(I'm uploading this, and others, here as an experiment. I know, it's lazy as hell and I'm headdesking as I write this (I'm talented) because of it, but basically what I'm doing this for is as follows: I'm trying to see if I'm wanting to delete Insights and use a recommendation to simply mark chapters which would fit Insights as such, and upload them here, so everything's all in one place.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!)
To call his destination a speakeasy would be a lie. Alcohol was no more illegal than getting topped off at the downtown Brothel. No, instead it was a speakeasy in similar fashion that few spoke of it or did in hushed tones. The Brig was not a place most anyone wanted to be associated with publically.
A fine establishment of plentiful glasses, loose skirts and enough quiet that a man could actually think was also home to a number of mobsters, wanna-be's, and bunko artists that wanted nothing more than for you to buy their snake oil so they could take your money hard earned or not.
A speakeasy it was not, but hidden it most certainly was. Through the labyrinth of alleyways that stunk of piss and broken dreams when he first arrived, with the rain pouring over his trench coated form running off the brim of his Fedora, the man known to most only as 'Doc' walked the same road he'd done a hundred times now. The alley way still stunk, but he didn't notice. Not anymore. Nor did he really pay much mind to the constant pounding of rain on his hat, nor the little river it formed as it escaped from a pressure-formed funnel down the front and between his vision.
Meridia was a fine place, but it was the underbelly that to many really gave it the reputation of 'Jewel Of the Ocean' being borne as a coastal town on a planet named Amazonia now brought up as a trade hub. A center of commerce, culture, and crime.
Doc turned, left, left, right, left, and finally straight and downward. The rain made a river, funneled out from the hidden door by two gutters that led into the sewers, the under-dark.
Clack-Clack knock he knocked on the 'stone' of the door, one of the fake stones being moved back and two pale-yellow mechanical eyes stared out questioningly.
"Password?" Asked a deep, tinny voice synthesized by audiotory mechanics.
"The deep takes the fools. The Shadow takes all." A gravelled, level voice answered.
"Welcome, Doc." The stone slid back in, latches could be heard unhinging.
'Always with the hinges.' Doc rolled his eyes and looked behind him and up at the moon, white with a bare tint of baby blue, cast its cold light down into the alleyway almost showing the way to anyone brave enough to wander the labyrinthine cobblestone alleyways.
Doc checked his side, feeling the familiar weight of his revolver shift in it's holster.
Click, clack, clack clickclack. Shhhhick.
The door swung open, the Mechanoid doorman motioning with his head for Doc to move in.
Tilting his wet hat at the mechanoid Doc swiftly slid his hand into his pocket, chuckling at the doorman's body tensing, and pulled out two silver coins. Depositing the currency into the Doorman's hand, who took it thankfully, Doc moved past him and into the dark corridor lit only by neon.
He could already smell the smoke and the whiskey, a familiar intoxicating smell that took most of his worries away already despite him not actually being in the Bar yet.
Passing a final door, a heavy affair of wrought iron and incredibly dense black wood, Doc was finally there.
The Brig.
Characters of many stripe drank here, from aforementioned Mobsters and Bunko artists, to whores and a couple honest lot just looking to have a drink or smoke or both.
Cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, casting a foggy tint over the neon lights and advertisements hovering over the bar patrons like a protective cloak of tobacco. The whole building had dark brown wooden walls, lined on the left and curving around toward the door with cherry red leather dining booths. Most of them stocked full of people. Dim lights, just enough to light up the tables beneath them just enough, bolted to the walls giving a much fancier look than the Brig deserved.
On the other side was the bar. A long, white stone topped table bordered with polished, stainless steel meant to be sturdy, decked with large, comfy stools that seem to be getting worn down after so much use.
Behind the bar was it's owner and manager, another Mechanoid by the name of Willis, who used his many metal arms to serve the bar patrons all at once, pulling large and small glasses of alcohol from around the world from the gallery of debauchery behind him.
Doc wasted little time in taking a seat at the far end of the bar, closest the entrance, and with a whistle got Willis' attention. The Mechanoid swiftly moves over, using a spinning hand and rag to clean a glass and serve it almost fluidly. "What'ch'll be 'avin'?" asked Willis with his normal tone of friendly challenge. Doc smirked under his fedora "Dwarven Whiskey." He doesn't take off his coat, instead leaving it on to dry in the smoke filled air.
"Usual then." Willis nodded his metal head and quickly produced an alcohol of dark hue, pouring it into the glass with expert, mechanical precision and presenting the glass to Doc.
Doc looked at the glass, then the bottle which was mostly empty, and at Willis.
"Fine but it'll cost ya extra. Damn drunk." Willis said jokingly handing over both glass and bottle, Doc already taking a drink of the whiskey that once upon a time made him almost choke half to death.
"Already gave D some money." Doc supplied helpfully, taking another drink.
"It's his tip for lettin' yer arse in here." Willis shot back levelling an accusing, lit eye at Doc as he serves another patron a drink.
"You hurt an old man." Doc said with a mock frown as he filled his glass.
"Hurt'cha fer real soon enough."
Doc snorted a laugh and looked down at his glass, at the dark amber liquid inside which smelled of wheat and snowberries.
"So what's got'cha in a tiz?" Willis leaned onto the Bar with a few of his many arms "Dog piss on yer boots?" He rose a metal brow. Still serving drinks. What a man.
"I'd of kicked his ass."
"Would hurt a dog, how could ya."
"Sue me."
Willis somehow snorted "Think about it. So what's up?"
"Looking for someone." Doc looks up, exchanging his glass to his other hand, and uses his now free hand to produce a strange idol from his pocket. The thing feels wrong in his hand, a thing carved from bone with painstaking, sickeningly loving precision of some otherworldly thing that just oozed malice.
Willis looked at the thing, then Doc, then the item again, before sighing. "Back room. You owe me extra."
"Think about it." Doc pockets the thing, drinks down his whiskey, and takes the bottle with him, checking his revolver again.
With a deep breath he pushes the door in and walks past.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing.
