Pink neon lights flickered above the duo. The tubes flowed with magic, oxygen, and nitrogen.
The soft hum accompanies them as they stand before the wide building.
The Brimstone Bucket — a bar notorious for criminals and bar fights. A miracle it's still open.
Brandon's throat bulged as he swallowed.
"Gid… are you really sure about this?"
Gideon glanced at him. Brandon's usually bright, flickering form was dim tonight. The sight tugged at something uneasy in Gideon's chest.
"We'll be fine, Pye. We'll stay an hour. See what we can catch, yeah?"
"…Okay, Gid."
Brandon hung his head and followed him inside.
The gray-themed bar roared with activity. Laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses mixed with the buzzing neon overhead.
A man shoved past Brandon.
A flame rune suddenly branded across the man's sleeve as he brushed against Brandon's burning skin.
"Hey, fucker! Watch where you're going," the man snapped, recoiling. "Elemental scum."
Brandon flinched.
"Watch it," Gideon stepped forward.
The aggressor's eyes flickered with sudden regret.
"I didn't ask to be an elemental…" Brandon muttered.
Gideon raised a hand, gently shushing him.
"Pye, you're fine."
Then he turned back to the man.
"You. Fuck off. If you value your throat."
The man didn't argue. He shoved his way through the crowd and disappeared.
Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I hate these guys. So entitled."
"Y-yeah…" Brandon wrapped his arms around himself.
"You okay, bud?"
"I'm fine, Gideon. Just… I don't like this place."
"We'll be fine."
Suddenly Gideon stiffened.
A familiar voice carried through the noise.
"The district organizer," Gideon whispered. "C'mon."
Brandon yelped as Gideon pulled him through the crowd.
Across the bar, the organizer laughed with a group of men in identical suits. Photonic weapons hung from their belts, and each wore a strange, eerie symbol. A mix of horns, an azalea, and a rifle.
"That's definitely him, Pye," Gideon murmured. "The guy who supplies our jobs."
He leaned closer.
"Listen."
Brandon's flaming form bent lower, crackling softly as he tried to hear.
"Ah, maybe boss will promote me tonight," the organizer sighed. "I'm getting tired of assigning jobs to rats."
One of the men slung a heavy arm around his shoulders.
"Who knows, chap? Work hard. Kill harder. You know the rules."
"Mr. P is tough on us." The organizer scratched his neck. "Same thing every damn day."
"Just keep waiting," the man laughed. "You'll get the promotion someday. The Republic doesn't even know we exist yet."
He gave the organizer a rough noogie.
"Alright, alright," the organizer groaned, shoving him off.
Across the bar, Gideon turned to Brandon with a crooked grin.
"We've got a name. That's something, huh?"
Brandon nodded slowly.
"Mr. P…"
"He sounds weird."
"He probably is." Gideon stood. "Let's go."
Brandon brightened slightly and skipped toward the door.
"Have a good night, fireboy!" someone shouted behind him.
Gideon chuckled and shook his head, pushing the door open.
The neon glow vanished as they stepped outside.
And both of them froze.