"Mr. Bluejeans!" came a young man's voice from down the hallway, followed by hurried footsteps of shoes far too nice to belong to someone native to the Undercity. "Mrs. Burnsides was wondering where you were."
"It's Hallwinter, Angus, I've told you a million times," said Barry with a resigned sigh, turning to the owner of the voice.
A small tiefling with large, round glasses came to a stop before him, smiling sheepishly up at the human. "Sorry, sir, I just think Bluejeans comes off the tongue easier. Besides, nobody in the apartment building actually knows you as Hallwinter, sir— they all just give me weird looks when I call you that."
That's right— before he'd met the Burnsides and come out of his shell, Barry had been sort of the resident cryptid, known only by his blue jeans to his neighbors when he actually decided to venture out. Someone had given him the nickname one day, and it stuck; he had suspected it was the local cleric, Merle something-or-other with a long name, but the dwarf still thought his name was Billy when he dared to venture out with a five o'clock shadow.
"You said Julia was looking for me, Angus?"
"Right! She wanted me to ask you to come upstairs for tea. She said you were working on some new robots and that she thought you could take a break. That's when the dogs started going wild…"
"That was my fault, sorry," he muttered, then added, "I just need to run a few errands, then I'll come back for tea. Can you let her know?"
"She was quite adamant that you come immediately, but…" he worried at his lip. "I think she'll understand."
Barry smiled at the tiefling and mussed his hair fondly. "Thanks, kiddo. How goes your search, by the way?"
Angus McDonald had first come into Barry's life about two years ago, and had stuck hard, just like he did with everyone he met. He was Faerûn's self-proclaimed greatest detective, and certainly had the guts to back it up. Although Angus was born to the upper echelons of Capital City, he followed in his grandfather's footsteps and became a well known part of the Undercity, solving crimes for little to nothing. He took charge of cases the governor's men declared dead ends or simply refused to do, solving the majority of those he took on.
He and Barry had met during a case of a missing droid and a murder victim, in which the young tiefling had enlisted his help in studying a robotic limb that had been left at the scene. He'd been able to find the serial number of the bot, which helped lead to the arrest of what had been a rogue bot he'd actually jailbroken himself. (He still felt guilty about that; he hadn't known the victim personally— they were just another faceless customer— but he remembered the wild look in the droid's eyes, how the papers reported how it seemed to sob and beg for mercy when it was cornered by the police and Angus. It was easy for something to go wrong in the jailbreaking process, even if he was one of the best.)
Angus sighed deeply, breaking him from his reverie. "Mr. Taako is still missing, and nobody's even heard of the sister he mentions in his journals. It's like he's just disappeared of the face of the earth!"
Taako, right, the celebrity chef on TV. Sizzle It Up, he believed— he didn't actually watch TV; the one in his apartment was pretty much just gathering dust after he'd repaired it. After his show went off the air, Angus had tracked him down and begged him to give him lessons in magic. Barry remembered the child had promised to bring the chef and his sister to Magnus's birthday party, Just a week before the man had gone missing.
"I'm sure they'll show up eventually. You're the world's greatest detective, aren't you? They can't escape you for long."
Angus seemed to brighten at that and nodded. "You're right! I'm sure a wizard as incredible as Mr. Taako is sure to be just fine!"
Barry smiled at his optimism and said his goodbyes, then went on his way.
If anyone could find the missing chef, it was Angus.
The Fantasy Costco™ of the Undercity, a subset of the Fantasy Corporation, was, without a doubt, the weirdest place Barry had the displeasure of shopping at. Whereas most supermarkets in the Undercity left the magical dealings to its far better equipped black market vendors, the Fantasy Costco™ brought to the table technology, magical equipment, and a strange mixture of the two in a way that confounded and frustrated its competitors.
It's manager and lead salesman, a gnome warlock, had a deal struck up with the black market vendors to not infringe with competition, only selling items that couldn't be made by your local artificers or apothecarian. Barry was… Friends? Acquaintances?— with the only artificer who worked in the store, Leon, whose task it was to repair any magical items customers brought in. He wasn't a very busy man, so he also took care of restocking the store, and allowed loyal customers, like Barry, he supposed, to make requests.
Leon was leaning on the help desk like a bored student, cheek in hand, and perked up when he saw Barry approaching. "Hey, Barold, what can I do you for?"
"That's not my full— listen, Leon, do you guys have any audio processors in stock? Preferably for T190 models? I've got two bots in my shop, one with a missing processor and one broken, who need them."
The artificer hissed. "T190? That's… a pretty damn new model. We only stock audio processors for T180 and lower. How did you even get one of those? I hear they're not even on the public market yet down here."
Barry frowned; he didn't really keep up with new models, just read the model numbers and gave them to Leon. "I found them in a dump; they were really bad off— one was all cut up, and the other had its guts pulled."
"Seriously? Someone would pay big money to get those back."
He shrugged. "I was just gonna sell them to Kravitz, the funeral director."
"Whatever man, it's your decision. Anyways, you said you wanted T190 audio processors? Since we don't have them in stock, you'll have to—"
"MAKE A DEAL!" a voice boomed next to Barry, which caused him to lose his balance and stumble to the side, followed by a puff of smoke. When the smoke cleared, a gnome stood on the countertop, grinning ear to ear, his tail waving sinisterly behind him.
"Sir, please, you don't need to do that," Leon coughed, waving the smoke away. "You're just wasting spell slots."
The warlock ignored him, instead opting to saunter down the counter to Barry, whose ears were still ring. "So, Misssssssssssster…" he looked Barry up and down, trying to figure out his last name. "Barold!"
He was coughing too hard say, No, that's not my goddamn name, you damned rat.
"T190 audio processors are the name of the game, hmmm? Those are hard to come by! But ol' Garfield is always up for a challenge. But what are you willin' to give ol' Garf in exchange?" The gnome's smile grew wider as he pretended to inspect his claws.
"I- I'm sure I can get a loan…" Barry managed choke out, gasping for air as the smoke finally cleared.
Garfield tsked. "Oh no, Garfield ain't lookin' for a handout. How about you give me… Nicholas's jean jacket?"
Barry's face twisted into a snarl. "Seriously? That old thing? It's not my fault he picked me over you for prom."
"And yet, you still have it?" He frowned and Garfield laughed. "Thought so. You can bring it in when the product itself comes in. Make sure to clean it, capiche?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. How long before you'll have it in stock?"
Garfield seemed to consider it for a moment. "I'd say… four weeks?"
Barry muttered a curse and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Fine, great, is that it?"
"It certainly is, Mr. Barold. Toodle-oo!"