The train’s tracks clicked and clattered beneath the underground, silvery tube that served as a subway. The faceless crowd that surrounded him was unbearable, but after warningly pointing his Lysol can at a little girl who got too close, Kale hadn’t been bothered much by the bystanders and travelers around him.

It was near midnight anyway; or at least, two hours from it--about the time when he SHOULD be heading into work. But after three untimely deaths of his scooter, Kale had given up on the red Vespa’s will to survive.

So, clad in his bar-outfit--which consisted of a chic, black shirt and a pair of pinstriped pants, along with a white bowtie--whose choking capacity never ceased to amazed the easily-irritable Kale--and his simple, black Oxfords.

The little girl he’d threatened with the Lysol bottle stared at him blatantly from behind her coke-bottle glasses, round, blue eyes magnified three times their size, and she calmly licked her lollipop, long, blonde hair tucked under a little beret. Her father--or whomever the alarmingly tall gentleman in the suit was, jabbering on the phone beside her--didn’t seem to notice the girl’s blatant look.

Kale, grimacing, glanced at her once--then twice more, as his OCD commanded--and then out the window, to which was reflected a simple, gray-slate wall of the subway.

It was too cramped in here. The stench of the people, their sweat, the coughing, sneezing, and general noise and creak of the train made Kale vastly uncomfortable. He was in something he didn’t like, surrounded by things he didn’t like--a cramped space and too many people, most of whom looked or at least seemed sick. He knew the subway made rounds near a hospital, and that unnerved him greatly.

The train stopped, and more people crowded on and off, in a rhythmic, obnoxious pattern.

Still the little girl stared.

Still the feeling of painful clutter continued.

He felt like he was being slowly crushed--compressed, with the rest of the train surrounding himself.

  Running his fingers anxiously through his bright, neon-green hair, Kale exhaled faintly and reached for a cigarette. The train jostled, and the lights flickered faintly. He paused, glancing upwards once again, and flicked a glance around, then, with an uneasy shrug, set the Marlboro to his lips, half-closing his eyes as he sought the lighter he knew had to be in at least one of his pockets…but which one? He sighed, and reached into the back one, cigarette dangling from his lips--and a black-sleeved arm reached around his shoulder, calmly plucking the cigarette from his mouth.

Kale frowned, and spun to stare at the perpetrator, whoever he was, and found he couldn’t move--an arm pressed to the wall of the subway train prevented him from moving around too much. A calm, deep tenor voice murmured melodically into his ear,

“You shouldn’t smoke on the train.”

Kale flinched, and drove his elbow lightly back, experimentally jamming it against the other’s chest. There was a grunt, and then a laugh, and Kale suddenly found his arm grasped, wrenched behind his back, and his face thrust against the side of the train. He squirmed, cursing acidly.

“What the fuck is your problem? I just wanted a damn smoke! I don’t even KNOW you!”

“Calm down,” the man said quietly, and Kale momentarily felt his muscles relax--almost of their own accord--before he struggled again. The man--he wanted to see his face--he smelled like something sweet. Lavender, or sage, maybe.

Kale tensed up again.

“Are you gonna mug me, man? I don’t got any money on me, so you can just forget about it,” he snapped in annoyance, particularly with the wad of gum that nearly touched his pale, pointed, and slightly-stubbly chin, located on the train’s side, pressed there by some idle child.

There was a soft chuckle, and the scent momentarily became overwhelming to his over stimulated senses as the person leant gently over his shoulder again.

“I just stopped you from destroying your lungs, boy.” the grip momentarily tightened on his arm, and Kale winced. “You should be thanking me.”

“Thanks. Now let the fuck go.” Kale struggled, but to no avail--despite his wiry muscles, the stranger had a vice-like grip of iron.

“I have a message for you,” the man said serenely.

“Oh really?” Kale spat. “What is it, so that I can peel myself off this damn wall and get to work? If you don’t, I’ll just kick your fucking ass!” Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Why wasn’t anyone trying to help him? Panic swelled, hammering, in his chest, causing his heart to slam hard against his ribcage, and echo, resounding, in his ears. He found it abruptly difficult to swallow--and harder still to breathe. The train swam in front of his vision. The smell…what was that?

“You’ve got a foul mouth on you,” the man said coolly, and Kale shuddered as something icy touched his neck--it took him a minute to notice two things--one, that he felt feverish, and two, that it was a finger that prodded his skin. “I’ve half a mind to teach you some manners while I’m here.” he calmly adjusted Kale’s jacket. “I came to tell you that your time of solitude is reaching the brevity of its longevity.” There was a pause as he allowed Kale to soak that in. “Which is to say, Kale Matthews--”

He knows my NAME? How the--what the fuck is going on here?!

“Your days are numbered.”

The lights of the train snapped back on, the smell faded, and the subway screeched to a halt. Kale, still gripping the handle to the Subway--around a tissue to keep from actually to touching it--jerked awake. He blinked rapidly in the dim lighting, and squinted, wincing, against its brightness.

“Mister, your hat fell off.” The little girl skipped over to him, and, balancing her lollipop between her lips--which made her look like a turtle, Kale realized dazedly--and stooped to scoop up a discarded, coal-black fedora.

“Thanks, but this isn’t--” Kale looked up, and she was gone, leaving him holding a fedora, standing on an empty train that stank faintly of circus peanuts, sweat--and underneath it all, motor oil and…lavender.

-

“Hey, chico,” the tan-skinned waitress greeted him at the door, with a ruby-lipped smile. “What took you so long, Mac was nearly out of his mind tonight. Loco, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” the still-frazzled youth said, rubbing the back of his neck, and absently setting the fedora on the hat rack located next to the bright, neon-blue bar. “I mean, well. I had to take the subway tonight, Francesca. I’m sure Mac’ll understand.”

“The hell I will!” the short, white-haired Irishman bawled, scattering the dancing customers of the Lucky Dog bar. “You’re late all the time lately, Matthews! Half the fuckin’ time I don’t even know where your head is! Look, the bar needs cleaning! You can handle THAT much, can’tcha?”

Kale’s pointed ears reddened slightly, and, clenching his narrow jaw, he jerked his head in the affirmative.

“Yes, sir. I can, sir.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mac snapped, green eyes slanting. “Now, get to it! We got payin’ customers to handle, bub! At least I see you wore your uniform this time.”

Kale flashed his boss a slightly sickened smile, and nodded. Mac grunted his pig-like approval, and went off to consult with three tall men in the corner, who were playing with cards and staring avidly at the horse races on the television above their heads.

The smooth groove of Moloko coursed through the crowd, the young teenagers and twenty-somethings dancing the night away, bumping uglies, and hell knew what else in that amoeba--of more faceless people.

  He snatched the bottle of lemon-scented cleaner from behind the counter, located next to the unopened whiskey, and dumped it onto the bar, before sweeping a terrycloth that looked like it had seen better days through the oily liquid, his teeth set and gritted, his flame-colored eyes narrowed.

Francesca, glancing between Mac and Kale, let out a low whistle, adjusting her curly, flippant brunet bob, and smiling faintly, before tucking the strap of her white, cut-off belly-shirt into place. She sauntered closer to Kale, long, tan legs sliding onto a barstool, and folded her hands, staring at him in her gentle, knowing way.

“That Mac, always on about something, hombre. Don’t let him get to you.” Kale scowled deeply and did his best to ignore her, slanting his eyes and wrinkling his long, pointed nose with a grunt of dismissal. She didn’t allow that, and simply grabbed his chin, despite his protest, with a smooth-skinned hand that bore many glittering rings and bangles--and sported a henna tattoo of vines.

“Hey, you listenin’ to me? Don’tchu pretend like I ain’t ‘ere, chico.”

Kale’s red eyes flicked upwards, meeting compassionate, dark brown, and he exhaled heavily.

“I just haven’t been myself lately, Fran. I’ve been sleeping badly. Got a lot on my mind.”

“So talk to me,” she said simply, patting the side of his face in a sisterly fashion. “You know you ain’t gotta go outta your way to get my attention.” her lips flared upwards coyly, and she slyly ran her fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “And I know I ain’t gotta do much to get YOUR attention, do I, chico?”

  Kale stared at her, and for an infinite moment, he felt like he came close to kissing her--getting over his fear of where her mouth could have been, what’d she eaten, if she’d brushed her teeth--he just wanted closeness, some sense that all of this was real and he wasn’t just asleep and dreaming again. His eyelids fluttered faintly, and he found it difficult to swallow for a whole new reason.

“…Francesca, I--”

“Hey, lady! Can we get some nachos over here?”

Francesca pouted, and set a finger to Kale’s lips, before getting to her feet.

“Hold that thought, sugarplum.”

Kale nearly groaned in frustration as Francesca sashayed away, swaying her hips, her little white apron flicking to-and-fro in time to her well-placed steps, as she bore a tray of golden, crispy chips slathered in cheese over to the red-faced football-players who lingered in the corner.

The night sped by, and Kale could not find time to speak with Francesca openly again. Customers milled around the bar, ordering drinks--anything from simply beer to Seabreezes and appletinis. Kale did his best to treat them all the same, with a smile on his face, and carefully took their money between hastily-clenched fingertips, stuffing it into the drawer of the cash-register as fast as he could, and using alcohol-wash that smelled like cucumbers and melons to scrub his hands thoroughly afterwards--save for the one girl who insisted using his pants to put her money in.

That was alright by him; she left shortly afterwards anyways.

Finally, three-o-clock rolled around, or, flopped around, as several people prior to the hour had toppled off of their stools or chairs. Some still slow-danced to Norah Jones, and Kale, rubbing the inside of an already-clean glass thoroughly with a fresh terrycloth, glanced at the clock, and frowned, squinting faintly. Why did the big hand seem to waver between the twelve and the eleven? Oh well.

“Folks, it’s about time you head out,” the green-haired bartender said loudly--and as usual, was met with a chorus of defeated mumbles and groans.

One blonde man, in a bright red wife beater that stretched taut over his muscles, staggered closer to the bar, leering into Kale’s face.

“Fifty bucks says you gemme anutha drink,” he slurred, reeking of whiskey. Kale cast his eyes heavenwards and exhaled.

“Sir, it’s closing time. And to be quite honest, I think you’ve had enough already.”

“Izzat so?” Grunted the blonde man. His companion, a black-haired, square-jawed thug, adjusted the collar of his leather jacket and stomped over, swaying slightly in place. “Ain’tcha ‘spozed to make the customer happy?” The blonde cast his friend a nasty smile. “He ain’t treatin’ the customer right, Dick.”

“Dick?” Kale couldn’t resist saying, with a disbelieving grin. “Your name is Dick?” he glanced at the blonde. “And who are you? Head?”

The blonde’s smile slipped, and his companion’s scarred, pug-like face twisted into an even deeper scowl than before.

The first man settled his arms on the counter, and stared at Kale, then turned his head to one side, as if listening intently.

“I don’t think I heard you,” he said softly.

“Well, I--” was all Kale managed to get out before the black haired man’s fist slammed into his jaw so hard that he felt his head snap around after it actually happened. Shaking his head free of stars, he heard Francesca throw down her tray and rush over.

“Kale, you okay?”

“ ‘m fine,” the green-haired man said, shaking his head from side to side, still trying to clear it. “I’m okay…”

“The hell you are, your face is bleeding!”

“Bleeding?” he put a hand to his nose, and laughed faintly. “Oh. Shit happens…”

“C’mon, let’s leave these creeps alone,” Francesca grumbled, tugging on Kale’s arm. The blonde grabbed her shoulder, and Kale inhaled whiskey.

“Where you goin’, sweet-stuff? YOU can stick around!”

“I’d rather stick to a dumpster than a pair of hoodlums like you,” Francesca snapped, her brown eyes blazing. “Get lost, and get off our turf, hombres, we clear?”

Dick scowled, and moved to wrench Francesca from Kale as Daft Punk burst out of the speakers.

“Lousy--bitch!”

Kale’s head snapped up, and he swung a fist at the black-haired man’s face, connecting firmly with his hawkish nose--and with a crack, flattened it in seconds. There was a husky scream as the man fell back, holding a face that now seeped with blood.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her,” Kale snarled, clenching a faintly-reddened fist and shaking the fingers, flexing them repeatedly. “If you touch her again, I’ll break more than just your nose, are we clear? And don’t even try it, pal,” he added, swinging around as the blonde stumbled towards him.

His warning--threat--came too late, as the blonde’s leg got him good in the lean gut. Doubling over with a huff and holding his sides, Kale jerked out of the way of another punch. Anger thrummed in his veins, hammering at him like panic had before, and a desire rose within him, triggered by one, singular word--it flooded his mind and ensnared his senses like a forceful, silvery net.

Kill.

His eyes shot open wide, and, in time to the music, almost synchronized, he flung himself lazily out of the way of two fists--one from each man--and let them connect as he performed a lucid back-flip, guiding his body out of the way of their tussle. Dick aimed a kick at his side, and Kale raised an arm, easily, to block it and guide it back down to the ground--before turning the rest of Dick’s body with it--this time, when he hit the ground, he didn’t get back up.

As the blonde rushed him, Kale flung himself backwards and grabbed the bar--and with the music thrumming--buy it use it break it fix it trash it change it now upgrade it-- he kicked outwards, caught the blonde by the neck with both legs, and, with a twirling twist, re-captured the side of the bar, and brought the blonde’s head down in fierce contact with the floor.

There was a ringing silence as he paused, panting, to catch his breath, and slowly lowered himself to the ground. The blonde wasn’t moving, but the black-haired fellow was stirring, and Kale marched over to him, grasped him by the collar of his biker-jacket, and held him aloft, eye-to-eye.

“Don’t you ever make trouble in this establishment again,” Kale snarled. And his breathing grew irrational as the man stammered into his face--a face twisted my an almost indescribably animalistic anger.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, jeezus, put me down--”

Kale’s hand slammed into Dick’s face.

“I didn’t hear you,” the bartender said softly. Dick choked weakly.

“I said, I didn’t HEAR YOU!” Kale roared, and punched him again. “Scum!” he threw him to the ground with another punch. “Vile--rotten--beastly--stupid--human! Stay--the--fuck--out--of--MY--BAR!” He snarled--and suddenly there were hands dragging him away, and the stench of blood--there was a man screeching and a woman talking rapidly in Spanish--it sounded like a prayer--and he felt dazed and feverish, like his skin was prickly and uncomfortable.

His face met the street as he was thrown out onto the asphalt. The puddles that splashed over him tasted like sulfur as a car sped by, and he groaned, sick to his stomach.

Warm, brown hands guided him upwards, and Francesca murmured frantically into his ear.

“What was that, Kale?! What the hell WAS that back there? You attacked them--what were you thinking? Listen, I’ll talk to Mac--get him to keep you hired. I’ll make sure you keep your job, chico. Hang in there. Just talk to me.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know…” it was all he could repeat, a hand clenched over his face, pointed-teeth gritted. “I don’t know what happened, I don’t KNOW…”

The scent of lavender filled his senses, and down the street behind him, a man with a silver pocket watch observed the flight of a fedora hat into the night wind, before his slanted gaze turned, in turn, to the beautiful woman who guided the sick and blood-covered bartender home.

Then he turned on his heel, and vanished into the warm fog of the night--leaving the scent of sage drifting behind him.

</the end.>