The Bounty and the Briefcase (Cattlepunk) [WIP]

8 - The Night

Two broken legs looked appealing right now.

Martin knew he had just gotten his leg fixed up, but he was still inclined to jump out the window, just to escape the smothering, vertigo-inducing scent of alcohol in Alo's bedroom.

The bartender tiptoed across the near-literal sea of bottles obscuring the wooden floor, and collapsed onto the bed in the corner.

Frances carried her green arc lamp in one hand (one she ostensibly invented) and held her air mattress (which she ostensibly invented) under her arm as she stepped across the bottles with little effort. "Where do we sleep?"

"Forget about that, let's get this open first." Martin staggered towards the window and pushed it ajar, sneaking a peek at the indigo sky and the crescent moon.

Alo didn't move. "Frances, clear a spot on the floor and lie there," he muttered, his voice muffled by the mattress. "And tell me if you find anything interesting."

Martin and Frances groaned in unison.

Frances headed to one corner, kicking brown, green, and clear glass away before laying down the mattress. Martin headed to another, dropping the mattress and suitcase. One the floor beside him was glass vessel holding some sort of floating, waxy substance, glowing purple. Alo had called the one in his laboratory a "lava lamp".

Once Martin had settled onto his own mattress, he glanced around the room. Alo was snoring, his hand hanging off the edge of the bed (still holding the flask), and Frances was staring down at her arc lamp. Pale green lit up her side of the room, and deep indigo lit up his.

He sat cross-legged, surveying all the bottles scattered around. "Have you ever considered that your cousin may have a drinking problem?"

Frances didn't reply right away. "No, he collects bottles and decorates his floor with them."

Martin's forehead creased. "Aren't you worried for him?"

"Alo's resilient," Frances answered. "According to the new owner, Joel, my uncle and aunt have been gone for a few years now."

"Gone? As in..."

She shook her head. "No, just somewhere else. Brisk City."

"What? Why?" Martin inquired.

Frances shrugged. "He didn't tell me. But it doesn't sound like them to me."

Martin put his hand on his chin. The waxy substance in the lamp rose and sunk, an endless cycle. "Alo seems to have taken all of this well. He's easygoing." Or coping with his problems with alcohol. But Martin didn't voice that thought. "You seem way more relaxed around him."

"That's because he's one of the few people I trust."

That made sense to Martin. Frances didn't trust him. And he didn't trust her, either. But, then again, he was about to sleep in the same room as her.

If he were dead in the morning, that was that.

Martin heard Frances sighed, and turned back to her. The arc light painted her sharp features a bright emerald.

"He's the best person I know. Bold, funny, and even practical sometimes. In school, he stood up for me against bullies. And he and I would try to invent anything we could. He was drawn towards chemistry, while me, I preferred machinery." She smiled, revealing her teeth. "When we were young, I used to call him Alloy. Oh, he hated that."

"'Alloysius'. I suppose it works when your last name is Steele," Martin said.

The two of them stayed quiet for a moment. Martin simply gazed into the lava lamp, watching the wax dance.