Everyone buries their noses in mugs as large as their heads. Others have stopped whistling, staring only at the street, where the highlight is a horse-drawn carriage every few minutes. The receptionist walks to a bulletin board filled with missions and wanted posters. Her eyes widen. Understandable; such events are rare here.
I turn and see two broad-shouldered blues choking on their drinks. I glance around. Upstairs on the interior balcony, several scarred men stand. Blues who believe they’re strong just because they’ve defeated a few greens. In their arms are either half-naked or fully naked women.
Blue nipples, slender waists. They once danced, hips swaying against the trousers of men. Now, they stand motionless, as if rooted to the floor. The guild is vast—over a hundred men—but amidst the crowd, no one meets my gaze directly. I crack my stiff neck as the receptionist hands me a note. She waits, uncertain, as I unfold it. Perhaps she doesn’t know what comes next.
"I’m currently not here. I’m only at the guild during the last five days of the week. Please visit me at the following address: Minsk Street 85.
Reggy. So, the boss works only half the week. I glance at the receptionist; her head hangs low. My eyes linger on the letter, bearing Reggy’s signature and the guild’s seal. I look toward the bartender, who pushes a beer toward me with trembling hands. I tuck the letter into the dry pocket at my hip and take a sip. The foam clings to my mouth; my nose dips into it as I drink greedily, as if before me lies the corpse of a yellow or higher-blooded. It’s not as sweet as their blood, but the bitter, mushroom taste soothes my pain. I set the glass down, foam on my upper lip. My lips aren’t green like most lower Greens—wannabe shapeshifters. I scoff at the thought.
I raise my fingers, a green drop falling onto the stained floor. Behind me, a trail lingers. What’s happening to me? I push the thought aside, blaming my poor memory. I raise my hand, forgetting why. All eyes are on me. Silence. Their breaths are audible beneath mine. At that moment, the saloon door creaks open. A young man enters—very young, perhaps in his late twenties. He looks arrogant, nose held high, curly hair framing his face. His eyes resemble those of the red-bred Asians, narrowed in disdain. My gaze meets his—my green eyes into his ocean blue. His blond waves, reminiscent of a fairy-tale prince, cascade over his shoulders.
He stops, eyes still haughty. Three seconds pass. My hand remains raised, and then he falls. His thick hair cushions his head as his eyes and mouth confront death. I stare down at him, about twenty large steps away. "I need a shower," I say, holding my hand up longer than intended. "And someone check on him." My steps echo over the beer-stained floor as men, both young and old, edge away when I approach. "There are rooms with showers on the second floor," the receptionist says hesitantly, her voice fluctuating. She scratches her unidentifiable Adam’s apple, but I’m already ascending the stairs. First, second, or however many floors this guild has—of course, there’s a room with showers. I reach into my back pocket, one of four around my waist. I flick two silver coins. "Keep the change," I say monotonously, the coins rolling over the counter and landing in both her palms. The gazes continue to shift away from me, while new ones fixate on me. I feel their cold stares from afar—greed. But nearby, it’s different. Trembling legs. Sweaty hands. As I approach, my blood dripping nearby, they recoil. Fear. My metallic hand glides over the knife-scarred railing of the stairs. I glance at the men on the first floor. An inner balcony—a square. At least twenty women and men, half of them naked. Some have artificial nipples shaped like hearts—blue, naturally. They’re not worthy of red. One doesn’t consort with food. Especially not with pigs. But I take it back; with some perverts, you never know...
I stroll down the corridor, passing women who try to hide behind their night buyers, but instead, these men push their prostitutes forward. I click my tongue, and they shrink back further. I walk with a wide gait, turn right, and continue up the stairs.