"Dev — your customers at the back are too rowdy."
"I'll take care of it."
The table was truly loud. Despite Bad Weather having served mafiosi before, the ruckus from the table at the back of the bar place was disrupting even compared to past intoxicated, criminal patrons. The customers at the loud table weren't even drunk. Desmond approached them with their ordered drinks.
"Excuse me, but may I ask you to lower your voices?"
One of the customers — a man in a leather jacket — looked at Desmond as the runaway Assassin set down the tray of drinks on the table. The customers each had an arm slung around a girl with teary eyes or trembling lips. The girls couldn't have been older than fifteen.
"You just serve the drinks, bartender. Do that and go away."
There was no proof of child slave trade in New York that the police could get their hands on, but Desmond had heard whispers about it during his time in New York City. This was the first time he had ever encountered anything related to it, and his stomach twisted in disgust. The men at the table obviously had certain plans for the night after drinking their beer, and the girls were all too aware of it. Hall caught Desmond's eye, and the old man was firmly glaring at Desmond. We are devoted to our customers. Nothing. Else. The old man always knew when Desmond wanted to cause some trouble.
The man in a leather jacket slapped the side of Desmond's neck. "Hey! Are you listening to me? Serve the drinks already!"
The neck. Was the most vulnerable part of the body. Every Assassin learned this; every Templar of the past had learned to fear this. Even if Desmond didn't believe (much) in the fairy tales his parents and teachers fed him when he was back at the Farm, he agreed that one did not simply. Touch. The. Neck.
Instincts ingrained in him rising and (barely) being forced down, Desmond slowly turned to look at the offender.
"What are you looking at, stupid? Forget this — I'll distribute the drinks!"
The leather jacket man reached for the glasses on the tray, and Desmond's hand snapped out and caught the customer's wrist with the speed and force of lightning. The patrons at the table jumped, and the leather jacket man — obviously in pain at the tight grip — tried pulling his hand out of Desmond's hold, to no avail. The man, despite being under Desmond's power, was swearing profanities at the ex-Assassin and promising pain in return for what Desmond was doing.
Blood was pumping in Desmond's ears, past training sessions whispering for him to protect his neck, pull the attacker down, get the advantage— In the corner of his eye, Desmond saw Hall step forward with intent. Suddenly, like a flip was switched, Desmond let go of the customer's wrist and backed off a step. The leather jacket man nursed his wrist and glared at Desmond.
"Yeah, that's right — back off if you know what's good for you! Coward."
Desmond's fingers itched for a knife. No, he wasn't an Assassin anymore. But he sure had the same way of expressing oneself when having lost one's patience.
"Bartending is a mindless job where you just serve drinks. You bartenders are just racking in the cash like the unskilled, labour-working, money thieves you ar–" Pwffsh!
Hall and a few other employees of Bad Weather had taken a step forward in alarm when they saw Desmond move. It was a reflex, and even if they didn't understand it, it was the reflex of bystanders witnessing someone pulling out a weapon to draw blood.
The leather jacket man stood up, sputtering at the full glass of beer that had been thrown at his face. Desmond set the glass down gracefully, as if he hadn't just dumped beer on a customer; he exhaled slowly, surprised but relieved he had chosen a more civilian expression of impatience than an Assassin one. The other men at the table stood up, but when they met Desmond's eyes and realised the rest of the bar had eyes on them, too, they faltered and looked away. Swear words started pouring from the leather jacket man like a river, but his company nudged him to leave the bar with them, whispering calming words and doing their best to avoid looking directly at Desmond.
If the group ever got in a fight, it would be five on one, but the leather jacket man and his company had not noticed it, and Hall held his breath for no fists to start flying, or there would be many repairs, apologies to other customers, and medical bills for whatever injuries Miceli would get. As skilled as the boy was with cutting fruit and winning a small tussle with customers, slave traders had combat ability comparable to middle-class mafiosi.
When the slave traders had finally left the bar and the leather jacket man's swearing had faded away, the room seemed to breathe easier. Desmond began wiping the table and floor of beer, but Hall stopped him and pulled him aside, signalling for Hernandez to clean it up instead. Another waiter started helping the girls left behind by the slave traders out of their chairs and to a corner where a taxi could be hailed to deliver them to the police station. In another corner where the customers wouldn't be bothered by the conversation, Hall firmly spoke to Desmond and jabbed a finger at the thrown beer.
"I don't want to see that conduct again, Miceli."
Desmond snapped his gaze from the messy table to the boss in disbelief. "He–!" The neck! But a civilian wouldn't understand. Desmond chose an alternate excuse. "Did you hear what he said!?"
"Yes."
"Then you should know how I feel! I don't take criticism from people I don't respect."
"You're going to meet a lot of customers you don't respect. But they are customers. They come first."
"But–!"
"Miceli! I might have to fire you if I see you do anything like that again!" Hall whispered furiously.
Desmond glared defiantly at him, an indignant fire burning in his eyes. It was truly terrifying, and Hall mentally told himself he'd count to ten before he'd accept Desmond's rebellious character – and cave in to the frightening glare – and then fire the young man. Desmond gave in first, much to Hall's surprise; the brunette broke eye contact and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Hall was reminded of a time of scolding bruised, brash teenagers who meant well but got in too many fights. When Desmond had broken eye contact, though, Hall had felt an unseen, gravity-like force release him. One day, he would realise it was a form of natural killing intent, unintentionally emitted by Desmond who most likely had not noticed what he was doing at all.
Mary patted Desmond on the shoulder in consolation as he returned to his place behind the counter. A young man in a suit and wild, brown hair mildly tamed by being combed to the side slid onto a stool before Desmond. "I just passed some slave traders and walked in to discover you've been lectured. What's up, Dev?" "Lippi," Desmond greeted as he poured ginger ale and gin in a glass. "Didn't you notice the one drenched with beer?" Lippi chuckled in realisation. "You didn't," he admonished. Desmond shrugged. "I still got lectured for it. Would you have thrown beer at a slave trader if you had the chance and a good reason?"
Lippi lit a cigarette and took a puff. "What kind of reason?" he asked. "Deeply insulting your occupation," Desmond responded, "but I realise how silly that sounds after I've said it." Lippi laughed. The suited man was a mafioso who was at least middle-class — so far as Desmond could see — but spent his free time at Bad Weather when Desmond was on shift. The two had become friends of a sort; it was rare to find someone of similar age and tolerance to violence and not a member of a different Family, or a member of a Family at all. Lippi thought he and Desmond were the same age. Desmond never bothered correcting him. The ex-Assassin didn't know if it was because he missed the (sort of) companionship he had with his batch mates back at the Farm, or because he didn't want the attention he'd most likely get if people discovered he was younger than he claimed. He already had a suspicion that the boss — Hall — was observing him more than most.
"Mafia doesn't deal with slave trade," Lippi reminded. "It's up there with drug dealing; it messes with the mind, makes correctly perceiving things and people harder the longer you're in the business, and," here, he grinned, "it's just a matter of time until the Family boss finds out. Only trouble follows after that." Desmond added a splash of grenadine to the drink and stirred it, before garnishing it with a maraschino cherry and sliding it to Lippi, who snubbed out his cigarette and smiled wider. "Thanks, Dev! That's why you're the best." Lippi took a sip of it. "This is my favourite cocktail, but I never remember the name of it!" Desmond rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt.
"It's a Shirley Templar."
When Bad Weather was closed and Hall finished his routine of examining the bar, Hall dismissed everyone except Desmond. Nervous eyes flitted to said brunette, but everyone did as they were told, leaving Desmond and the boss alone in the bar. Desmond followed Hall to the cabinets, storage room, the front door, and the back door as the old man locked each of them. Hall spoke as he did so, and their conversation would finish out the back door in the alley outside the bar.
"I don't want to leave you a bad impression of serving here at Bad Weather," Hall began. Desmond wanted to snort at that, but he respected Hall as the manager bartender and most senior of all of Bad Weather's employees. It was said that the old man had been tending the bar since before any of them had been born. It also meant that the old man had seen his fair share of crime appropriate to the mafia-infested city.
"None of us like child slavery," Hall continued, "but picking a fight with slave traders only invites difficulty. What if they decided to destroy the bar in revenge? People rely on Bad Weather for jobs." Desmond got the impulse to defend himself somehow. "I would have won a fight with those guys," he claimed.
Desmond was honestly uncertain. He was most familiar with how Assassins moved, but not criminals like slave traders or mafiosi. The only real fighting experience he had was picked up from the streets in the years he had left the Farm; his experience of combat at the Farm was training sessions and sparring, though he never won against his dad. On the run, when Assassins sent to return Desmond to the Brotherhood finally chose to use force, Desmond was able to win the tussle or run away and disappear to create another identity and move on, but the rank of Assassins sent to him had started out low, before steadily going higher. In the beginning, it was Assassin initiates, then apprentices, then disciples, then warriors, then veterans…. Finally, when a full-fledged Assassin was sent, the male Assassin had been embarrassed when Desmond — theoretically of much lower rank than him — had given him the slip in the middle of combat. Desmond encountered that Assassin a few more times since then; the Assassin seemed determined to regain his honour after (repeatedly!) being showed up by someone not even an Assassin.
"Five on one, Miceli?" Hall's response brought Desmond out of his thoughts. "And even if you did, what are five slave traders in a global network of them? Picking a fight with a table of them isn't going to eradicate slave trade from the world, or even New York." Desmond had to agree with the boss; he had acted a little too quickly on his feelings in the present when, in retrospect, he was risking the safety of Bad Weather, its customers, and its employees. Desmond was ready to admit to his wrongs, when Hall's next words stunned him.
"Miceli, I don't know what kind of a father you've had, but I have raised two sons before they were taken away from me in the crossfire of a mafia street fight. Listen to me when I say this: have your morals, but choose your battles."
Hall patted Desmond's shoulder before leaving the ex-Assassin standing in the alley outside Bad Weather's back door, staring after the old man until he disappeared around the corner. Desmond would have stood there in numbness longer if his trained gut hadn't told him to get a move on and not stay in one place for too long. As he walked home to his apartment, he mentally tossed around the word "father," unsure of what to make of it. The way the boss had said it, a father seemed to be someone who taught life lessons like thinking about others before deciding to cause trouble with jerks, and while William Miles certainly ingrained what he could about situational assessment and combat strategy in Desmond since he could climb trees, it only ever seemed related to survival or mission success rates. What morals Desmond learned were mostly related to Templars and their actions and influence on people; any morals related to the people themselves were taught by Mrs. Miles.
Have your morals, but choose your battles. That sounded nothing like Nothing is true, everything is permitted.
It took three hours before Desmond could fall asleep.
"Hey! What's that drink you invented? I had it last time."
Desmond looked over his shoulder from where he was returning bottles to spot the customer calling out to him. Casual but nice suit, right-handed, at least one hidden gun: it was the mafioso from earlier.
"The Shirley Templar?"
Gin had a dry taste that was usually combined with sweeter ingredients like tonic water or vermouth, so it had made sense to put it in the sweet drink, the Shirley Temple. When Desmond did this for the first time, though, he had deeper thoughts running through his head. Gin was his first experience of alcohol when he had accidentally drunken it straight. The Shirley Temple was his first experience of a purposefully flavoured drink, and he had marvelled how such a pure, nonalcoholic beverage could be served in the same place as alcoholic cocktails were. It was with a farewell to the isolated life he knew — the Shirley Temple — and the embrace of the new world — the gin — that the Shirley Templar, half new world and half old, was born.
"Shirley Templar?" the customer echoed. "What's in it?"
Desmond finished putting away the bottles and faced the mafia customer properly with a smile, but no teeth. For some reason, pursuing freedom from the Farm only made Desmond think about his former home.
"The usual, I just add some gin."
When the mafioso paused, Desmond realised the young man had seen through the smile. Desmond watched as the mafioso slapped the countertop in a friendly manner.
"Right on. Four of those!"
That night, Desmond shared two glasses with someone who understood — even if it was only a little — the loneliness one could feel when surrounded by a city's worth of people.