The stranger was in The Ninth Circle every night for almost two weeks. He had a quiet way about him, and never seemed to take his hat or bandanna off. Every evening he came in with another few bottles of various finer-grade liquors to trade for the bottle of vodka that he would nurse for several hours as he swapped tales with the residents of Underworld.
Charon was always there, ever constant in his guard. The stranger seemed keen on taking a seat at the table closest to the glowering ghoul, but never actually attempted to converse with him. He didn't even really acknowledge his presence.
Until tonight, that is.
Charon caught a cautious brown-eyed look from under that wide-brimmed hat. The smoothskin quickly looked away, hauling his bandanna up and jamming his hat lower.
"Does he ever let you sit?"
Charon shifted almost imperceptibly. A question. One that I can't answer. "Talk to Ahzrukhal."
The man grumbled into his vodka. "How about I fuckin' don't. That guy makes my skin crawl, and it isn't because of his looks."
Charon's arms flexed across his chest with the pent-up energy of agreeing whole-heartedly with the stranger.
"So he doesn't let you talk, either. Freely, anyway."
Charon grunted.
"M' name's Spoon. I know yours is Charon. He told me. He also mentioned that you're under some sort of contract. Is that right, or is it just a bunch of shit?" the stranger queried softly, swishing the vodka around in his battered mug.
Charon's eyes narrowed. That fucking prick needs to be more careful about who he tells about this shit. I don't feel the need to take on a smoothskin army in his defense. The ghoul grunted again, barely inclining his head in confirmation.
"Strange. Alright then. One more question, and then I promise I'll be off to Carol's for the night." the stranger leaned forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, pushing his hat back a little so he could make eye contact with Charon. "Are you content here? Is this...is this what you want?" he asked, quiet enough that Charon could have ignored him.
Charon abruptly felt like the room was too small, like everyone was watching them. He swallowed hard, tightening his arms across his chest.
Ahzrukhal, it seemed, had finally picked up on the discomfort of his 'employee', and his voice rang out across the bar. "Charon! Get this waste out of here."
Charon's head snapped up, noting Ahzrukhal's angry look as the ghoul pointed to Patches. The poor ghoul, already falling apart and heavily inebriated, couldn't even run as with three easy strides Charon was on him. Charon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, seething inwardly at the obvious show Ahzrukhal was putting on for the smoothskin. The bartender probably would dub it, "displaying Charon's prowess", or some other equally sanctimonious bullshit. In The Ninth Circle Charon was both warning and promise, and Ahzrukhal never missed a chance to display the power he held.
Charon hadn't noticed that the stranger (Spoon?) had followed him, until he had deposited Patches in front of The Chop Shop and turned to go back to the bar. He started as he almost ran over the diminutive smoothskin.
"Easy big fella'. You didn't answer my question exactly. But..." Spoon glanced down at Patchwork, "I think I already know your answer."
Charon snarled, shoving the stranger aside with a clipped, "Talk to Ahzrukhal." A hand caught his arm though, stopping the ghoul in his tracks. The hand seemed cold to Charon's constantly fever-hot skin, and it jolted him a little. Never mind the fact that the smoothskin was touching him in the first place.
But all Spoon did was sigh, somewhat heavily, as he patted Charon's arm. "Give me a week." he muttered, tilting his hat back again to look at Charon. The ghoul was highly confused, to say the least. Spoon headed off to his room, and Charon returned to his corner, brain whirling with what the smoothskin might have meant.
He didn't dare to get excited, oh no. Too many hands had been on his contract. Sometimes within minutes of each other. He snorted, ignoring what felt like little electrical jolts running through his body.
Not excited, and certainly not holding my breath.