Chapter Text
Rifling through his wallet, counting the little ahn left of his savings within, Heathcliff began to regret the morning that he woke up with the overwhelming urge to do…something more than he was already doing. A couple months ago, he’d been living a fairly standard life working with a small-time Syndicate to make ends meet back home in District 20. He had good mates, a good boss; the work was simple yet dishonest, the kind of work he felt he was made for. He and the other blokes would spend their days completing contracts for various clients, breaking things and scaring folks, and then while away the nights at their favorite pub. It was a good life, despite the many hardships. Then the morning came where he awoke with a singular nagging thought:
Why did I stay so bloody long at that atrocious manor as a boy?
Wuthering Heights—the dreary manor he grew up in back in District 20. Not of his own accord, of course. He was taken in as a child by the master of the house, Mr. Earnshaw, who had found him in the Backstreets alone on a frigid winter night. The man had taken pity on him, and, concerned that he’d freeze to death overnight with how unprotected from the elements he was, had wrapped him in his overcoat and carried him home. While the master of the house had cared for him, the same could not be said for any of the other residents of the home, least of all the man’s son Hindley, and one of the manor’s lead Butlers, Josephine. Heathcliff had suffered a great many abuses at the hands of the two, and waking up that fateful morning, he could not for the life of him fathom why he’d remained there for as long as he did. Truly, he should have left after Mr. Earnshaw passed, but…he still stayed. He felt like something was missing. Something important, something that had tied him to the manor, something that was driving him. He couldn’t even begin to think of what it could have possibly been. He'd entertained the idea of getting revenge on that prick Hindley, but as he'd seen in a newspaper one day, it looked like he wouldn't need to; the man had already drank and gambled his way into destitution, and had lost the manor in the process. The article discussed how the house would be put up for auction for T Corp's elite, but admitted that the chances of it selling were quite slim. It was built on an underground river, making the foundations potentially unstable, and rumors abound about how the place was supposedly haunted.
Haunted. Yeah, it sure as hell was. Heathcliff remembered vividly moments late at night in which he'd see Josephine in the drawing room, standing in front of the fireplace, mumbling under her breath.
“Mistress…I always knew you'd return to us…you'll throw out that disgusting parasite masquerading as a child and set this house right…I know you will…”
He was always careful to not let her catch him when she was like that. The one time she did, she'd beat him within an inch of his life, howling about how his presence was disrespectful to the late Mrs. Earnshaw, beseeching her to expel Heathcliff from the manor permanently before inevitably locking him outside in the rain.
Sell that manor? They should've just burned the bloody thing down. Then again, Heathcliff mused that the weather would likely disagree.
With this feeling of listlessness fully lodged into his brain, Heathcliff had found himself at a loss. He’d liked his lot in life well enough; it could have always been better, but it could also have been considerably worse, and in the City things often tended to skew towards “worse.” He got out of bed, and began making inquiries with his mates around the Syndicate. Had Heathcliff ever spoken to anyone about anything or anyone important to him in the past? Had he ever talked about any long-term goals? The answer was the same everywhere he looked: no, not at all. At his wits end, Heathcliff had gone to speak with his boss, Matthew. He’d asked the same questions, got the same answers. And then he said, perhaps without thinking,
“Boss, I’m leavin’ the Dead Rabbits.”
Matthew had been surprised, to say the least. But the one thing Heathcliff had always appreciated about the man was that he truly did care for the people who worked under him, and ultimately Matthew would give him his blessings.
“You’ll always have a place here if ya don’t find what you’re lookin’ for out there, lad.” He had said, clapping Heathcliff on the shoulder. It was comforting to know he had something he could fall back on if he needed it.
Now, standing under an awning somewhere in the District 23 Backstreets, Heathcliff huffed as he shoved his wallet back into his pocket. He would have to put down roots in the area for a while, find some cheap lodgings, work some odd jobs to shore up his savings again before he could move on. A shitty room to rent temporarily, at least, would be easy to come by; he’d already seen advertisements for some on his way in, and his needs were few. Before long, he’d meandered his way down to an apartment building with the sort of landlord that didn’t ask questions about the kind of tenants he allowed as long as their money was good, and put a good chunk of his remaining savings down to secure himself a month in quite possibly the smallest accommodations known to man. A bed and a microwave were included, at least. Heathcliff really couldn’t ask for more. Laying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, Heathcliff took mental notes on what his next steps should be. He would need to find work, obviously, and soon. He’d need to spend a bit of time getting used to the area; he’d inevitably get lost plenty, as was often the case in any Backstreets area, but getting the lay of the land in his immediate environs at least would be a good idea. He’d need to find a market where he could pick up some essentials. The sudden twisting sensation in his stomach also reminded him that he’d have to eat today, too. That was going to be non-negotiable. He turned over, face first into the pillow, trying to stifle the gnawing hunger so he could think straight.
…
…Nope, it’s not happenin’.
With a heavy sigh, Heathcliff hauled himself off the bed, slipping his shoes back on and heading back out onto the streets. It was early enough in the evening that he could safely wander for a bit in search of something to eat. He realized he’d be spoiled for choice; the District 23 Backstreets were well renowned for their bevy of food establishments, of which there were plenty of not far from Heathcliff’s apartment. From humble street food hawker stalls to impressive looking restaurants frequented even by residents of the W Corp Nest and beyond, there was truly something for everyone in the legendary Streets of Flavor. A couple alleyways down from the street where his apartment was located, Heathcliff found a promising collection of establishments that looked to be within his price range. Hawker stalls selling stir fry and iced teas, taverns advertising cheap beer and whatever you could think of coated in batter and deep fried, and somewhere down the line, an unassuming little shop quite unhelpfully labeled, “R.B.” A chalkboard out front cheerfully stated the shop served “The worst pies in District 23!”
It was a bold statement. One that Heathcliff, someone who’d consumed many a meat pie back home, would have to ascertain for himself. He entered the small space, a doorbell ringing as he pushed the door inward, and immediately locked eyes with a black-haired woman behind the counter with one of the most intense gazes he’d ever encountered. Dressed in a white coat, Heathcliff assumed she was likely the cook. She took a long drag off her cigarette ( should she really be smoking that while cooking..? ), blew the smoke out off to the side away from the customers seated at the counter, and yelled over her shoulder,
“B.G.. Customer.”
With that, she motioned for Heathcliff to take a seat wherever he felt like, and turned her attention back to her prepwork. The counter seats all accounted for, Heathcliff sat at one of the few other tables near the wall. A few minutes later, a shorter man with long brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail emerged from the back room. He regarded Heathcliff with a lopsided grin.
“Heya, welcome in!” He greeted Heathcliff warmly, “First time here? I don’t recognize ya.”
“Uhh, yeah, hey. New in the area. Good to meet ya,” Heathcliff replied, “Name’s Heathcliff.”
The man joyfully extended his left hand; Heathcliff took it, giving it a firm shake.
“Likewise. Call me Gregor. Around town for a reason, or..?”
“Nah, just passin’ through, really. Hangin’ around for a bit pickin’ up some odd jobs.”
“Good stuff, good stuff,” Gregor nodded, watching Heathcliff intently over his glasses, “Well, what can I get started for ya? We’ve got…” He glanced behind him towards where the chef was silently prepping, “...Just pies today, actually. Sometimes Chef runs specials, when the inspiration hits her. Nothing today, though.”
“That’s fine, I came in here ‘cuz of the, uh…worst pies in District 23 claim?”
“Ah. You saw the sign, then? Lovely review we got from this would-be critic a while back. You can tell we really took it to heart.”
“M.I.T.T.” The chef chuckled from behind the counter. Heathcliff wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Don’t…mind Chef Ryoshu, she’s a bit of an eccentric.” Gregor said, sensing Heathcliff’s confusion.
“Piss off.” The chef, Ryoshu, flicked her cigarette at the back of Gregor’s head. He didn’t flinch.
“...Anyway, want me to lock you in for a pie, or..?” Gregor turned his attention back to Heathcliff, who nodded. “Great! One pie comin’ right up.”
Gregor turned on his heel.
“One pie, if you would, Chef?”
Ryoshu mumbled something, but set to work making the pie regardless, while Gregor began bussing some of the counter seats that had emptied in the meantime. Heathcliff took a look around the restaurant. Gregor certainly hadn’t lied when he said Ryoshu was an eccentric; the walls were covered in various art pieces that appeared to have been made by the woman herself. He could hardly call himself an art appreciator, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was seeing. Otherwise, the restaurant was sparsely furnished. The tables and counter seats had the usual napkin holders and condiments. The kitchen looked to be fairly standard from where he was sitting. The door at the back that Gregor had emerged from was firmly shut with an “Employees Only” sign plastered on its front; he assumed it was likely storage. Heathcliff’s stomach growled, and he squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively punched himself in the gut to try and quiet it.
“Bit hungry there, bud?” he heard Gregor say, his voice tapering off into a chuckle, followed by the dull clatter of a plate hitting the table. Heathcliff cracked an eye open. Gregor was standing with his hands on his hips, giving Heathcliff a sympathetic smile. An expertly plated pie, adorned with a thick brown gravy, sat on a plate in front of him.
“Been a bit since the last time I ate,” Heathcliff mumbled, “Yesterday, I think. Easy to lose track of time when you’re travelin’.”
Gregor frowned.
“Well, that’s no good. Go ahead and eat up, okay? If you don’t mind me sayin’...” He eyed Heathcliff in a strange way, “...You definitely look like you could use some meat on your bones.”
“Y-yeah…cheers, mate.” Heathcliff grabbed a fork from the caddy at the table and cut into the pie. Just judging by the smell and appearance, if this was the worst pie in District 23, then all the other pies had to be heaven sent. Steaming hot chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes tumbled out of the flaky crust, and Heathcliff eagerly shoveled a forkful into his mouth.
It was, undeniably, the best pie he’d ever tasted.
Unlike the pies he was used to back home, the crust had zero toughness and didn’t feel stale; it came apart with ease and was delicate on the tongue. The meat—pork, Heathcliff assumed by the taste—was tender as could be, well seasoned with an entire menagerie of spices that he couldn’t even begin to identify all of, and was incredibly moist. The vegetables too were soft, but not too soft as to be mushy. He cut off another piece, dipping it in a generous helping of the gravy. It wasn’t needed, but Wings was it good —savory and peppery, adding an extra layer of flavor to the already deeply flavorful dish. Heathcliff slowly savored each bite. Gregor reappeared at the table, pouring him a glass of water.
“Everything all good over here, bud?” he asked, and Heathcliff nodded, his mouth too full to speak, “Awesome! We love to make our customers happy!” He beamed.
“Hey, B.G., I don’t pay you to chat up the customers.” Ryoshu chided, her intense gaze threatening to bore a hole through Gregor’s back.
“Chef, you hardly pay me at all.”
“I pay you enough to cover your expenses. Is that not enough?”
“...Y’know, there’s a little thing called ‘savings’ that I’d like to start up…”
“L.Y.E., you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Gregor grumbled something incoherent under his breath, and turned his attention back to Heathcliff.
“S-sorry about that, bud. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” he said, before turning to pick up a few dirty dishes off the counter and carrying them into the kitchen.
Heathcliff took a sip of his water. For being seemingly the only two people running the place, their relationship sure was antagonistic. At least the food was good, and Gregor was kind. He forked down the last bite of his pie, taking a napkin from the holder to wipe the gravy and loose crust bits from his lips.
“Oi, Gregor,” Heathcliff said, craning his neck to find the man wiping down the window-side table, “How much do I owe you for the pie?”
“Ah,” Gregor replied, hastily stuffing his rag into his apron pocket, “‘Bout 5 ahn should do it.”
Heathcliff retrieved a bill from his wallet and placed it on the table.
“200% gratuity is standard out here, F.Y.I.” Ryoshu quipped without looking up.
“No, it isn’t,” Gregor said exasperatedly, “Cut the guy some slack, Chef. He’s new in town.”
“Exactly.”
Gregor heaved a long-suffering sigh, and picked up the bill and the plate from Heathcliff’s table.
“You’re more than good, bud. Thanks for stoppin’ by! Hope to see you back soon.”
“Yeah, ‘course!” Heathcliff rose from his seat, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket, “Definitely enjoyed it, and you’re not far from the place I’m rentin’, so I’ll be back again.”
“That’s good, since it’s getting late,” Gregor’s gaze drifted out the window, where the sky was rapidly darkening, “Nights here are just as dangerous as any other Backstreets, if not more so, so get home safe and bolt your door real secure-like, alright?”
Something strange strangled Heathcliff’s chest, something he couldn’t really identify. His mates back in the Rabbits had shown concern for him in the past, but this felt…different, somehow.
“Uh…yeah, right. I will. Thanks, mate.”
Gregor gave him a wave as he headed out the door and back into the alleyway, heartily calling out, “Take care!” as the door closed behind him.
Mercifully, Heathcliff remembered the mental map he’d drawn himself on his route there, and was able to easily find his way back to his apartment. He unlocked the door, closing and securely locking and bolting it behind him per Gregor’s suggestion, and fell face forward into his mattress. It wasn’t like there was space for much else other than the mattress, anyway; the bed took up the majority of the floor space, with only a little bit of space to walk around in, a counter with a dingy old microwave against the wall facing the bed, and a small closet near the door where Heathcliff had stashed his duffel bag full of his clothes and meager other belongings. He sighed into the bedsheets. His scalp was starting to ache, which was a good indication he’d need to give his hair a good wash. The major downside of this building was that the units didn’t contain bathrooms; rather, each floor had communal showers and toilets. He’d have to get up and carry his things to the showers if he was going to shower tonight, and he was starting to feel just a bit too tired to bother. He could just shower in the morning instead. He rolled himself over onto the bed fully, kicking off his shoes and shrugging his coat off onto the floor.
Alright then. Sleep now, wake up in the morning, hit the showers…saw a market on my walk, can hit it up for stuff…then start lookin’ for work…
Heathcliff made a mental checklist of the things he’d need to do in the morning as he stared up at the ceiling. He undid his pants and kicked them off the edge of the bed, and pulled one of the sheets up over himself. Turning over onto his side, he curled up and yawned into the pillow, letting sleep claim him.
–--
Ryoshu’s gaze hadn’t left Gregor the entire time they’d been closing up the shop. The man was idly refilling napkins, and he kept catching her looking at him.
“Can I…help you?” He eventually asked, fishing a cigarette and his lighter out of his pocket.
“Since when did you get so chummy with customers?”
“Eh?” Gregor lit his cigarette, a wispy puff of smoke escaping his lips as he took his first drag, “Is it not proper customer service to be polite?”
“Sure. But you’re normally…not like that .” Ryoshu took a drag off her own cigarette, not looking up from where she was sharpening her knives behind the counter, “Could it be that you’re feeling a bit…smitten?”
Gregor scoffed, shoving the napkin holder he was refilling hard back against the wall.
“Hardly. I was trying to make a repeat customer of the guy, that’s all”
“Mm.”
They continued on with their closing tasks for a time, with the metallic swishing of the knife against the whetstone and the distant sound of the hawkers outside as their only background noise.
“So,” Ryoshu spoke up again, “H.I.P.? Yay or nay?”
“Tch. Come on, Chef. Even a cursory glance at the guy could tell ya there was hardly any meat on him to work with.” Gregor chewed on the butt of his cigarette, “Surely you’ve got standards. ”
Ryoshu laughed coldly. Of course she had standards, and they were high to boot.
“Besides,” Gregor continued, “I think our current method of…ingredient procurement is working out just fine, for the time being. We don’t have to start regularly poaching our customer base.”
“True, true…though I do delight in the memory of that asshole critic pleading for his life while I started butchering him alive…ahh, his screams as I sliced through the tendons of his arms were like music to my ears…”
“He pissed on the worktable,” Gregor sighed, “And I had to clean it up afterwards.”
Ryoshu finished sharpening her knife, running it under the sink and wiping it down with a towel before placing it back into her knife roll and shoving the whole thing into her pocket.
“And that’s why I pay you oh so well,” she responded, rounding the counter and clapping Gregor on the shoulder sarcastically.
“We talked about this earlier. You really don’t.”
She patted his shoulder a few times, as if for emphasis.
“Make sure to lock up before you head out.”
Gregor exhaled out the last of the smoke from his cigarette as he stubbed it out against his prosthetic arm.
“Yep. I will. I do it every time. Have literally never forgotten.”
“The one time I forget to remind you will be the day you forget to do it,” she said as she pulled the door open, “Try not getting killed tonight?”
Gregor gave her a well practiced fake smile. “No promises, Chef.”
She left, and Gregor sait in silence for several minutes until he was sure she was far enough away that she wouldn’t hear him.
“...Absolute fuckin’ horrorshow of a woman…”
He sighed, for the umpteenth time that day, and hauled himself into the kitchen to finish the dishes so he could go home.
“ Smitten …riiiight….” he muttered as he scraped some particularly stubborn gravy residue off of a serving tray, “Only thing I’m smitten for is takin’ this place out from under her…”
Gregor set the clean tray onto the drying rack, quickly rinsed his hands, and dried them off on his pants. He took stock of everything that needed to be done at the end of the night: prep work for the morning, done. Dishes, done. Condiments and napkins refilled, done. Floors swept and mopped, done. Trash taken out…he’d haul the last bag to the dumpster on his way out. Of course, all of his butcher duties were all taken care of as well, and both the restaurant facing door and the back door of the workshop out into the subsequent alley were both bolted. He grabbed the final trash bag, hauled it over his shoulder, and flicked off the lights on his way out, purposefully making sure to lock up the door and the shutter as Ryoshu’s incessant nagging echoed in his mind. Undoing the padlock on and opening the nearby dumpster, he tossed the trash in, redid the lock and sauntered off into the chilly autumn night.