The Rotten Plug was quiet. Ever since Die Glücklich had started pushing into the streets nearby the clientele had shrunk dramatically, much to Niklas' chagrin.
The bar's owner shook his head, as he polished shot glasses, and then surveyed the few folks still left in the establishment. Over in the corner were the Dustin Brothers, a couple street rats who were good enough folk. They always paid their tabs and sometimes tipped Niklas when the district was getting too dangerous, so that he could close up shop and usher out his customers. The Brothers also served as bouncers if anyone in the Plug got a bit too rambunctious, and as payment Niklas usually let them drink for free, or at least for a lot cheaper than anyone else.
In one of the booths on the south side of the restaurant sat one of the odder folk Niklas had met in the Gutter. The man went by Dr. Quackshot (clearly not his real name) and worked as a street surgeon for those in need. He usually didn't accept payment, and simply asked for gossip or information, which made Niklas inherently uncomfortable. Information was a dangerous commodity these days, and anyone who was searching for it had to be more than Gutter slime. However, Quackshot also kept Niklas' customers in good health, and had even worked on the barkeep himself once or twice. Having Quackshot around made the bar look like a more quality establishment, even if the man made Niklas himself a tad uncomfortable.
There were only two people sitting at the bar itself. One, a regular, sat sipping Drain Juice quietly. He tended to keep to himself, and left his face covered by a carnival mask. Niklas had been quite uncomfortable when the man had first come to the bar, but he made no trouble, simply buying three Drain Juice shots and then leaving every third night. The other bar patron was a young woman with neon hair, who seemed to be fidgeting more than she wanted anyone to be aware of. Niklas was pretty sure he'd seen her around the bar once or twice, but had never paid much attention. She seemed like an interesting enough character, and if Niklas had owned a bar anywhere else in the city he was sure that he would have asked for her life's story, or something similar, but he owned a bar in the Gutter, and interesting people were a great way to get killed.
That left the only other patrons in the bar, a group of Bubble Gangers sitting at one of the tables and being generally rambunctious. While the Plug was technically in Squid territory, it was close enough to Mr. Pinky's borders that some gang members sometimes ventured over. The Squids were obviously not too fond of it, and as such neither was Niklas. The Squids let him keep his bar running as long as he stocked some of their chems every now and again, and he was pretty sure Pinky's group would just turn it into some sort of brothel.
Niklas stepped out from behind the bar and sauntered over to the Bubble Gangers.
"Alright sad asses, time to pack it in and haul it out, you're being too rowdy tonight."
One of the Gangers, who seemed to be slightly more authoritative than the others, turned to Niklas with a grin.
"Oi gramps, all we doing is chuggin' and druggin'. 'Ent no pushers or roaches floatin' in these flows no more, 'en I 'ent rearin to catch no teethers 'en me ass. Ye 'ent got no flexers wit' ye', so we stayin', 'less ye got 'em hid 'en the splinters."
Niklas didn't much appreciate her tone, or the fact that he only understood about a third of what she had just said. The street slang had evolved from his younger days, and he could barely keep up with it anymore. The Bubblers clearly weren't planning on going anywhere though, so Niklas nodded at Dustin Brothers, who started making their way towards him. The Bubblers noticed the brothers a bit too late, and two of them were lifted and tossed out of the Plug before they could even say a word. The other two Bubblers jumped out of their seats, and pulled small chuggers from their belts, pointing them at Niklas and the brothers.
Niklas stood his ground. The Bubblers knew that if they shot him the Squids would be all over their asses almost immediately. The brothers he wasn't so sure about though, so he motioned for them to stand down.
"Look, this is my bar, and I just want a little peace and quiet in here. Now get out."
The Bubbler who seemed to be in charge stared at him for a while, finger twitching on her trigger. Finally, she lowered the gun, and turned to storm out of the bar. As she was almost through the door, she turned her head back, glared at Niklas, and said "Pinky's apt t' filter in 'bout this old man. 'N when 'e turns up ye'll be flushed and gutted, y'hear? I'd wash out and go play wit' the Teethers, they do things fast-like."
With that the Bubblers turned and left the bar.
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"I don't care Alfred, keep him in the house. I'll be gone for about four hours, and when I get back we're packing up the study. I can't have anyone digging around my notes again, not after what happened last week."
Hemingway Robington turned from his butler and walked towards the door of his home. Alfred took care of things around the house well enough, but he spent too much time coddling the boy and not enough actually tidying up the place. Alfred had been a part of the family far too long to get a new butler, however, and Hemingway supposed that he brought a certain levelheadedness to the home.
As Hemingway stepped into the alley he reflected on how much quieter the district had become since the last of the original residents had be relocated. He was sure they weren't particular appreciative, but he was truly enjoying the uniformity of the tall, pyramidic buildings surrounding him. Many of ThysenKrüpp's executives chose to live in the Garden district, because they enjoyed the larger estates, but Hemingway had always prefered the industrial atmosphere of the Development District. Hemingway began making his way to the ThysenKrüpp Think Tank, which was located on the east side of the district. When he was a couple blocks away from the building, he noticed an odd noise coming from the street to his right.
Before Hemingway could turn, he heard a scream, and frantic footsteps running towards him. Assuming that the district enforcers had found another former resident hiding out in the district, he paid the commotion no mind. It wasn't until he saw his neighbor, and fellow ThysenKrüpp executive, Matricia Weber, running past him with blood streaked down her arm that he realized his mistake. Too late, Hemingway turned to see the figure charging towards him, and too late he noticed the knife in the figure's hand.
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