An Average Night

The rain pattered lightly against the blackened night sky, the sounds of droplets crashing into glass and wood offsetting one another in a cacaphony of natural noise.

"Try to relax your arm; don't tense up."

Rizuka spoke softly as she guided Opal's left arm gingerly toward the wooden table that served as a centerpiece for their conversation. She sat to Opal's left, assessing the damage to the younger Dragon-Blood's wounded arm. Mesa reclined lazily in a chair, facing the two of them. He handed the bottle of Sijani whiskey back to Opal after taking a long pull. She accepted the liquor with her right hand, treating herself to an extended helping.

The three of them, along with Fenrir, had taken shelter in Opal's cabin, one of the many range homes making up the Order's central camp. It was just under two hours past midnight when Mesa and Opal had returned from a job. Although they carried out the hit, Opal's arm had been slashed open along its length during a scuffle with the mark's bodyguards. It was hardly fatal to a Terrestrial Exalt, and although it would have healed on its own, Opal relied on her arms for enough of her acrobatic manuvers that they'd decided it worthwhile to fetch Rizuka.

"I should probably stitch this wound closed."

After hearing Opal's sigh, Rizuka continued, providing an attractive incentive, "I'm certain it will mend more quickly if it's treated properly. There's nothing life-threatening here, however. We can bandage the wound and be about our business."

Opal sighed again, taking a shorter sip from the bottle as she replied.

"No, go ahead and stitch it." Opal forced an inclement yawn to completion as she returned the booze to Mesa's welcoming grip. Rizuka wordlessly stood and began digging through one of the many pouches that hung from the overcoat she'd worn to cross the camp. Fenrir, who had prior been dozing in front of the lit fireplace, stirred at the sound of Rizuka's foraging and got groggily to his feet. He paced around his spot, finding no other vacant area more adequate, and plopped back down with a huff.

Mesa had done a little foraging of his own. He knawed off a bite from a thick slice of jerky he'd produced from supply sack, washing it down with another pull from the bottle. As the bottle's body lowered out of his field of vision, he noticed Opal giving him an awkward eye. He raised his eyebrows in reply, letting her initiate the conversation. "What was with you tonight? As soon as you got close to that witch of a woman, you went completely belly up on me! I haven't seen a guy lose his mojo that fast since Carp found out that dancer in Lookshy was a man."

Mesa smirked as he leaned forward, setting the bottle down gently on the table.

"In Carp's defense, that was a pretty damn fine-lookin' man. Like you said yourself, that lady wasn't exactly the girl next door. Plus -- did you smell the perfume on that woman? Good gods... was she trying to knock us out?! What the hell was that?"

Mesa's job, for a part of the evening, had been to distract the mark's publicly promiscuous wife. Although she wasn't the most attractive of women, she was known to be among the easiest, and Mesa had assumed it would be a relatively straightforward task. He hadn't counted on the deluge of fragrance she'd apparently hosed herself down with before the night's dinner party.

"Something about lots of perfume... It's just... Ugh. It boggles the senses!"

Opal seemed unimpressed. Her skeptical stare lingered until she finally spoke.

"What's the problem with perfume?"

Mesa resolved not to dance around the issue any longer.

"I associate it with fat Nexus hookers. Those awful, maybe-they're-large-men-maybe-they're-large women hookers. You know, the ones you always see done up with the huge furs around their necks and nothing but rubber bands covering their chest and crotch. The fat bulges out over anything that might drop a hint as to whether you're in for a night of dissapointment, or a night of dissapointment followed by a highly unpleasant surprise. That's the worst kind of hooker. I can't believe these people sell their bodies! It makes me think I could do pretty well out there..."

Opal snagged the bottle and took another drink before retorting harshly.

"Sometimes I wear perfume if we go into the city. What do you think about that?"

If she had both arms available, she'd doubtlessly have assumed a scorning pose, arms akimbo and death-ray eyes fixated squarely on Mesa. Fortunately, she was somewhat constrained to her seat at the table, although she did her best with the eyes.

Mesa shrugged as he tore into another piece of jerky. Amidst chewing, he replied carelessly, "I think it's fine if you don't mind smelling like a fat Nexus hooker."

Opal moaned in sarcastic disgust.

"You're impossible."

"You know what I mean about the hookers, though, right?"

"That's how they present themselves. It's a style."

"Being morbidly obese and still getting paid to fuck rich Guildsmen is a style? That's a gods-damned racket. Anyway, they always wear a fuckload of perfume. You can smell the shit - actually, I'd prefer it if you could smell the shit - two districts over. You spot one and it's just perfume and sweat cascading down a mountain range of lard like dirty, fragant runoff. Let's see you seduce a mark's spouse with that image in your head."

Rizuka had moved toward the fire, stitching needle in hand. She gently nudged Fenrir, whose considerable mass made the fireplace difficult to access. At first, this elicited nothing but another grumble, but eventually, the canine opened his eyes. Seeing the beast stare tiredly up at her, she smiled and spoke softly to him.

"Move, scruffy." Fenrir set about relocating himself again, eventually settling on a spot near the foot of one of the room's beds.

Rizuka burned the needle's tip in the fire briefly before returning to her seat at Opal's left.

Mesa, leaning back again and snagging the bottle as his chair tipped, decided he'd opt for Rizuka's input before giving Opal another rebuttal.

"What do you think, Rizuka?"

"Hm? About what?" She paused momentarily, looking to Mesa.

"Perfume. Good, bad... ugly?"

Rizuka, in her motherly naivety, interpreted his question in her own context.

"You mean for your skin? It's fine as far as I know..."

Opal and Mesa both got a chuckle out of her reply before Mesa had the mercy to correct her.

"No, no, just, in general. I dunno, socially. Would you wear it?"

"I suppose I might, if I were headed somewhere nice..." Her voice trailed off as she began cleaning the wound on Opal's arm. Opal, in turn, shot Mesa a triumphant glare.

"See! That's two to one. You don't think WE'RE fat Nexus hookers, do you?"

Before Mesa had the chance to get himself in more trouble, Rizuka turned to him. Her soft smile carried a whipser of smirk behind it, though she dropped the perfume issue as quickly as she'd addressed it.

"That's Sijani whiskey, right? Might I use some?"

Mesa passed the strong liquor to Rizuka without giving it any thought. As he handed the bottle over, he did notice her terminology was a bit off, not to mention that she didn't seem to be one to drink on the job...

Opal's yelp broke the brief silence as Rizuka poured a few shots worth of the alcohol over the wound.

Rizuka placed a comforting hand on Opal's shoulder, laughing a little.

"The Sijani make strong whiskey. You're in good hands." Rizuka passed the bottle to Opal, who took another pull on it before Rizuka began stitching the wound.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, with Rizuka sewing up Opal’s arm and Opal occasionally grimacing. Mesa chewed on his seemingly limitless supply of jerky loudly, finally prompting Opal to break the silence.

“Do you have to eat that in here, like, right next to me? The smell is killing me. It’s disgusting.”

It was clear that the needle’s repeated pricking had irritated her, and perhaps rightly so. Mesa noted the encore performance of the death-ray stare before replying, “I’m at least three feet from your face. Besides, you can’t expect to get off with no grief if you’re going to ride this perfume issue so hard. What’s the issue, here? It’s food. People get hungry.”

Opal rolled her eyes so forcefully it was almost audible.

“How do you eat after work? Doesn’t the thought of meat just seem repulsive?”

Most of the Grass Spiders had a habit of never directly referring to the nature of their business. “Work” made a comfortable euphemism, and provided at least some measure of confidentiality in public.

Mesa slowly brought the front two legs of the chair he’d been leaning in to rest on the cabin ground. He leaned forward, waving the jerky he held in his hand in her direction a bit as a substitute for pointing. Again, he spoke between chews, “You know, I’ve thought about this, actually. When you wouldn’t come to Larjyn, to that steak house, after the Markali job last month – I decided that associating meat with work, unless you’re a butcher, is really, really creepy.”

Opal was at first taken aback, and then confused by Mesa’s quip. Her expression made this apparent, and Mesa continued before she had a chance to retort.

“And not like, ‘Oh, that girl is really skinny. She doesn’t need to watch her figure, why does she still insist on not eating meat?’-creepy, I’m talking ‘That girl probably has trouble forming normal, healthy relationships with other human beings’-creepy.’ “

Opal scoffed at his accusations, taking a smaller sip of the whiskey before replying, “All the training, smarts, and money in Creation, and the best you can come up with for nourishment is still just killing something and eating it?” She passed the bottle to Mesa, who grabbed it by its neck and took a lazy pull on it. He shrugged after puckering a bit from the strong liquor before retaliating to her rhetoric.

“It’s the way of things. What would you suggest I do, great philosopher?”

“Cultivation? Agriculture? Gardening?”

“I salted this meat, isn’t that cultivating?” Mesa grinned.

Opal merely sighed. It was true that she had a particular distaste for meat, though she didn’t care for eating much on the whole. When she did, it was mostly fruit, though she’d eat something baked every now and again. She winced as Rizuka gave a final pull on the stitching thread and cut it.

“Done. I’ll bandage this up and you’ll be all set,” Rizuka spoke as she fished a roll of a off-white bandaging from one of her pouches. After producing them and setting the roll on the table, she continued, “Easy, I’m going to extend your arm.”

Rizuka, with a slight wince on Opal’s part, stretched out Opal’s wounded arm. She picked up the bandages and began to roll them tightly around the closed wound. She spoke while she worked.

“You two are like a pair of angry crickets. None of the Harvestmen squabble like this. How do you all ever manage to hide anywhere on the job?”

Opal was all too pleased to take up the reply. “Gods know we’re fucked if he has any jerky on him. Then again, guards won’t be able to shout orders to each other over his chewing, so it’s a manner of cover in and of itself,” she said, gesturing to Mesa with her free arm.

Mesa smiled and raised the bottle in a sarcastic toast.

“Hey, it’s all in good humor, right? Let’s just remember, next time, you seduce the perfume-laden ox-lady, and if dining on red meat is part of our cover, I’d be happy to step up to the task.”

Opal just shook her head, but couldn’t help a grin. After Mesa took another swig from the bottle, he passed it to Opal, who repeated his gesture. She was feeling a bit cloudy at this point, but she appreciated the distraction the mental haze provided from the searing pain in her arm.

Rizuka cut the end of the bandaging and pinned it down, chiming in again as she did so, “There. Can you bend it when it’s bandaged up like that?”

Opal did so. It was a tight fit, but moving the joint was unpleasant enough of an exercise that she didn’t plan on repeating the gesture. Rizuka was keenly aware of Opal’s long history of torn stitches and re-breaks; as she began packing her things away, she stood and delivered a motherly admonishment to Opal.

“That slash shouldn’t take more than a day to heal – try to take it easy on your arm until then. It makes both of our lives easier.” Rizuka smiled at Opal as she secured her various belongings on her cloak.

Mesa stood and stretched noisily. The raucous awoke Fenrir, who Mesa enticed to his side with a remaining bit of jerky. Opal, absent mindedly stretching out her left shoulder, took a sip from the whiskey and passed it back to Mesa.

Rizuka made her way to the door before bidding them farewell, “Goodnight to both of you. Hopefully, we shant meet again for some time.” She left the cabin quietly, stepping out into the rain and making her way quickly back to her own residence, a larger range home that was affixed to what doubled as a hospice for the Order.

Mesa took a final drink from the bottle and looked down to Opal, who ran her fingers lightly along her freshly bandaged arm.

“I’m gonna get some shut-eye myself. Are you training tomorrow?”

She nodded tiredly, getting to her feet.

“Yeah, although I doubt I’ll be doing anything acrobatic. Race to Matetha?”

Mesa smiled and accepted her challenge, “You’re on. Hell, you’re hurt – I might actually win tomorrow…”

Opal grinned menacingly; Mesa rarely bested her in any physical competition, least of all in tests of speed. She taunted, “Good luck. Go get that rest – you’ll need it.”

Mesa scoffed sarcastically and replied, “We’ll see about that. Can’t imagine how you’ll have the strength without eating any meat…” He handed the nearly hollow bottle of whiskey to Opal.

She took a final drag on the bottle’s mouth, finishing it off.

“You’re dead tomorrow.”

Mesa maintained his grin as he propped the door open and snapped his fingers. Fenrir trotted out of the cabin, and Mesa followed him. Just as the door was about to draw closed, Mesa popped the upper half of his body back in, pointing to Opal and raising his eyebrows.

“You know, that’s the kind of talk that gets one of us called.”