Perched on the craggy shores of the Gate's Blacksand Beach, the Dockside Bar offered a scenic view of the bustling port and the Gray Sea. The ocean was a temperamental beast; the waves beat against the docks as the wind lashed against the Dockside's wooden walls, rattling the establishment in its entirety. The bar rocked gently on narrow, barnacle-encrusted stilts meant to protect the building from harsh weather with only a narrow set of stairs to mark its entrance.
Spade ascended the stairs, wondering if this was how he would meet his death as the ancient wood creaked and bowed under every step. The waters were choppy, a sign of the storm’s arrival. The Dockside swayed like a ship, cresting over invisible waves as the wind spiked. Spade could tell from the boisterous laughter inside that the sailors had decided it better to take shelter and drink away their worries than work.
It was shitty timing. He needed a job and the sailors were too busy drinking their asses off. Spade cursed Aroth under his breath, blaming the deity of chaos for his undoubted intervention. Sometimes he had to wonder if the rumors of Aroth's curse were real. His mind went straight to his own crimson eyes, a constant reminder of his unrelenting bad luck. Nothing ever went right, Aroth be damned.
The Dockside was packed. Spade wedged the front door open, forcing a few sailors to move out of the way so he could sneak inside. They were all bigger men–a few women–with thick muscles and the stench of raw fish and ale clinging to their clothes. They did not pay Spade any mind.
He made his way to the bar where an old TV sat on a shelf in the corner, permanently tuned in to a grainy sports channel. Although it was color, the images were so blocky and of such poor quality that the washed-out hues appeared black and white. A few sailors watched the game, but most were preoccupied with each other, swapping stories and discussing the storm raging outside. Spade listened and tried to find an opening into their conversations.
"--not sure when I'll see another like it," a man said from a nearby table. He slammed his drink down onto the table and scratched his scraggly beard. "Anyway, you know how that kid is. Doesn't think a damn thing through, and now look at him. Lost at sea."
Spade jumped at the chance. "Are you looking to replace him?"
"May Evonry watch his dumb ass," another member at the table said. It was as if Spade hadn't even spoken. "Even Breck isn't going out there. You know what it takes to keep his ass off the boat?"
"I could go," Spade interjected. "You need a worker? I'm your guy."
This earned their attention, at least; several men at the table rolled their eyes and scoffed.
"No one's going anywhere." The scraggly-bearded man shook his head. "Not the smart ones, anyway."
"Didn't you hear, kid? Ports are shut down until the storm passes," another sailor spoke up. "Heard it capsized three vessels so far."
"It's more than that," one scoffed. "They wouldn't close down the ports for three damned boats."
"What about the fishing boats?" Spade pushed. He had never fished a day in his life, but it couldn't be harder than harvesting guts. He wasn't interested in working on the traveling vessels; leaving Petrone meant leaving Knight, and he didn't trust his brother to survive very long without him. "You guys gotta be making money somewhere."
"Yeah, on bets." This earned a laugh from others at the table. Spade scowled and gripped the edge of his barstool. He couldn't afford to give up yet.
"I need a job. If you've got something–"
"What part of shut down don't you understand?" The man scratched his beard again, collecting dandruff on his stained collar. "No boats, no jobs. Damn, I don't even know when I'll be back on the docks."
"Remember all the clean-up they had to do after that hurricane a few years back?" another sailor asked. "It took months before the docks were repaired."
Spade left before the man was finished speaking. They weren't going to give him a job anytime soon, so he had to find someone that would.
Unfortunately, everyone in the Dockside seemed to share the same sentiment as the first table he'd visited. The ship captains brushed him off and the fishermen and sailors openly mocked him, doubting his ability to survive on a regular vessel, let alone during a hurricane.
After a fruitless hour of searching, Spade plopped down on an empty chair in defeat. He couldn't go back to the guts trade–Dral had made his message clear–and he had no intention of working in the love district. The docks were farther from Dral's territory, making it the ideal place for a job.
Something scraped against the table beside him. A half-empty glass of rum sat in front of him, pushed across the surface by a striking girl with blonde hair.
"You look like you need it more than I do," she said. She smiled without mirth, her face half-showed by the dim, flickering lights on the tables. Spade didn't recognize her, but that wasn't surprising–the docks tended to be neutral ground so all sorts of people from different territories of the Gate passed through without fanfare.
Spade eyed the amber liquid in the glass. He knew nothing came for free. "What'll it cost me?"
She laughed. "Nothing. It's a pity drink–I finished most of it, anyway."
"I don't need your pity."
"Sure, but you need something after striking out like that." She glanced back at the tables of sailors with a shrug. Had she been watching him? "Looks like the storm screwed up all kinds of business. Pity. I was hoping for some peace and quiet." Her visible blue eye flickered to the glass. "I didn't poison it, if that's what you're worried about."
Fighting against his pride, Spade sipped from the glass. The alcohol burned his mouth, but he fought against making a face. He wasn't accustomed to liquor since it had been reserved for Dral and his closest men. He never made it into Dral’s inner circle.
"You got a name?" she asked.
"Spade."
"Ashe."
Someone loudly cleared their throat at the front of the bar, quieting the room. Spade grimaced as a pair of Blackhearts stepped inside, their presence ruining the jovial atmosphere. The mood soured into suspicion. They looked comically out of place in their silver regalia and shiny black boots, their crisp white uniforms spotless amidst the filth of Hells Gate. The guards were undeterred by the glares shot in their direction as they intermingled between tables, showing off three bounties. Spade had seen these flyers slapped on every phone pole and alleyway across the Gate for years: Crow "the Blackfeather" Winchester, Charien "the Executioner", and Jason "Fast Trigger" Rath, conspirators against the crown.
"It's treasonous to withhold information," one of the guards said, his voice loud enough for others to hear. "These men are dangerous. If you know anything–"
"One of those 'dangerous men' ain't even alive anymore, dipshit," a sailor said, laughing alongside a few of his buddies. "Jason Rath's been dead for months."
Spade noticed Ashe's fists clench in her lap. The Blackheart flushed in anger, crumbling up the bounty and tossing it across the room.
"Rest assured, you all want us out of Hells Gate just as much as we'd like to leave," the guard said with a sneer. "But we will remain in the Gate until these conspirators are found."
"Why don't you look up your ass?" a man shouted from the back. The Blackheart's lips pressed into a thin line, but he ignored the crowd's continued heckling as he began his interrogations around the tables.
Ashe rolled her eyes and turned to Spade. "Pathetic. I've had a few run-ins with these guys over the years. It's not like they're going to get anything out of me."
"Yeah, you'd think they'd find something better to–" He glimpsed her mismatched eyes–one red, one blue–and choked on his rum. "You're cursed."
"Look who's talking." Ashe leaned forward and plucked the glass from him. She downed the last bit herself, dropping the empty glass back onto the table without a care. "At least I can hide it if I want. Sometimes I wear contacts."
"But you're not wearing any now," Spade pointed out. Ashe grinned.
"I didn't say I wanted to." She looked over his shoulder as the Blackhearts moved to interrogate a nearby table. "I'm bored of this place. Let's ditch."
Spade felt a small smile creep onto his face. There was something about this girl that felt familiar, like an old friend he'd pulled out of a foggy memory. It wasn't like how he felt with Coren, Spade’s oldest friend beside his brother. There was a sort of mutual understanding between them; a connection he couldn't put into words.
Spade could tell she knew suffering. She wore a low-cut dress with thin straps that revealed the fading remnants of bruises on her arms. The bruises looked like fingerprints, as if someone had grabbed her very hard and dug their nails into her flesh. Her eyes never fully focused on him, always darting to the exit, giving her a cagey appearance.
Ashe didn't wait for him to respond. She took his hand in hers and pulled him through the crowd. She was taller than him, so it was easy to keep up with her as she maneuvered their bodies behind thick, burly men and out of sight from the Blackhearts until they'd exited the bar.
The waves crashed against the shore as the overcast sky hung low, blacking out the sun. Spade could taste the storm in the air as wind whipped around him. Ashe pulled her hand away to tie her hair back.
"You're not just any whore, are you?" Spade asked. Ashe paused, caught off guard.
"I'm many things," she teased. "But sure, that's one of them. How did you guess?"
Spade pointed at the tattoo on her wrist: a black X that had slightly faded with time. It was an easy identifier for the No. X organization, given only after their members' first kill. They employed half the prostitutes and killers in the Gate. It was common knowledge that in No X, sex went hand-in-hand with death.
That didn't stop people from trying for it anyway.
"It doesn't bother me," Spade said, quickly noticing that her mood had dropped. "I don't mind–I like it."
Ashe rolled her eyes, but he noticed a hint of amusement on her face. "Yeah, what guy doesn't?"
The waves thrashed back and forth, their roar filling the silence. A few loiterers leaned against the wall nearby–the actual moniker behind Hells Gate, a great stone wall along the coast that led to a defunct lighthouse–and smoked their cigarettes as they waited for the storm. The air was thick with the scent of unshed rain and weighed down by humidity. Ashe stared at the ocean, but Spade stared at her, taking in the way her hair gathered at the nape of her neck. She made him feel something he’d never allowed himself to indulge before. His chest tightened. Dral had always teased that he was too dirty and poor for beautiful girls. Who would want a guts cutter? It was the most degrading job of any gang, far below the men who actually killed and left the guts for boys like him.
"I don't want to go home," she said after a long moment.
"Me neither."
Guilt tugged at him. Spade still didn't have a job, and if the Blackhearts were staying again tonight–Spade had no doubt they would be–then he and Knight would be sleeping on the streets again. Yet…
Ashe's lips moved, but Spade couldn't hear her over the sound of the ocean. When he didn't respond, she moved forward, grasping his shoulder so she could whisper into his ear, "Have fun with me?"
Spade froze. Warmth bloomed through his chest, an opportunity not to be wasted.
"Yeah." He nodded quickly in case the waves swallowed his voice. "Do whatever you want with me."
Ashe grinned and, taking his hand, led him away from the docks.
+++
It wasn't the kind of fun that Spade had in mind. He followed Ashe along a line of shops with chipped exteriors and cracked windows, silver tape lining the shattered glass in branching formations. She led him to a store in the center of town: King's Pawn Shop, with a crown over the K. The sign displaying the name of the shop in the window was mostly covered by tape, so a single sheet of paper with the store's name had been slapped over it.
Spade had no idea why they were there.
Ashe walked inside as if she'd been there a thousand times before. Spade reluctantly followed, his eyes taking time to adjust to the murky lighting. The only sources of illumination were a single lamp, marked "FOR SALE", and the darkening sky outside. Even in the store, Spade could hear the wind.
Long shadows fell across their path as they strolled the cramped aisles. There was barely enough room for the junk displayed across the floor, let alone for them to wander. Ashe pointed out a few items as she passed. Spade paused as a small, curious device caught his eye.
It was a portable television that fit in the palm of his hand. A wire ran through the back of the device to a nearby tape player. Spade turned the compact television over in his hands in admiration; he'd seen a few guys use these on their stoops around the Gate, but he'd never observed one up close.
Ashe leaned over his shoulder and asked in a low voice, "Do you want that?"
"My brother would like it," Spade said. "He can't go anywhere; he's in bed all the time. It'd be nice if he had something to watch while I'm gone all day."
She nodded and glanced around the store. The proprietor was bent over in the corner, rummaging through a bin as he sorted items into piles. He grumbled to himself, too preoccupied with his task to notice either of them.
Ashe plucked the compact television from Spade's hands and dropped it into her purse. "You'll still need something to play tapes. That one's too big to fit." She snapped her purse closed and swung it over her shoulder. "The only reason I carry one around."
Spade watched in awe as Ashe meandered around the store and slipped small items into her bag without the shopkeeper's notice. He had tried to shoplift a few times–food, mostly–but he had never been as good at it. The scars on his body proved that.
They paused in front of a glass case beside the register. Above a few rows of jewelry, a glittering crown was displayed inside.
"I love this," she said, refusing to look away from the sparkling jewels. "I always come here to look at it."
"But not to buy," the proprietor muttered.
Ashe ignored him. She clutched her purse to her chest and stared at the headpiece longingly.
Spade didn't see the appeal. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to imagine what was so special about an impractical hat. "What's the big deal?"
"I want it. I think it would look good on me." Ashe touched the glass, her focus reserved for the crown underneath. It was a gaudy gold, inlaid by gems that were doubtlessly fake. Looking at the rest of the jewelry Ashe wore–thick gold hoops, faux gem-ridden bangles–it would fit right in. Spade imagined the crown atop her head and smiled; she was right. She would look good wearing it.
The proprietor was still preoccupied with stocking the store. Ashe watched him out of the corner of her eye before tiptoeing behind the counter. From the odd way she walked, Spade guessed she was avoiding the creaky floorboards. Ashe pawed at the shelves, slipping her fingers from one cubby to another, seemingly searching for a key.
"Hey!" They froze as the proprietor hopped to his feet, his face red with anger as Ashe fled from behind the counter. He reached a hand to his belt where a barely concealed revolver was tucked away. "Get out! Get out!"
Ashe held up her hands at the sight of the gun. Spade detected something insincere about her wide-eyed expression, as if her fear was designed to elicit sympathy. "I'm so sorry. I don't have any money; my boyfriend won't let me work–"
"Lady, that's not my problem!" he hollered. "Get out of here and don't come back! You never buy a damn thing here anyway!"
She didn't put up a fight. Ashe grabbed Spade's wrist and dragged him to the store's exit, her bag swaying awkwardly with the stolen goods.
"Everything here is junk, anyway," Spade called over his shoulder, kicking the door's threshold as they left.
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