[ ooc: Anyone hungry for interaction, come forth! This is my test post for Jazz. Otherwise if not, he'll go to Penny's in the next post.
]
[glow=blue][
The Land;
'Steamed & Hammered' Tavern ➤
The Streets ][/glow]
"You do know it's early?"
"Yes, Mrs. Carter. I am very aware."
"Nobody drinks whiskey at this hour."
"Well I do, so apparently I'm that nobody. Can I get the second glass poured for me or what?"
The matron of the tavern, Mrs. Carter frowned in disapproval, but poured a new glass for the young man who sat at the bar, filling the round whiskey glass with amber colored liquid that had a strong smoky aroma. She muttered something about it being a third and not the second, but the hunched body that was nursing glass did not seem to pay her opinions any heed. Jazz was the only customer in the tavern at this hour, and he looked quite like crap. His eyes were ringed darker than normal, indicating that he had skipped sleep the night prior, and there was a bruise on his left cheekbone. His clothes were tattered, but that was not really anything unusual for an Undergrounder. Except if you knew the young man in question, who seemed to be always just a tad bit more better dressed than the other Rats; his clothes had less holes, were not covered not so badly in soot and he did not smell even half as hideous as the others from the sewers. Whenever questioned, Jazz pointed out that a prostitute's son learns a trick or two about keeping up hygiene even in the poorest of conditions. If it were not for the slightly dazed expression that was quite default for an addict and overall rough personality typical for an Undergrounder, and maybe not for the blue mohawk and the piercings, one could have almost thought he could pass for an Upper with just a poor income. But only almost. The ones who knew what to look for knew instantly that he was a Rat. A bit different kind of Rat, but still just a Rat. There was just something about Jacquez Roux in the way he carried himself, like he was proud despite being an Undergrounder that made being in his presence far more tolerable than the rest of the Rats. And in fact, many of the Uppers actually liked him. Like the Matron of the
Steamed & Hammered, Betty Carter, for example, who let the said rat frequent her tavern whenever he decided to show his face above ground.
He smacked few coins on the desk and muttered absentmindedly as he scanned the newspaper with half interest;
"Just... leave the bottle, will you? That way you can tend to the breakfast instead of me. I might be a Rat, but at least I know how to pour my own whiskey."
"Yes, I'm sure that is but just one of your many talents." Mrs. Carter deadpanned dryly as she put the half full bottle on the table and scooped the money into her pocket.
"Ouch, that's harsh, Betty. I love you too, you know." Jazz grinned over the newspaper and leaned his chin on the palm of his hand. Do not get them wrong, Jazz and Mrs. Carter, or "Betty", went couple of years back and their relationship was actually quite good. Mrs. Carter was past her fifties, a heavy smoker and it could be heard from her raspy voice, and overall behaved like she was a bit stale with life. Kind of like the beer she sometimes sold. Her sense of humor was dry and sarcastic, and she always seemed just a tad bit livelier when Jazz came around, and they bantered in a playful manner that tended to appear less friendly for the other customers.
"Yes, yes. Like you love everyone else in this tavern every time you visit. Save it for the next naïve girl that walks in from that door." Mrs. Carter said as he dropped the coins into the cash register and walked back to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast for the early risers like Jazz who had been lodging in again overnight. However, before Mrs. Carter disappeared into the kitchen, she stopped;
"Oh, and sweety? Do something about that face of yours, you're about as black and blue as your hair. You're scaring all my customers away," and added before stepping inside the kitchen.
"What customers? You don't even have any..." Jazz muttered as he looked around in the tavern that was empty at this hour. No upstanding citizen came to drink at such an early hour, but as it was, Jazz was not exactly an upstanding citizen. Not when he was an Undergrounder, a prostitutes bastard, and a drug user with who knows what kind of past behind him. And even less if anyone knew what he had been doing last night and how he had gotten the bruises. It would be probably in the newspapers in few days though. He could already imagine it;
"The Infamous Black Jackal Strikes Again!" He really liked the sound of that. It had a nice ring to it. But what could he say? Some people were just asking to be robbed when they flaunted their wealth up in the Sky like they did. Jazz just generously answered to these requests and cleared their pockets, safes and valuables. And sometimes, even their gold teeth.
With a sigh, Jazz gulped down the rest of the glass, settled the newspaper back on the desk and simply took the rest of the bottle with him upstairs, sipping it on his way to his room. He ought to change clothes and go to Penny's to get something for his aching body. It was not just the cheek that was bruised. He had taken few hard punches in the stomach last night, as the gig last night had not exactly gone according to the plan. There had been this one stubborn mothefucker that just had refused to go down. Twice is his size, built like a bear with an aggression of a bull and fearless like a goddamn lemming. Jazz was quite sure that the guy had been on something, because it was as if he had not even felt some of the stabs and cuts of his knives, and in the end he had looked honestly surprised when he toppled down and died. It had been a close call for Jazz, but it was not the first one. This job did come with high risks after all, but the profit was worth it if you played your cards right. Now he knew that it seemed like the new trend was to hire some big addicts as guards and pump them with something nasty that dulled their senses. And common sense as well, it seemed. Whatever it was, Jazz decided he should probably steer clear of that stuff. Either way, thanks to the Bear-Bull-Lemming-Guy, he was now aching all over and if one looked close enough, he was walking around a little with more care to avoid pain. Which was why he was quite eager to drink whiskey to dull it.
Once in the room, Jazz saw something that had not been there last night once he opened the door. Well, it was not exactly that he saw it, it was more like he stepped on it and heard the rustle of paper under his feet. Moving his feet, he came into realization that he was standing on a note. And since crouching down was painful as it was, he read it where he was standing.
"Free the bird...? The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Jazz muttered and kicked the mysterious note away from the door so nobody could see it before closing the door behind him. Once actually inside and the door sealed, he bothered to lean down to pick the damned thing up, but not without a pained groan. Studying the piece of paper, he recognized the style. He had gotten one of these before in the past. It was from the one and only person who had figured out his double identity in the whole city; the Game Master. Whoever he or she was, they were scarily sharp. But it had been awhile now, and no inquisition had come to gather him up yet, so Jazz had figured that giving him to the authorities had not been what the Game Master would profit from. They wanted something of him, but Jazz was not quite sure what it was... But whatever it is, it sounded like another game. And Jazz did love a good gamble.
"Fine then, let's free some birds, I guess. But what birds?" He mumbled to himself as he walked around the room, unbuttoning his shirt to change it to a fresh one,
"Parrots? Seagulls? Eagles? Do I need to break into a zoo for this?" He frowned and considered it, deciding against the idea with the shake of his head as he threw the new shirt on himself with careful slow movements,
"Or maybe some... pigeons." He stopped as one article from the newspaper earlier came into mind. The Pigeon was in the jail. And then the weird poem. What if...?
Surely this was no coincidence.
Hurriedly, he finished changing his clothes, shaving whatever pathetic morning stubble he had growing (he could not grow a beard to save his life) and washing his face. Jazz left most of his stuff in the room, locking the door behind him. He had paid for the lodging for couple of days, and Mrs. Carter knew that he did not like it that the room was being disturbed at all when he was staying over, so she did not come in to clean. And Mrs. Carter knew that by now Jazz took good care of the room he was always staying, so she did not need to bother, and she knew not to ask any unnecessary questions. They had a good thing going on here. Which was why the bag with the black jackal mask under the bed was safe and sound while he was gone.
Like a hoodlum that he was, Jazz exited the tavern with the quite legally bought whiskey bottle, strutting down the streets like he owned them and taking swigs of the whiskey. He had a nice little hum in his veins and at least he was not hurting as much anymore that he could not walk his back straight. Sure, he was still sore as hell, but at least he did not have to walk around like he would have aged fifty years overnight. But soon he would have something else to dull his pain. Whenever he got beaten up, Jazz would always head to Penelope's Apothecary for something to treat himself with. The girl working the shop was young, but knew well what she was doing. That, and her prices were reasonable. So that would be his first stop for today. Get himself patched up and then figure out how to bust little girls out of jail. Which was ironical, because this far Jazz had always done his best to
avoid prisons at all costs, but now it seemed like he had to figure out how to get
into one. Golden City was yet to see a thief eager to get in jail, but if this was truly hinting to what he thought the clues were hinting at, they were soon about to.
