to die for his sake.

Otto follows the motion of the rats. Everyone moves forward, toward the one-eyed man with a dagger in hand. "Together! No leaving behind!" the rats say, making a coordinated run for his left leg.

"How in the hell?!" the man sputters, failing to stop the rats from climbing the inside of his pants. He too attempts to wrench off everyone clawing at the skin of his torso. The dagger he holds is shaky, clearly hesitant to stab anywhere near his already permanently maimed body.

Otto does not share that reservation. He marches forward, flipping the jagged remains of the bottle to an underhanded grip, and aims for the enemy's right leg. With a deft shove, Otto stabs the man's thigh, pushing it as deep as it can go.

"ARGH!" the man cries out in pain. Otto lets go of the bottle's neck, but not out of consideration for the man. Can't have any drops of this stranger's blood staining his green outfit—the mess of his own and Hetaro's blood is irritating as-is, and Otto draws the line at racist drunks.

Regardless, this man is a veteran. If he stoops to treating a tavern as a battlefield, he should know well what rules apply. It's kill or be killed. He should be grateful Otto didn't decide to take his other eye.

With a step back, Otto refocuses on his allies in this situation. Straining his ears, it doesn't sound like their numbers thinned at all, and there's no cries of death and blood aside from the humans Otto attacked with everyone's aid. Out of the corner of his eye, he can spot the last group making a dash through the nearest opening in the wall, pouring out into the streets.

"Run free!" they squeak, escaping into the night. Good. It would be quite rude to have anyone die on his watch after he summoned them for help. Several humans break from their mob and about ten of them follow suit, scurrying away from the fight they started. Maybe they're scared of being hurt. Perhaps they just can't stand to fight for or against the bigotry of their peers. An understandable reaction, a consideration Otto himself has made a thousand different times. But push has come to shove, and Otto can't run away when the situation has escalated to this extent.

No matter their motivations, the fleeing men are cowards.

Good riddance. Fewer enemies to account for. Now then, with the rats' safety assured, Otto moves onto his next priorities: who's left of the racists, where's Ricardo, and where did that godforsaken bartender run off to again?

Otto looks up, and finds over ten men standing in front of him, their backs turned to Ricardo in the distance, their focus squarely on Otto. They fan out in a row to block out any means of Otto's escape, leaving Otto with a bitter chill down his spine.

A single man breaks away from the group, approaching Otto, deliberate and slow. He's young, too young to have been a soldier, yet there's more hate in his expression than anyone else.

"You're one lucky fucker," the man says, taking the shortsword from beside the unconscious bald form of his fallen comrade. "Not only a traitor, not only a coward hiding behind rats—you're a damn pest yourself, for what you've done to my uncles."

Ah. This man is making it personal. It's not just racism for him, but revenge. Targeted loathing for Otto in particular. What a hypocritical position to take as the aggressor.

"It's proper form to trade names before a duel. But," the man spits, raising the blade toward Otto. "This isn't one. I'm just here to get rid of vermin."

Otto is not given the chance to respond. The young man walks forward with slash after slash. It's a gradual advance, as though he's toying with Otto, pushing him back step by step with nothing to do but make pathetic yelps and dance at this man's command.

Goddamnit, why is this happening to Otto? Why are they focusing on him all of a sudden when Ricardo's the object of their prejudice, standing unopposed in the center of the tavern? Are these men so blind that they can't even see their own allies knocked down in droves?

What is Otto thinking, they're racist drunkards, of course they're not logical people.

Otto's back hits the wall again, and there's no more space to retreat. At the next swipe, Otto ducks instead, grabbing his hat into his hands. Can't have it sliced open either or those coins will scatter everywhere for the second time today.

Low to the ground, Otto steals a glance behind the encirclement he's trapped in to see if Ricardo's coming his way to help. Instead, he finds Ricardo's hands gripping the edge of the distant counter. What is Ricardo—a loud crackle of wood tearing rings out, overwriting the word doing in Otto's mind.

Oh. Oh, fuck. The men around Otto look to see the source of the noise, even the young man with sword in hand turning his neck to see.

Otto jolts up in that moment of rest, closing the gap with his attacker. Gotta distract them or else it won't work. With as swift of a hit as Otto can land, he grabs the young man by the shoulders and knees him in the crotch. The shortsword clatters to the ground, loud.

"You fucking prick," he groans out as he begins to collapse, the strength zapped from his legs. Without hesitation, Otto responds by kneeing him again, this time right in the nose.

As the young man fully falls to the floor, Otto takes several steps forward, standing over the young man's unconscious body. His opponent's face is probably a bloody mess, and Otto probably got some of it on his pants, but he can't look down to check either.

Because all eyes are on Otto now. The row of men all glare at him, their attention fully drawn from Ricardo.

Ten seconds. Otto just needs to buy all of ten seconds for Ricardo's bizarre strategy to play out. Question is whether or not Otto will survive ten seconds surrounded by a horde of vengeful racists.

The crowd closes in on him, and what little distance Otto made between himself and the wall vanishes. Otto backpedals out of the way of several sword swipes, and readies his self-defense training. There's not enough space in his head for counting, awareness of Ricardo, keeping track of his opponents, and the magic all at the same time. Yet, there's still room for the intrusive thought of: maybe his family's tutors really should've taught him more practical lessons, like how to handle bar fights, instead of casting low level magic.

But at least it's good for one thing now. One, single thing at this moment, and it's not even to land a hit.

Otto fumbles every dodge, grievous injury one late pivot away at every turn of this encounter, and all he can do is hold the shape of the spell in his mind. Gather up all the mana in him, watching for the right moment to make his move.

Ricardo in the distance hoists up the massive piece of wood he ripped from the bar—the whole counter pretty much, three times Otto's height and probably as heavy as Frufoo—pulls it back, then chucks it with the full force of every muscle in his body.

"Dona!" Otto yells, dropping to the ground as fast as he can behind the mound of earth Otto conjures up in front of him. He falls on his forearm again, the sudden impact making a grunt force itself out of his lips—but he's landed on the opposite side of his body this time, evening out the bruising by injuring both sides equally. Dammit.

But fuck—the counter comes barrelling across the room, faster than anyone can run. Every man that surrounded Otto gets caught in its path. It smashes through all of them, shoving them to the ground while barely slowing down, and it comes crashing against Otto's little earth wall. The reverberation of the impact shakes Otto to his bones, but the earth holds. The wood creaks and snaps at the grounded resistance his magic provides, splitting right in two.

And then the split halves of the wood clatter to the floor.

And then—silence in the tavern.

Otto doesn't realize his eyes are squeezed shut until he has to open them again. He instinctively braced for impact, curling in on himself with his matching bruised arms thrown right over his head—a last-ditch effort to add more security underneath his earth wall—but he unfurls now, straightening up again as his magic sinks back into the ground. His breath comes out shaky. His wheezy, exhausted gasps are loud in the sudden quiet.

But when he looks back up, the only people left standing are him and Ricardo.

Ricardo, who also looks worse for wear. He's swaying a little on his feet, and his eyes droop with a similar kind of exhaustion until he meets Otto's gaze again. Ricardo musters up a small, toothy grin. Otto doesn't quite manage to smile back, but the corners of his mouth give a weak twitch as he steps over the counter and stumbles closer to Ricardo.

The bodies littered all around at Otto's feet groan as he passes them. Those men still aren't dead, Otto notes, but there are more important matters to attend to. Namely, the only loose thread left: the fact that Otto has no idea where that damn bartender is now.

When Otto looks back up to Ricardo again, there's another small burst of movement behind the bar. Otto can't see anyone there, but he can make out the faint pattern of something—heat-like waves, with the light behind where the counter used to be distorting unnaturally. That cold dread from earlier claws its way into Otto's stomach again, and so Otto cries out:

"Ricardo-san, behind you!"

Ricardo doesn't even turn around; he just raises his fist to punch the air behind him with the back of his hand. It hits something solid, and—and something tumbles to the ground behind the bar with a loud thud. But there doesn't seem to be a person or object at all behind what remains of the counter, at least from where Otto's looking, and Otto's already getting distracted trying not to think about how Ricardo just blindly trusted him.

Then—silence again.

Through Otto's Divine Protection, there's only the sound of cockroach footsteps and termite clicking in the background, any left in the tavern scattering off in different directions. Otto heaves a great sigh, takes another shaky step forward, turns to Ricardo, and opens his mouth to say—

Ricardo immediately collapses right where he stands, falling face-first to the ground.

"R-Ricardo-san!" Otto bursts out as he rushes to Ricardo's side, practically crashing to his knees beside Ricardo.

Panting and gasping, Otto manages to shove all his weight into Ricardo enough to roll Ricardo's massive body over, and Otto absolutely doesn't think about how—physically speaking, in a non-antagonistic sense—this is the closest he's been to another person outside of his family, other than that one moment a few months ago near Guineb.

Ricardo's face is slack, mouth limply open, and Otto reaches a hand to feel the pulse at Ricardo's neck. Steady beats thump under Otto's fingers, and Otto watches Ricardo's chest rise and fall with breath.

Otto exhales out all his worry, retracting his hand from Ricardo's warm skin and fur. Good. Ricardo doesn't seem overly injured. It's just that the drugs in his drink have finally caught up to him.

Fuck. The drugs caught up to him.

And that's when a rumbling noise sounds out from near the doorway, growing closer and closer at a worrying rate. And unfortunately that's also when Otto realizes—shit, shit, shit, he wasn't paying attention to anything outside the tavern. That noise could be the knights, the nearest guards, or more racist drunk people from the next bar over, and here Otto is, kneeling in the middle of a whole maze of unconscious bodies, so of course this would look bad. Disastrously and spectacularly bad.

Another rumble echoes, breathing down Otto's neck. Ricardo is still laying on the floor in front of Otto. Even if Otto somehow manages to worm his way out of this by trying to sweet talk whoever's on their way now, Ricardo would be the next big suspect.

So Otto takes a deep breath and tries to tap into the nearest insects in the area again. Winged ones, preferably, who'd be more aware of the goings on outside. All other noise starts to fade away, even the rumbling, and Otto hones in on the chirping of zodda-bugs, the clicking of—

The double doors of the tavern burst wide open. They tear right off their hinges connecting them to the surrounding brickwork in a near deafening crash, and standing there is…

"Laddie, are you alright?! I heard the commotion and—"

Frufoo stands there in the doorway. Or rather, the giant crater in the wall that was once the doorway. But Otto can't help it—no matter how much he wishes he didn't make Frufoo worry over him so much, he always sags with relief at the sight of her large shadow hanging over him, and the anxious widening of her eyes, and even her tail lashing out back and forth behind her in its agitated sort of way.

"Laddie," Frufoo starts, her gaze wandering over Otto, along with his entire body—like she's searching for any visible injuries on him—before she moves on to Ricardo's body lying right next to him. And the numerous other bodies spread throughout the entire bar. "What in the world happened?!"

Otto figures that, at first glance, this incident may look more like a massacre, given how unfortunate some of the injuries on these men are. It's far worse than Otto's last bar fight; at least no one was injured then. Which means the stakes are even higher this time. If he and Ricardo are found here once the knights or any other bystanders show up…

Well, Otto had to depend on Frufoo last time to make a quick getaway, just like that other time he ran into a bit of trouble in some other town, and that other time Otto and Frufoo found more trouble after trying to go to the mountains for a quick profit, and yet again this other t—

"One second," Otto sighs, eyeing the wagon still attached to Frufoo's harness. It's good that it's still intact after Frufoo crashed through the wall, at least. "We need to take Ricardo-san with us."

So Otto braces himself, hooking his arms underneath Ricardo's shoulders. Otto tries not to think about how those cat triplets probably hauled around his body in a similar manner to this as his knees buckle under the weight of Ricardo's upper body alone, grunting with the sheer effort of trying to tug at Ricardo with all his might.

Frufoo lowers her head and stares at Ricardo with a look so incredulous that Otto almost feels offended on Ricardo's behalf. "Are you serious, laddie?" Frufoo bursts out. "You look like you can barely walk by yourself! Why'd you go and get yourself in trouble again for no profit? This is the third incident today!"

Otto bites back another curse. "I'm dead serious," he groans, already feeling his entire body start to ache from all the fighting. But maybe the hardest thing Otto's done today wasn't the damn kidnapper or the bar fight—it's dragging Ricardo's stupidly muscular body back to Otto's wagon. A wagon, Otto notices now, squinting past Frufoo, that has leftover debris from the crater in the tavern wall.

"Don't say that," Frufoo scolds, but her tail stops flicking just so she can help support Ricardo's back and legs with it. Together, she and Otto manage to lift Ricardo into the wagon, and they make sure not to accidentally impale him on any of the debris. It's a good thing everyone else in the vicinity is too unconscious to watch them do this!

Half-collapsing against Frufoo after, Otto gasps and wheezes in exhaustion again. He feels her rub her head against his as she says, "Sorry about your wagon, laddie."

Otto stops leaning on Frufoo the moment her words reach his ears. "I-I was already planning on investing in a nicer one eventually!" he whines, and Frufoo, bless her heart, only huffs at him instead of reminding him that that was the plan before he got into debt. And before that, he's already had to repair his wagon more times than he can count—a little bit of debris is nothing compared to when it once fell off a cliff.

"Besides," Otto adds, giving her a small pat on the back before turning away. "No profit, huh?"

He stumbles on over to the men Ricardo single-handedly took care of. Dozens are scattered across the tavern floor, none of them bleeding but all of them breathing with strained groans akin to how Otto feels during particularly bad hangovers—or this morning, for that matter.

Hesitating for a brief moment, Otto allows his hands to slip right into their pockets. It wasn't as if he's going to take every little thing. And they brought this on themselves, didn't they? They were the bigoted ones here, the aggressors in the clear moral wrong, and they recklessly got into a brawl they had no chance of winning—all because of their own hatred and some bartender with a hidden agenda.

A few coins going missing here and there is nothing compared to the prison sentence they would've gotten had the world been more fair. A little bit of, ah, borrowing—Otto grits his teeth and tries not to think about his absolute lack of decorum—can't possibly be too callous at all. This place already looks like a crime scene, and Otto would be guilty of it regardless of whether or not he picked up a few silver and gold coins. After all, this was the price of the mens' hatred, and Otto likes to repay any sentiment done to him with an equal amount of consideration.

Oh! And one of them even has a holy gold coin! Score! Otto makes sure to take off his hat and slip all of his new coins into the secret compartment.

"So, laddie," Frufoo says slowly. She stays as close as she can to him like she's ready to catch him if he ends up collapsing on the spot. She's done that a good number of times when he was a clumsy little kid, and in all the times he's staggered back drunk to the wagon. "Got a good reason to be robbing all these men you've beaten to near death in a bar fight…?"

Otto bends down to regard one of the men near him. He's one of the better dressed patrons in the tavern, but the only thing of value on him is a wedding ring on his right hand—a small, glittering, green gem inlaid at its center.

"I didn't beat them to near death," Otto corrects.

The Suwen Trading Company has a long history of working with various ornamental accessories. Otto's parents have always been fond of jewelry containing gemstones. From childhood up until the last time he saw them in person, years ago, his parents wore the same necklaces around their collars—his dad's red beads, his mom's golden band embedded with rubies and emeralds. And, like the detail-oriented people they were, their wedding rings matched with color-coordinated fashion.

But selling the ring off of this man after the bar fight has to be more effort than it's worth. In terms of material value, it had to be several coins—silver, maybe? No, it couldn't be. It had to be more, but pawning it meant the potential of being linked to stealing the ring in this half-destroyed establishment. And sentimental worth was another matter. Taking the ring would be a disservice—or, depending on the circumstances, a service—to the man's spouse.

"Ricardo-san just knocked them unconscious," Otto replies to Frufoo's quizzical expression. He side steps the man with a broken bottle stuck in his leg, and goes over to the last man in the room who seems well-dressed enough to be carrying a possession worth Otto's time: the orange-haired one up against the wall, riddled in splinters.

Otto glances around his body, carefully reaches through the baggy gray cloak he's wearing—but there are no coins at all. Half-hidden by the frayed fabric and his shawl, there's an ornate dagger that's out of its sheath and on the floor beside his hand. Otto ignores its swirling patterns and the initials carved into it. As with the other man's wedding ring, sentimentality would lower the value of a potential pawnable object.

"They were all awful people, Frufoo," Otto explains. "We come across a lot of morally bankrupt individuals, these were just more of the same. This was self-defense. They started the fight in the first place."

"Laddie," Frufoo says, after a pause, "maybe you could use all that stolen money to buy yourself a mirror to look at."

Otto stiffens. He opens his mouth to retort back to Frufoo, as per usual, but then the area behind the bar catches his eye again—the heat waves making a sudden return. Or, at least, the heat wave-lookalike, regardless of what it actually is.

There's a bad feeling in his gut, and his headache from earlier is starting to come back too, so his fingers creep up the handle of the dagger. It'd be far more optimal to get rid of whoever's listening in now. And he needs to act fast to do it.

Otto bolts upright and flings the dagger as hard as he can across the tavern. The knife passes right next to where the distortion was, imbedding itself into the wall with a loud thunk. Where the air was once deformed and twisted, a presence is revealed: the back of a figure trying to escape out the backdoor in a mad scramble. A figure, with green hair and a goddamn bartender suit uniform.

"Fuck, I missed!" Otto whines, jolting up to run after that woman—but she's far too fast. She escapes before Otto makes it even halfway there, and he gives up when the exhaustion of the barfight catches up to him. His muscles ache, his head is spinning, he's still hungover and tipsy, not to mention he can't just leave Ricardo and Frufoo unattended in this place that looks like a crime scene—not that Otto or Ricardo actually did anything criminal. The building's still standing, after all.

Huffing a sigh, a glint of metal to his side draws his focus. The dagger in the wall—a bit of blood drips from the blade, falling down to the floor, and his eyes trail it until he spots a single lock of hair right at his feet. Short and dark red, stained with fresh blood at the edges. Otto scoops it up into his hand, brings the strand up to his face to look at it closely—the hair couldn't have been red. Surely. The bartender's hair was green, wasn't it? Long and green.

Frufoo stares at him. "Did you just pick some hair off the ground, laddie? Last time I checked, that doesn't sell well."

Of course, Otto ignores that comment. It's totally normal to pick up a stray piece of hair. After all, it's a rather solid piece of evidence as to whoever that bartender lady really is. Why shouldn't he put it in his pocket for safekeeping?

Winged insects buzz in his ears from the outside as if on cue: "Something's coming! Humans coming! Loud, loud! Dragons!"

That must be the law enforcement, meaning it's time to go. Getting questioned by them would be cumbersome, and he's already had to give enough witness reports in his lifetime. There's no other reason he's avoiding them. He's no criminal. Hopping over the bar, Otto tells Frufoo, "The guards are on their way, we have to get out of here."

Frufoo doesn't even grace that with a response. She sighs, "Just get in, laddie, and don't even try to drive this time," then backs right up out of the hole she made in the tavern wall as Otto climbs into the carriage beside the still unconscious Ricardo. The small sound of rumbling rings out again, from Frufoo's footsteps and the wheels of the wagon as she straightens herself out on the street. Usually he'd be in the driver's seat, holding the familiar weight of Frufoo's reins, but the strength in his body is leaving him alongside his feeling of panic.

Otto glances up at the time tower outside. The crystal light shines yellow. Earth time. Earth time. He leans back in his seat and exhales out in a big rush—he did it! He managed to survive his largest bar fight yet while not being black out drunk at all! He's the furthest thing from black out drunk! In fact, he couldn't be more sober! No, that'd be a lie. He's a little tipsy. And he can get drunker! He can just hound Ricardo for another free drink to replace their drugged ones. It's not like they'll get a refund out of that bartend—

The sound of creaking, tearing, snapping wood. "The humans are gone!" rats squeak. "Eat before it's gone!" termites chitter. The structural supports of the building cave in on themselves, starting with the front wall—then the roof, followed by every other wall. A wave of dust blasts into Otto's face as the entire tavern is reduced to splintered rubble.

It collapsed, right on top of the fifty unconscious racists. Or—forty? Forty unconscious racists, after a couple ran away? Well, either way, serves them right.

"Laddie," Frufoo says with a heavy sigh. She begins moving the carriage without any further input from Otto. "Why is it that you break everything you touch? How did you even get through another bar fight drunk off your ass again?"

Another bar fight drunk off his ass—that would be correct, wouldn't it? Maybe it could even count as an achievement to go through… exceedingly peculiar circumstances, and then come out the other side alive and in one piece with absolutely no injuries at all! Frufoo should congratulate him. It was hard to survive this whole ordeal. In fact, maybe he isn't drunk enough! He didn't even get his one night of peace, so he should surely make up for it by treating himself. He still has four coins! And a shiny new holy coin that he received through legal means!

There's already another complaint slipping out of his throat, so he raises his hand to gesture about while he explains exactly why surviving two drunken bar fights is a feat of its own, worthy of praise.

And that's when that piece of debris in the carriage slices right into his hand.

"Owwww," Otto whines instead.

He looks down to see a gash. A long, deep cut dripping blood onto his already dirty, tattered clothes. His clothes that also have a tear in the chest area and multiple stains from the alcohol—drugged alcohol—when he rolled over the counter.

This would probably hurt more if he wasn't tipsy already, Otto thinks. And then he sours immediately. This cut is going to fucking scar. How is he ever going to have negotiation meetings and business dealings ever again with a noticeable scar on his hand?! Not even someone like Henry would take it and caress it and call it soft and smooth! And Otto doesn't have the money to leech off of his family's healers anymore!

Then Otto's stomach growls. His matching arm bruises ache again. The wagon slows down ever-so-slightly just so Frufoo can give him a quick side-eye. Fantastic. He's disgusting, hungry, and injured.

"For fuck's sake, Ricardo-san! Wake up!" Otto yells, shaking Ricardo with his uninjured hand to no avail. Otto got into this mess because Ricardo walked into that bar and Otto felt bad for approximately two seconds, so really, Ricardo should just—"Wake up or so help me! Help me!"

Fuck, I missed, he said. Like hell he missed, the bastard almost landed a knife in her neck.

Carmine sits on an isolated rooftop, back against a wall, her hands gripping a cotton bandage. Before tonight, it had been a very long time since she last administered first aid on herself—and counting the bite mark, that damn merchant has been responsible for both unprecedented injuries.

As simple-minded and foolish as those bar-goers were, Carmine can't help but agree that Otto Suwen is a pest.

Not to mention how Otto managed to see right through Sunny's illusion to land the hit in the first place. In all her years in this line of work, not once have her movements been noticed like that. She's diligent in the care she takes to never give anyone the chance, always cloaking while stationary unless she knows no one's looking for her.

But with how badly things went, she had to take that risk. With her target unconscious and the only witnesses left being a merchant-turned-looter and his destructive ground dragon, there remained one last chance at completing her mission. Only for him to get in the way, again.

Carmine bites her lip to stifle her contempt, and finishes treating her wounds. Reflection on that matter must be left for after she figures out her next moves. She has to focus on what's directly relevant to her report first. Objectives, methods, results, failures.

She reaches into her cloak and retrieves a glass vial. It's empty now, a tenth of it mixed into water to soak the cloth that rendered Mimi Pearlbaton unconscious with a whiff. The rest of the drug—which is orders of magnitude stronger when ingested rather than inhaled—was drunk by Ricardo Welkin.

Even with the half Ricardo consumed, it was a dose strong enough for four dozen men. It bordered on lethal, and yet he managed to defeat nearly forty others while fighting off its effects for several minutes. Impossible—is what Carmine would like to say, but since it came to pass, the truth is that it was merely outside the realm of her expectations.

After this many years in the field, she's never been underprepared. Let alone twice on a single assignment. She tried to account for Ricardo's strength and body mass. She even tried to account for that stupid green bastard by waiting until he was drunk and weaponizing a crowd of fifty men, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't anywhere near enough.

They forced her hand, made it necessary to instigate the involvement of unrelated parties, made Carmine say those ignorant, despicable words. And they still got away, leaving a whole building of liabilities Carmine will be held responsible for once she gives her report. Whether a crowd of racists live or die is not within the scope of Carmine's assignment, but to involve them and draw attention to herself by their injury is unprofessional. Carmine has stooped to conduct beneath her and has been rewarded for it with failure.

So much for her perfect record.

Carmine breathes out, through her aching nose, and the stab of pain brings her hand to it. With an imprecise strike seconds before collapsing, Ricardo has nearly broken it. Nearly. Carmine can tell exactly how much it's damaged, from how many times she's suffered the pain that led to it ending up as crooked as it is.

She's lost count of every instance. Keeping track never mattered, only getting through it did. The only one she remembers now is the first time. When her life went to shit, when she lost everything, cast into the world of slaves and abusers that started carving out their den in the shadows of her hometown. She was just a girl, they saw her as a woman, and they treated her as less than human.

Dragging her away by one thin wrist, deeper and deeper into the mining tunnels of the mountains she grew up in. Then the snapping pain, the sound of her own bones crunching under the weight of a grown man's fist, the spiteful scream that next time she obeys or there will be no next time. The ache in her face from that lingered, was all she could feel when they came for her first time, and the next, and the next—until she lost count.

She missed the light, she thought. During winter, it grew cold in the mountains, but when the sun came out, she felt like she could reach toward the sky and grasp that warmth herself. In her naivete, Carmine wondered: what was the point of being so high up if you couldn't dream for something more?

Until those dreams took everything, and the freckles faded from her face. The sun was just the sun until it was gone.

Cast into the dark, left adrift in the pain, with that ache in her nose, no part of her remaining untouched—Carmine took hold of the last thing that was hers. Coating herself in her own blood, she made a mess of her leg and placed it inside—her own piece of the sun. That was the closest it could be to her heart.

A shaky needle, uncertain stitches in the shadows of her cell. She'd repaired clothes before, dabbled in embroidering flowers along the edges of dresses. Carmine was her own worst work; filthy and discarded, with the stench of iron in her lungs. And yet, the light came looking for her.

Sunny's floating in front of her, now, making a range of colors. The green catches her eye first, because green means that Sunny must've been warning her about something again, but then she sees blue shoot up into sparks in front of her. The green and blue fall down together in unison, two streams of light intertwining, until all the other colors join in—purple and red and orange and golden sun—and then they all burst in front of her into a rainbow of their own as if it sprung up right after a rainy day.

Like a dance, Sunny bobs and weaves in the air around the streams of light. Carmine taught it to Sunny. They're the same fireworks she spent ages agonizing over in her childhood until she was known as the local performer—magic tricks and childish acrobatics and all.

Just like in the cell, the sun reaches back for her. And with that reminder, Carmine finds herself remembering better times.

It was a bright summer day the last time she performed. A dress rehearsal. The next afternoon they were going to put on their production for the whole town. Carmine was in charge, Sunny provided the special effects—except the fireworks, hidden as a surprise for the real performance—and her sister was the lead role. The center of attention, in her blue dress, where everyone would want her for her.

That night, Carmine pulled her sister aside. Gave her a gift Carmine made with Sunny's help. A set of matching golden lockets. An image of each other inside, drawn in colored pencil, traced from a projection Sunny conjured up for Carmine to use as a reference—but that part was a secret. They promised together to not open it until after the successful performance.

Carmine spent days, weeks, months on all of it. With the fireworks and spotlight illuminating her sister, her sister would finally be able to shine on her own, all while knowing Carmine still loved her with all her heart.

The last thing Carmine said to her sister was that they'd be okay one day. That they'll be able to buy more than that one blue dress, have more than just each other and Sunny for family, live bigger than the mountaintop town where hardly anything ever changed. Carmine promised it.

And it never came to pass. Carmine was taken after that, led into the caves nestled in the mountain. The locket—Carmine kept it close, hoping her sister would be doing the same, even with Carmine abandoning her.

For her part, Carmine will never forget, never stop fighting. She places a tender hand on her left thigh, traces the line of the faded scar underneath her pants. "I promise, I'll keep you safe," she says. "No matter how long it takes."