I, Human

Fate of The Stranger | The Apprentice

"You sure you haven't had enough lad?"

Philip raised his head from the cool pewter of the bar top. The barman's face showed undeniable concern but all Philip saw was a brown-skinned mask of fear hidden behind a tangle of matted black hair. He frowned and pushed forward his glass. The barman hesitated but took it anyways.

Philip turned around so he could lean his elbows on the bar. He could see the damn thing's face, everywhere he looked, those eyes were there, those frightened eyes. What's worse, it was all everyone was talking about; the Aspect's mysterious cargo. He heard speculations ranging from the world's largest diamond to new technology from the east. None of them knew how horribly wrong they were.

The door opened with force enough to almost take it from its hinges. Philip jumped at the sound of the doorknob hitting the adjacent wall. It was nothing like a gunshot. Too shrill, too lacking depth but still, almost loud enough.

The sound of the lazy rain poured through the front door. A drenched and not entirely sober-looking trio entered, casting challenging looks wherever their eyes went. Long coats, long hair, facial scars, spurred boots. These were no London natives. Judging by their accent, Philip deduced they were American. And from their hushed conversation, he found out they were not exactly friendly.

Philip didn't realize the pianist had stopped playing until he started again. Heck, he didn't even realize there was a pianist. He turned around and picked up his drink, playing his finger over the rim of the square glass. He raised the glass to his lips and inhaled a lungful of gin.

Phillip sputtered, eyes watering at the fire tearing its way down his throat. He grabbed at his neck and squeezed, willing the pain to pass. The trio of strangers chuckled and sat beside him, forcing the person two seats over to move. It was when one of them spat on the counter when old Vic asked what they would like to drink that Phillip decided he had no fucks left to give.

The first thing he focused on after the burning passed, was the back of the tallest person's head and the force with which he smashed his glass into it surprised him. The Americans were surprised as well, mostly pissed but surprised.

Now, Phillip had anticipated the retaliation, what he hadn't anticipated was everyone else getting involved. One of the Americans, a fellow with yellowed teeth and a jagged scar on his lower lip, was the first to swing. His fist hit the apprentice engineer square in the gut. Phillip doubled over, exposing the burly man in coveralls behind him. He dropped the American with a backhand that was sure to leave another scar if it didn't kill him already.

And that was when all hell finally tore off the leash. Noise exploded out of every mouth as the bar patrons decided this was a good enough moment to tear stitches out of old wounds. Phillip was halfway to the door, having woven his way through the ever-shifting labyrinth of limbs when a hand – so rough he could feel the callouses through his clothing – grabbed his shoulder.

Under normal circumstances, Phillip respected a man with rough hands. It meant the owner was a hard worker. Those honors did not apply to the owner of these hands. The man Phillip had assaulted, with shards of glass and still frothing liquor in his greasy hair and a scowl deep enough, Phillip thought, to leave an impression on a door if it slammed into his face hard enough. Phil decided to test that theory.

He grabbed the man's arm and yanked forward, aiming for the door. It didn't work as planned. It didn't work at all. Pain exploded in his jaw and he was knocked clean onto his arse, confused as to what just happened. He scrambled backward, avoiding the boots that tried to crush his fingers and person. The American looked down at him and hawked, ready to spit. The spittle did leave his mouth, flying at the front of an almost childish scream.