Dusk Six. (AU)

Blood rust
Bullet talks wine cries and the floor's on fire
And he's looking at me
I knew he was looking at me

Pero me llama cariño como si fuera un cuchillo
y lo dejo
Lo dejo

--------

My place was packed to the rafters that evening. Bodies kept flooding in after sundown, table after table filling up. My guys were cracking open Opus One like it was water. Different breed from the usual wannabe tough guys too. 

These ones wore crisp tailored shirts, Italian leather shoes, just the right touch of silver at their wrists and throats. The real deal. And judging by the electricity crackling through the air, some Underground heavyweight was about to grace us with his presence.

The fresh faces even had the courtesy to nod at my bouncers on their way in, dropping word that their boss would be showing later. They claimed the prime corner booth, ordered our only two bottles of 30-year Glenfiddich, sparked up their smokes, and settled in to wait. Let the bar's pulse and creeping darkness work its way under their skin while their cigarettes burned down to nothing.

I was working my shaker when they arrived, ice burning cold through my knuckles. Had to keep my head straight. They were nothing to me, I was nothing to them. Whatever ties I'd had to that world were dead and buried. That's what I told myself. Thirteen years gone, and I'd bled myself dry into this city's veins, becoming part of it.

So I fed myself the usual line: pure coincidence he'd show up tonight. Maybe he was bored shitless of the swill they served in his hundred-plus bars. Maybe he just wanted to slum it at Dusk Six, handle some business on neutral ground.

Two greatest whiskeys down, I sent over two of my girls. The ones with the hottest faces and brains to match. Whether their heads would end up on his bed or sprawled as gore on the floor was outside my jurisdiction. The time they spent __________ was usually outside my scheduled work hours anyway.

He strolled in around ten solo. And everything about him screamed the rumours were true. That mane of black hair scraped back into a topknot, the rest spilling wild down his shoulders. That bull chest and those arms stayed civilized under his shirt, but you could tell.

I yanked my gaze away fast, melted back into the shadows where the bar's sleazy mood lighting couldn't find me.

But his vibe was nothing like the stories. Where was Deadeye's famous taste for blood? The psycho who got off on violence? This guy walked in throwing friendly pats at my bouncer, a guy who barely reached his shoulder. All grins and smooth talk. He headed for his crew with arms wide open, playing the long-lost friend, bumping fists and pulling bodies close, making sure nobody felt left out. Before long he was drowning in their sofa, welcomed with raised glasses and ass-kissing, each arm claiming a woman, hands already giving their asses a satisfied squeeze.

I threw Ian a signal from behind the bar. Kid's shoulders dropped like someone cut his strings. Then we got back to what we did best—slinging drinks, putting on our little circus act with the bottles, keeping our eyes anywhere but that corner booth.

Come dawn, Ian found a thousand terros wedged under the empties. Some tip.

That was months back now. Seeing the puppet master of the night city in the flesh wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence.

In Underground, military brass and crime bosses ate from the same trough, somehow keeping this fucked-up economy breathing. Laws were just wallpaper. Daylight meant nothing. The real predators only came out to play after dark.

Six years ago our former boss got shot dead. His wife sold us the bar dirt cheap and fled overnight. Bang, gone, no warning. Never found out who had the hard-on for him or why. The boss was no angel, but he'd said yes when Ian and I were drowning, desperate for terros.

We kept the same hours, slapped on some new paint, christened it with a new name, and got on with it. Same time, I started collecting more hardware. Guns, ammunition, taking contracts on the side. Strangers would name their target, I'd deliver their head. Ian picked up some hacking skills, mostly penny-ante shit like identity theft.

Everything worked out fine. As long as the people we used to be stayed buried, everything was copacetic.

We scraped together enough cash to lease a handful of shitholes nobody else would touch. Perfect for our growing arsenal, courtesy of some friends in low places. Every night we'd crash in a different room, never the same place twice. Been running that habit for years.

I made connections along the way. Nobody's hands were clean, but they were straight shooters. You could choose your jobs, work on your own terms.

Once I crossed into my thirties and the bar had earned its rep, I got selective about wet work. Even bought myself a half-decent pad near here, stone's throw from the barracks. No mould creeping up the walls, no afternoon wake-up calls of gunfire, no neighbours fucking and moaning at sunrise.

Ian scored himself new wheels but still preferred crashing in the bar's VIP room. He said he liked being on the breakfast truck's route.

For a while there, I'd convinced myself Francis Faucher was already history. Dead and gone. I was in the clear, with a new name and a new life.

Then Deadeye walked back into my life on a slow Tuesday, planted himself at my bar right behind my fucking back. Instinct kicked in instantly: I caught the chatter dying like someone hit mute, feet shuffling toward exits, Ian going rigid as a corpse.

"Bartender, whatever's good."

I turned. This wasn't the same man from before. This one wore danger like cologne, that fuck-you smile playing at his lips while he nursed a cigar between his teeth, thumb working the lighter until it caught. He pulled deep, let the smoke curl out slow.

Behind him, every stranger in my joint was making for the door. My boys at the entrance looked ready to piss themselves. I caught their eyes, signalled them to let everyone go.

"Sure," I said.

My hands went through the motions, dropping the spring in the shaker, keeping one eye on the reaper himself. They said when Deadeye sparked up, the countdown started. Like stretching before the slaughter.

I'd already told Ian to leave.

The room went dead after. Not quiet—dead. Just that garbage EDM bleeding through the speakers and liquor kissing glass. Every sound hit like a sledgehammer against my wire-tight nerves, ice cubes cracking in time with my pulse.

But I'd been in this game too long. Too fucking long. Blood and booze don't make these hands shake anymore. Shaker did its dance in my palm, two spins, and an orange slice appeared on the rim like a magic trick. Summer hit my nose first, then that desperate citrus bite, and way underneath, phantom cordite from wars I'd left behind.

The kid better have listened and run. Just like that, the fear stopped mattering. I let the black dread roll off my fingers, watched it crawl onto that stupid little umbrella between my thumb and finger. Stabbed it into the cocktail, set the whole thing on a coaster, slid it his way.

"Is this an invitation?"

The man had his face propped on one hand, cigarette dangling from the other, draped lazy across the bar's edge. I caught the bags under his eyes, shadow-play from his lashes in the shit lighting. That plastic smile from earlier had melted off. The bloodlust had bled out with his smoke, melting back into the dark where it belonged. He breathed out slowly, eyes barely slitted, couldn't even be bothered to look at the S*x on the Beach I'd served.

"Tempting as I am, Underground's below sea level. The ocean's a long way off, sir."

Those slits cracked wider. No chance in hell I could reach my gun under the bar. He sat close enough I could smell the tobacco on him, and my soft reflexes from years of playing it straight couldn't touch him. The man had been cutting throats since he could hold a blade. His hands were the biggest boneyard in this night city.

My crew, my muscles... his boys had shown them all the door. Real polite about it too. Nobody was gonna bleed for a boss they'd barely known, not against Deadeye.

So I grabbed the bar rag I'd ditched, found a glass that needed attention, and started polishing like I had all night. Might as well make them shine before the lights went out. His eyes had already marked my throat, probably calculating angles. One prey meant he could take his sweet time, milk every second of the scream.

He tapped ash, reached for the drink, and sipped. And then, he pulled a funny face. 

But not a bad one.

"Wow. Bright as your eyes, dude. How long you been pouring?"

"Nine years." And that wasn't a lie. Couldn't say I loved it, but the job was beautifully boring. Predictable chaos, noisy peace. If I punched out as a bartender, there were worse endings.

"Yeah? What's your name?"

"John."

"Well..." That smile cracked wide, all predator teeth and victory. "You don't look like a John."

Took everything I had to keep my body from betraying its fear. I forced my eyes away, let them land on some slob's table where a pack of smokes sat abandoned. No brand I knew, probably some runner's last vice.

Wonder if they'd miss those cigarettes wherever they were bleeding out?

"Never liked my name much either." Also true.

He let out this low chuckle, pulling another drag on his smoke. Obviously savouring this mindfuck like aged whiskey. I kept working that glass, soundtrack to my death some EDM trash I'd always hated. Sh*t taste for a funeral song.

But for the next hour, I managed to polish every piece of glass in the place. Wiped the bar until it reflected my face. Arranged bottles on their shelves. He torched another cigarette after the first, went back to playing statue.

F*ck it, I thought, came around the bar to clean up the mess in back. Each table I cleared, my head got clearer too.

Made no damn sense, him sitting here playing footsie with death. We'd swapped maybe ten lines, but his ass had owned that stool for ninety minutes minimum. One bullet could've ended this. No point wasting time he could've spent _____ in his women, sitting here blowing smoke at nobody. That drink went dry ages ago. The little umbrella got a quick inspection before he set it down perfectly, throwing its baby shadow. I didn't check his back, didn't know what weapon he'd brought. Didn't matter now.

Midnight closing in when he finally uncoiled from that lazy sprawl, sucking air like surfacing from deep water.

"Why bartending?"

I glanced at him, then went back to mopping. Assholes had spilled every kind of liquor imaginable in their rush to escape.

"Needed the terros. We were all circling the drain back then, sir. I got lucky."

"Oh."

Then finally, finally he stood up, stretching. And then he made for the door with a lazy wave, just shadow and smoke.

"Nighty night, Johnny boy. Make me a real drink next time."

Midnight chimed. The Underground's nightly meat market opened for business. Same old blood ballet, same performance of fear and greed. 

And I stayed off that deadly stage tonight.

Way later, the city sang its usual song of lead and TNT, but distant, like thunder over someone else's funeral. Ian burst out of the VIP room—knew that little shit wouldn't actually run—and crashed straight into my arms. 

The mop hit the floor with a clatter.

*****

Ian burned through the night glued to his secondhand laptop, fingers flying over keys. Every few minutes he'd check one of his burner phones. We'd shut down early... after that whole scene, even if I'd wanted to keep mopping floors, this reckless kid wouldn't let me focus anyway. For the record, I'm still docking pay from every asshole who bailed without permission. My head's still attached to my shoulders, so we open as usual.

Not like we've got anywhere else to run. Getting from there to here nearly killed us, and I know the Fauchers have eyes on every border outside this night city. Ian and I show our faces past city limits, we're finished. Leaving the city was impossible. Our only options were to keep melting into this city's shadows or bend the knee to whatever local king held the crown.

And the local king just strolled in an hour ago, bringing the promise of death. Ian found out why in minutes. Not that it needed much digging. The second Deadeye's thumb kissed that lighter, I knew the whole script.

"Sylvain broke the deal," Ian said. "They've been attacking the red-light district southwest. Deadeye's biggest cash cow. Brother..."

"...Hmm?" I sank deeper into worn leather, fighting the weight pulling my eyelids down. Gave my head a violent shake—hadn't realized I was already nodding off to his keyboard's lullaby. "I know, Ian."

"So what's our move?"

"We don't have one. We're far from Deadeye's turf." We sat pretty in the daytime business district. Mob didn't hunt here, and no meat on these bones. The worst we got were teenage punks playing gangster.

We'd dropped false intel five autumns back. Now that poison fruit was ripe—Faucher swallowed it whole, believing their target had crawled under Deadeye's wing. But I didn’t know they went so damn far and kicked down his door. They flipped the southwest black market like a fucking pancake, just to find us.

Of course Deadeye was measuring me for a coffin. Down here in the Underground, he could crook one finger and have a parade of rats racing to sell out whoever made him look stupid. Didn't matter that I'd carved up my face, didn't matter that I'd turned my skin into a gallery of ink and metal, pushed needles through my flesh, swallowed every pain that used to make me p*ss myself... Bottom line? I was still vermin on borrowed time.

I knew he'd find me. Sylvain or Deadeye, it didn't matter. What mattered was the escape hatch I'd built Ian months back, kept it locked in my head. International shipping, clean papers, straight job, blank slate. The kid was young enough to start over. He deserved that shot.

I'd already scripted the perfect lie. This kid would swallow it whole. My boy always did.

Ian's fingers kept dancing across keys. Through heavy lids, I studied his profile. Without those burn scars twisting his skin, he really was gorgeous. Those ice-blue eyes, clear as heaven, face carved by angels. Without me dragging him down, he could've been golden. Making art, chasing sunlight, doing whatever made him smile. 

But this night city didn't stock miracles. 

I'd tried. There weren't any.

Exhaustion won. Eyes finally gave up, pulled me under. Maybe that was my miracle—stealing some sleep after Death himself came calling ahead of schedule.

Next few days played out like reruns. Drinkers multiplied like roaches. More gossip hounds, vultures circling to see if I'd stopped breathing, mostly dead-eyed salary slaves medicating with whiskey.

Ian worked his network hard, every snitch and source tracking Sylvain's crew. I let him. Stopping him would just wind him tighter. My routine stayed carved in stone—order booze, stock booze, pour booze, scrub shit from toilets. Except that one night when I had to fish out several condoms floating in p*ss, I stayed weirdly zen. My mind kept replaying that night on loop, especially those sun-baked knuckles stroking the lighter.

Good. A clean killer. I'd probably only hurt for a few minutes. Greedy little me even sent up prayers to whatever sick gods ran this city: let him earn that name, put one clean through my skull. Please, make it quick.

Because if my bastard half-brother got his hands on me, there’s no express lane to hell. I'd be taking the scenic route.

Come Tuesday, I dragged my corpse out of bed at noon for egg tarts. Yeah, durian egg tarts that meant standing in line with housewives. Desserts that reeked like rotting garbage and cost more than dinner. Ian's favourite. 

Thirty minutes watching my shoes, then a lazy stroll to Dusk Six under actual sunshine.

That midday sun felt like forgiveness, perfect 22 degrees kissing my skin. I'd thrown on my only vanity purchase—a burgundy shirt with a V-neck that actually worked. Virgin wear. Might be the farewell tour as well.

Ian was thrilled. Still can't fathom why anyone would eat something that smelled like fart.

Opening brought a flood. Our place weirdly packed that night. My staff dove into popping bottles, pouring drinks, working the crowd, the whole joint drowning in drunken static. Bar stayed empty except for prowling d*cks looking for tonight's victim, ordering whatever neon garbage would impress the easiest. Then some kids commandeered a table, wanting enough mixed drinks to float a boat. Ian and I surrendered to another shift of shaker workout.

Still had my hands full of cherries when Ian's telltale gasp hit my radar.

"My dear John, remember me?"

Deadeye haunted that stool at ten on the dot. He had a different mask tonight. That easy grin from round one plastered back on, hair tossed around like he'd been riding dirty, just some working stiff catching a late movie. A cigarette pack hit my bar like a calling card, one already burning between his fingers.

I smiled. Deadeye's countdown to carnage, black mass precise as advertised.

"Don't think anyone here could forget you, sir. Anything you’d like?" I crowned the last two drinks with cherries, sent them sailing.

"Theo." Eyes narrowed to slits, locked on my throat with a grave robber's grin. Right, insurance against sloppy bladework. I'd even thrown on a chain.

"We don't have that brand here."

"Just the name's fine, sweetheart. Whatever's good. Oh, but go easy! I rode here."

Wow, dead man walking privileges. Way back, his own crew wouldn't dare speak his name.

"Sure, Theo." Corner of my mouth twitched. "Though I'm guessing you don't go down easy."

Whiskey and cherry brandy kissed in the shaker, chased by vermouth and orange juice. Spring dropped in, metal cap snapped tight, whole rig sailing through space in one sweet arc. Snatched it back, arms high, and let the ice sing. Jazz saxophone bleeding through the speakers, decent enough music to die to.

I sent Ian away again. Theo seemed to have zero interest in him, never even glanced his way. Professional killer, at least. He rolled his head back, painted the ceiling with smoke, eyes crawling over my waist. Caught him sampling the air like a bloodhound.

Paranoid. Nothing there to find. I wasn't fighting this. I was done.

"Blood and Sand?" He blinked at my offering. "Got a thing for beaches?"

"Always have." Truth. My childhood, Mother's sanctuary.

"Huh."

Behind us, the zoo got louder, drunks making fools of themselves. Theo went mute too, nursing that drink like it might be his last. I'd already put the fear of God in Ian, told him to vanish the second this reaper showed, call his contact. Fed him fairy tales about reunions in the new place, fresh starts for both of us.

Kid practically glowed, believing if we'd pulled it off once, we could absolutely do it again.

And he better be gone already, not cowering in that goddamn VIP room. Nothing in there but abandoned dreams and the permanent shit smell of strangers' sex.

Midnight bells chimed. The bar's geriatric clock hammered its first note. That corroded shriek slammed into my skull and suddenly all I could see was my mother.

She was Inoasian nobility, brilliant and gentle to her core. Walking compassion, had inhaled every poem written, witnessed tragedies spelled out letter by letter. Those eyes bright and extraordinary, violet like nothing else. The single thing I kept, the only piece of her I carried. Then she fell for my biological father, a don of a crime family.

Third bell. Faucher's reach was so absolute that God's own spotlight couldn't burn through its rot. It had already eaten justice alive, dressed in its skin while black vines strangled every corner of Inoasis, every beating heart.

Sixth chime.

No, I never blamed my mother.

She'd figured it out while carrying me. About my father's real wife, real son, real identity. She bolted without a backward glance, abandoning her royal family and ran to our beach. Fuzzy memories include some classy uncle hanging around. I was too young to know more than "uncle."

Mother, that uncle whose face I can't remember, the ride-or-die maid who came along, and me. Our strange little family, deliriously happy by the sea.

Eighth bell. That maid married a local, and then birthed Ian. We even threw the kid a one-month bash. Mother gripped my baby fingers, made me swear Ian was my own blood brother. My real brother, no matter what.

Three tiny fingers raised to the waves. Swore on poetry, on summer wind and my family.

Then Ian and I came home from playing to find the house crawling with black suits. Mother, uncle, auntie...all in pieces. Gutted, spilled across the floor, organs and grey thing painting everything red. Tenth bell brought the memory of uncle and Mother, fingers laced, walking the tide line. Auntie and her man bitching at Ian for raiding the candy, their love dressed as irritation.

Final bells ground out, rust eating rust, screaming metal. I watched us dragged back to Faucher, suddenly wearing that rancid name. That wh*re used me for a punching bag. That brother too. Father noticed when convenient. Never remembered his words, but I memorized where they kept their guns, every password. At seventeen, I grabbed two pieces, hauled Ian's broken body out, pulled my first trigger, then ran and ran and kept running.

Twelve bells finished. The rest was history.

I set down the glass I'd been murdering with my rag, shut my eyes. I felt absolutely nothing. Just air leaving my lungs.

Then it came—that snap slicing through everything. Deadeye's signature.

The glass met the bar, gentle as a kiss. He snapped again, knuckles cracking like kindling.

I flinched hard, eyes flying wide. Theo had somehow teleported his stool closer. The mental image of him scooting over like a kid at story time was almost weirdly funny.

"John? Taking a little nap?"

I spun away fast, blinking the wet from my eyes. "No. Need something else?"

"Another round."

What?

"Sure," muscle memory kicked in. Three seconds later I turned back, ice-cold fingers finally betraying their tremor. "Anything specific?"

"Surprise me."

If my math was right, that Blood and Sand hadn't even made him blink. Now he sat chin in hand, eyes lazy slits, floating in that sweet spot between sober and gone. I shrugged, started hunting the top shelf, squinting through the mood lighting for that Green Chartreuse. Took me a hot minute.

While I built his drink, he lit another cigarette. The crowd behind us started stumbling drunk, some poor server definitely on vomit duty. Past midnight now, the city's underbelly waking up hungry, but here felt like any other Tuesday. Just being drunk and drowning, sealed off from everything.

I slid the new drink over.

He sized up the Last Word. It drew a soft laugh from him, but he said nothing.

Then 2 AM crept by. Drunk bitches collected by their hunters, everyone claiming their prize. Staff kicked into overdrive, sweeping, mopping, and then getting the f*ck out. 

I played busy. Counted the till, attacked the bar with my rag, stole glances at the VIP room and at someone losing the fight with sleep.

Tonight, I didn't hide my glances. Let my confused stare burn holes in Theo's back as he strolled out, hands buried deep in his pockets. He just tossed off "later" and melted into the dark.

*****

(If you wish to read the whole fic, you know where to find me ;))) xoxo)