Bad Cop, Worse Cop

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbwFurV0lr4

Bad Cop, Worse Cop

Part I

The city of Discord collectively held its breath the week Kei went on vacation. For those who had been around the first time Bacchae ran the city, the memory of the utter chaos that would ensue without Kei’s somewhat tempering presence was incredibly potent.

Bacchae and Jack, on the other hand, were ecstatic to be left alone without adult supervision, and were greatly looking forward to dropping some dumb shit right into the laps of a largely suspecting city. Unfortunately for them, their brief reign of terror would not come to fruition. Because something else came up that distracted them first.

Kei should hypothetically be gone for about a week Discord time, assuming that Tommy managed to not fuck it up, that is. So Bacchae and Jack spent the first night bar-hopping and coming up with plans. Evil plans. Some just wouldn’t be feasible; Labyrinth Open House was dropped pretty quickly. But they hadn’t ruled out the city-wide paintball fight yet. They were planning on mulling it over and deciding in the morning.

Except that it was that very next morning that Bacchae received a phone call. He kept his phone in the kitchen, mounted to the wall, and very few people actually knew what his number was. So if someone was calling, it was probably important.

Bacchae stumbled up the last couple of stairs from where he and Jack had passed out in the living room a few hours before with a couple of chicks. His hair was more in his face than out of it, and he tried to blow chunks of it away as he sagged into the wall, putting the receiver to his ear. That’s when he remembered that he actually had to speak into the other end to get a result.

“Yello?” he said simply, and without hesitation someone started babbling directly into his ear drum. If he was honest, Bacchae barely registered anything being said to him. He was busy staring at one particular spot on the far wall. Was that spicy mayo or chimichurri sauce? He couldn’t for the life of him tell.

“Damn thieves,” the voice sighed. He caught that part. “It’s a real mystery how they got away with it…”

Hmm, that registered. A couple of stray braincells ping-ponged around in Bacchae’s largely empty skull. Mystery… mystery…

“Jack! I know what the plan is!”

The aforementioned jerked awake as Bacchae half-stumbled, half-fell down the stairs. Most of his lower face was covered in something red that Bacchae hoped was wine. Hoped, didn’t believe.

It took him a good few seconds to ponder what Bacchae had even said. “Oh, did you decide on the gin swimming pool, after all?”

“Nope! Entirely new plan, came up with it… exclusively by myself.”

“Well spit it out, mate.”

“Okay… Have you ever heard of the movie ‘Hot Fuzz’?”

~ o ~

Jack had not, in fact, heard of “Hot Fuzz,” and was frankly a little confused about where Bacchae had. But once he explained the situation, Jack knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Alright, I’m not gonna lie. I did not listen to most of what he said, so when we get there, we’re just gonna act like we know what he’s talking about.”

“Right. So exactly what we usually do, then.”

“You got it, good buddy. But from what I did catch, it sounds like Rudy—er, sorry, ‘Mr. Debonair,’” Bacchae put that name in massive air-quotes, “had a pretty rough break-in last night.”

“Why’re we getting involved, then? Shite like that happens all the bloody time.”

“Cuz I owe him a favor still from back in the day. And he’s a big shot in the Merchants’ Guild now, remember? They’re the guys that supply the booze, so it’s probably good not to piss them off.”

“I think you just want to play detective.”

“Okay, yeah, maybe a little. Kei stole all my thunder with the whole Akuma-cho thing. So maybe I want a turn, goddammit.”

“Suits me just fine, mate. I hope the thieves run.”

Bacchae elected not to think too hard about what was rolling around in Jack’s screwy little brain just then. They’d arrived at their destination, anyway.

Debonair’s actual distillery was further down the hill still, but he’d bought himself a nice little office just on the outskirts of the Soul Market, to handle both his own and guild business. The Merchants’ Guild didn’t have one distinct president, instead opting to make decisions largely democratically. But someone had to handle the Guild’s capital, and as that man, Debonair had more pull than he would ever admit out loud. If something had been stolen from his office, it was probably a pretty serious affair.

As soon as he saw them, Debonair hurriedly let them in through the surprisingly humble facade. There were any number of reasons the Tea Party could be meeting with him of course, but rumors spread quickly, and timing could easily be noted.

“Oh, it’s just dreadful, Bacchae, old chum. I appreciate you taking care of it.” Debonair was all aflutter as soon as he closed the door behind them. The buttons on his vest were done up wrong, and his mustache drooped from the lack of wax.

It was also incredibly easy to tell that his office had been gone through. The tasteful velvet curtains had been torn, papers were strewn about everywhere, a very nice standing ashtray had been knocked over, covering the whole thing in dust and the scent of tobacco.

“Jeez Louise, this place looks like a goddamn war zone.” Bacchae ran a hand through his hair. He’d thought this was going to be an in and out sort of affair, look around the crime scene, nod a few times, then lay out exactly who the culprit was, but this… well, this really was going to turn into a buddy cop movie. It was going to be… a little more work than he’d anticipated.

Jack sniffed the air. “And did he find what he was lookin’ for?”

Debonair nodded gravely, and gestured them to a small back room.

This was the space where he actually got work done. Several filing cabinets lined the walls, surrounding a much less ostentatious desk than the one out front. At first glance, this room seemed largely untouched, until they looked into the corner and saw the safe. Its heavy door was wide open, and the inside was quite empty.

“Yup,” Bacchae sighed. “I’ll say he did. What’d you have in there, Rudy?”

He was so flustered that he didn’t even comment on the use of his old nickname. “All of the guild’s bones,” he muttered. “Guild dues, fundraisers, hush money. All of it here, all of it gone. Plus, I’d been keeping many of our contracts in here.”

“And those were taken too…” Bacchae frowned, trying to rub his recently sobered brain cells together.

“They could have spent half the bones by now,” Debonair moaned.

“I doubt it was for the bones,” Bacchae shook his head. “If it were me, and I was just after the money, I’d just grab it and haul ass. Why bother with the contracts. Probably the whole thing was snatched to cover up the actual target.”

“Aye,” Jack had been pretty quiet most of this time. But while Bacchae and Debonair had been talking, he’d started sniffing around. “Do you keep the safe code in the front room?”

Debonair blinked. “Why yes, I do.”

“Front room’s a mess,” Jack answered his questioning stare, “but this one’s untouched, safe is undamaged too. So clearly, he found what he was looking for, came right back to the safe, popped her open, and bob’s your uncle.”

“Odds are, we’re not just looking for any old penny pincher,” Bacchae nodded sagely, as if this all hadn’t been news to him. “Hey, Rudy. Know anyone who’d want you on your ass?”

The daemon scoffed, sending his mustache fluttering. “I know fewer people who wouldn’t.”

“Ain’t that how it be when it do,” Bacchae shook his head in commiseration, but as he did so, something caught his eye. Down on the wood floor, half-concealed under a filing cabinet, was something small and rectangular. He reached down for it, yanked it out, then stared at him. “Hey, you recognize this?” he asked, showing Debonair what it was: a business card.

He squinted for a moment in concentration, before his eyes widened. “Why yes, I do, but it can’t be mine. I haven’t needed one in years.”

On the card, in rather pink text, was a number and address for some place called “The Bottom Dollar.”

“Ain’t this that crazy lounge that’s over in that old warehouse?”

As usual, Jack was amazed at Bacchae’s near encyclopedic knowledge of every joint in town.

Debonair nodded. “That’s the one. We’ve had steady business for years. I’ve committed the number to memory. I haven’t had one of their cards since I bought this office.”

“So it can’t be yours,” Bacchae seemed to have an idea.

Jack picked up on it immediately. “And I don’t suppose you ever let anyone back here.”

“Never.”

“So that means the only person who could have dropped this has to be our thief,” Bacchae beamed. “Well, Jack, looks like we’ve got ourselves a little lead.”

The aforementioned sighed. “This is gonna involve a lot of talking, isn’t it?”

~ o ~

After a quick pit stop for some donuts and coffee—couldn’t play cop without the necessary accouterments—Bacchae and Jack mosied on down to the lower end of the Distillery District, the part that actually still contained facilities for the purposes of its namesake. None of them were their destination, of course.

Instead, they found themselves under a long, red awning, above which, in glowy pink letters was written the name of the lounge. If they were honest, the outside looked a bit dingy, but it was a certified Discord Classic, on all the “Must Visit Night-Spots” lists. This was for one primary reason: its stage acts.

Despite the place not being open they still strolled on in, and the first thing their eyes were drawn to was the sizable stage in the back, complete with big red curtains, and all those little light bulbs screwed into the front. The Bottom Dollar was the place if you were an up-and-coming performer, and many would—and had—killed for a spot on the bill.

It was also a pretty wild place. A couple of cleaners wandered around the oddly empty room, scooping up beer cans and cigarettes from the night before. One poor woman was attempting in vain to scrape something sticky off of one of the tables.

For a startlingly long time, no one clocked their presence. Then someone finally looked up from where he was sweeping and did a double-take when Bacchae waved at him.

“Hi!” he said, in that overly-friendly way of his that somehow wrapped back around into being menacing. “We’re looking for your boss.”

The man ran off, only to return just a second later. Behind him trailed a woman whose presence was much larger than her size. She strutted over to them, stilettos clicking against the concrete, feather boa flowing behind her. If he had to guess, Bacchae would place her somewhere in her mid-thirties, but appearances meant nothing in Discord.

“I’m Dallas Sinclair, the owner of this establishment,” her lips pursed slightly as she spoke. “And I don’t suppose you’re here to plan a party.”

“You know, I really wish we were. I’ve heard some crazy things about this joint. I don’t know how those heels haven’t made more holes in the tables,” Bacchae grinned at her. Alas, his usual charm wasn’t quite working on her. She only gave him a small, pert smile in exchange.

“Someone very important got his shit stolen,” unlike Bacchae, Jack had no time for games, “and your card was found at the scene of the crime.”

Finally understanding their angle, she almost seemed more at ease. Bacchae had been trying to prevent that, but it was too late now. “Why the hell would I have my own business card on me if I was going to rob someone? In fact, said business is doing wonders for my wallet, so why would I want to steal from anyone?”

“There’s a lot of reasons to want something that don’t belong to you…” Jack’s insinuation was rather pointed.

But Bacchae swooped in. “We’re more concerned about the folks you’ve given that card to recently, pinky promise.” He grinned. “We just wanna ask you a few questions.”

Sinclair sniffed, seemed unimpressed. But she turned and gestured for them to follow her.

“You know,” Bacchae muttered to Jack, his eyes aglow, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Could’ve just said it any old time you wanted, mate.”

“Aw, but it’d be lacking the context and—ah, never mind, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Prolly not.”

Bacchae liked Jack; he would consider him one of his closest confidants. But the man had no sense for the dramatic.

Sinclair’s office was more like a parlor. Sure, she had a desk in the corner, but a series of old, worn-in chairs arranged around a coffee table took up a majority of the somewhat kitsch, floral wallpapered room. It was here that she led the interlopers, and gestured for them to sit. “Tea? Snacks?” she asked. Jack accepted the tea—glory to the great British enterprise and all that—but Bacchae as a rule didn’t fuck with caffeine. It was the one substance that he couldn’t stand. Made him too twitchy.

“So, you wanna tell me some specifics?” she asked.

Bacchae didn’t want to, but something in her expression told him she wouldn’t be giving him bupkis without the deets. Avoiding Debonair’s name, at the very least, he did what he could, trying to throw in big important words like “alibi” and “motive,” and only used the former wrong once.

Sinclair, though a little skeptical, listened quietly. And when he finished, nodded slightly. “So you really think that whoever did this nabbed one of my cards recently?”

“That’s the prevailing theory, at least,” Bacchae nodded, then cleared his throat. “We’re gonna need to see a list of all your recent exchanges.”

“I’m not gonna waste time doing that. I’ve only given out my business card three times in the last month. I’m pretty well established, as you can see.”

Bacchae looked nearly disappointed, and Jack patted his arm. “You was hoping she’d ask for a warrant, eh?”

“Just a little.”

“Do you wanna hear em, or not?” Sinclair seemed to be growing tired of this bullshit. After receiving cowed nods, she continued. “First was Amelia Harkness. She’s an alcohol importer, bit of a hardass, but she does good business. Then there was Marcus Pierson…”

“Wait, I know him,” Bacchae interrupted. “He’s that agent guy, right?”

“Yeah, little slimeball was trying to break a contract we had. And then last week I met with Ekaterina, you know, the violinist? Pretty big get for our little establishment.”

It seemed like Jack wanted to finish his tea, but they didn’t have time for that. Because now they had suspects, and having suspects was exciting.

They bid a hasty farewell to Ms. Sinclair and trekked back out onto the street. It was probably around noon now, but the day was just getting started for most Discordians. Bacchae wasn’t actually used to being out this early. It was almost eerie how… quiet it was, and how bright. Discord didn’t really have a sun, but still, the clouds kind of brightened during the daytime, and it was weird.

“So we’ve got three whole suspects, eh?” Jack stretched. “This is going to be a long fucking day.”

“Five.”

“Pardon?”

“We’ve got five suspects.”

“You’re not still fucked up from last night, are ya? Cuz it sounds like you’ve just hallucinated two whole blokes.”

“Think about it this way:” Bacchae turned and started walking backwards, “all we know is that a card for the Bottom Dollar was left at the scene. That leaves the three people who received one this month…”

“Right, like she said.”

“But if doesn’t just mean them. There’s plenty of other possibilities.”

“Like?”

“Like, for instance, if Dallas left her own card there. She probably always has a couple on her.”

“Ahh, so you’re saying she left her own card, because that would be too obvious of a move for her.”

“5D chess, if you will.”

“Okay, what about the fifth?”

For the first time, Bacchae looked almost a little… well, Jack didn’t quite know how to describe it. Muted? “Well, Rudy could be lying. He said he doesn’t have her card anymore, but he easily could’ve placed it there himself.”

“So you’re saying he stole his own shit?”

“Not his own shit, remember? The Guild’s.”

Jack nodded slowly. “A rather extreme form of embezzlement.”

“That’s why I don’t think it was him. I know that bastard, and if there’s one thing he hates, it’s making a scene.” Bacchae only looked like he was trying to convince himself a little. “There’s so many safer ways to steal from the guild, especially since he handles all their money himself.”

“But you can’t discount the possibility.”

“Exactly. Eh, we can’t really make a call until we’ve talked to everyone else, right?”

“Cor, mate. This whole thing’s making me head hurt something terrible. When do we get to the part where I get to stab someone?”

Bacchae blew out a puff of air. “Hopefully sooner rather than later. But hey, it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I mean, just imagine getting to tell Kei that we sleuthed our way through a crime entirely without her.”

Jack thought about that for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You’re right about that. Look on her face will be priceless.”

Part II

“I am a very busy woman, you know.” Ekaterina was not very pleased to talk to them. They met up with her at the new recording studio on Sixth Avenue. Marcus Pierson had been renting out the space when he wasn’t using it, and Ekaterina was one of his more frequent clients. Computers were a bit of a rarity in Discord, especially ones new enough to run the sort of software she needed to back her electric violin.

The only reason they were even here interrupting her was that you couldn’t say no to the Lord of Discord. There were stories of the things he would do to you. And yet, she still had the gall to look notably ticked at his presence. Although Germans constantly looked ticked to him so maybe that was it.

Bacchae had already explained the situation, which wasn’t helping her mood. “So you think I would take the time to steal from a man I’ve never met? What would I even do with Guild contracts?”

“I agree it’s a bit of a stretch,” Jack opined.

“Trust me, of all three of our principle suspects, you’re the least involved,” Bacchae mollified her.

Her eyebrow twitched. “Then why are you wasting my time?”

“Well, I was thinking to myself…” Bacchae leaned an arm on the desk between them, and the violinist nearly scowled. “If it were you, what would your motive be?”

“Like I said, I don’t know anyone from the Merchant’s Guild.”

Bacchae shook his head. “No, but you certainly know Dallas Sinclair.”

Ekaterina finally glanced up from the screen. “You said her card was found at the scene, yes?”

“Right on the money,” Bacchae nodded. “Gotta say, you’re a pretty big name for the Bottom Dollar. Sinclair herself even commented on it. And she’s tying you down for a whole three months, huh? It’d be great if something happened to her. Then you’d easily get out of your contract, right?”

“If you are insinuating I would implicate her in a crime simply to get out of a less than generous contract…”

“I am. Doing that. Yeah.”

This response was quite obviously not what she was expecting. “Well, don’t.”

“Sorry, too late.” Bacchae stood, spinning on his heel to face the door. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some additional sleuthing to do.”

“Better hope we don’t dig up anything… incriminating.” Jack skulked close behind him.

“You won’t!” she called, but Bacchae slammed the door and pretended not to hear her.

They got about ten feet down the hallway before Jack scratched his head and said: “So you don’t really think she did it.”

“Oh, not at all,” he scoffed. “I just wanted to wipe that condescending look off her face. It makes no sense to use a plan that convoluted just to get out of a contract.”

Jack chuckled. “Well, your way was a lot more… clean than mine would have been.”

“Down, Rover,” Bacchae smirked. “We’ll get to that part.”

“We better, and quick-like. I’ve got a terrible bloody hangover.”

“Not me! I don’t get those!” Despite himself, Bacchae’s eye twitched.

They were so absorbed in their riffing that they didn’t even notice someone nearly bumping straight into them.

“Yo! I know I’m all the way up here, but you should probably watch where you’re—oh shit!” Bacchae paused his usual ramblings as he saw just who it was he was verbally vomiting at.

The slightly non-descript man in a nice suit and sunglasses was none other than the owner of the studio himself.

“Marcus Pierson! Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Oh, hey boss,” Pierson nodded slightly. Definitely a smooth operator. People often struggled with just how they should refer to Bacchae. “Lord” was way too formal but just calling him “Bacchae” was way too presumptive for most. Pierson had found just the right word for the moment to show respect without too much deference.

Bacchae immediately disliked the man.

“You lookin’ to hire a band or something?” he asked.

“Not today, actually. Got a couple of questions for you.”

He looked surprisingly unperturbed. “Sure, why don’t we just step into my office.”

Bacchae was getting really sick of offices. And this one made him dislike Pierson more. It was, again, just the right balance of professional but not unapproachable. None of the records he produced were up on the wall or anything like that, but several of the newer ones were laying nonchalantly by the record player. The player itself was small but the speakers were very large.

His desk was lightweight, tucked into the other side. The whole affair had just the right amount of bric-a-brac scattered around too, signed pictures and such. It was all so… specifically calculated. There was no spontaneity to it. Manufactured chill. It sent shivers down Bacchae’s spine.

Pierson gestured they sit, and they did, and once again explained the situation. Bacchae was pretty sick of it, if he was honest. This cop stuff involved a lot of repeating yourself, it turned out.

“So that means I’m a suspect.” Pierson nodded.

“Well yes, and no,” Bacchae admitted. “Of all the candidates, you have the least motivation. But there was something I was curious about. Sinclair mentioned that you met because you were trying to break a contract.”

For the first time Pierson’s face twitched a little. Why? Jack must have noticed too, for he leaned forward slightly.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “Is that important?”

“Was it Ekaterina’s?” Bacchae probed.

He was suddenly looking a bit pale, “Uh, no, actually. It was, uh, Doesn’t Matter.”

“Wait, you saying that it doesn’t matter?” Jack asked, “or are you talkin’ bout the band?”

“The band.”

“’S bloody confusing.”

“But why would they wanna break their contract?” Bacchae scratched at his chin. “Bottom Dollar’s a really good gig for them, right?”

“Well, we’re uh, trying to set up a tour…” More and more, Pierson was looking like a cornered animal.

“Wha?” Jack tilted his head. “Around the city?”

“Not exactly…”

Bacchae didn’t like this. “Not exactly?”

“Well, we’ve received an offer, you see. From, uh… Mr. Holliday.”

The temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees. Even Jack looked a little unnerved as he glanced over at Bacchae. For a solid minute, Bacchae didn’t do anything, just sat there, stock straight, his face frozen in an unreadable expression.

Finally, he breathed in, and Pierson visibly cringed.

“I see,” was all Bacchae said, very slowly and deliberately. “Well, that clears that up. We have no further questions.”

He stood up, turned around, and walked out the door. Jack followed cautiously behind. Bacchae didn’t so much as cough until they were out of the building and back out onto Sixth Avenue.

“Well,” Jack lowered his head a little as he spoke. “At least that’s someone we can most likely cross off the list.”

“Yeah, he’s probably got nothing to do with all this,” Bacchae sighed. “But I’m going to keep a very close eye on that one. Traitors don’t get leniency.”

“Bloke looked about ready to piss himself when he said it, though,” Jack chuckled, desperately trying to lighten the mood.

“That bastard just doesn’t give up, does he?” Bacchae was speaking more to himself now than Jack. “Just can’t take ‘fuck off’ for an answer! Mark my words, Jack,” that cold fury was rapidly warming back to normal Bacchae temperature, “next time I see that cane-twirling cocksucker, I’m gonna… ooo I’m gonna…”

Jack waited in anticipation of violent declaration.

“I’m gonna eat his goddamn top hat.”

And found himself sorely disappointed.

~ o ~

“Man, you know, it’s times like this that I wish Discord had actual roads. Like, can you imagine cruising down the hill and making nasty deductions in a sick-ass ride?”

Bacchae and Jack had caught a trolley car down to the bottom of the city, and the former had only been handed three phone numbers along the way.

“Well, mate,” Jack patted him on the back, a bit sarcastically. “Should’ve thought to give it some then, eh?”

His face scrunching in displeasure, Bacchae hunched, a little embarrassed. “I thought it would be really complicated,” he admitted. “And also, I wasn’t thinking at the time, like: ‘Gee, someday I might wanna go on a buddy-cop adventure with my serial killer sidekick, better add roads!’”

“I honestly thought that would be, like, the first thing you’d think of.”

“I was kind of a little frickin’ busy trying to get the damn thing to even stick together!”

Inane bullshit aside, the two wandered a while amongst the largely unlabeled warehouses and alchemy labs before they found what they were looking for: a nearly identical brick building with a dinky skull and crossbones flag waving out the front.

Importation was a huge business in Discord—it was a little had to grow or make much of anything on their own here—and every good importer needed somewhere to stash their shit. This was the warehouse owned and operated by Amelia Harkness’ outfit. It was very close to the docks on the edge of the city, nearly right next to them, in fact. The far side even had an entrance big enough to accommodate a large vessel of some kind.

And that, it turned out, was exactly what it was for. Upon entering the concrete interior, the first thing that caught their eyes was a huge airship, one that looked nearly piratical, with a wooden hull and large cloth sails. These probably once assisted the more mechanical and floatational devices in catching the wind. There was no wind in the Other, so it had clearly been modified, and the sails were largely aesthetic at this point.

But it was very telling of its captain’s origins. There were only a handful of realities that built ships like that.

They didn’t get much further than admiring that ship in its little dry dock though, because just then Bacchae heard the distinct sound of an old pistol’s safety disengaging right next to his ear.

“Lord or not, trespassers get shot.”

Putting his hands above his head—and making sure Jack did the same—Bacchae turned towards the noise. Glancing past the barrel an inch away from his eye, he saw a very pretty lady attached to it.

“Hey that was a funky little rhyme there. Come up with it yourself?”

“You could say she was a poet and didn’t even—”

Before Jack could finish that statement, several more safeties released around them. Several men and woman had emerged from the gloom of the warehouse to back up who they could only assume must be Amelia Harkness.

“What do you be wantin’ here?” she asked. “Don’t care who ye are. No one steps foot on my property without my say.”

“Would you cool your jets?” Bacchae sighed. “We just wanna ask you a few questions.”

After explaining the situation yet again, the flintlocks were finally lowered.

“Alright, you want to talk,” she said, thrusting the flintlock back in its holster, “so talk.”

“What, not gonna take me to your office or anything?”

“Don’t got one.”

“Oh, thank god,” Bacchae relaxed immediately.

“Don’t get too comfy there, mate,” Jack intoned, and Bacchae cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said, back to business, “so you’re an importer, right? What’s your wares?”

Harkness shrugged. “Booze mostly. Get it from everywhere. Sake and soju from Akuma, whiskey from Ravden. Recently picked up a tequila from the West so strong it’ll have ya speaking Spanish.”

“That is impressive,” Bacchae whistled. “And also means one very important thing: you’re in direct competition with our victim.”

“Competition?” she narrowed her eyes. “Is it Debonair what got his safe robbed?”

“’S right,” Jack chimed in before Bacchae could stop him.

“So you think I robbed him so that I’d no longer be competing with him for business?”

“Well, that’s why you were meeting with Sinclair, right? To get your products at her bar. But it didn’t go so well, right? Because loyalty runs surprisingly thick here in Discord. And Rudy’s got a quality product to back it up.”

Harkness’ hand didn’t go for the gun this time. Instead it snaked over to the rapier on her other hip. “This is starting to sound a lot like an accusation.”

“Maybe it is.”

The two had been getting closer to each other this whole time, but just when Harkness entered biting distance…

“Well, I’ll be. Those are some very stellar deductions from a drunkard like yourself. I must say I am impressed.”

Bacchae’s body temperature immediately rose. He knew that fucking voice. It filled him with such an intense sense of loathing that it could only belong to one particular son of a gun.

“Oh, it’s that bloke,” Jack blurted out, before Bacchae could recover enough to speak. He turned towards the metal staircase that led up to a few second floor rooms, where someone had just emerged. “Wot’s his name. Fucking Mayday or something.”

“It’s ‘Holliday,’” The man with the cane’s shit-eating smirk dropped just a smidge. “You had best remember it.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Bacchae nearly growled, “he’s just an annoying fucking pest that just won’t die no matter how much you smack it with the newspaper. I shoulda known you were involved.”

“And what gave you that confidence?”

“Well, I mean, what else can you do to fuck with me at this point?” Quickly, Bacchae tried to regain his composure as Holliday descended the stairs. “Bourbon Street’s banned, you failed to get a casino on my turf. So the only thing you can do is turn my own people against me, cause a little internal chaos.”

Raising an eyebrow, Holliday laughed. “And just what is it that you think I did?”

“You hired her,” Bacchae gestured to Harkness, who had backed off since her boss had entered the room, “to steal a bunch of shit from the Merchant’s Guild vault, to do whatever shenaniganry you wanted, maybe just cause confusion, I don’t fucking know. And then you left a little bread crumb trail so we would find you and you could gloat about it. That sound about right?”

Holliday laughed, and the sound boomed in the hollow space. “Correct on all accounts,” he dramatically tipped his top hat. “On everything, that is, except one.”

“And, uh, what’s that?” Bacchae asked after Holliday didn’t elaborate.

But it wasn’t him who gave the response. “I didn’t steal from no vault,” Harkness scowled. “Like I’d do a petty job like that.”

The smile on Holliday’s face made Bacchae want to tear it off. Despite everything, despite having uncovered this conspiracy nearly singlehandedly, Holliday had still managed to pull one over on him. Even if he could figure out who he’d put up to the task right here and now, the fact remained that he had been wrong, and they both knew it.

But it was better than the alternative of having to be told. Shit, shit, shit. He needed a name, and he needed one now. Bacchae wracked his brain, sluggishly sifting through everything he knew.

And something pinged. This hadn’t been the first time he’d heard Holliday’s name today. Where had it been, and why had it…?

Bacchae’s frown deepened, which only caused Holliday’s opposing expression to be more infuriating. “It was Pierson, wasn’t it?”

“Cor, the slimeball producer?” Jack looked a little confused.

“Yeah, it was him. Because… because you’ve got him under contract, don’t you? You predictable daemon fuck. That’s why he was desperate to get out of Sinclair’s. Sure, their deal may have been legally binding, but yours was bound at the fucking soul level. It’s the perfect play, because I’d never guess. Pierson cares about his reputation too much to commit petty theft, but you left him no choice.”

After pausing for a second to make sure he was finished, Holliday clapped, long and slow. “Honestly, I am impressed. It took you two tries by you didn’t need any hints. Though if you don’t mind I’ll still chalk this up as a win for myself.”

Bacchae was just about to open his mouth, but Jack once again beat him to it. “Hold on there, mate. I’ve got a question.”

Turning to him for the first time, Holliday’s expression resembled one watching a dog perform a mildly amusing trick.

“How’s she involved?” He pointed over to Harkness. “Cuz she’s clearly working for you too, but if she didn’t do it, what gives?”

“Oh, you see, that’s simple,” Holliday turned. “She’s a trap.”

He glided through the door and out of sight just as several members of Harkness’ crew slid into place to cover him. And very shortly after that, Bacchae and Jack found themselves surrounded.

“Well, fuck fellas,” Bacchae chuckled, “don’t suppose we can talk this out?”

“Sure,” Harkness growled, “right after we beat the shite out of you.”

Unfortunately for her, Jack’s smile was both wider and more unhinged than it really needed to be. “You really think you’re gonna get that far?”

Harkness looked supremely confused, glancing around at the rather large number of foes surrounding the two. “Yes?”

Jack’s head swiveled over to Bacchae, practically chomping at the bit. Bacchae sighed. It was good to let him off the leash every once in a while. It did marvels for morale. “Go nuts,” he said.

And before any one of them could move, Jack’s knife was out and buried in the throat of the nearest goon.

Almost instantly, the room erupted into chaos. Bacchae distinctly heard the sound of Jack’s wild laughter and howls over the rest of the cacophony. The sob with the open throat had collapsed to the floor, gaping like a landed fish. Bacchae fumbled around for a second until he found his gun, and snatched it. It looked like a flintlock pistol, but it actually had rather modern internals, and a full clip to boot. Convenient, as Bacchae would have probably blown his own head off trying to fuck with gunpowder.

Of course, most of the goons were more focused on the immediate threat that was Jack. He was already covered in blood, and having the time of his life. In a panic, one of the crewmates tried to rush him, but Jack didn’t even bother with the knife, he simply stuck his fingers right into the man’s intestines and pulled.

“Oi, brother!” he called to Bacchae. “You know what’s the only thing better than a knife?”

Bacchae slid to the side to avoid a rogue pointy thing aimed at his head. “For you? No, I don’t.”

“A fucking bigger knife!”

With his one hand still in the poor bastard’s internals, Jack grabbed his cutlass with the other, and started waving it around wildly. It was clear the goons were rapidly growing skittish of him. Which meant that in just a second, they were going to start coming for Bacchae.

But not before Harkness herself noticed the dropping morale and cut through the crowd to face Jack. “Ahh,” he grinned, “I was hoping for this. Please tell me you can actually put up a bloody fight.”

“I was goin’ to ask you the same thing.”

“Brilliant. En garde.”

Their duel set, the lackeys turned their attention elsewhere. “Aw, fuck,” Bacchae mumbled. But who the hell was he to deny Jack his fun? He’d just simply have to put up with it.

Admittedly, he wasn’t the best shot in the world, and he only had one clip. Yet, if there was one thing Bacchae was, it was a slippery little shit. He weaved in and out of the fracas, avoiding bullets and sword swings left and right. Finally, someone ran straight towards him and Bacchae didn’t hesitate. He got him right between the eyes.

This unnerved the others palpably. Bacchae didn’t often shoot people, but it wasn’t due to any squeamishness on his part. It was mostly due to the fact that it didn’t gel well with his idiot fuckboy persona. What this meant was that on the rare occasion that he did splatter someone’s brains against the wall in cold blood, they remembered just who they were fucking dealing with.

It didn’t stop them for long though. Across the room, Jack and Harkness were engaged in a battle of epic proportions, and this seemed to egg on the men. Bacchae managed to take down another one or two, but again, he was not a very good shot. His clip was gone and there were a lot more dudes. “Aw, hell. Guess it’s time to use my trump card.”

The next time a man rushed him down with a sword, just a few seconds later, Bacchae raised his hand in the air, snapped his fingers…

And the man exploded into a spray of human viscera.

That ended the fight pretty quickly.

Jack disarmed Harkness just then and held her at sword point. She was pretty cut up, but otherwise unharmed. Jack’s eyes still had a wild, dangerous look about them, but Bacchae knew how to handle him.

“Go ‘head and pick one, good buddy,” he said. “As a warning.”

His face lit up, and Jack skulked away to stress-test the horrified crew.

“The rest of you, scram. As for you…” he turned to Harkness, his gun pointed directly at her face. “I want you out of my goddamn city. Take your traitor ass back to your master like the good little bitch you are.”

“A… and what if I refuse?” she stuttered.

He hated when people tried to act defiant. “Well, then you’ll end up like Sloppy Joe back there.”

Bacchae stared at her and grinned. People seemed to really not like it when he did that. After a few seconds of fighting the pressure, Harkness turned and ran to her airship, and the rest of her crew—save the one who currently had one of Jack’s knives digging into his shoulder—followed after her.

“Jeez, where’s Kei when you need her?” Bacchae sighed. “Now I have to clean up the rest of this mess myself. You coming?” he turned towards the door.

Jack shook his head, his eyes not leaving his soon-to-be-victim. “I think I’ll be here a bit longer. You want me to take care of that?” he asked, pointing to the sack of flesh that had once been a man splattered across the floor.

“Nah,” Bacchae waved him off. “It’ll only be like, another ten minutes before he remembers he’s not fucking meatloaf.”

~ o ~

Of course, Bacchae first went for Pierson, in order to recover the documents, which luckily had not been handed over to Holliday yet. There might have never been any intention to. He suffered a similar fate to Harkness, though with a lot more sniveling involved. Looked like Doesn’t Matter was going to have to get a new agent.

Debonair was thrilled that Bacchae not only took care of the problem, but also happened to have gotten rid of one of his more annoying rivals. So all worked out in the end on that front at least.

After that, Bacchae spent the next few days high and asleep. He simply wasn’t cut out for this thinking crap. But at least he’d have something to brag about to Kei when she got back.