C/N: Body horror, gross vomit stuff
Today truly is a strange day.
So thought Cyril, shaking together vodka with apple liqueur and a dash of lime juice. It was nothing to be proud of, but Kyrie wasn’t exactly a bar in high demand. The fact that 80 percent of its sales were from regulars was all that needed to be said about it (though Kyrie’s owner accepted the state of affairs with a nod, pronouncing it perfectly fine). But today six customers already had graced this place with their presence.
And it was still early in the day yet…
Well, it was good to have more customers, but even then, what was he to think about this congregation of suspicious characters? And in a neat split of three regulars and three rare or new patrons on top of that? He could think the best of the situation, a good balance meaning stable profits and all, but an inexplicable sense of foreboding haunted him.
As he poured the finished appletini into a cocktail glass, Cyril’s eyes darted to the three customers seated before him and then to the two settled at separate tables at the far end of the room.
The first to arrive had been the one on the far left among the three at the counter. If memory served, it would have been around 5:30 p.m. Opening preparations began around 5 p.m., so it was no exaggeration to say he’d come in as soon as Kyrie was open for business.
This regular’s usual routine was to stop by an hour or two before closing to have a couple of drinks. How curious of him to come so early today. His near-daily patronage was to be appreciated, but Cyril was a bit put off by him.
He claimed to be working as a gemologist near Midtown, but as he’d never once mentioned any professional knowledge related to the field, this was difficult to take at face value. What he did know inside out was market information on who owned which jewels or how the new crop of relics they just dug up contained a piece of the famed Hope Diamond, which led Cyril to wonder if he might not be a gemologist but a thieving magpie after all.
If that was all there was to it, he wouldn’t have made it onto Cyril’s blacklist. What was one petty thief among the alcoholics, gamblers, and more that frequented Kyrie?
But on his very first day of visiting Kyrie, he’d successively: requested to be called “Lanee-meow” instead of “Lanee”; offered to grant special permission to touch the waist-length curly hair he took great pride in, if Cyril would agree to wash it in wine; and tried to cajole Cyril into feeling the young skin he’d just gotten grafted, boasting of its “velvety cute” softness. At his refusal, Lanee had gripped both Cyril’s hands in his, mumbling over and over “If only I could leave my body in these hands, I could die happy…”
Kyrie’s good-natured owner had suggested Lanee held a torch for him, but no, no, no, no, a thousand times no. Cyril couldn’t take such a rosy view of the situation—not when he knew Lanee was a regular customer of the Nevaeh Hospital that harvested human skin for sale. Cyril lived in fear that one day Lanee might creep in under the cover of night to cut both his hands off, leaving a ruby ring or some such as payment. Then he’d turn up at Kyrie after to show off his newly grafted hands, no doubt.
The next to arrive had been a woman, currently away on a bathroom break. Her time of arrival, 5:43 p.m. If asked how he could remember so precisely, he could answer that it was because he was checking the time again and again, exhausted by dealing with Lanee’s atypically early visit.
So desperate was he for a different customer to arrive that he couldn’t help beaming when she walked through the door, though he cocked his head in confusion upon seeing her face.
It always used to be past 9 p.m. that she visited Kyrie…
Curious indeed. The sun was still high in the sky, but the night owls were flying in.
This woman, always draped in a beige cardigan, was called Simo. Just as with the aforementioned Lanee, there was no way to know if it was her real name. All Cyril knew about Simo was that she got off work at 9 p.m. He wanted to ask how she came to stop by so early, but refrained out of the thought that the question might be a tactless one. They instead exchanged a few words about the weather of the day.
Simo ordered a Blue Hawaiian, and then left for the bathroom.
…To throw up.
This was the reason Cyril considered her difficult to handle despite her demureness: Simo was an unbelievable lightweight who nonetheless held an unbelievable love for liquor.
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
[Gross vomit stuff]
Each trip earned her a trip to the bathroom, which would be fine if she’d just hurl neatly into the toilet, but Simo was a filthy drunk who would play with her vomit—like a child making mud pies.
Jbwf ab atlcx bo la, rtf’v yffc lc atfgf obg delaf j ktlif. C mtlii gjc vbkc Jsgli’r rqlcf ja atf atbeuta bo ktja rtf wluta’nf yffc vblcu lc atf yjatgbbw jii bo atlr alwf. Lf mbeiv bcis tbqf rtf’v vbcf cbatlcu wbgf atjc atgbk eq bc atf oibbg jcv gbii jgbecv lc la ilxf atf ijra alwf…
[Gross vomit stuff]
Each trip earned her a trip to the bathroom, which would be fine if she’d just hurl neatly into the toilet, but Simo was a filthy drunk who would play with her vomit—like a child making mud pies.
Jbwf ab atlcx bo la, rtf’v yffc lc atfgf obg delaf j ktlif. C mtlii gjc vbkc Jsgli’r rqlcf ja atf atbeuta bo ktja rtf wluta’nf yffc vblcu lc atf yjatgbbw jii bo atlr alwf. Lf mbeiv bcis tbqf rtf’v vbcf cbatlcu wbgf atjc atgbk eq bc atf oibbg jcv gbii jgbecv lc la ilxf atf ijra alwf…
The next arrival was the middle-aged man sitting at the middle of the bar counter. Sara Edizio had been finding his way here often as of late, though he couldn’t quite yet be called a regular. It would be nice if he would stay the course until he settled into regular status, but all things considered, it did seem a tall order. He always showed up in a gray suit, and so the other customers had furtively taken to calling him “the Pigeon.”
Sara Edizio was a man of many secrets. For one, he made no mention of what he did for a living, not even in passing. Still, Cyril thought that his name must be real if nothing else. Having traveled a fair bit in his youth, he was uncommonly learned even for Downtown. His vivid tales of the things he’d seen and heard were an especial pleasure for Cyril, who had a hard time leaving the east.
In all honesty, Sara wasn’t all that difficult to handle in comparison to the others. He’d also only ever put Cyril in a tight spot once, when he’d broken down weeping as he opened up about his past.
The sight of a dignified-looking man of middle age sobbing like a five-year-old child would generally be pitiful rather than troublesome, but that was assuming it didn’t last past an hour or two. If that man were clinging to him and bawling until 8 a.m. the next morning, even a consummate professional at customer service like Cyril would be left wrung out.
That day, Cyril gave up on going home altogether and pushed the bar tables together to sleep on. He also made up his mind not to question Sara’s past ever again.
Sara’s time of visit, 6:10 p.m. Next was the last of the three regulars…
“Una!” Cyril shouted, having glanced her way just in time to catch her with that same red cigarette in her mouth. He’d told her time and again that this was a no smoking zone since the poor ventilation underground trapped in the smell, but she flat-out refused to listen.
Una lowered the cig from her lips, fluttering a hand at him in apology, but he could tell from the sly laughter on her face that she’d try her luck again the first chance she got. Vowing to toss her out on her ear at any cost when that time came, Cyril carried the two finished cocktails to Una’s table.
“Where’s Rune?” she asked, taking the appletini from him.
“I sent him on an errand.”
“Where to?”
“The hat I bought him last time was so big it kept slipping off his head. That, and he’s at an age where he loves to run about. I thought the hat might be uncomfortable for him, so I’m turning it into a tie collar. That’s why he was packed off to the tailor’s along with the hat.”
“Then he must be getting measured with his little face all stiff now. How cute.”
“He must, assuming the tailor isn’t using the tape measure to play with Rune,” Cyril replied, checking his wrist, where a watch fixed to a black leather strap was ticking along. Already four hours had passed since the tailor met Rune. Cyril recalled the small figure with the red bob and how the tailor, whose profession made keeping pets impossible, had lit up at the sight of Rune. Cords and tape measures just so happened to rank among Rune’s favorite toys.
“I’m jealous. Make me an appointment too, Cyril. I’ll come bearing premium jerky.”
“Let me ask Rune first,” he answered offhandedly, turning to the table next to Una’s. “Your Black Russian, sir.”
As he set down the black paper coaster and placed the glass atop it, the man smiled at Cyril. “Thank you.”
Taking in the gentle curving of his eyes, Cyril thought once again, How very curious. An Uptowner, coming all the way here?
Downtown could mean the downtown commercial district, but it was more often used to refer to the base of the laboring underclass, alluding to the lower working class that lived beneath the castle during the Middle Ages of old. Uptown was for the upper echelon of the city with its aristocratic wealth, Midtown for the middle class, and below that, the impoverished slums of Downtown.
There was no caste in Symphonion City, the City of Freedom. That meant anyone could set their sights on Uptown if only they had the money and power; in other words, it also meant any of Uptown could fall Downtown. The wealth gap was ruthless, and yet no wealth, no power was secure.
Cyril knew a few characters who were once successful residents of Uptown, only to go under in the blink of an eye and fall Downtown. All were so rotted in spirit they were useless for anything, wasting their days away with drugs—just like Una here.
Still, Una could be said to be making a relatively honest living compared to the rest, as she was employed at Agapia, a company that made its fortune off narcotics, and was working hard to turn everyone around her into Agapia customers. …If you could call that an honest living.
It wasn’t for nothing that Cyril reacted so sharply to Una’s cigarettes. Those weren’t just any cigarettes: those rose-scented smokes were addict-makers. Anyone who let down their guard to enjoy the sweet scent would grow addicted in an instant, coming to hallucinate roses blooming from their skin—just as Agapia’s slogans advertised. A death that blossomed solely in the brain.
But today’s Uptown visitor didn’t seem to have set foot Downtown due to financial ruin, as was Una’s case. When the man stepped through the door, Cyril sensed it would be no ordinary day.
Nor was Cyril the only one to feel this way. Everyone in the bar had watched tight-lipped as the man made his way down the stairs, his steps echoing in the silence, and took his seat.
He seemed to have no intention of hiding that he was Uptown, dressed as he was in clothes and shoes that even a passing glance would register as quite expensive.
The collar and cuffs of his knee-length toned-down burgundy overcoat were trimmed with black leather patterned in black, and the collar pin on his black shirt was adorned with a red jewel and attached with a black chain.
His vest, decorated with very many metal buttons, was so fitted about his waist that it laid bare even through his coat the beautiful lines of his body leading down from his back into his waist, his hips, and his thighs.
The black gloves he took off as he sat down were handmade as well, embellished with feathers and metal details. They were somewhat ostentatious for a man to be wearing, but his features were so fine that the gloves looked theatrically well matched rather than out of place.
He cut a figure that seemed to have been shaped with the utmost care by divine hands at every turn, from his glossy black hair and ash gray eyes reminiscent of the winter skies down to the even edges of his fingernails and his smooth toe caps.
If Cyril had run into him while walking about Uptown, he might’ve thought him some famous and fabulously wealthy model.
…But this was Downtown, and Downtown in Symphonion, the City of Freedom, at that.
When his gaze met the man’s, a sound of dismay escaped Cyril in spite of himself. Those ashen eyes filled with laughter were at once piercing and elegant, as if they would see right through him.
The man stopped by approximately half an hour after Una’s arrival. Being close to 7 p.m., it was already dark outside. Downtown was plenty dangerous during the day as well, but it couldn’t hold a candle to Downtown at night. A moneyed-looking stranger appearing on its streets would fall prey to criminals in an instant; there was no way the Uptowners here wouldn’t know this.
“This isn’t half bad. It’s the best I’ve had to date.”
So the man said after taking a sip of his Black Russian. His relaxed face wasn’t that of a man who’d stupidly taken a wrong turn.
Must be pretty sure of himself. Hoping that whatever his deal was, he’d clear off before any nuisance could arise, Cyril slipped into his customer service smile. “Thank you.”
His eyes then flicked briefly toward Una. It went without saying that Uptowners who plummeted Downtown came to hate the Uptown, detesting and resenting it as much as they loved and desired it.
Una shrugged under Cyril’s warning gaze. “Not much. We just talked about the weather. Isn’t that normal between strangers?”
But she’d only just now nonchalantly brought a rose cigarette to her lips next to the man. Had Cyril discovered her even a moment later, the scent of death would’ve escaped her mouth to pour over him.
“It’s true,” she insisted, looking to the man for backup. “I mentioned that it might rain today, and that he’d better get home early if he doesn’t want to be stranded at Kyrie till late. It’s obvious he lives far from here.” He looks like one of those precious Uptowners. She swallowed the last words, letting out a small laugh instead.
“Rain?”
Come to think of it, it seemed he’d thought something similar looking up at the sky before going to work today. Rain…
Alarmed, Cyril hurried back to the bar counter. He recalled no one visiting today had spoken of rain. No, there was one—Miss Simo, who’d seemed to be leading the most honest life of anyone here. Unable to ask what had happened to her work, he’d brought up the weather instead, and he could remember her saying:
“I heard it’ll rain tonight. They said it’s from outside, so don’t get caught in it. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but the rain will cut down on the customers, so it might be best for you to go home early too, Mr. Bartender…”
Cyril addressed the patrons sitting before the counter. “Did you know it would be raining today? I don’t know for how long, but if you mean to return early, I think it’d be best to get ready ahead of time. It might pose a problem for your plans tomorrow.”
Lanee, Sara, and Esther, who’d been the last of the six to drop in, widened their eyes. Appearing to be the only one to have heard something about that, Esther uttered an “aah” of recollection.
One exceedingly trifling point that set apart Uptown, Midtown, and Downtown: weather forecasts. Uptown had not only forecasts but the ability to modify the weather, and Midtown could prepare for it through the forecasts. Downtown, however, had nothing. All they could do was make predictions based on the skies and winds like ancient farmers or rely on tip-offs from those who’d eavesdropped on the forecasts.
Of course, Downtown did have facilities capable of forecasting; it was just that they monopolized the information, charging money for it. There was an old saying passed down only in Downtown: “If there’s money in it, sell it, whatever, however.” Uptown had something similar: “Buy whatever there’s money in.”
Rain might’ve been a natural phenomenon with many meanings before the Cataclysm, but to the people of the present, it was nothing more or less than calamity. Even with all their cogwheel mechanical constructions of mysterious powers, it was impossible to instantly purify the winds and storm clouds blowing in en masse.
…Especially the rain.
Human skin burned black under the rain, peeling and blistering into terrible wounds. Living Downtown, it wasn’t uncommon to hear of deaths caused by heart attacks brought about by the agony of major exposure. For this reason, when winds or rains laden with high concentrations of biohazardous matter rolled in from the outside, the city would send out warnings to stay indoors. …Though you’d have to go up to Midtown to catch a glimpse of them.
Lanee jumped out of his seat at the mention of rain. “I— I’d better get going. I’ll just go to the bathroom first.”
Lanee had once told Cyril of how he’d gotten caught in the rain carrying out some task for a client. That was his first time at the Nevaeh Hospital, he claimed, face bloodless with terror as he recounted at great length how horrible the pain was, and how hideous the reflection of his face and body in the hospital mirror.
After that, he’d come to fear water. Better to change clothes than bathe, he thought, and if changing clothes wasn’t enough, then he could change his skin. None of this was of any interest to Cyril, though he liked that Lanee would buy out his stock of cheap wine from time to time to wash his hair with.
Esther watched blankly as he disappeared into the bathroom, then turned to tap Sara on the shoulder. “How about we stay a little longer?”
Sara nodded without much thought. “I was already planning to stay till late today.”
“Ah, me too actually. I haven’t been by in a while, and it’d be a waste to go home after one drink,” Esther said, paging through the menu.
Cyril despaired at their casual attitudes toward the news of rain. There went his hopes of calling it an early night. Then again, with Rune at the tailor’s, there wasn’t any real reason to go home early.
“Anyway, where were we? West?” Sara asked Esther.
“Yes, West. Cyril, a Blue Hawaiian, if you please.” Esther grinned at the bartender as he placed his order. “Have you heard as well, Cyril?”
“What about?”
At his question, Esther smoothly raised an exceedingly characteristic topic. “About the urban legends surrounding the cogwork constructions of each city.”
Both A and Cyril have some “suspicious” regards of one another lol. Also, that acid rain sounds horrible! Cyril please go pick up Rune soon ( ´△｀)
Thank you for the chapter ❤️