A/N: ...and here's chapter 2! I've begun using a bit of (allegedly?) Scottish slang in the dialogue. It's all from those awful Irvine Welsh books I read. The accents will be getting a lot thicker in the third chapter, by the way... though I'm sure you'll be able to figure out what they're all saying.

Meanwhile…

Mere moments after the witches faded away, a tall lad of about sixteen entered the pub through the backdoor. With slightly overgrown red, curly hair and milk-white skin he looked quite Scottish indeed. The poor child also looked like an impoverished nerd due to his manner of dress. He wore an extremely square pair of glasses, a decades-old dress dress shirt, grey trousers that were clearly meant for someone a foot shorter, and a pair of oxfords the color of shit.

His name was Malcolm, and he was the only son of the most dangerous criminal in the city.

Like many teens, he found his father (John 'King' Duncan) rather embarrassing. He'd begun seeing one of the lesser dealers, Ewan Macbeth, as something of a replacement role model. Macbeth was only about twenty - young enough to be cool, old enough to be admirable. He was a bit of a ditz, though very brave. He also happened to be Duncan's most trusted underling. Due to his strange innocence, Macbeth was astoundingly loyal. He was the only person that knew who Duncan bought his drugs from. Even young Malcolm hadn't been told...

After entering the pub Malcolm made a beeline for the most crowded table. There sat his father and three dealers There were the ones Malcolm mentally referred to as Edward Macduff the Wise, Alfred Lennox the Elderly, and Jamie Ross the Chill. After Macbeth, they were Duncan's most trusted allies.

The four men were in the middle of a hushed, serious conversation when Malcolm approached to table. So he made a weird sort of coughing noise. This didn't work. Next he tried a noisy fake sneeze. Again, they didn't notice him.

"Hello!" he said, rather loudly.

Suddenly, the entire pub was silent. As a result poor Malcolm's white face turned a vibrant radish-red. At least he'd caught his father's attention. Between his white hair, his carefully clipped beard, and regal expression Duncan sure looked kingly...

The old man smiled vaguely at his son, then asked: "How did things go?"

"Fantastically. We won, Dad!" Malcolm replied, his voice filled with false cheer. Not that his father noticed.

"Good… good…"

"Macbeth did most of the work, ken. Him and his friend Banquo really made a mess of the enemy with their blades," the boy replied.

"And did they kill our enemy Macdonald?" Lennox asked.

At this, young Malcolm nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Macbeth cut his throat wi' a switchblade. Bled all over the grass an' all."

Now, old Lennox looked worried. "Do you think the police will notice? If there's blood all-"

"It'll be fine." Duncan chuckled, then turned towards his son. "Sit, my boy, sit… Lennox here will get you a drink, it's time for him to buy another round anyway."

Taking the hint, Lennox wandered off to buy more drinks. After hesitating for a moment Malcolm sat down beside his father. The chair was painfully hard and made of some sort of wood. He squirmed awkwardly in it, even more uncomfortable than unusual. How he despised pubs… between the awful furniture and all of those people...

"Macbeth fought bravely, you said?" Duncan muttered thoughtfully.

"Yes," replied Malcolm.

"Do you think he deserves a bit more territory?"

"What?"

The old man sighed wearily. "When I first came to power I divided this fine city into sections. Each of my best dealers - Macduff, Macdonald, Lennox, Ross, and Macbeth - were given a section to deal in, to rule, to protect from the pigs. Macbeth seems capable of handling a fight and commanding a small army. Not to mention how well he's always done, dealing my special Scottish heroin…"

Malcolm frowned slightly. "So you're giving him Macdonald's space?"

Duncan nodded solemnly. "I'm thinking about it. I'm also contemplating letting him inherit my little kingdom, if I'm to die anytime soon."

"Shouldn't I get your 'kingdom'?" Though Macbeth probably deserved it on some level, thought Malcolm, crowns were supposed to be passed from father to son. Also, giving someone like Macbeth real power didn't even make sense. He needed a leader of some kind to function. Why didn't Malcolm's father understand?

"You will, perhaps, if I live at least than 10 more years. I'm starting to fear that one of my men in plotting against me. If I die without naming a worthy heir there shall be chaos."

Before Malcolm could reply, Lennox returned. with drink. Two other dealers - Ross and Macduff - followed right behind him. Malcolm cowered anxiously.

"I found them waiting by the bar, sir," Lennox said with slight bow.

Ross grinned sloppily. "Hullo!"

"Have you heard the news?" Duncan asked, his pale blue eyes gleaming.

"Which news?" Macduff whispered, raising a sleek black eyebrow.

"The outcome of the fight."

"Yeah. We won, didn't we?" Ross said happily.

With great pride Duncan nodded. "Indeed we did. Macbeth brought us victory, the traitor Macdonald died, and none of our side got arrested."

"Will you reward him for his bravery?"

"Macbeth?" Duncan chuckled. "Well, I've decided to give him the territory once belonging to Macdonald."

Macduff bowed his head. "Both a blessing and a curse, poor man."

"Let us dddrrrrrrink to him!" slurred Ross.

Together, they all cried: "To Macbeth!"

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