In which the one who is not yet called Knox searches for sanctuary from his pursuers, and does not quite find it.
@fr-dew @lumoselm @arctic-rising @yuushanoah-fr
He hesitates too long on the threshold, and the door swings back to smack him solidly on the chest.
The ambient chatter trails off as one-by-one the patrons turn to stare; he stares back, and nearly turns on his heel and walks right back out. But someone says “C’mon in, man, you’re cool,” and though it’s accompanied by several snickers (he’s never been so keenly aware of the pallor of his eyes), well, he can’t just refuse.
He slinks his way over to the bar, or at least he tries. The massive Imperial has never been much good at sneaking, and instead he just looks hunched and awkward and miserable. There’s a glass in his hand almost before he sits down. He opens his mouth to say- something, he’s not sure what, maybe offer to pay- but the bartender cuts him off. “You need it more than I do, buddy.”
The man he was a month ago would have bristled at the show of pity; this man melts against the counter and gapes with wide-eyed helplessness. He’s gently encouraged to drink, and it’s a testament to his weary state that he doesn’t even hesitate. The liquid is cool on his tongue, water with just a hint of something other. It tastes almost like home.
He hadn’t realized how faint he’d been feeling until the world stops spinning around him. “Yeah, it’s hot out there, ain’t it?” He blinks back at the bartender dumbly. The man waits a moment, sighs, and tries again. “We don’t get too many of your folk out here.”
The man seems to expect some response from him, but he hasn’t the vaguest idea what it could be. The longer his silence stretches, the more restless the rest of the patrons grow. He’d find it comforting, that things seem to be going back to normal, if he wasn’t so sure they were all talking about him. He slouches further into his seat.
The bartender squints at him, a look of intense concentration on his face, and his hands start to move. After a brief moment of confusion, he realizes that it must be some sort of sign language, though not in any dialect he recognizes. It occurs to him, distantly, that the man is probably troubled by his non-responsiveness. Right. Talking. He can… do that. “That’s not… I can… Hello.”
The Bogsneak barks out a laugh, sounding relieved. “He speaks! Okay, let’s try that again. Name’s Wyatt, and you are….?”
“Here on business.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so sharp and cold; he regrets it a little when Wyatt’s face falls, and regrets it a lot when the background conversations grow into a dull roar.
“He’s one o’ them bounty hunters!” Someone shouts from the back, and it’s chaos as people start leaping to their feet. For a moment he’s sure that this is where it ends, torn apart by the ruffians he’d once considered prey-
Then the flat of Wyatt’s hand comes down hard on the bar, and he throws his head back and bellows, “SIT DOWN.” And, miracle of miracles, the crowd does.
“First off: so are you, moron, don’t think I don’t see you eyeing those posters back there.” The crowd does not like this. They hiss and jeer, insist but that’s different, we’re different. Wyatt talks right over them. “Second, if he starts trouble, I’ll deal with it. All I know is he’s weak as a kitten, and the only ones startin’ shit in my bar are you.”
The loudest of the mercenaries comes stalking toward them, radiating fury, but all he does is spit in their general direction and storm out the door. Wyatt snorts inelegantly. “That’s what I thought.” He continues to mutter darkly as he wanders off to refill the glass, which the Imperial hadn’t realized was empty. Without it his hands open and close listlessly, grasping at nothing.
A hand taps at his shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. A small Spiral girl smiles at him apologetically. “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. Had some trouble with the Fortress of Ends recently, folks ain’t usually this jumpy.” She hops up on the stool next to him, though her arm remains outstretched, her fingers toying with the fine fabric of his collar. “You need anything, big guy? You look like a nice dark room would do you good. Our innkeeper’s… out, right now, but I’m happy to help.” He finds the sharpness of her gaze unsettling, despite her kind words. He can’t find his voice.
“Cal, give the poor thing a break, won’t you? Here, darlin’. You like chocolate?” A second Spiral, remarkably similar to the first, appears at his other side. She slides a plate in front of him, and while he can't identify the pastry it holds, he's certain it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He falls upon it without thinking.
When he finishes (seconds later? minutes? he can't say), he looks back up at her with dismay. “I can't pay you.”
The girl giggles. “We'll work something out, I'm sure.” She flicks a crumb off of him with one long fingernail, but like her companion before her, her hand lingers. He stares at it, slow to put the pieces together. She picks at a loose thread, fine and golden, and… ah. Beneath the layer of grime, his attire is clearly military, and well-made at that.
“Whoever you think I am,” he says slowly, uncertain, “I assure you I am not.”
“Bit presumptuous of you, don't you think? You some kind of mind reader?” It seems more teasing than offended, but her wide grin does nothing to ease his nerves.
“We're not runnin’ a charity, here,” the first interjects, “but it really is alright if you don't have cash. Plenty of honest work to be done.” That seems pointed. Also a bit unfair, considering the locale. His ego throbs like some phantom limb, but his bones ache with weariness and he can't be bothered to protest.
“Y'all can talk terms in the morning, let the man rest.” Wyatt returns, pressing a new glass into his hands. He seems in a slightly better mood, now that the mob has dispersed, but he's still subdued. The Imperial feels strangely guilty about that.
“It was not my intention to cause you trouble,” he says meekly. The bartender stares him down, and he has to fight the urge to squirm.
“Some folks are magnets for it, intentions be damned.” He clears his throat. “Appreciate the thought, though. Now shoo, go on.”
With the twin Spirals hovering at his sides, he rises. His knees tremble, but hold, and soon they're staggering toward the back hallway.
The room they lead him to is shockingly bare, little more than a hollowed-out cave. But it has a ceiling and a bed, which puts it well above many of the places he's slept in this past month. The one called Cal fusses over a pitcher, apparently struggling with the plain nightstand; he can’t get a good look at what she’s doing, as the other one is busy bullying him into bed. “Dinner’s in a few hours, please do drop by if you’re up for it.”
“We can worry about money in a bit,” says the first, which earns her a dirty look from her friend. Not that their guest is awake to take offense- he’s unconscious the moment he hits the mattress.