Chapter 9: Thugs
FOOD PRICES REMAIN ridiculously high. The effects can be seen throughout the Outpost. We're not the only ones eating smaller portions. Even the stale, moldy cakes cost three times what they did previously. The beggars have it worst. In three days we witness the Sentries take five of them for stealing. That's what we see happen. The real numbers will be much, much higher.
I'm thankful for the decision I made in the game, even if it almost got me stabbed. I know now that we're going to need everything we can get. But money wasn’t the only outcome of that fateful game. Today, as I walk into the Rustler on my own, I already know what to expect. No one bothers me. Over the last two days, I've come here with Jonas and Apollon. There has always been a place for me at the card table. A few people have bought me drinks. People I never knew before try to ingratiate themselves with chatter. No one wants to be on my bad side.
Or more accurately, no one wants to be on Apollon's or Jonas' bad side. I suspect my friends have always been this intimidating, but perhaps people needed to be reminded. Or maybe they weren't sure Apollon and Jonas would put themselves at risk to back me. Now, there is no mistake. Even Sumter, as I walk in today, lowers his gaze, muttering. His left cheek and ear are covered in bandage. He looks nervous, but not dangerous. There's an empty chair beside him. I know, if I want, I can sit there and play cards.
But I'm not interested in joining the card table yet. Maybe in a while. Right now, I want to sit, and think. Apollon and Jonas are out talking to people in the marketplace, trying to feel out if there’s anywhere they still might peddle Miranda's stuff. Miranda is storming around our shack, completely out of parts to assemble. She talks a lot more, now that she has nothing else to focus on. She makes me want to hide. But I know if I sit out back Oscar will find me. And as much as I adore Oscar, I don't want to talk to him right now. I’m shrinking away from everything. Wanting only to be inside myself, deep down where no one else can find me.
I take a seat on a bar stool and place a coin on the bar. I shouldn't be spending it. The act brings with it a surge of guilt. But I won this money. I can buy one drink if I want to. Then I can sit here as long as I desire, and block everything else out.
Arthur Adner swipes the coin away and replaces it with a shot of cheap whiskey. He says nothing to me.
I'm tempted to down the shot. To let the slow burn move through my chest and then up into my head. But I want to stay here as long as I can, so I sip slowly. My mind presses into the deep well of mixed emotion I've been filling up. The white spire is center in my thoughts. I'm always trying to reach it, and never moving. Am I really meant to go somewhere? Really meant to find something? Why would I always dream of it, if it means nothing? Its every detail is so clear in my mind. The sun gleaming off the white plaster. The blue sky, hanging clouds. Surrounding buildings, with broken windows. The shape of the skyline, always the same. Is this place real? Does it exist? Is this where I came from? Or is it a symbol of something else?
I'm so absorbed, so entirely fortified in my thoughts, that I don't notice the subtle change in noise until much later, when someone leans up against the bar beside me. I look up, the words go away already forming on my lips. I freeze.
Matthew's eyes graze over me, tracing my body, my face, almost randomly. Now, up close, there is something in them I couldn't see when I viewed him from across the street. Something hard and formidable. Something that tells me to be very, very careful. He takes a moment to view me, then smiles. "I'm Matt."
My mind scrambles. All I manage in reply is, "I know."
His hazel eyes flick out over the barroom. He leans back casually, both elbows resting on the bar behind him. When he looks at me again, his eyes narrow on me, not malicious, but scrutinizing.
I make myself turn toward him. "I'm Eden," I say. I think my voice is level. Level enough.
"Eden," he says simply. Again, he takes a moment to look over the people at the tables. Then he turns toward me, looks me up and down. His fingers brush lightly over my arm. The wheels are turning behind his eyes, though his manner is casual. "Surely," he says, "I would have remembered someone like you."
I desperately want to retreat, but I know that would be the wrong thing to do. My mind claws for purchase in this conversation. And then, before I even know I'm doing it, I smile. I withdraw my arm from his touch, but only so I can raise my hand to brush my hair aside from my forehead.
When he draws back, it's only the slightest movement of surprise. Alarm. His eyes flick back and forth across my face now, reevaluating. Then, quite suddenly, he grins. It's a broad grin, easy and natural, and I actually feel myself relax in response to it.
"Well," he says, "slipped right through my fingers, didn't you."
I laugh, and there's a brief moment where I'm thinking he's really not so bad. Then I remember the old lady. Remember that everyone in the Outpost is afraid of Matthew. Remember that I am not, no matter how natural his smile is, talking to a friend.
But he's chuckling, clearly amused by me. And I figure that's a good thing, at least as things go. When he's done laughing, his smile turns thoughtful. His eyes keep moving over me. "I'll buy you a drink," he says, waving Arthur over.
Again, I want to retreat, but I don't imagine anyone in the Outpost would refuse Matthew's gesture of goodwill. I don't like the idea of him giving me anything, though. So I say, throwing him a sly, sideways smile, "No, I'll buy you a drink." Arthur Adner is already placing two shots in front of us, and I see that he has poured from the most expensive bottle he has. I scoop the coins from my pocket and place them on the counter before Matt can protest. It's more than I can afford to spend. In fact, it is everything I had brought with me to bet in the game. But I don't hesitate or flinch. Matthew's eyes glance from the coins to my face as he picks up his drink, and I know he's gotten the message. I'm doing just fine, thank you.
I pick up my drink and swallow a mouthful. This one will go down much quicker than the last. "After this," I say, as though I'm reluctant, "I have to go. My friends are expecting me."
He doesn't say anything. We just sit, and eye each other, and drink our whiskey. It's smooth and warm, and sweeter than the other. If circumstances were different, I would probably be enjoying it immensely. I pace myself, so I don't seem too eager to go, but finish within a few moments. I set my glass on the bar with a final thunk, and spin my body around, find my feet. There, I pause, and give him a smile that I hope will be enough to charm, and too little to enamor. "It was nice meeting you, Matt," I say, and I turn and walk away. The way he watches me go without saying anything— just watching, watching— it's entirely unnerving.