Mister DeGroot was in no mood to talk. It was much too early in the morning, far too late in the evening. He just wanted to go to bed. No matter how pleasant the women at his door seemed, the B-list actor had no patience for them. He tapped his fingers on the door. A yawn escaped him before he could stifle it.
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Tavish asked. "I've gotta film in the morning."
Both women raised an eyebrow. The older of the two spoke their unified opinion, "Film?"
"Aye. I'm a certified actor, lasses," Tavish replied. He readjusted his posture, shifting from leaning on the door to the wall. "Isn't that why you're here?"
"No. We had absolutely no idea. We just found you in a phone book," the younger woman said.
Now Tavish was confused. "Really? What, have you two been living out in a desert or somethin'?"
Again, he received a strange look from the two women. The elder turned to the younger, then put a hand up to her ear. She asked a hushed question, but Mister DeGroot could still hear it. "What's up with him? Did he bail on yer job?"
The younger shook her head. "No. I—"
"Would you two mind not playin' Chinese whispers in front of me?" Tavish grumbled. "If you plan on keepin' me up all night, the least you can is not cut me out of the conversation."
The younger was quick to smooth over the offense. "Sorry." She paused, reaching a hand upwards to fumble with her glasses. Her words grew jagged as time passed. "Tavish, are you okay? Why didn't you come back? I thought you were…well, I suppose I didn't know, but I couldn't assume well, all things considered."
A confused glance passed over Tavish's face. He parroted back the younger woman's last line. "All things considered? 'M not sure what you are talking 'bout."
The perplexed expression came back to the younger lady's face. "What? Don't you remember?"
Silence was the Scotsman's answer. His brain was void of information. He put two fingers on his temple, trying to tap a memory out. There was just nothing there. To some degree, the Scotsman was used to this happening. Memories weren't as necessary as they used to be. Old pains were important to keep buried. Fleeting joys were quick to be forgotten. The mind only had so much room, no matter how quickly it built new neurons. There were just things that he was going to forget as time went on.
Still, a stinging pain built in his chest. This seemed critical. There were two tiny women with black hair staring at him, just as bewildered as he was. He had no reason to fear them, and yet, he felt apprehension. Who would be so mad as to contact him so late at night, to plead with him for his time? Normal fans? No. Perhaps stalkers.
"Who are you?" Tavish pondered.
The older of the two women spoke up. "Ya probably don't remember me. I'm the Scout's Ma. This here's Miss P. Well, Miss Pauling, but I think Miss P is easier to say. Less stuffy, more cute."
Strangers. Absolute strangers. The actor felt a new bubble of anxiety build in his diaphragm. "'M sorry, but I still don't remember you."
The younger one—Miss Pauling—went pale. Ice cold. She spoke shortly, sternly. "How?"
"'M afraid I don't understand what you mean," Tavish replied.
That answer didn't satisfy the young lady. "How could you possibly…Mister DeGroot, you worked for my employer for six years. You worked alongside me for five. How could you forget?"
Tavish shook his head. He tapped the top of his head again. "Don't be mad, Lass. My mind's not what it used to be. Too much drinking."
"Hey, I like ta get sauced myself, but I remember everything," the older woman interrupted. "Honey, are you for real?"
"Swear on my dad's grave," Tavish replied.
Miss Pauling's gaze snapped upright. She glared straight into Tavish's brain, right through his one good eye. "You remember your father. Okay. What else? How about your mother? How did you lose your eye? What was your job before this—even before me?"
Tavish sucked in a shaky breath of air. "My job? I…Well, my mum's still alive. Should call her soon. Been a while. And my eye…" A nervous chuckle escaped him before he could catch it. "Bloody hell, that can't be right. Somethin' 'bout a wizard?"
"He sounds like he's off his rocker," the mother said.
Miss Pauling disagreed. "No, he's right."
"Even I thought I was making that up," Tavish snickered.
The younger lady's patience was fading fast. She rubbed the corners of her eyes. Something poisonous was on her tongue. It was all she could do to bite it back. Tavish tipped his head, studying the upset stranger's face. He frowned, regretting his laughter. The two of them looked exhausted. Guilt flooded him.
Tavish sighed. "Lasses, I'm sorry. Truly. But I can't—"
"Don't!" Miss Pauling snapped.
Both the older woman and the actor froze. Something raw and inflamed had been exposed to the open air. What had appeared to be a diamond spirit chipped like ice. There was a sharp pain in the younger woman's chest. She concealed it as best as she could. She pulled herself up, then pushed her glasses back. Fears that had plagued her for months were swatted away once more.
She became something not quite as piercing as a rapier. "Don't lie to me, Tavish. Do you truly not remember me? You're not just lying out of fear, are you? I can understand if you are frightened, but you've got to be honest."
Tavish dipped his head. "What would I be afraid of? You?"
The final blow was dealt. The angry witch seething in the young woman's heart burned away. Open, painful aching was left in its passing. It was all the woman could do to conceal her fears and frustrations. So, this was it. He still had his strength, but no mastery over it. That was gone. What was left was muddled and tired, making a living with the only traits he had left—those that were purely physical and innate.
"What happened to you?" Miss Pauling murmured.
The mother sighed. Their scheme had become more convoluted. She gave the actor another glance, studying his face. No, it had to be him. Even in the fleeting pictures she had seen of the man and the brief meals that they had shared, she wouldn't have forgotten a face like his. That love of sulfur and explosions had disappeared, the raging, fiery spirit tamed, but his shell was still the same.
She put an arm around the younger lady. "Look. We're all tired. It's been long days for all of us. Let's give it a rest."
"Couldn't agree with you more," Tavish nodded.
Miss Pauling bobbed her head, although it remained fallen. She glanced at the other woman's purse. The mother agreed, then shuffled through it. She produced a book of matches and a peppermint candy. Handing both items over to the actor, the mother forced a smile. "Just in case you change your mind. We'll be around for a bit, yet. Right, Miss P?"
"We need to sleep," Miss Pauling answered. "Regroup, too. This complicates things."
The older woman took the younger by the shoulders. "Catch ya later, then."
Tavish waved them off. He waited until they descended the stair well before he pulled himself inside his apartment. He flipped the items in his hand. There was a hotel logo and telephone number on the back side. Not a particularly good hotel, either. Something cheap, but not hourly.
He put the matchbox on the counter, then tossed the peppermint into the garbage. He could still use the matches. It was a shame that those women were so confused, but there was little he could do to help them. He had his own life. He couldn't drop everything just for a pair of doe eyes. Perhaps the duo would wake up tomorrow and figure out that they had made a mistake.
So, there couldn't be that many black Scottish Cyclopes by the name of Tavish DeGroot in the world. There had to be at least one other in Hollywood.
The actor stumbled to his bathroom once more. He finished his nightly rituals. The clock on the bathroom wall was past three before he was finished. Great. Another long day with no sleep. He pushed the mirror aside once again, placing his toothbrush, paste, and floss inside. That was just the way fate was sometimes. Complicated.
Slowly, the mirror turned back. He swatted it aside once more, hunting for aspirin. He felt like his frontal lobes were on fire. He took two capsules, then threw them into his mouth. He drank down a glass of water. It didn't quench the burning in the front of his head. Tavish sighed. It would be yet another hour before he could fall asleep.
He pushed the mirror shut. For the first time in ages, he looked at himself. Not just the glance he'd give himself while shaving. A true, long reflection. His face was older than he remembered. His cheeks were hollow, his eyebrows heavier. His mouth sat in an unflattering frown. He reached for his eye patch, then pulled that back. The eyelid behind it was atrophied. Pink tissue sat behind it, the last remnants of what had been a healthy eye.
"Lost it to a wizard," he muttered. "Maybe I am drunk."
As he touched skin just below his missing eye, something electric ran through him. He crashed onto the floor, right on his coccyx. He cursed himself. Maybe he had touched something too sensitive. He rolled onto his knees as another surge hit him. He knew what this feeling was. A drunkard never forgot. He pulled himself to the toilet, then hovered over the bowl. An old sensation passed over him. He let it go easily, voiding his mind as he emptied the contents of his stomach.
Bad medicine. That's what it had to be.
As one used to being ill, Tavish looked over his sick. He expected to see undigested pills or food. There was some of that, certainly. Stranger yet was the small pellet floating in the middle. He had never seen anything like it. There was no way he would have voluntarily eaten that. It seemed toxic. He fished it out and threw it into the sink. He kicked the toilet's handle. Boiling water went over the pellet and his hands, scrubbing the last of the filth away as the toilet carried the rest into the sewage system.
Tavish picked the cleaned silver ball up. It wasn't much larger than a pearl. He brought it up to his one good eye, checking it over for engraving. Sure enough, there was the signature of a megalomaniac. 07180125. GRAY. Just like on that strange capacitor the Pyro had found on the battlefield that spring not too long ago.
Tavish jumped backwards. The Pyro! Of course, he had a Pyro! There were all kinds of mercenaries, weren't there? All sorts of soldiers. Like the Soldier! And spies—the Spy! His Sniper, his Medic, his Engineer—all came back to him, one by one. The fat man and the skinny brat. He slapped himself on the cheek. Not just anyone's skinny brat. That older woman's kid! And the other gal with her—
"Ah, cripes!" the Demoman swore. "Miss Pauling, I—"
Any guilt he harbored vanished. He had to make it up to those women! They had come all the way here, begged for his help, and he'd been useless! He bolted into his closet. Flinging his bath towel aside, he finally put on a decent pair of clothing. Not pajamas, either. As soon as he was fit to be seen, he ran to his kitchen. He snatched his wallet, his keys, and the matchbox off his countertop.
A dozen thoughts bombarded him as he put his hand on his doorknob. His mother was going to kill him for forgetting to call her. His clan was going to shame him for not immediately jumping into a fight. He was going to lose another career. Hell, he'd lost most of them. He was out of practice, out of shape, out of his league. He was going to fail, and when he did, he wouldn't ever get an opportunity this nice again.
He left his doubts and dreams behind. Hollywood could keep both of them.
/***/
There were doves everywhere.
The big man thought it was a trick his mind was playing on him. Wild doves? In New York City? Possible, but unlikely. If anything, it was just a flock of inbred pigeons. No matter what they were, they were every place he visited. Perhaps they were just sticking by tourist traps, but he felt anxious. Up Park Avenue, across Ninety-Seventh Street, down Fifth, across two parks. Everywhere he turned, there they were. Picking at trashcans and stealing popcorn.
He wished that he could just ignore them. They certainly were distracting from his sightseeing. It was hard to overlook them, particularly when they kept following him. Not just hovering from building to building. Waddling behind him. Picking at his clothes. One even had the audacity to land on his shoulders. He had tried shooing them away, but it was futile. They were stubborn birds.
Tomorrow, their antics wouldn't matter. He'd go back home, back to work, and be far away.
The thought of returning back to his job frustrated the large man. More name calling. More suspicious glances. No one could trust a Russian. Besides the chatty grandmother at that opera, these animals were the closest companionship he'd had in over a year. Before that…well, he had no way of knowing. One day, perhaps, but not likely today. He feared knowing who he was. All he could do was pray that he wasn't a Soviet sleeper agent, ready to spring into action at the slightest trigger.
His stomach rumbled. The big man grunted, then reached for his billfold. He needed to save enough cash to take a bus back home, perhaps train fare. It didn't leave much for supper. Something cheap would have to do. He was just about to close his wallet as a bird landed on his hand. He froze. The large man had heard tales of mugging, but he hadn't expected some dove to be a perpetrator.
"What do you want?" the big man asked the bird.
It cooed at him, then took off. The dove's flock followed him upright. The pack fluttered south, then dove underground. Straight into the subway system. The big man lifted his eyebrow. Stranger and stranger. He shrugged, then followed them. The line was heading north, away from richer streets. Perhaps he could find something reasonable to eat there.
Time flew as he traveled towards the Bronx. He exited his car, only to be greeted by the same persistent flock. He felt his skin crawl. They couldn't have taken the train, could they? What sort of strange birds were they? The flock took off once more, bolting straight up the nearest stairwell, swatting incoming humans as they fled. The large man shook his head.
They were too strange not to pursue.
Like a violent white wind, they whipped around. The entire flock dove towards a beaten bar. The large man watched in wonder as they settled into nooks and crevices around the building. The front of it was wooden, aged and beaten. Warm, dim light burned within its core. There was cheerful, deep laughing from inside. Not the kind of building a young man visited, looking for a pretty thing to take home. No, something for the old and weathered. A smile crept onto the big man's face. It seemed like a pleasant enough place to rest his feet.
The interior of the bar was scarlet, amber, and emerald green. Pleather seats were well worn, but not torn. A few tired men sat in booths, talking amongst themselves and smoking. Wooden stools were open next to the bar. The big man shrugged, then took a seat. They were sturdy enough to bear his mass. Even as big as he was, the Russian wondered if larger had sat in his spot before.
"Guten abend!" a cheerful bartender greeted him. "What can I get you?"
The Russian felt heat blast through his face. He found himself laughing. There, standing before him, was a man older than he was in black, floral-trimmed lederhosen. As if that weren't enough, he had one of those peculiar hats the actors from the opera were wearing—a little cap with a corded band and a white feather. One errant strand of hair was curled beneath it. It was completely joyful and undignified.
"Sorry. Was not polite of me," the big man apologized.
"It happens more than you think," the bartender laughed. "I don't fill it out as well as the frauleins."
The customer shrugged. "You do what you must for your job, da?"
The bartender sighed. "Ah, so true. What would you like?"
"Whatever tonight's special is. Trying to eat cheap," the big man replied.
"Ah! That must be difficult!" the bartender teased. He smirked, then reached for a glass stein. "Tell you what, then. This is on the house. My gift, ja?"
The large man found himself flushed again. "It is okay. I can pay."
"Nichts da! I have been trying to get back into brewing. You just try this, and tell me what you think," the bartender protested.
If there was one thing the big man had learned to do, it was not to reject a gift twice. So few people were willing to cut him slack. Perhaps it was just a ploy to get him drunk, and then to later pay more for booze, but the big man accepted it all the same. He needed a break from the constant onslaught of toil and frustration. Alcohol certainly wasn't the best solution for his woes, but it didn't hurt.
It was the best beer he had drank in a long time. Warm, thick, straight to the point. He felt its potency within minutes. He kept quiet, watching the staff work around him and the customers chat away. This was pleasant, just to wait. For a moment, he forgot about what had been ailing him. Maybe he didn't have many more memories to lose, but he was willing to let go of the pain, his strange travels, and even the peculiar pigeons sitting outside the bar.
The big man found himself staring at the bartender's hat, white feathers matching the plumage of the birds outside. Of the prop he had falsely seen. Pale tufts all around him, leading him to peace of mind.
Perhaps it was serendipity.
/***/
Author's Note
Ack! It happened again! I ran out of room.
Oh, well. Can't tax the readers too much. I try to cap myself around 3,000 words per chapter.
…well, I think you know where this is going.