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The glass passes down the table again. The mug spins, and spins, and spins. It twirls within her fingers like a dreidel, the ceramic handle clinking up and down and up again.
Sebas is busy polishing. Komaru is nowhere to be seen.
But, there's a girl on the right corner of the bar, her drink propped up in beautiful elongated fingers. She's got long black hair and dark, dead eyes. A butterfly tattoo on her thyroid, flapping its wings. It's a mesmerizing pattern of sorts. The woman sits in the slice of gentle sunfuzz, cut out of the dusk and untouched by life, by movement, by anything that might disturb the slow fall of rays. Her face is pale but not sickly, Her eyes, half-lidded, hold no light. On the furnace edges where even sorrow had long since burned itself out, these fiery things glower.
The woman raises the glass to her lips.
A slow, precise drag, and in that light there catches the sharp line of her jaw. Her eyes too, those dark things, they who follow nothing and eat everything, indifferent and alert, those beasts of contradictory prey glimmer in the shinings of the Beetle's lighting. Those void-dark streaks of ash who flicker in the air, those white strands who thread through it all. They fall over one eye, soft as silk, and sharp as the teeth of lying buzzards. She doesn't brush them aside. Some silence in the room around her buzzes in low hums of meaningless light fixtures, but she doesn't hear nor give mention. The sound was crisp when she sipped her drink– not a taste thing, nor an asking of pleasure, but for something else entirely. The clinging liquid left a wet mark on her lips and her tongue flicks across it, not in any way seductive, but more absent, akin to a snake. There was great gravity to her. The kind that made others sit straighter, talk quieter, make less noise. Sebas did not mind. After all, he knew everything. He was wise enough to know she knew the same. She wore it in the stillness of her fingers, in the way she held her chin, tilted and idly calculating, a bored greed bored directly through her skull.
She didn't smile. Of course not. I'm sure she enjoyed the drink, the lighting, the mood set in silence, but it was a long week and smiling would be too arduous. Instead, she watched the back of the bar through half a curtain of black and white strands, drinking slowly, letting the light glint off the glass in threatening shimmers as she savored her cautious sips. There was no object to her intentions, and Sebas, a longtime tender, knew that she meant no harm to him. This was simply how Marceline was. A serious, serious woman, full of age, youth and splendor. A manner of all things time. She leaned forward now, the smoked black shot-glass cradled in the grasp of slender fingers, the surface of the drink still trembling from the movement, though she was still, utterly. There was a sticking, clinging weight to her, a density, a pressure that hung around her too thickly, pooling in places it shouldn't pool: in the coal-dark receptacles where veins of white flicker at the edges, just a bare sign of time to change. Her lips, parted slightly, caught a sliver of light as she exhaled. Not a sigh, but something quieter in the white gleams of her teeth.
Behind her, the room stretched in very certain lines, fully drawn posters and magnets and such, deeply cherished and tended to by the candle's reach. The room was. . . . re-renovated again. Sebas did this every day at 3 p.m. He liked rotating all the things he owned and enjoyed, and he loved showing different merchandise at different times. Today, all covered in merchandise, in designs, in memorabilia, there was a very certain clientele in mind. Pinned to the wall, just behind the woman's left shoulder, there, faded, creased, torn at the corner- were a set of two posters. The eye slips to it, uninvited. "Magick Marceline" the first read, ink a distorted splotch of curves and edges. It reeked of sun and smoke, but it wasn't yet aged enough to be considered 'old.'
The figure in the poster wore a bit of armor on the shoulders and hips. Spiked gloves, torn fabric, boots scuffed by battle and dance. Hair long, messy, wild like she'd just stopped for a photo after a chase scene. Her mouth curled into something near a smirk, but it didn't quite reach the eyes- not really. Bats circled her in flight, and her fingers curled around a greatsword, casual but all tight as fuck. The poster sang of a shit-ton of noise, movement, rebellion. And she here at the table, drinking in a grand stillness, was the answer to that punk revolution. Old, sharp, and quiet, but not gentle. Never that. Time hadn't changed her in any mind-altering way. It had only distilled her to a point of perfection. After all, that poster was done only about five years ago. Yet, she kept aging, and nothing. . . nothing had changed.
Course, the second poster was more recent. A past show of sorts, tour with the Daisies, with the Black Stones, with Bad Parenting.
Front of the poster, same gaze. Same eyes, beneath it all.
'GUTTED HALOS & BROKEN WINGS - - SCREAM IT LOUD.
'Blood-slick Feathers,' 'A Stare that Cuts Deep.'
'No Gods, No Mercy' Raw, relentless chaos! Are you ready?'
Marceline stands at the front, in this wild getup of makeup and practical effects. Her face is this mesmerizing canvas of blood and smudged paint, mouth stretched wide in this spiky and barbed artist's rendition. Black bangs frame her face, sharp as razors, and above them, where human flesh should meet the crown of her skull, sprout wings raw and ragged, feathers soaked in streaks of red like torn scripture. It's pretty fucken metal. She's swallowed in this tattered, high-collared sweater, but the fabric clings where it has been sliced open, revealing pale, scarred skin and the hollow beneath her ribs. She looks feral. Less sexual and more murderous. Kinda cool.
This was a shoot for her band a year and a half ago, 'Gutted Halos & Broken Wings.' She did a few shows with them, and then tapped out. It was never her thing to stay in one place for too long.
Though, there was one similarity. In both posters and in reality, the Sensotheist flower still hangs at her throat. She kept that thing on her forever, and keeps it on her now. But now, now there was no need for spectacle about it. No need for bats, postures, massive greatswords, grand angel wings. Just drinking in the dull light, enjoying the buzzing and adjacent silence. And behind her, her younger selves grinned from the paper.
Though, to say she was simply dressed today was a silly farce.
Her clothing was puffy and skintight, black and white, a mix of red jewels and frilly sleeves. A ridiculous outfit that noone in their right mind would call 'simple' nor wear, the many chains on her pants a ridiculous labyrinth of metal links.
Sebas liked it. Though, Sebas liked everything Marceline did.
In this grand shot of the bar, the shadows under the door caused them to creak. Not a humble creak, but the kind that announced itself, stretching its spine like a cat, rolling its shoulders in indulgent languor. A voice followed, light, high-pitched and to Marceline, too saccharine to be real.
"Sebas!"
It rang like a jeweled bell, the sound of an aristocrat who had never appreciated a good old silence. Marceline did not turn. Sebas, with his usual poise, barely moved, only lifting his gaze to the gilded figure who had made a show of stepping inside.
The man was dressed like an exclamation mark. Opulent. Self-satisfied. Draped in the kind of finery meant to subjugate lesser fabrics. A fitted waistcoat, embroidered with twisting silver filigree, caught the dim light with an arrogant gleam. A mantle of deep purple, brushed with glimmers of gold thread, fanned at his shoulders as though it might lift him off the ground. His boots, pristine, cruelly pointed, clicked against the floor with metronome-like paces. He had on this ridiculous coat, and when he spread his arms as if expecting applause, but finding none, he almost dropped the damn thing off his shoulders. The thing smiled, a gross feature with a sharp blade at the edges, neat and polished.
"RSVP's must be collected, Sebas. The greatest festival of all. Surely you haven't forgotten?" He tilted his head, the mockery barely concealed beneath the velvet of his tone. "Gaedriel's Alluvial Festival. A gathering of such importance, I would hate for you to be a filthy no-show."
Sebas leaned back against the bar-back, unbothered. The slightest hint of amusement curled at his lips. "How could I forget? I'll send it in by mail whenever the mail decides to come."
Of course, Marceline could tell at this angle that Sebas was tense, still unhappy with the newcomer. Sebas was scared, and only playing charismatic.
"You wouldn't. Of course, you wouldn't." The man– cufflink marked with the purple diamond, though he needed no introduction– cast his gaze lazily about the room. It slid past Marceline without acknowledgment, as one might glance over an insect clinging to the side of a glass. A barely-there pause. Then, something like distaste flickered in his expression.
He said her name the way one might name a disease. "Marceline."
And then, as if even that had been too generous, he snapped his fingers, posed, and looked away in this awful, prideful glower. The man lingered. Not standing, not quite sitting, but existing in the space like an ornament placed there for the sole purpose of being admired. He leaned forward just slightly, the light catching the polished filigree of his coat, the smug curve of his smile settling deeper.
"And Evangeline?" he asked.
The sound of her daughter's name in his mouth was obscene, an oily finger spilled over silk. Marceline did not look at him. She had gone utterly still, save for the slow curl of her fingers around her glass.
"Fine."
The word was flat, almost an afterthought. It wasn't enough for him. He wanted her to react, to frown, to snarl. But she gave him nothing, only silence wrapped in white clothing.
Sebas poured the boy a drink, a golden amber he tossed towards the other side of the bar, a placemat that the boy took rather seriously, going so far as to sit after it like a dog.
"You make for an awfully persistent errand boy," Sebas mused, swirling the fake-liquor in his own glass. "Surely Gaedriel's finest has more important duties than reminding me of parties."
The man's smile faltered at the edges. "Duties?" he echoed, as though the word offended him. "Oh, Sebas. How crude of you. There is nothing so bureaucratic about the Alluvial Festival. It is an honor- a celebration of Gaedriel's emerald benevolence. Our harbors gathered, our city bathed in revelry. Wittica himself is making an entire celebration out of his province!" His gaze flicked to Marceline again, though he didn't fully acknowledge her. "Even the ungrateful get to bask in its radiance. All of our most pitiful animals."
Sebas only smirked, unbothered, reaching beneath the counter. Marceline caught the movement. A press of fingers against some hidden mechanism, a nearly imperceptible shift of wood. Then, the ants came. Tiny black bodies, marching in perfect unison, slipping through a sliver of an opening in the wall- a crack that hadn't been there before. A quiet procession, unnoticed by their unwanted guest. Marceline's eyes followed them for a moment before her attention returned to the conversation.
The air in the room had grown thicker, the conversation shifting into something stickier, harder to move through.
"Gaedriel, Gaedriel." Sebas spoke the name with a certain lazy reverence. "The king eternal. The untouched, the unsullied. I imagine his beauty remains as unreal as ever."
"More than you could comprehend," the man replied, voice brimming with admiration. "He is perfection embodied. We, the privileged, are merely reflections of his light. He grants us meaning, shape, purpose."
"Purpose," Sebas echoed, tasting the word.
"Yes." The man's head tilted. "A gift that some reject."
Sebas only hummed, drinking deep. Fake liquor. Fake alcoholic. It made Marceline think of smiling. And then the man turned to Marceline fully. His smile sharpened, though his eyes remained empty, like the gleam of something artificial. "Evangeline will do best to not arrive," he said, each syllable weighted, deliberate. "However, Gaedriel does indeed extend his offer to you."
A long silence followed.
Marceline reached into her coat, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it in one fluid motion. She exhaled slow, the smoke curling toward the ceiling vent like water spilling down the drain. She did not answer him.
But the way she looked at him, head tilted just slightly, lips parted in the ghost of an almost-laugh- she didn't need to.
He straightened. Adjusted the cuffs of his pristine coat, brushing off some invisible speck of dust. Then he turned and left, the door creaking behind him, shutting the space back into quiet. Sebas exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
Marceline took another drag, watching the last ant disappear into the crack in the wall. "Wasn't listening. Didn't like his coat."
Sebas snorted, pouring another drink as he pressed the button again. A faint click, a shift of wood, the subtle stir of something small, unseen, adjusting itself beneath the bar. The crack in the wall sealed itself.
He took his time walking over to Marceline, stepping around the ghosts of their conversation, the weight of the man's presence still lingering like stale perfume. He stopped in front of her, eyeing the cigarette balanced between her fingers, the slow rise of smoke curling toward the ceiling.
"Trash Mammals," he said, like the name itself amused him. "Heard you're working on something new."
Marceline exhaled, her eyes half-lidded again. "I am. But, we changed the name again. It's the Circus Clussing Clusters."
"That's terrible."
"Yeah, I didn't pick it."
"And?"
"Music's good though. Trashy, shitty, perfect sound. I'll stick for a few shows and dip again."
Sebas huffed a quiet laugh, sliding his hands into his pockets.
"So modest."
She tilted her head just slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching- not quite a smile.
"You'll hear it soon enough. I like our bassist. He's a cockney stuck-up prude. You'll like him."
Satisfied, Sebas let the topic rest.
He leaned against the counter, tilting his head toward her.
"And how's Evangeline doing?"
"Doing fine," Marceline answered, flicking ash from her cigarette. "Political science and all that, though I'm not sure how long the major will be around."
Sebas smirked. "Rebellious girl."
"Ambitious woman," she corrected. "She's getting older now. No need to coddle her."
A pause. The weight of the conversation shifted, a familiar shape curling in its place. Sebas studied her in the dim light, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "And, what's going on with the CHC lately?"
Marceline inhaled slow, long fingers tightening around the cigarette. "Still standing."
"And the. . . other group? Anything new to worry about?"
She exhaled. The smoke swirled between them, curling through the air in patterns. Sebas wasn't a member, but wasn't not a member, so to say. He was a bartender, a great source of information on the city's edges, and he was wonderful for subtle communication.
But, there was nothing of good news to report.
Sebas didn't press. They both knew better. Then, as if to cut through the unspoken, the side door burst open.
"Marceline!"
Komaru's voice rang through the space, bright and sharp. She strode in like the world had been holding its breath for her arrival.
She stopped just a few steps inside, head tilting as she dragged her eyes up and down Marceline's form.
"God," she exhaled, lips curling in something between amusement and distaste. "You look like a ghoul! Have you ever worn color? Ever? Like, even as a child?"
Marceline didn't look up. She took another slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling in deliberate disinterest. This cyclical fashion would continue again. It irritated her.
"She's working on it," Sebas said, his voice warm with amusement.
Komaru leaned in, grinning wide. "No, she's not. She likes looking like a vampire." She dropped onto a barstool, kicking her legs idly. "Might be why you're still single, y'know. Nobody wants to date someone who looks like they've already attended their own funeral."
Marceline flicked ash into the tray. She's heard this entire spiel before.
Komaru pouted dramatically. "Not even gonna deny it?" She draped herself against the counter, her cloak spilling over the wood. "You're gonna die alone, you know. Probably in this exact position. Smoke curling around you, all moody and silent, and people will think you've just been sitting here thinking for three days before they realize you're actually dead."
Sebas let out a low chuckle, reaching for his drink.
"There are worse ways to go."
Komaru sighed, rolling onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as if the answers to the universe might be scrawled there. "You are both exhausting." She turned her head towards Marceline again, eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you even listening to me? Hellooo? Earth to the undead?"
Marceline gave her the briefest glance, barely tilting her head.
Komaru clicked her tongue, sitting up fully. "Tch. Fine, be like that." Then, for a fraction of a second, her right eye twitched, just barely. A digital flicker, something not entirely natural.
Komaru frowned, rubbing at her temple absently, then shook out her hands. "Ugh, why is it so damn stuffy in here?" She pushed herself off the stool, stretching. "You guys are depressing. No wonder I feel like I'm overheating." She waved a lazy hand behind her as she made her way to the side door. "I'm gonna get some air before I actually catch whatever disease she's got."
The door swung shut behind her, rattling slightly in its frame.
Sebas watched the door for a moment after it shut, listening for the telltale stomp of boots, the muttered curses that usually followed when Komaru got in a mood. But there was only silence.
Sebas sighed, shaking his head as he turned back to Marceline.
"Apologies fo' her," he said lightly. "She's still struggling to locate properly around you."
Marceline took another drag, watching the last ant disappear into the crack in the wall.
"I have that effect on people."
Sebas smirked. "That you do. She's just going to sulk," he mused, swirling the last of his drink. "She does that a lot lately."
Marceline exhaled smoke, eyes half-lidded. "Mm."
Sebas tapped his fingers against the glass. "I like to think that means she's getting more human, more of her actual personality out there– but I'm not that optimistic. I think it's most likely Gaedriel's fault. His latest obsession, and fucking around with Death's Gate again. I see those crews in and out of the valley every month that passes by, shaded by his leech."
Marceline didn't react much. No raised brows, no visible surprise. Just another long drag of her cigarette, the ember at the tip burning low.
"Not shocking," she muttered, flicking ash into the tray. "The way his ability's been growing, he was bound to push for even more."
Sebas studied her. Marcie wasn't startled by the information. Just resigned. That was somehow worse. She tapped her fingers against the bar once, twice. "It's gone from a small shade to a full-on clone now," she finally commented.
Sebas stilled. Marceline exhaled sharply, but there was no amusement in it. "Before long, he may even be able to use two."
Sebas shifted, reaching for the bottle.
"You're thinking about it too much. You know, whatever he does to himself, should have a similar effect on you. The stronger he gets. . . yeah?"
Marceline didn't reply, but the way she tensed slightly told him enough.
He poured another drink, switching topics before her thoughts could go places neither of them wanted. "You know, on a better front, Nfierre's back in town."
That made her pause. Not tense. Just still.
Then, slowly, she nodded. "Huh. Neat."
Sebas tilted his head. "Feeling better?"
Marceline exhaled. "Nfierre is. . . useful." A slow sip of her drink. "And kind. I used to have Ronin deal with her typically, if we needed anything."
"Dangerously strong."
"Also that."
Sebas smirked, but only briefly. He twirled the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid shift, then sighed, running a finger along the rim.
"But, uh, Ronin's gone. Since a couple days ago."
Marceline stopped.
It wasn't a sharp reaction, nor an immediate snap of the head or a demand for more details. But she frowned. Heavier than before. The kind of frown that settled beneath the ribs, slow and weighted.
Sebas didn't need to elaborate. She already understood.
It wasn't just Ronin that had died. It was everything attached to her. An entire culture, gone in a breath. It only took twenty years for them to entirely dissipate. All because of one man and his foolish decisions.
She let out a slow, measured inhale, shoulders squared against something she wasn't ready to feel. Her gaze drifted to the bar top, to the cigarette burning between her fingers.
Can't think about this. Not now. Not yet.
Sebas took another sip, watching her carefully. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "So, on that good old, uh, Alluvial Fair-? Festival? The Victory Day thing."
Marceline didn't look up. "Yeah. The Festival. What about it?"
Sebas hummed. "I have theories."
A dry chuckle left her lips, humorless. This was room for Sebas to continue.
"But, what else could a man like Gaedriel want?" he mused, tilting his glass. "A ruler who already has total control. A purist who lives for meaning, for purpose. He's got it all. He won."
Marceline's gaze flickered. A slow drag.
"What more could he possibly want?"
The question settled between them like a stone dropped in deep water. Marceline exhaled, watching the smoke spiral upward, dissipating before it could reach the ceiling. And in that absence of an answer, she had a disgusting feeling they were all about to find out.
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