Searching for the source of the mysterious voice, I glared at each passing pedestrian; hands raised high in a defensive stance as I shrunk back. They gave me a wide berth, some giving me disdainful looks, while others simply gazed at me in pity. Am I losing my mind? I stared down at my shaking hands, my palms torn and red from my haphazard parkour.
A mirthful laugh escaped the depths of my sorrow. What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go? The only thing I could think of was numbing my mind… to be free of the pain even for a moment. My hands dropped to my sides, and I stepped up to the next pedestrian. "Could you please point me in the direction of a bar?"
The man had a curled mustache, and a glowing cybernetic eye behind a monocle. He scoffed. "Lo! So thine compatriots can runneth my pockets? Perhaps drain my Cerberus?" He shook his head in disgust and began to walk away.
"Please!" I desperately reached for the man, only catching his brown trench coat's sleeve.
"Unhand, me fiend!" The man roared as he shook me off. With a click and a hiss, he raised his other hand and removed the black leather glove, revealing a robotically enhanced fist. "I would bring no pleasure in giving you a swift end."
I cringed back reflexively, fear pounding in my heart. "Please. You don't have to follow me, just give me directions. That's all I want."
He stared at me for a moment as he reaffixed his glove. "Right at the next intersection. Acience, not that thine liquidity is sufficient." With that, he stalked off.
With the promise of numbing intoxication powering my legs, each step I took was filled with newfound determination. Reaching the intersection the man had mentioned, I looked both ways, then dashed across the street. The road he had pointed me toward was quiet and sparsely populated due to it being a dead end. The columned brown and white buildings sat around the average three to four stories tall, and each one sported a modest symbol or sign by or on their door.
Spotting one that vaguely resembled the first character in Acience, I jogged along the stone-brick street, quickly arriving at my destination. Sure enough, a contorted symbol vaguely resembling a triangle formed from brass hung on a dark brown wooden door. Glancing at my reflection in the polished metal, the realization that I may be kicked out for being a vagrant surfaced in my mind.
"A tempered life is the precursor to complacence. Even if but for a moment, emblazon your spirit, steel your body, and forge ahead." The maxim of the Axiom Church from my religious studies floated to mind. With a soft click, the front door of the establishment swung open, revealing a small staircase. A similar dark wood lined the walls, trimmed by the same brass as the symbol. Faux gas lamps hung in fanciful fixtures spaced evenly apart. The smell of smoke and whiskey filled the air, and the crooning of horns trickled in from the upper area.
After making sure the door shut quietly behind me, I stepped up the stairs. It was strangely empty, aside from one man seated at the bar, clad in a gray long coat and bowler hat. A glass of amber alcohol and a brass ash tray sat to his right. With a deep breath, I strode over with as much confidence as I could muster and took a seat a stool or two away from the man in gray.
The bartender walked over and gave me a weak smile. He wore a white shirt, brown vest, and had a well-oiled beard, his long brown hair tied in a bun. "Hello. Welcome to—" The man in gray put his glass down with a clink and the bartender reflexively flinched away, casting a glance at him before continuing, "sorry," he cleared his throat. "What would you like?"
I placed my two coins on the counter. "What can these get me?"
He glanced at the coins, then up at me, disgust welling in his eyes as if he had only now realized what I looked like. "A shot of pure ethanol, maybe," he spat his words, his tone now gruff and agitated.
"Hey," a smooth, deep voice emanated from the man in gray.
We both turned to look at him, the bartender's face growing noticeably shinier. "Y-yes sir?"
"Treat the kid with some respect, won't you? See any other customers in this shithole? At least you're getting paid." He reached down and lifted the thin cigarette to his lips with a black-gloved hand, and now that I saw his face, I realized something was truly strange about him.
It wasn't just his clothes that were gray, his skin itself was drained of color, making him stand out strangely in the warmly lit room. It was as if he was desaturated by some unknown force, even the illumination from the faux gas lamps seemed to only be varying tones of gray on him. Even the fiery light from the cigarette had lost its color. He let out a puff of smoke and placed the cigarette back in the ashtray. As it left his hands, the color was restored to it. The small red symbol denoting its brand, even the smoldering embers at the end.
"Yes, sorry sir." The man's ponytail swished as he turned to me. "My apologies. Let me fetch you a glass of whiskey."
"But I can't—"
He forced a wide, toothy smile. "Please! I insist, it's on the house." With that, he turned away, facing a softly lit shelf of various colored alcoholic beverages.
I looked to the desaturated man. "Thanks."
"It's nothing." He waved dismissively. "Just standing up for those who need it."
I nodded slowly and asked the first question on my mind, not wanting to have a second to think about the problems that would confront me the moment I was alone. "Why are you all…" I gestured at him. "Colorless?" The man shot me a look, and I quickly scrambled to cover my rudeness. "Sorry, that was—"
"You're fine." He raised an eyebrow. "Never heard of the Polaroid Office?"