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The stage lights go out.
For a lingering moment, Serval stares into the murky, smoky space straight ahead, soaking up the last of the shouts and the claps and the cheers until they die down completely and the crowd lazily begins to disperse. A few stragglers stick around to see if anything else might happen, in blatant disregard of the announcement that she had made just moments prior: that Mechanical Fever will be back after a half hour’s break.
This is the best part, this buzz of residual energy that continues to swirl around the room like flurries of snow out on the Plains. Just moments ago, it was surging across the stage, crackling through her guitar, pouring out of the towering speaker stack and into the audience. Now it hangs in the air all around them, fueling the indisputably good vibes: excited chatter in the corner, shouts between the bar staff, the sound of someone stomping along to the intermission tunes. Serval might not be able to see them in the darkness, but it’s music to her ears.
The transformation that the Fight Club has undergone is astounding. Thanks to a dedicated crew composed of Underworlders and Overworlders alike, it now serves admirably as a fully functional music venue, though it might still fall short of the Overworld’s stringent building codes. The crowd flow was good from the get-go and the PA system has undergone a full rework — one to which Serval herself had happily lent her talents.
The whole package is still a bit rough around the edges, but it’s no worse than the venues that had hosted Mechanical Fever’s early gigs: the ones out on the fringes of Backwater Pass, enchanting nooks and crannies of neighborhoods that have long been abandoned to the Fragmentum and locked down to the public. Perhaps, even, for the rest of her insignificant lifetime.
The thought comes hand in hand with a stab of nostalgia, one that Serval doesn’t have the time to dwell on. Instead, she checks her equipment again, making sure it’s secure on the stand and ready to go for their second set.
Then, on to the next moment.
There’s a bottle of water shoved into her hand and a shout behind her to be back in 30 minutes — ‘sharp!’ Pela responds with something in the affirmative, though Serval can’t make out what it is — not that she’s particularly worried about getting back in time. You don’t get far in the Silvermane Guards without developing a sixth sense for these things.
Finally set loose to do as she likes, Serval steps down from the raised stage and tries to reorient herself on the floor. Nearly everyone she knows is in attendance for Mechanical Fever’s very first Underworld show: Dunn, Gepard, the ever-unpredictable Trailblazers. There are even rumors of the Supreme Guardian sneaking about in disguise, but that’s something she’ll have to ask Bronya about some other time.
They know her, know to give her space in the immediate afterglow of their set, and those that don’t know for sure, probably get the hint. Out of the corner of her eye, Serval spots that one fan who’s always milling about outside the workshop, but the chances of her approaching are slim to none — it has, after all, been years, and she’s never said a word to her directly.
The rest of the band has already split, each to make the most out of the break they’ve been given. It’s at the end of the night that their paths tend to converge again, when there’s more than enough time to sit and chat and laugh together, but this short stretch is for them to use as they please.
As Serval stumbles through the crowd, she doesn’t even mind the overt staring; it’s all part of the package and she loves it for what it is. The small talk, however, will have to wait. What she needs right now is fresh air, and so she sets out to find just that, keeping an eye out for something alcoholic to grab along the way. She’s not Belobog’s biggest drinker, but she can hold her own pretty well, and this feels like a great point in the evening to start sipping on something nice.
Past the green room, Serval turns the corner into another short hallway. She sidesteps the crumpled pieces of paper on the floor, the suspicious puddle of liquid, and finally reaches the door at the end, through which she slips outside. As soon as she pushes it closed behind her, all the chaos inside is reduced to muffled, unintelligible noise — just like that.
Belobog’s icy atmosphere hits her like a punch to the face the way it always does, but tonight it feels extra good, extra crisp and tasty and nourishing. The back of the building isn’t exactly an oasis of calm, but it should suit her nicely. Its few pitiful square meters of space contain the bare essentials: a geomarrow heater that looks like it could be from the previous century and several pieces of rickety bar furniture. Trash cans, naturally. And—
She’s not alone.
“Hello, Miss Serval.”
“Ah… hi,” says Serval, face to face with the Underworld’s only doctor — and the leader of Wildfire at that.
She takes an awkward step forward, stumbles, grins. But despite her lingering stage-drunk dissociation, she feels much more like herself now. Not that she would have minded the other woman’s presence anyway — Natasha is known for her extraordinary ability to put people at ease. Part and parcel of the job, Serval figures.
“Were you looking for some privacy, perhaps? I can leave, if you were,” says Natasha, ever-accommodating — and perceptive.
Serval huffs out a chuckle. “No need, er, Doctor Natasha. Just getting some air.”
The other woman nods silently and then stands, reaching over to pull up one of the forlorn bar stools side by side with her own. “Would you care to join me, then?”
“Sure thing,” Serval replies with a grin, accepting the offer with only the briefest hesitation.
“And just ‘Natasha’ will do,” her companion says with an indecipherable smirk. “You’re not my patient, after all.”
“And… you too. Just call me Serval.”
They sit back and fall silent.
As Natasha lifts her head to look up at the view, Serval finds herself doing the same, following her gaze out to the expanse overhead. It’s hard to get used to the fact that there’s no sky to look up at, but the Underworld landscape is stunning in its own way. Rugged and resilient and, honestly, right up her alley.
It’s the harmony of the Underworld ambiance that Serval finds the most striking of all. The howling winds are absent, replaced by the clang of metal, and the muffled, low rumblings of stone being moved somewhere in the distance. And the silence. The combination would even be spooky, unsettling, if not for the near-palpable vitality that the people bring to the Underworld’s streets, worn and weary though they are.
And sitting next to her is the force that keeps it all running — barely an exaggeration.
It’s cold, of course. But that part, at least, Serval’s used to. She scoots up closer to the heater, belatedly noticing that it’s also brought her closer to Natasha. Their knees are practically touching.
It’s rare to see other woman wearing anything other than her work uniform. Even though tonight is, evidently, a special occasion, it’s still close enough to her usual threads: only the teddy bear and her overcoat are missing, the latter having been replaced with a more casual variation. Her flasks and potions, though, haven’t gone anywhere.
“What about the clinic?” Serval suddenly looks up, remembering how busy her Natasha’s day job keeps her — and how high the stakes can get. It’s not as if the people of the Underworld can put their ailments on hold for the night.
“Worry not,” Natasha says with a chuckle, “my assistants should have a good handle on things while I’m out.”
“Oh? That’s nice. Having someone to run things in your absence, I mean.”
“Mm. Only on the rarest of occasions,” Natasha says with an odd twitch to her lip.
One of resignation, if Serval were to guess. Talk about responsibility.
While she’s had her share of it back in the Guards, Serval’s experience doesn’t hold a candle to the burden that this woman bears every day with such unshakable confidence. And besides, her stint in the Silvermanes was so long ago. These days she’s free to pour herself into her music the way she’s always wanted to, but… is that all there is?
Idly, Serval fidgets with the hem of her skirt. Though their interactions have been few and far in between, being in Natasha’s presence has always had this effect on her. On top of that spark of something they seem to dance around, it makes Serval come face to face with herself, makes her insecurities slowly bubble up to the surface.
So what has she accomplished, then? Not much, ever since Cocolia had so efficiently cut her out of her life. Serval’s days of helping Belobog—really helping—are behind her.
She’s a good engineer, though, and a good mechanic, even if she cares less about making money and more about making banging music. She does make banging music.
Yet, she’s all too aware of the fact that she only has the opportunity to do it because she escaped from her duties as a Landau and a Silvermane Guard both, while Natasha went out of her way to take on even more. Something with meaning.
Natasha is as determined as she is unfathomably kind. She knows what she’s doing, knows what she wants, and more importantly — knows what those in her care need. The immense authority she carries is palpable. For as close as the two of them are in age, the other woman bears so much more on her shoulders… It’s hard not to feel like a mess in front of someone like her.
And still, so easy to share a space with her.
For a fleeting second, Serval wonders if Natasha has ever doubted her decisions, if she has regrets—(stupid question, everyone does)—and then, what kind… But she keeps her curiosities private, holds herself back from ruining the moment with artless questions. It’s neither the time nor the place for it.
Instead, she plasters on her usual customer-service grin and asks: “So how was it?”
“How was what?” Natasha says in return, turning to face Serval.
“Our set. Hope it was to your liking.” She’s said these same lines so many times before, with this same well-practiced cool-girl smirk.
“Incredible,” Natasha replies without as much as a hint of hesitation, perfect lips stretching into a wide smile. “It’s a shame we don’t get musicians of your caliber around here very often. I’d be a regular.”
And just like that Serval’s been knocked off her groove again, left floundering for something normal to say. “Well— Well, I’m glad.”
“Do you drink?” Natasha suddenly says, not letting the earlier silence return.
Serval freezes. “Oh? Yeah. Now and then. Why?”
“Here,” says Natasha. She reaches into one of her numerous pockets and pulls out a sizable flask; not one meant to hold medicine, that much is certain.
Serval recognizes it for what it is, and the lopsided grin returns to her face. “And what have we got there?”
“My favorite vodka, if you’d like some,” says Natasha with a chuckle. “They make it just nearby, though I don’t get the luxury to partake all that often.”
“I bet.”
With another nod and a lift of her eyebrows, Natasha holds out the flask and Serval reaches over to take it, fingers unintentionally brushing against the other woman’s. Natasha’s smile doesn’t waver, but Serval feels like her insides have done an entire gymnastics routine just from the contact; this, too, is nothing new.
She covers up her embarrassing reaction by taking a good long swig. The vodka burns down her throat, but it’s a nice burn, promising to warm her up — at least, more than the struggling heater. When she looks up again, Natasha’s eyes seem even warmer, her expression relaxed and content.
Serval doesn’t quite know what to attribute it to, be it the vodka or the woman or the invigorating atmosphere around them, but the small talk becomes smoother, flows out of her like it usually does back at the workshop. They chat about this and that, the show, work, friends. What’s on the horizon for their reborn city.
With Natasha, it’s just— easy. There’s no better word for it.
When the conversation dies down again, Serval can already sense it without needing to look at the clock: her break is coming to an end. It’s rare that she finds herself wanting to be anywhere else but on stage with her band, but this feels like it’s too soon, too fleeting of a moment that hasn’t yet come to completion. Significant in a way Serval doesn’t yet understand.
She finds it hard to tear her eyes away from Natasha’s, harder yet to extricate herself from the soft touch of Natasha’s hand on her knee. The woman’s kind, competent, and hey— smoking hot.
And Serval is nothing if not impulsive.
She slips out of her seat and turns towards Natasha, ignoring the way her lips part and eyebrows drift slightly upwards. Well, maybe not ignoring the lips, after all; taking her coat by the lapels, she pulls Natasha into a kiss, presses as close to the other woman as their positions will allow. It’s quite the gamble for someone who’s never been much of a gambler, but she has a good feeling about it…
One that blooms into elation when Natasha responds in kind. She parts her legs to allow Serval to step closer, hooks a finger into one of the straps on her belt to guide her into a more comfortable position. Her hand curls around the side of Serval’s waist and grabs on tight. Almost like she’s been expecting it.
A-Ah.
Serval lets herself get lost in the kiss, loses the ability to think once again. There are fingers in her hair, long legs hooked around the back of her knees, and a self-assured tongue exploring her own. She can’t tell where her own muffled moans end and where Natasha’s begin, but she keeps up: she sighs into her mouth, kisses back in earnest, doesn’t bother to hide her hunger for the other woman in the meager moments that they have left.
Natasha’s hands brazenly slide up her skirt, throwing whatever notions of propriety that Serval usually associates with the doctor out the window. Her nails dig into the flesh of Serval’s thighs, but her fingertips follow right behind with their own soft caresses, leaving promises in their wake.
And Serval does keep up. Her hands find Natasha’s waist, eager to feel it up through her clothes, so pleasantly toned and thick and dense. She kneads her lower back in encouragement, though it’s not as if Natasha needs any to begin with. She takes and takes, and she gives just as much, if not more.
And then, all too soon, there it is.
“Serval? Ser— Have you seen where she went?”
The voice behind the door is faint, but leaves no ambiguity: it’s time to go.
Tearing herself away from her companion feels like an impossible task, but after a few tries, Serval succeeds. She swallows, trying to calm her pleasantly agitated nerves before she has to go up on stage, exposed for all to see.
For once, Natasha doesn’t make it easy, between the way she sits back and licks her lips and the downright ravenous look in her eyes. Then it softens, gets tucked away behind something better suited for polite company.
“Come here?” Natasha quietly says.
Serval steps closer. She’s sure to be late now, sure to be reprimanded, all because of her inability to say no to this breathtaking woman.
But Natasha—as always—helps. She brushes her long ungloved fingers through Serval’s hair, straightens up Serval’s stage outfit where it had shifted out of place from their earlier enthusiasm. “There,” she finally declares, visibly pleased with her work.
“Will you, ah—” Serval glances up at her, but struggles to finish the question. She feels the flush on her face, still — sure to be obvious to everyone inside.
“I’ll be around,” says Natasha, answering anyway. She underlines her words with one last squeeze to Serval’s hands before they part.
“I’ll find you, then?” says Serval as she steps backwards towards the door, eager to draw out as many reassurances as she can from the other woman. She stumbles a little, rights herself again.
Natasha nods.
Then it’s back inside, down the hallway, up the steps.
“1… 2… 3… 4…”
And for the first time in years, Serval plays with an audience in mind.