Chapter 3
"Git yer ass movin’," Marta hollers across the kitchen counter, her southern twang thickening with annoyance.
It’s been a while since work has been this busy, and I’m not complaining––but I could do without all the yelling from "Chef". It doesn’t bother me so much, but a few of the younger girls look ready to cry or puke.
"Chef, can you relax?" I say, my voice rising and falling melodically as I grab the tray she's tossing food on haphazardly. "These people don’t care how fast things get to them. They’re all drinking their faces off, but they won’t tip well if all they can hear is your squawking," I tease.
She glares at me. Her tan, wrinkled brow giving off a disgruntled look, one that makes me chuckle as I turn to retrieve the drinks I need.
Marta demands to be called "Chef", which always makes me smile considering there isn’t a lot of cooking happening. The diner is more symbolic at this point, a homage to an old world that few remember. I’m not sure what kind of deal the owner has with the government distribution offices, but we get the regular government gruel along with a few extra items to make it.
... interesting. Our scrappy Marta here manipulates it into some semblance of food.
When magic disappeared, it levelled most of the continent's societal structures with it. The gaps in power and wealth that had been established over centuries crumbled in mere months.
Now, spending coin at a place like this is as good a status symbol as any. If you have extra to spend on food and drink, you’re doing alright. Mostly we serve single people, vagabonds. Washed up soldiers.
I come up gingerly to the table of men who are getting louder by the minute, plopping down their drinks and the fried protein patties.
"Anything else I can get for you?" I ask warmly, trying to breathe in through my mouth as their smell overwhelms me.
"Get us another round, will ya?" the one closest to me grunts.
The youngest guy at the table lurches forward, his battered canvas coat frayed over his arms. He makes eye contact with me like he wants to ask me something.
"Something else I can get you?" I ask again sweetly. He nods a bit shyly before finally saying, "Got anything... fresher?" The last word is barely audible in the busy room. I nod, appreciating his hesitance.
He wants fresh food, and is bold enough to ask for it. Every once in a while we’ll get something fresh come through. But rarely, and we have to be careful who we serve it to. Its price alone pushes away most customers.
I give him a sympathetic glance before saying, "I’m sorry. All we’ve got is what’s on the menu."
He gives me a suspicious look, then nods, and I flit away, wanting to remove the smell from my immediate vicinity.
As I’m cleaning the table next to theirs, I hear one of them mention the Games tonight. Idly, I wash the worn wooden table one too many times, ears strained. The oldest one talks openly about what he’d do with all his winnings, his words slurring.
"I’m tellin’ ya, there ish going to be some heavy hitters tonigh'. I plan on rakin' it in." He hiccups.
Internally I roll my eyes. I doubt this man will make it out past dinnertime.
I clock the way he sways, slapping his mate on the back, knee bouncing enthusiastically, the metal from his mug tinging every time he slams it against the table.
"And there are big fights tonight boys, big, big fights.
I already know the winner." Another hiccup.
Yeah, this man’s going to pass out before he gets home.
The others go back and forth, and I hum absently as I continue my busy work, making sure no one suspects me of eavesdropping. The fights I don’t care so much about, but inormation is always helpful to a girl like me. The man is brazen, talking about everything so openly.
The Games are dangerous. Not only that, they attract people from all walks of life––people that could be a danger to me, if I'm not careful. The punishment for participating is, more often than not, death. You can find anything there, which is part of the appeal. You can order yourself up drugs, alcohol, all sorts of banned paraphernalia which includes, but is not limited to, literal humans or simple vegetables. Ironically, I’m not sure which would get you in more trouble at this point.
I want no part in any of it. I just need the coin, and the gambling rings are the only way I can get enough in a short time to cover Willow’s medication.
I move from table to table, cleaning and taking orders. The table of travelling men gets louder and drunker as time goes on, but I don’t discourage it. If by some miracle they end up at the Games, it will be all that much easier to take their money.
I pick up a sticky mug. Ale is a thing of the past, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. And for some strange reason, despite the food crisis, the government never seems overly eager to regulate booze, no matter how creatively it's being made.
I’m deep in thought when Hollis startles me.
"You have that look in your eye. I hope you’re not thinking of going out tonight. There’s only so many times you’ll go unnoticed, you know," she warns, sincere concern lacing her tone.
"Don’t worry Mom, I’ll be fine," I joke as a delicate hand reaches up for my shoulder.
"Please be careful," she says, pursing her lips, like she knows something I don’t.
I nod, brows pulling together as I search her heart-shaped face.
Appreciating the kindness being shown, even if it's confusing.
I've been on my own for years. A pang of guilt rings through me. Hollis has always been kind, and shown interest in being friends. I’ve just never managed to find the energy.
Although the class division doesn’t seem huge from the outside anymore, Hollis still doesn’t face the same pressures I do, and I doubt she’d really understand them either.
While my classmates were getting drunk in abandoned warehouses as teenagers, I was at home, trying to figure out how to heat our house.
"I’m only doing what I need to do until my career as a singer takes off. You know, my true calling," I say loudly with a grin and a theatrical bow, hoping it will lighten some of the worry creasing her features.
Down the prep line, Chef takes the bait.
"Girl, ye sound like a drown’d rat being slaughtered when ye try to sing. Save ever’one the pain and keep it zipped, will ya?" She says this like she’s sincerely trying to help.
A few girls grabbing things laugh, along with Hollis, who’s shaking her head and chuckling as I pretend to be offended.
I hear something crash in the room's corner, noting the table of drunks from earlier.
The younger kid, the one who asked for produce, is about to throw a punch when I give a low whistle, causing him to pause.
Chef pops her head out from the kitchen like a deranged gopher, throwing a towel over her shoulder as I give her a nod toward the table.
I should feel bad, making the old woman take the brunt of these situations, but I swear she loves it.
Watching an elderly woman kick grown men- who are acting like children- out of the diner, is oddly satisfying.
I smile with relief; the guys give her a few grumbles of protest, but relent quickly.
Marta has a way about her, a way of warning people with just a look she's not too be messed with.
She gives me a conspiratorial wink as she passes me on her way back to the kitchen, the complaints of the men as they are leaving music to her ears.
The day goes on, and I listen. Using the extra guests to pick up a few different pieces of information about the Games.
The where, the who, the what. I hear wild whispered conspiracies about government experiments, and long forgotten lands with raw magic.
I hear about more unrest at the borders in the West.
The squabbling between the remaining territories seems endless.
It's not considered a war, but with the mortality rate of our soldiers it might as well be.
There's an entire faction apparently that's sent out to our borders just to hold them, to ensure we get to keep our claimed portion of this dust bucket continent.
The information I’m really hoping for never comes, though.
I hear little bits about more people all over the country going missing, but I’ve heard it all before.
That sliver of hope that our dad is out there somewhere is always lingering in the back of my mind.
It’s a hollow hope. Once people disappear, they never really come back.
My mind wanders as I go through the motions, taking orders and cleaning tables.
It drifts to the fuzzy memories before my mom died and my dad became obsessed with answers.
When my life felt simple. Somewhere in the back of my head, I hear the front bell ring, and voices quiet momentarily.
I turn, wondering what has stolen people’s attention, and my breath catches as I see my best friend standing just inside the entrance, a huge goofy grin plastered on his face.
Deacon is standing there in a worn brown jacket and dusty coloured work pants. His tall frame takes up most of the doorway. I huck my tray of dirty dishes onto a vacant table and run full force towards him, leaping into his familiar embrace, completely disregarding the whispering patrons around us.
I revel in his broad shoulders, loving the warmth and instant relief I feel from seeing him in one piece. I let out an embarrassing sigh as I melt into him, and I hear his deep chuckle against my head.
"I missed you too, Mae," Deacon says with his own soft exhale as I continue to cling to him.