The city of Boravica was best seen at night, washed clean by early season rains that wiped the pollution off the copper and the glass; it seemed to glitter in the light of the oil lanterns hung along its many layers, a sparkling wrapper to hide its sordid interior. The streets were quiet, late enough for the workers to have gone home but early enough that the drunks were still inside. Jeremiah relished the cool air against his face as he walked.
The Boiler Room was small but generally reputable. Nestled snugly below street level on one of the less affluent roads in the Kingsway district, it was far enough from any gang strongholds that it rarely saw violence. Its sign glowed with the newly discovered neon technology, green light glinting in puddles that dotted the sidewalk. The soft hum of jazz and the chatter of voices drifted from the entrance.
Jeremiah stood at the top of the steps leading to the Boiler Room's door, took a deep breath, and smiled. Tonight was going to be a good night. He could feel it.
“Evening,” called the bartender as Jeremiah hung up his hat and umbrella. “The usual?” The bartender was wildling, some kind of cat, though not very pronounced; there wasn't much of a tell besides the pointed ears and the whiskers that drooped almost to the collar of his crisply laundered shirt. He’d worked every night Jeremiah had come for the past three years, and probably every night that Jeremiah hadn’t. Jeremiah was moderately certain his name was Kaia, but far less confident that Kaia knew his name.
A glance at the corner table told him Bill was already there, so he gestured for two drinks and made his way over. On the stage, the saxophonist was doing a call and response with his piano accompanist, where the pianist would play a sequence and the saxophonist played it back, but altered somehow. Jeremiah didn’t know much about music, but it was enjoyable, and the musicians seemed to be having a good time.
“Nice night for it,” he said, sliding into his usual seat. Bill glanced at the stage, shrugged his shoulders and pretended to focus on his drink, but Jeremiah wasn’t buying it for a second. Nothing could take the stress out of Bill like music, no matter the type. The drink in hand certainly helped, as did the second en route from their feline friend.
“I guess,” said Bill, leaning back. The seat screamed in complaint, but the steel reinforcements- installed after Bill had broken chair number four- held firm. “Seems pretty similar to most nights these days.”
Jeremiah frowned. Bill had that pensive look on his face, that he got when he thought too long and too hard about things that should have been in the past. Were best kept in the past. Jeremiah could recognise it because he saw it in the mirror himself, when old ghosts started rising and creeping their way through his thoughts.
They were too young to be getting this old.
“Two lagers,” said the bartender, moving the foaming tankards from the tray to their table. “And, um- a gentleman was asking about you, Jeremiah.” Jeremiah’s eyebrows shot up.
“Asking about me? What for?”
“He wouldn’t say- well, he asked me not to say- but he told me to tell you that he’d make it worth your while.”
“That sounds like trouble,” groused Bill, draining the remainder of his whisky and passing the empty glass back to the bartender, who shrugged.
“Send him my way, I guess,” Jeremiah told him, casting around his mind for anything that had happened recently. Things had been quiet for more than a year now;. He’d laid low, he’d paid his dues, and he’d kept his nose clean. Why would someone be looking for him?
The bartender returned, trailed by a squat little man with a scrunched up, flattened nose like that of a bulldog. Closer inspection, however, suggested he wasn’t a wilding and was, in fact, just ugly. His clothes were much nicer than those of anyone else at the Boiler Room that night, save perhaps the musicians, and three large gold rings glinted from sausage fingers that threatened to swallow them. When the newcomer saw the table's occupants, he paused, tiny eyes widening as they darted between the pair.
Jeremiah had to force down a smile.
He was pretty noticeable, when out and about by himself. The scars from the fire were usually the first thing people noticed, though it would barely warrant a second glance in certain parts of town. While he wasn’t overly tall, he liked to think his time with the Silvers had given him a certain presence, an ease of standing that conferred a stature that genetics hadn’t. But what generally kept people’s attention, if they saw it, were his wings. Neatly folded in for day usage, they could flare out to a span of two metres, spray bullets and act as a lightweight, impromptu shield if need be. Made of glinting copper, lovingly oiled, and crafted of the finest tech, they were his final upgrade before he left the Silvers for good.
But Jeremiah knew he was nothing next to Bill.
William “Big Bad Bill” Bauble had a lot of things that people might notice first about him. Perhaps his size- at six foot nine and pushing 130kg, he easily dwarfed everyone else in the bar, and likely the whole block. Perhaps the mechanical rig strapped on over his left arm and shoulder- far older and less flashy than Jeremiah’s gear, but no less lovingly maintained- that let him hit harder than a train. Perhaps the horn that protruded from just above his eyebrows and continued on until halfway back his head- wilding, and unlike many other’s mutations, completely impossible to cover.
Personally, Jeremiah thought it was the surly attitude that rolled off him in waves. Bill was a good guy, deep down, but he didn’t like people, and he especially didn’t like those that tried to talk to him. Most people, wisely enough, didn’t try.
The squat man gulped in a breath and stepped up to the table.
“Good evening; may I enquire as to which one of you is Jeremiah Brahms?” His accent was clipped, and spoke of the wealthier levels of the city, closer to clean air and sunlight. Jeremiah bit back his disdain and raised a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Brahms. My name is Mr Wellington, and I have a… business proposition to make. A solicitation, if you will.” The man paused, seeming to reconsider his choice of words. Bill smirked and shifted, preparing to move.
“Want me to leave you to it, Jeremiah?” He asked. Jeremiah shook his head.
“No, no, you stay. I’m sure Mr Wellington won’t mind- do you, Mr Wellington?” Wellington glanced up at the hulking mass of rhino, and once again seemed to swallow a breath in.
“No, no, of course not. I hear you’re in the business of private investigating- is that true, Mr Brahms?”
Jeremiah opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. Perhaps. He’d been making some money on the side the past few months, helping people with odd jobs- finding lost vehicles, unearthing illicit affairs, employee theft, that type of thing.
“Yeah. Yes. Of a sort.” Wellington grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pulled out a file.
“I need your help with a missing persons investigation. I am currently the lead engineer on a large, rather confidential project at the Foundry. I assume you know the-“
“Yes, we know the Foundry,” cut in Bill, irritation staining his tone. Jeremiah raised a warning eyebrow to Bill and turned back to Wellington, who- though shrunk back into his chair- didn’t seem as cowed as he’d expected.
“Yes, well, two of my employees have disappeared recently, one with a folder which contains a great deal of… sensitive information. It can’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“So, you need me to find it and get it back to you,” said Jeremiah. He sensed where this was going. To his surprise, though, Wellington shook his head.
“No, I’ve gone to the Silvers about this already. All they care about is the folder- I’m worried about my employees.” He opened the folder to reveal two photos. The first was a man, probably in his mid to late fifties, with a shock of white hair exploding around his face and a pair of welding goggles strapped to his forehead. A wide grin showed several missing teeth. The second photo was a young woman, mid-twenties at the oldest, with the sunken eyes and slender neck of someone who often didn’t have enough to eat. She also wore welding goggles, strapped over two dark braids, and she stared out of the photo reproachfully. Underneath the photos were police reports and personal information.
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Wellington slid the folder over.
“They’re both good employees, and they’ve never done anything like this before. Viola hasn’t been seen for eight days now, Douglas for the past three. The Silvers can take care of the file, but if you find my employees I’ll reward you handsomely. Three hundred clips if you can figure out where they are. Four hundred if you can bring them back to me.”
Jeremiah glanced at Bill, who shrugged. He looked back down at the folder. The faces of the two engineers, so completely different, stared back at him. He scanned the missing persons reports: both had vanished without leaving any clue as to what might have happened.
“I understand that you’re a former Silver, so I’m hoping you’ll have some familiarity with this sort of thing,” Wellington continued.
A former Silver indeed. Jeremiah grimaced. Perhaps this could be a way to get some red off his ledger. Perhaps this way he could stop feeling so damn old. Most days he felt used up, drained and discarded to rot with the rest of the city.
“I’ll do it,” he found himself saying. Bill looked surprised; Wellington, delighted.
“That’s fantastic news,” said the small man, pumping his hand in an enthusiastic handshake. “All my contact information is in that folder, so you can send word as soon as you know anything. I expect to hear from you in the next… oh, will three days be enough? Yes? Three days then.” Climbing to his feet, he bobbed his head at Jeremiah and Bill, and scurried out. Jeremiah flicked through the pages of the police reports, frowning.
“Hey, um, Bill… you wouldn’t have happened to have heard of a bar called Cantankerous, have you?”
Bill frowned, taking a long swig from his tankard.
“Cantankerous is basically a clubhouse for the Mattheses,” he growled, threatening aura offset only slightly by the foam clinging to his moustache. “If they were going there, then those two were in over their heads.”
“Just the one,” Jeremiah murmured, glancing back at the photo of Viola Crest. “She was apparently a regular. Last anyone saw of her, she was clocking off work and heading out for a drink.”
“Either the Matthases got her there, or the Props got her while she was walking over. Fog District is no place for a lady at night.” Their eyes met. Bill glared, and shifted to face away, as Jeremiah quickly raised his hands. “You know I don’t do that anymore.”
“I’m not asking you to, Bill. I’m not trying to pull you back in. But any information you have could be good. It’s still early enough, I could go and check it out tonight.” At this, Bill swivelled back, the steel brackets screaming as he swung his massive weight around.
“Oh, hell no, Jeremiah, I am not letting you walk straight into that lion’s den, asking questions they don’t want asked and maybe getting yourself killed!”
“It won’t be like that,” said Jeremiah, glancing around and dropping his voice. “Besides, Bill, I’m not exactly inexperienced in these matters-“
“I know-“
“-and I’m not exactly unarmed-“ he indicated the pair of pistols he wore strapped around his waist.
“-but you don’t exactly have a team anymore,” Bill finished, and Jeremiah drooped. “Or backup. Or any sort of official accreditation.” For the last two words Bill adopted a Hightown accent, clipping out each syllable separately.
“Yeah, I know. But I can figure something out. I could definitely use the money, and even if not...“ He looked at the photo of the two engineers, then sighed. “This feels important. I know I’m not a Silver anymore, but I’ve still got the Silver instincts, and I’m telling you, something’s not right about this.”
“All the more reason for you to stay out of it,” growled Bill, draining the last of his beer. He glared into the empty tankard, then slammed it back down hard enough that Jeremiah was sure there would be an indent in there. It was a good thing Bill bought a lot to drink, because he was a very expensive customer to maintain. “Aw, hell. Mirabeth’s going to kill me if she gets wind of this- I’ll come. But I’m not looking for any trouble, understood?”
“Understood,” said Jeremiah, smiling gratefully. “And I’m not looking for any trouble either- just some information for our new friend Wellington. I’ll buy us another round, and then we can head over. Sound good?” Bill nodded, and Jeremiah brought their empty glasses to the bar; he hadn’t even noticed Bill had drunk both beers, and he wasn’t sure if Bill had noticed either. When the old rhino got annoyed- which was often- he tended to knock back anything in sight.
“How did your… meeting go?” asked the bartender, polishing a whisky glass with a rag that looked like it needed a polish itself. He made no move to pour another round. A small smirk curled the whiskers of one side of his face upwards. Jeremiah shrugged.
“It went well enough. Asked me to look into some business for him, a sort of private investigator gig; I don’t know if I’m the guy for the job, but I’ll give it a go.”
“Yes, he was talking my ear off about it before you arrived. I wanted to give you a chance to sit down before I sent him your way. For a man working on such a secretive project, he doesn’t have the best sense of discretion... I’d work with the assumption that he’ll tell everyone he meets that he’s hired you."
Jeremiah’s stomach flipped and he sighed. That was exactly what he didn’t need. Still, he gave the bartender a grateful smile, feeling guilty at his earlier assumption that the man didn’t know who he was. He was about to ask about another round when the bartender beckoned him closer.
“See the little guy at the end there?” His voice was hushed. Jeremiah glanced over.
“The saxophonist?”
“Yeah, well, playing jazz saxophone doesn’t earn him a whole lot of money, especially not around these parts. He does jobs on the side- has a very specific set of skills. They say he can get in anywhere and find out anything. If you’re worried about the places you might find yourself, he could be good to know. But he’s an odd one.”
“Odd how?” The bartender simply shrugged, one whisker drooping into the glass that he continued to polish. “Well, I guess we’re all a bit odd around here. Want to introduce me?”
“Sure thing- will that be three beers then?” Jeremiah nodded, and the barkeeper filled the glasses. “Hey, Gliridae!” The musician looked up and over. “My friend Jeremiah here would like to buy you a drink.”
“Mighty kind a yeh,” said Gliridae, sliding off the stool he was perched on and making his way over. Jeremiah hadn’t realised just how small the man was- barely scraping four foot in his performance shoes, with a narrow frame and thin, dextrous fingers. He hopped onto the stool beside Jeremiah in a single, fluid motion, and Jeremiah could already imagine how this man would be helpful to have in certain situations. His accent was somewhere between Lowtown and Midtown- perhaps he was training the Lowtown out of it? - and up close Jeremiah could see that there was wilding in him. More than he'd realised at first glance, as the small man hid it well. Now though, he could see the elongated front teeth, thick mutton chops hiding a fuzzy layer of fur, and some odd looking ears tucked in under a snazzy purple hat. The hat matched his coat, matched his trousers, matched his shoes, the whole ensemble offset by an emerald green vest and a darker purple tie.
An odd little man with a very specific set of skills. Jeremiah wondered what his story was, but figured there was plenty of time to find out.
“That was some great playing earlier,” said Jeremiah, raising his tankard. Gliridae raised his in return and they both drank deeply. “You’ve got a real talent.” The musician smiled, and yeah, that definitely wasn’t human dentition.
“Yeh know what they say, do what yeh love and yeh’ll never work a day in yehr life.”
“I hear it’s not the only talent you’ve got,” Jeremiah continued. Gliridae paused, glanced at the bartender, then set down his tankard as he turned back to Jeremiah. Suddenly his face was serious- all business. He raised an eyebrow, and motioned for Jeremiah to continue. “I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of two individuals. Engineers. Employees of the Foundry.”
“Missing persons sounds like Silver work to me,” said Gliridae.
“Well, the Silvers aren’t working, at least not as fast as the head engineer would like. He’s offered a… more than adequate reward for their discovery. Help us out and we’ll give you a share.”
“How much are we talking?”
“A hundred clips a piece for solving it, more if we bring them back.” Gliridae let out a low whistle: it was good money. “He just gave us the job tonight, so we’re heading out as soon as the drinks are done.”
“Who’s ‘us’? I only see one of you. You got a friend?”
“That would be me,” rumbled a voice from behind Jeremiah. Bill's enormous hand reached past and grabbed one of the tankards. “Figured since you were taking your damn time, I would come and join you over here.” He knocked back the beer in one go, two enormous swallows draining the glass, before placing it back on the counter. “Who’s the little guy?”
Jeremiah could have sworn he saw Gliridae’s fur physically bristle, and the musician reached over and attempted to drain his tankard too. He got perhaps halfway though before he re-emerged, gasping for air, foam coating most of his facial hair. Bill raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Jeremiah fought back the urge to sigh. So he had a complex, great. Hopefully asking him along wasn’t going to be a total disaster.
“Gliridae Welch, part time jazz saxophonist and part time master of espionage. At yeh service.” He tipped his violet hat and let out a small hiccup. Something about his manner- the friendly, easy, open way of talking to people- reminded Jeremiah of Doc Claude. His heart went sideways slightly, but he ignored the sensation. It had been two years. More than. He couldn’t be getting emotional every single time…
“Jeremiah, I trust your judgement usually, but are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Bill, his voice low. Gliridae pretended to turn his attention back to his drink, but Jeremiah could see the ears twitching against the brim of his hat.
“Yeah,” said Jeremiah, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. “Yeah, this is a great idea. What could go wrong?”