TREEHOUSE ART

You'd complain, but you were one of the lucky ones. Business owners were a dime a dozen, shops closing left and right. Ones that could hold on would inevitably fall to ruin if they didn't change with the times. It was sad, but it was a dog eat dog world. And if you couldn't push aside your ignorance long enough to hire a woman, when every man with a pulse was fighting for the country, well, you had no business working anyway.

Personally, you were fine regardless of the dwindling economic market and shifting working class. The dollar bill could be as worthless as a penny tomorrow, and every soul within a mile, maybe more, would fill your pockets as much as they could to get a taste of liquor. Soldiers and their alcohol were like flies to honey, after all. Not that this success kept you from hiring. On the contrary, you were lucky enough to have a full staff.

That being said, this night was as busy as ever, if not more. It seemed the soldiers were in high spirits. More than usual. So, it was all hands on deck, pushing every employee onto the open floor to get those mugs of beer into hands before the pub became its own battlefield of disgruntled cadets. You, in the meantime, worked the bar, pouring and mixing till your wrists ached. Occasionally, a troop would yell for another round for the bar, much to your equal appreciation and exasperation. That's when a cacophony of cheers and hollers would ripple through the crowds, hands reaching for any drink you dished out on platters.

Mugs of beer, scotch, vodka, and any other 90% proof liquor were poured and passed till the scent burned your sinuses to ash. The celebration was well-deserved, but you couldn't say you weren't a little relieved when the soldiers and townsfolk trailed out. The crowds were noticeably thinner and thinner, till the last cadet was dragging his friend out the door by his uniform, drunk leading the drunk.

And finally, there was peace.

The celebration, luckily, didn't last till morning. One of the few times, and one you wouldn't take for granted. The waitresses were bussing the tables throughout the night, so there wasn't a flood of dishes. Only a few chairs were knocked over, too. What an uncharacteristically pleasant night, all things considered.

You took the little wins, neglecting to ruminate on the few broken glasses to focus on a more productive night. It was best to finish the night on a good note. That's how you kept morale up, even when the world was so… tangled up; so broken.

It took a little longer than you would've liked, but with enough teamwork with your employees, the main floor was clean. Well, clean enough. You weren't hosting the president or anything. So, you wiped your hands clean and sent your employees home. Though, they were hesitant, at first. With the numerous break-ins popping up throughout the neighborhood, it was expected that they weren't keen on leaving you alone.

“Come on. Lemme help ya clean up, hun,” Jenny offered, wrapping her overcoat a bit tighter, “I know you said you'd be fine, but if I found out you were waiting around all morning for some trouble to find you from a Newsie, I'll be heated.”

You chuckled, tossing a wrapped dish towel onto your shoulder, “Ya don't have to worry about me, Jen. You just get home,” you reassured her and the broad at her side, “Besides, can't get in trouble if you're takin’ it all with you.”

She brushed you off with a flustered scoff, fixing her cinnamon bun curls for no real reason, “Oh, ya charmer. Save that for the soldier boys,” you rolled your eyes at her salacious wink. To which she devolved into giggles, along with the waitress at her side.

As much as you appreciated the worry, you couldn't have any of them staying too late. Most of their pay was in tips. They'd be working for pennies if you let them stay to clean any more than they have. The bar wasn't their job, either, so you waved them off, waiting till the overhead bell rang and the door clicked into place to turn back to your newly empty pub.

“Hm, right…” You hummed to yourself, already regretting your goodwill. Though, not truly. Admittedly, the guilt would eat you alive before you'd let them stay a second longer.

With everyone gone, you were left in the quiet to finish collecting spare glasses from the bar counter. The side gate swung open as you pushed behind the counter, hip first, carrying a platter of dishes. The soft clattering of glass against wood shelves peppered throughout the silence, interrupted by the tap of your soles and the occasional creaky floor board. It was almost therapeutic. From a rowdy celebration to the calm of a late night pub, leaving you to enjoy the simplicity of organizing a few rinsed glasses. It was a lullaby to your senses. You'd bask in this, even zoning out to listen to the soft song of crickets outside your door.

“The night is peaceful. I, almost, think you enjoy it more than your fun little– what was it– ah, celebration. That's the word for it.”

You froze. The platter in your hand bent faintly as your grasp tightened instinctively. You hadn't realized till the voice popped up, but there was a presence behind you, sitting at the bar. A large, inappropriately calm presence. Had someone entered when you weren't paying attention? That's plausible, but you hadn't heard the bell. The possibility of this random person slipping into the pub had various reasons for how and why, but none made sense. Not that much did when your adrenaline shook up your mind.

“What…” you inhaled, reminding yourself to breathe, “Sorry, but we're closed. I'm sure you could find a few wasted soldiers down the street with a flask, though.”

It was quiet. The presence was still there, you could tell, but there was an empty void in response that left you uncertain. You debated repeating yourself. However, that didn't seem to be necessary.

“That's kind of you, but I prefer to find my guilty pleasure elsewhere,” the voice practically crept along your spine with hidden meaning. It was deep and held a depth that suggested a man with a throat paved with gravel, “Poisoning yourself for idle fun doesn't appeal to me, believe it or not. No, I need mental stimuli.”

The more he spoke the more you could grasp at the odd voice. Your brows pinched together. Something was off. The stranger's voice wasn't wrong– on the contrary, it was deceptively charming– but it didn't feel right. Like staring at yourself in a carnival mirror. A static enveloped each word, even the slight breath he took to emphasize his discontent. It was almost as if he spoke through a radio with the dial barely off center.

Your mind must've wandered for a bit longer than he would've liked, because a question broke through your concentration, “Did I strike a nerve? I can never tell just how much truth you all appreciate, till you… well, don't.”

“What're you talking about–” You cut your question short, loosening the grip on the platter you had been squeezing. This was useless. Why were you even entertaining this wandering soldier? Assuming this was one, at least– just showing up just a bit too late to the celebration. Actually way too late. The sun was sure to be up soon. Maybe in the next two hours if the clock lording over the liquor hutch was anything to go by. You grimaced at the reminder, realizing you had to get to bed soon or you’d be stuck walking through the day like a zombie till you opened the next night, “I don’t have time for this,” you muttered, towing along the rows of liquor.

Your platter clacked against the numerous others as you slid it into place with noticeable exasperation, “Listen, just keep it steppin’, bud. I gotta full house tomorrow night for a buncha soldiers and daylights comin’ to ruin my night soon, so if I were you, I’d–”

You turned to shoo him off.

Then, you didn’t.

Maybe you took a shot of something a bit too strong earlier, a mix of something that hit far too late. It was irrational. There was no way that could’ve been the case, but nothing else made what you saw any more reasonable. He– it– whatever sat at your bar was leaning forward on both elbows. Hands folded, shiny knuckles meeting matching fingers. The metallic frames imitating skin ran from both wrists to the folded fabric of his sleeves, which strained over inflexible limbs. You couldn't comprehend the rest of the looming figure. Not without shaking your reality, that is. Despite his improper posture, the size was unmistakable. He was larger than any soldier you’d seen. The button up shirt strained beneath an equally taut trench coat, fabric running smooth over broad shoulders.

You stared for longer than deemed polite. However, manners meant little when you were standing a few feet from something inhuman.

“You would… what?” numerous intricate plates worked in tandem, almost magical in execution, to form alloy lips. His expression was just as impressive. The subtlety of his condescension was terrifyingly human, even when the red glow of his eyes against black sclera proved otherwise.

“Huh?” You hummed dumbly as you stared with a loose jaw, mouth agape.

As if he had already explained something as obvious as the sky to you a hundred times, he let out a sigh. You didn’t know he could do that. Let alone how.

“You neglected to finish your sentence. I thought I’d let you finish,” he gestured with a light wave of his hand, encouraging, “If I were you, I’d…”

“I…” You echoed softly, words failing you. As had your mind. The possibility of this industrial marvel sitting in your pub felt far too miraculous for you to be of sound mind. Any grievances you held previously fell away from parted lips, even as he encouraged you with his expectant silence. One of those shiny metal hands raised to gesture as if to physically coax the words from you. Heaven have mercy, even the slight movements were far too smooth, too alive. You took a half step back. The stacked platters knocked into your hip, cutting your retreat short, “I… I’ve lost my mind.”

He chuckled softly, static brushing the edges, “No, not yet. This– I– am real, despite what you think,” the stool holding up the massive stranger complained as he shifted in his seat. He leaned most of his weight on one elbow. The bar was plenty empty besides the two of you, but he made room nonetheless, gesturing with his free hand to the stool directly to his side, “Why don't you grab a glass? Take a seat. You seem ready to topple over.”

It was a casual offer, but there was an undercurrent suggesting it was anything but. Despite the “kind” gesture, there was a distinct lack of choice in how he held your gaze. Still, stubborn as ever, you tried, “It’ll be… be morning, soon. I have to finish cleaning, and go… home…” you breathed, voice slowly dying against your wishes.

“Sit.”

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat, “Yeah, I could use a drink, actually…”

You weren't sure which bottle you picked up, simply took hold of whatever neck you could snatch up without turning your back to this looming threat at your counter for too long. The scotch glass you plucked up on your way almost tumbled from your fingers. Suddenly, your practiced grasp was shaky and uncoordinated. What poor timing for stage fright. Your ears burned as you felt those red eyes following every move you made, every trip up and curse, with passive interest. And maybe even amusement, if the soft click of his tongue was any indicator. You muttered reluctant apologies and curses till you could make it around the bar counter. “I don't even know what I grabbed, but…” Did that matter? Every inch you could see of this begrudging drinking partner was machinery, so any concept of ingestion felt silly to suggest, but you were far too lost to ponder this for long.

The stranger hummed thoughtfully. He, then, slipped the bottle from your fingers with little resistance as you idled next to the empty stool at his side. The obligation to sit and your own self preservation warred with you. Thus, leaving you standing there on your heels, watching as he turns the bottle over in his hands, “Primo Castello…” he rolled his tongue over the words– or maybe just it's voice. You couldn't tell which was possible, “So, you have a sweet tooth… or you can't stand the taste of your own liquor. Either would be comical.”

What an unnecessary insult. You'd be offended if you weren't eyeing the glass in your hands as you picked at the slight stain that hadn't rinsed off earlier. It was barely interesting, but better than staring at the walking crack in your reality. You hovered there till the soft knock of the bottle against the counter roused your attention with an embarrassing flinch. You hoped he would ignore this, but nothing was going your way tonight.

“Calm down... I'm not here to scare you–” he paused his reassurance, faltering before correcting himself, “Well, you should be frightened. It's, actually, smarter than running around, causing a… ruckus. Happens far too often– thank you for that, by the way, for not making this messier than it needs to be.”

The dissonance between his meanings and casual cadence in that soft spoken drawl was just all the more baffling. Every word would set you further and further on edge. Even his appreciation was null and void when you were barely containing the shake in your fingers. They trembled against your will, clutching the glass.

“I forgot…” he continued, his shadow reaching you first before his open hand. Those outstretched fingers came into the edge of your vision. Instinctively, you tensed. You almost flinched away, but he stilled momentarily, “Don't. Don't move,” he coaxed as if calming a restless animal. His hand lingered in the air, gauging your reaction before reaching for the glass between your fingers. “As I was saying… I forgot how fragile you, humans, could be. Your reactions are unpredictable…” He took his time, much to your surprise and chagrin. That large chilled hand cusped yours. “...but your body has none of the durability to tolerate the consequences.” He skimmed the back of your hand, tracing the curve of your knuckles till he found the cup. Goosebumps ran from his cool finger pads and up your forearms.

“At the very least, I can appreciate the… sensibility some of you have,” you both held the glass for a fraction longer than you would've liked.You were apprehensive at first, but quickly pried your hand open and relinquished the cup to the alloy stranger. He gave an approving hum, placing it next to the bottle on the counter.

Escaping did cross your mind as you entered the quiet, once more. Sure, you didn’t know what this stranger was capable of, but you didn’t know what he was incapable of either. For all you knew, you could sprint to the door before he could even pull that large frame from his seat. You glanced over your shoulder at the bar door. The same one you had ushered your employees out of only an hour, or so, ago. “Ah, ah–” he chided, shutting you down before you could convince yourself further. You, tentatively, returned your attention. He met your gaze through the side of his eye, pouring the contents of the bottle into your glass, “Please… don’t. I know this is all new to you, but you'll understand soon enough.”

Your jaw flexed, teeth clenched behind your lips. His sincerity only wedged that nauseating dread deeper between your ribs. A threat was bound to be terrifying from such a wall, but the honest reluctance behind it sent a chill down your spine that malice never could. Despite the intense desire to put as much distance between you as possible, you gave a brief nod.

“Good,” he set the bottle to the side before sliding your drink towards you. The contents waded with the momentum, filled a tad more than you'd typically serve. Not that you’d complain. Not only because you weren’t keen on disagreeing with this guy– thing–whatever this was, but because you’d drown in the bottle to get out of this night and forget it ever happened. The industrial stranger tapped the stool next to him, “I’m sure I don’t have to instruct you every step of the way. That’d make this a much longer night than I'd like, and I’m sure you’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

Every inch of you practically begged to run or fight, anything that wasn’t exactly what this thing wanted, but you could only rebel through your lack of enthusiasm. “That’s an understatement,” you sighed, already picking up the “kindly” offered drink before you had even fully saddled into your seat.

“Ah, so you can still speak. You were so chatty before, I thought I had broken your mind, already… I'm actually glad you haven't spiraled into existential panic just yet,” he smiled, those intricate plates making up his face at work again. It seemed your newly found voice pleased him for reasons you couldn't decipher. You hid your equal displeasure to his own reaction behind your cup, taking a sip of your drink, “As stated before, you, humans, have proven to be fragile. I was aware, but negotiating with panicked screaming has been inconvenient. I can’t even begin to imagine how mankind gets anywhere productive when you break under the slightest stress.”

What was with this guy and his monologues? It was bad enough he was as insulting as he was genuine, the dragging speeches on how weak you were only pushed his bone-chilling voice further beneath your skin. However, you held your tongue with liquor. Which was pretty easy since you needed it now more than ever.

Tilting your head back to accommodate every stinging gulp, you chugged down more than half of its contents before setting your cup down. There was a relieving warmth that spread through your chest, the first vestiges of comfort against the fear that clung like a vice. You couldn't help letting out a small sigh, wiping the last remnants of the Castello running down the corners of your lips with the back of your hand. Only when you turned back did you notice how the stranger watched, patient; entertained, even. He tilted his head against his propped up knuckles, “Better?”

He didn't deserve a response, but he didn’t need one, either. The lack of shaking fright in your limbs was more than enough. As childish as it was, his obvious satisfaction in your newfound ease did poke at you. You didn’t want to admit it. Nor did you have to, so you simply wrinkled your nose and faced forward in your seat. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how he stared and stared. Pure amusement radiated from his being, his shoulders shaking in a soft chuckle.

After a beat, you took another sip of your drink. The soft buzz of the Pub’s overhead lights washed over the dip in conversation. Soon you could pick out the distant babbling of drunk stragglers wandering the street, reminding you of the outside world and just how fortunate they were. Unlike you and this new shift in your reality. Whether he left to never be seen again, or not, you wouldn’t be blessed with such ignorance. Not like before.

You eyed the last of your drink before downing the rest. The buzz might hit soon. Far too late for your liking, but you hoped against hope for something, anything to dull your senses. You took a slow breath, reluctantly breaking the silence, “What–” he raised his brows, returning his attention to you instead of simply your actions, “Who are you?” You met his gaze with a mix of liquid courage and the scraps of your own. He smiled in return. It took a lot of will to not grimace too noticeably at this.

“Try again,” he suggested, offering a hand, “Use that sensibility that’s been so incredibly helpful so far,” You had to eye him, then your cup quizzically a few times. There was a moment of second guessing, but after weighing the option to yourself, you, tentatively, gave him the empty glass. To which the stranger dipped his head in a brief nod of approval.

So far, he seemed patient. As long as you were just as compliant, that is.

Watching as he poured a new glass, you drummed your fingers against the counter, reflecting. “Okay, right,” this impromptu quiz left you wading through ebbing fright and the brain fog of your first glass. He said to “try again”. Pretentious, but you’d play ball, till you could find a quick escape route, at least. Your gaze flickered over this walking industrial marvel as it poured your liquor, sitting beside you in your pub at 4 in the morning. This scene was unreal. Something you’d only find in a moving picture, and you two were, what? Chatting over a drink? You ran a hand over your hair, rubbing your neck, “Alright. What do you want?” You gestured for him to continue pouring ‘till the Castello kissed the rim of your cup, “I mean, I doubt ya just waltzed in here to pour your feelings over a night cap. So, what?”

He slid the filled glass in front of you, leaning on his elbow, “So, what,” he echoed as if he had to verbally taste your words to process how they tickled him. With a slight tilt of his head, he regarded you, your reaction, “Your wine cellar.”

The tension in your expression dropped, quickly replaced with confusion. A question about your wine cellar? You doubted he was some wine connoisseur looking to try some old fermenting drinks, given the lack of consumption and all. It'd be like asking if your toaster was a skilled swimmer. So, you simply repeated after him, “My… wine cellar,” he nodded in return.

“Yes– you do own a wine cellar, don't you? I know your architecture, let alone your technology, is… woefully underdeveloped, but you do have a wine cellar, at least,” he offhandedly poked at your nerves, seemingly unaware of the insult, “Or a basement.”

“...Yes, I have a wine cellar,” this liquor wasn't nearly strong enough. Holding your tongue, even keeping yourself from knocking a glass upside his head for a bit of cathartic release, proved difficult as he continued. However, you valued your life. No matter how much your patience waned, “What could you need with a random pubs wine cell-”

One of the large hands that you had been wary of since sitting down, captured your wrist as you reached for your glass. It was gentle, but unrelenting. There was no uncertainty that allowed you to slip free, and the adrenaline running up your spine was well aware.

“....”

You slowly tore your gaze from your hostage wrist, and met his own. The shake in your limbs threatened to return.

“Show me.”

…

No.

_____

The door to the wine cellar whined a splitting creak as you pushed it open, as if voicing your silent reluctance. You had to use a bit more force than usual to push against its rusted hinges. To which it, then, revealed the pitiful, yet expansive cellar. It was only half the size of the bar, yet the open floor provided ample space, and the ceiling was taller than expected. Only the walls were occupied, with shelves of barrels of varying alcohol and boxes full of bottles.

You hesitated before the threshold. Noticeably, given how you could feel the intruder halt just as you did. There was nothing stopping you from entering. Not physically. However, the pure dread of being stuck in the bottom of your pub with this… thing was overwhelming. Did this count as a ‘second location’ if it was only a staircase away? No, surely someone would find you, but in what state was questionable. You could already see the headline of next week's paper, “Local Pub Owner FOUND DEAD in Own Cellar”. The very image tugged at your stomach. You could puke at the tight wind of your intestines, conjured by numerous possible fates that ran through your mind.

“Are you going to enter, or do you need a little push?” The mocking lilt to his tone was hard to miss. As was the feeling of those red eyes burning into the back of your head.

“No–” you whipped your gaze over your shoulder, rejecting his offer a bit too quickly. “I mean… no, I'm fine.”

Behind you, the alloy stranger stood at the bottom of the steps. The landing gave just enough room to allow a respectable distance between two average macks, but when matched up to the hulking mass of metal at the bottom of the stairs, the space was lacking. Your new “friend” was hunkered slightly, lest he knocked his head into the slanted ceiling. Admittedly, part of you hoped he did. As immature as it would be cathartic to see.

He pressed one hand above his head, a physical reminder of the short space. The forced position would've been comical given better circumstances. If there could be any. However, instead of simply humorous, his complete subjugation of the stairwell was overbearing. He took up the entire hall, leaving little to no glimpse of the way you came. There was no opportunity to run off, and he wasn't keen on lingering any longer either, slowly tilting his head as he held your gaze.

“Then, I suggest you lead the way,” he gestured with his free hand towards the cellar. This was posed as a suggestion, but obviously you had no choice here.

And he knew it.

Your throat bobbed painfully. Half a beat passed before you turned and pushed yourself into the basement. Stepping into your own grave. That was the best way you could describe it.

The door attempted to swing back into place once released, but was interrupted by the his open palm. It didn't give him nearly as much trouble as it had for you. Which made sense, given the strength disparity between you and all. Obvious, and yet the obedience of your typically difficult cellar door twisted that dread in your stomach once more. You took a few steps to the side, all the while eyeing the giant as he stepped into your wine cellar.

A soft hiss escaped his chassis, an imitation of a groan, as he unfurled to his full height. Fortunately for him, the ceiling rose just enough to leave a few inches of breathing room above him. Seemingly a welcome relief. Little clicks emanated from his shoulders as he rolled them in turn, “Not very pretty, but… when have I ever expected more from humans,” muttering his comment as he thoughtfully scanned the basement, he spat the last word with gravel and vitriol.

You followed his every step with a cautious gaze. He circled the open floor. His head was turned away as he evaluated your numerous stored materials and alcohols. His survey levied a tension on your shoulders, as if you were awaiting a passing grade.

The room remained quiet with only the low hum of his internal process slipping through on occasion. Teeth pressed together, jaw flexing in tension whenever his path crossed a tad closer than you would've liked.

After what felt like an eternity, you debated questioning him again. Survival told you otherwise, but this limbo he left you in was torture. Waiting on shuffling feet was like foolishly allowing time to drag you to your doom. You tested your tongue behind your teeth, gathering your courage to pipe up–

“Tell me,” the giant stranger let out a loud sigh that made you jolt.

“Wh… What?” You breathed. Part of you almost worried he could read your thoughts.

“Why bother with this?” He turned from the opposite wall he had been inspecting. It was full of barrels, some haphazardly tossed on top of each other, all growing cobwebs. He gestured vaguely at the assortment of alcohol, “Poison and… indulgence,” you almost thought you could see a disgusted shiver wrack his spine.

“...You mean, the drinks.”

“Yes, yes, if that's what you call them. The diluted venom you seem to cherish enough to keep–” he swept those red eyes along the rest of the basement, “–here.”

You followed his line of sight. It was a wine cellar. Not industrial engineering. Alcohol was your business. It wasn't as respectable as the soldiers' war efforts or the showgirls singing for bonds, but it was your living. You had what the people wanted; alcohol, and the reason felt far too natural to put into words. Liquor in all its forms existed before you, and it'd be here long after you.

Besides, what did it matter to a machine that had no use for sustenance? As far as you knew at least.

“Did you drag me down here to talk about the ethics of drinking?” Your exhaustion was catching up with you, and, thus, your caution waned at the wrong time. You cringed at your own comment right as it left your lips. For a flicker, you glimpsed the exit off to your side, then him. Your eyes locked.

He was far too perceptive.

A sound between a hum of acknowledgement and a chuckle escaped, eyes thinning as he watched your inner conflict. Clearly, he found your reaction amusing. Mildly. Enough to let you silently panic for a second longer before shaking his head, the wires composing his clavicle stretching and receding in tandem, “No, no, that's not why,” he winded a hand useless, “Call it… simple curiosity,” his easy answer sent relief pushing a sigh from you.

“Okay,” you’d pick your words sparingly now, “Then…?” You trailed off, barely balancing your long forgotten patience and wariness of this machine and its unknown temper.

“Then…” he started, beginning to approach. His steps felt heavier, resounding against the neglected concrete floor. Or maybe that was all in your head as you grew far too aware of every detail of this looming threat. You took a half step back. He disregarded this, your visible discomfort, only coming to a stop when he could stand within arms reach of you. Your head tilted back to better meet him as you leaned onto your heels.

“Then– as much as it pains me– I need your assistance,” despite his caveat, he did not seem nearly as pained as he described. Only slightly inconvenienced at best. His head tilted to one side. Those red visual processors would set you ablaze if they could, looking down on you as if dipping his chin was far too tiring to properly face you, “Well, ‘assistance’ is a strong word. See it as an opportunity to do a good deed.”

“What–”

“A good deed. An act out of the kindness of your heart. Whatever you want to call it. I've noticed mankind takes pride in altruistic acts, as if simply being polite is truly righteous,” he continued, giving you nary the chance to stop whatever scheme he was dragging you into before it grew out of control, "What's the saying? ‘Kindness costs nothing…’ Childish, really– short sighted at the very least,” he had stepped away to stroll the basement once more.

“Personally, I believe ‘you get what you pay for’. And true goodness, true peace… well, that requires a high cost,” he paused in his pacing. His gaze had been roaming before, but immediately found you, once more, as he offered a smile. A chill ran up your spine in response. He chuckled, “Don't worry. I'm a much better guest than you might assume. I won't make you pay. No, I simply need a little hospitality.”

He turned on his heels to gesture vaguely at the many barrels on the opposite wall, “Hm, and some elbow grease.”

You lingered in place. Any step forward or back felt as though it'd send you tumbling further into a situation you wanted no part of. You were a pub owner. An average one, at best. This, whatever this was, had nothing to do with you, and you intended to keep it that way. Yet, it seemed no matter what you did, his will was overpowering. He didn't wait for your acceptance or denial. It was as if you had no say at all. Your gut dropped at the possibility of being so completely helpless.

“No…” The refusal slipped out before you could even notice, breathless.

He stilled. One hand hovered in the air, only his fingers curling slowly. Tension rippled from the statue-esque giant, and only grew in the silence. The lack of response left your single response hanging between you, giving just enough time to realize what you had done. Your throat grew tight as your mouth dried up with the remnants of regret resting bitterly against your tongue, “No…” what were you even refusing now? Your own idiocy, your approaching fate, maybe even reality itself. Regardless of your reason, it sparked adrenaline in your veins. As if you had just taken a cold plunge, you became terrifyingly aware. “No, no, no,” you echoed, shaking your head. The rest of your limbs began to follow suit, trembling as you began to drift backwards. “No, no, I'm–” you turned for the door, ready to race up the stairwell and far from whatever this was, “I'm leaving, I'm going home, and–”

“Don't move.”

You wish you hadn't heard him. That you hadn't felt the way his voice dipped into the static, drowning a single word in something so inhumane and yet deathly sincere. Maybe then you wouldn't have hesitated. Then you would have no one to blame, not even yourself, for sprinting up those stairs, but you couldn't. You had no excuse, because the second he spoke, you froze in place.

“Just don’t go,” his voice rose just a tad, tinging it in something earnest and… sad. And somehow, you could just tell it wasn't a sadness for himself. It was for you, and the potential fate if you tested his patience.

You felt the steps before you heard them. The whirlwind of a night had left your senses a tad detached, running behind till you had no choice but to notice. In this instance, you couldn't tell he had approached until he was cutting in front of you, trading your path to the exit for him. Almost everything was shielded from view, only the button up shirt straining against someone solid in view.

“Don't be dramatic,” he began in that low voice. There was something deceptively gentle in his delivery. And equally so in his eyes as you reluctantly glanced up, “You'll only work yourself up, and I'm, already, fond of your sensibility so far.”

“...what?”

Those intricate frames worked in beautiful cooperation to allow a soft smile to grace his face. His brows creased slightly, clearly amused. Red eyes flickered along your baffled expression briefly, “I didn't kill you the second I entered the bar. I could've, and you would've been blissfully unaware,” two chilled fingers tapped the underside of your chin and guided your head up, “Perhaps it was selfish, or a mercy, I'm still debating… but, you're here, and I'm giving you the opportunity to prove to me why I kept you alive to begin with.”

You searched with an owlish gaze in contemplative silence. His red eyes were stark against the black sclera. Surely you'd see this color even when you sleep. If you get the chance, that is. For now, he gave you enough time to sear it into memory, and debate your desire to be alive to see the next morning.

“...okay.” you muttered.

He raised a brow. Then, without warning, he was much closer than before. You couldn't help flinching when he leaned in, and, as your luck would have it, he noticed. His smile grew just enough to bruise your ego. “Hm, what was that?” He hummed, tracing from the bottom of your chin to the curve of your cheek. It was reminiscent of soothing a skittish animal. Goosebumps were left behind as he’d carefully rub your cheek.

You clicked your tongue, holding back the instinctive desire to lash out, “Okay, I'll help you.”

His smile grew, teeth just as silver as the rest of him coming into view. Why did an industrial being made out of mechanical parts need teeth? There was no telling, but you were beginning to find questioning any of this useless. It wasn't as if you'd get any answers you'd like, anyway.

“That's what I like to hear.”

Suddenly, he pulled back. Much to your relief, you could breathe again, just barely, as he retreated from your space. However, he paused only an arms length away, remaining between you and the staircase exit. Perhaps, to be absolutely certain you wouldn't gain a sudden burst of courage, or stupidity, and try to outrun him. Not that you would. Maybe. It did still linger in the back of your mind, only kept at bay by his confession leading you to a harsh reality; you could've died upstairs.

Your blood ran cold, but before you could spiral into the fear of your only mortality he demanded your attention. His voice gained that facetious nature once more, annoyingly so, “I knew you were reasonable. Though, I will admit, I did worry before. You were so… chatty and brazen,” he reminisced on your first meeting upstairs. A moment you now looked back on with dread. In hindsight, you were towing the line between life and death, and he spoke as though it was just a silly meet cute. Nauseating.

“But, I was certain with a little communication you would come around,” he drifted away. There was a second you thought you would be subject to another monologue, but instead he paused, turning to you once more. One hand gestured before you both and towards the barrels.

It would've been a simple offer had it been from anyone else. That wasn't the case, though. This thing being behind you only deepened the pit in your stomach. However, testing his patience did too, so you cooperated.

There was nothing you hadn't seen before. Barrels upon barrels lined the walls, and a few crates were tossed in the corner. Cobwebs spoke of the months, maybe even years, you had neglected the supplies. Not your best habit. Procrastination was easy when you could busy yourself with your pub. That felt a bit silly now. You scanned your own belongings, pulling your lips into a thin line as you tried to see what he was referring to, “It's definitely alcohol,” you shrugged, muttering to yourself.

“Yes!” Suddenly, hands grasped your shoulders from behind. You could've keeled over from shock right then and there. Did he like scaring your soul out of you? “Yes, it's a wall of your diluted poisons, and such, but what I need is space. And, if it were up to me, these would be tossed away without a thought, glass and all,” he explained, leading you a few steps closer by your shoulders. His grip wasn't painful, but there was a discomfort in the power you could tell was contained by mere discipline.

“Is it…” You had to remember to breathe, “Is it not up to you?”

You could practically feel him gleaming behind you. He’d pat one of your shoulders as if to say ‘good job’. Incredibly patronizing, but you were in no place to bite back.

“Well, that depends on you,” he slid his hands away, a momentary relief, before he nudged you forward, “I could easily be rid of these. They're boxes of human sustenance and primitive tools, nothing to me. They should be the same to man. However, I can respect that as a business owner you would like to protect your assets.”

You caught a glimpse of his heavy gaze over your shoulder. Willing back a flinch, you turned back to your storage. He spoke with an air of mercy, but this felt like the caveat before something deeply exhaustive. Both your desire to live and your sleep deprivation warred internally, “So… you want me to move them,” it was more of a statement than a real question. As much as you'd hope for reassurance against such a ludicrous idea, it was doubtful.

“You catch on quick,” he sounded much more pleased with himself than you. Stepping towards the crates, he negotiated his large frame around you, “Hopefully, you can keep up this winning streak.”

“Right, winning…” you agreed sarcastically beneath your breath. Either he hadn't heard you– unlikely– or was allowing a little leeway. You were just glad he ignored your sour mood. When walking on glass around someone so unpredictable, stepping on a shard was inevitable. You cringed to yourself. Rubbing a hand over your face, you tugged at your eye bags before letting your hand drop with a sigh, “Okay, so, let me get this right… you want me to reorganize my wine cellar at… maybe 5 in the morning to give you space?”

“Correct,” he placed his hands on his hips, back still to you. With a slow turn of his head he surveyed the space once again.

“...You can't be serious.”

This time, he did not afford you the luxury to ignore your comment. The giant turned on his axis just enough to meet you with a knowing grin.