Rush was in and the Clockwork Stag was a hectic drinking den. Gannon had his hands more than full with the overwhelming torrent of people clamoring for their various fixes. It was only Gannon's belting baritone that kept them "in line", so to speak, as he struggled to handle the masses of factory workers and the like.

"Jim I filled y' up twice afore an' if y' so much as croak for more right now, froggy, then twill be th' door for ya'!" Gannon's growling was mostly harmless venting and bluster, but even so, there was a hint of a bared and raw nerve under his strained snapping. Gannon Oranos was up to his ears in thirsty patrons and the hours were starting to grate.

“Hoy! Can et, y’ noisy lugger!” he barked at a particularly insistent man in his rail-slicked overcoat. “Th’ liquor’ll get t’ ya’ soon enough, damnit! Sit th’ hell back down! Clocks!”

A few of the bolder patrons—usually those better hidden in the masses—began to feel their drink and wolf-whistle at Gannon the “barmaid” in good-natured jest. But Gannon was not feeling good-natured and his single eye silenced with a pass across the mob of them.

Bar-keeping tended to inspire murder when it was only yourself.

(( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPbfk6Vbqls ))

The Clockwork Stag, eh? Imp was definitely curious now. He could easily boast of having traipsed the entirety of Vienda and poked his nose into every corner and hole (within reason), but here was a place he’d never entered before. Or perhaps he had, and they’d just kicked him out a long time ago…

He shrugged to himself. He was standing under the overhang of a building across the way, watching the wind jangle the chimes hanging from the tavern’s own shabby awning. The downpour had not let up, and the clouds overhead added to onset of the evening. The only time Imp liked getting wet was when he was swimming – he always figured that when a person is dry and comfortable on a wet day, it’s always nice to stay like that. And besides, the wind and rain combined made for a rather miserable night – meanwhile the lights in the windows of the said tavern were looking mighty comforting indeed.

Looking both ways out of habit, the boy darted across the street, kicking up brief spurts of water as he splashed through puddles. Once at the door, he leaned over to shake the droplets out of his shaggy curls before turning the handle the oddly-hung door and stepping inside.

It was certainly noisy. Smoke from pipe, cigar, and cigarette alike curled above the heads of the patrons bustling about with drinks and food, and there was an air of rough familiarity permeating the entire atmosphere. Imp moved nonchalantly through the bodies (and even ducked between a few legs when their owners wouldn’t move) with his hands shoved firmly in his pockets so to prove to any watching him that he meant no mischief. He actually had some extra coins to spend, and clocks be stopped if he wasn’t going to get himself something warm to eat and drink this night. His luck seemed to have shifted in favor of him these days.

He managed to squeeze past a few of those crowded close to the bar and hop up onto a recently emptied stool. Arms, chests, and shoulders pressed against his back as eager patrons shoved each other around, but the boy held firm and propped his elbows on the bar as he finally caught sight of the bartender.

He was a big man, imposing and strong, serving up drinks in rapid succession and growling sharply in a piercing baritone at the mere hint of a whine from a patron about their drink. Imp was instantly impressed. This guy looked like some hero from all the old stories the boy had ever heard, and probably had some impressive ones of his own to tell.

Grinning widely and honestly, Imp leaned forward to get the bartender’s attention. “Any chance a lad kin get a drink, mister? An’ p’raps some supper, too? I gots me some moneys ta pay…”

Gannon had not seen him come through the door, his typically sharp ears were clogged full of various requests for more booze, nor did he notice him as he pushed through the throng of patrons, but the little face peeking over the bar certainly caught his eye, especally when it opened its mouth and spoke.



Gannon's eye zeroed in on the child and he paused. Wasn't often they came that young in the Stag and he arched a skeptical eyebrow. He couldn't be any older than 12, and that might even be stretchinig it. His smile reminded him of an over-eager bander pup and his bi-colored eyes looked mischevious as the cats that frequented the Soot District. The cub-child looked like an urchin. He gave Imp a steady look and growled, "Well you'll be waiten' till Clock's Eve, pup, if it's supper ya' want. I ent got much time fer street rats."

The big Bastian then resumed his attentions on his higher priority customers.

(( Mo, I'll let you decide how much money he actually has with him - it's not much, but it should at least buy him a good dose of booze ))

“Ooh, I ent no reg’lar streetrat, mister,” Imp replied, completely unruffled. His voice piped through the surrounding din. “I ent here ta beg; I don’t beg when I kin work fer me meals. I learns me diff’rent skills when I does, too – ‘twill get me a real job someday, I’m thinkin’.” He paused, watching the bartender work. He was so fast!

“At least gimme a drink,” the boy went on. “I got money fer that, I does.” He dug into his coat pocket and fished out the small polka-dotted kerchief he used to wrap up any spare change. Dumping the contents on the small space of the bar he’d been allotted, Imp separated the coins he had from any odd bits of bric-a-brac he’d also accumulated with one skinny finger. “Gimme whatever that’ll buy, mister. Somefin' that'll warm me insides - 'tis right chilly this evenin'. An’ don’t skimp jus’ ‘cause I’m a kid.” He punctuated that with another sincere (if not somewhat expectant) grin.

Gannon looked back over his shoulder, having to twist his head around rather far to actually see at the kid. He also eyed the cash. “Look, Smalls, I’ll get you a drink, but if you want food, you’ll have to do better than that,” he nodded to his money on the counter.

This one was trying for innocence, but Gannon was hardly convinced. More than once he'd run into pick-pockets. Children who presumed him slow just because he was big. Trust was not Gannon's strong-suit, nor was it anyone's with half a brain.

(( sfsp ))

"Hullo then!" Came a voice from behind Gannon. Its owner tall, blond, and judging by the amount of piercings in his face, had spent time among wicks. A bruise was just beginning to show its colours in the corner of his eye. It'd be black by the end of the day.

"Sorry I'm late, boss. There was a little incident." Ted chirruped innocently as he tied the mass of curls behind his face. Several of the patrons in the bar shouted at him jeeringly. He grinned and waved, weaving between the tables to get to the bar quickly so that Gannon wouldn't shout at him.

Imp chortled in amusement. “Me name ent ‘Smalls,’ mister, but yer dang close! I’m Imp, I am.” He poked through the coins he had set out. “Really? Not all that much, eh?” He shrugged. Win some, lose some. He'd learned from day one to be disappointed only about the big things (like losing a fight or falling while wall-jumping).

Then an idea came into his mind. He wagged his arm at the bartender to get his attention. “Oy, mister? I can do tumblin’ – flips an’ stuff ta ennertain folks ‘round ‘ere. I kin stand on me ‘ead fer as long as ya say, an’ I can dance a bit, too. I’ll stay on the stage ya got there, though I can shimmy up them walls just as easy, with all me wall-jumpin’ an’ stuff. If I do it good ‘nuff, I can get some food, yeh? Here, look!” Without waiting for Gannon’s immediate answer, the boy shoved the coins forward, slid down from the stool, and started plowing his way towards the stage as best as a scrawny boy could. His mind was already working out an act: some flips and tumbles off of tables, and maybe even make a tower out of stacked chairs and flip off of that…

Gannon arched his eyebrow once more at the sight of that shiner. Ted had never seemed like a tumble-chaser, and he wondered who'd gotten tired of his presence this time.

And as it was, Ted could walk all the way to Hox and Gannon would still shout. "Where, th' hell you been, Burns!?" he snarled after him. "I been up to mah ears in these pushy luggers--backoff!" he snarled at a particularly sloshed man at the bar. He resumed his shouting without missing a beat. "And what th' hell y' been up to? Nosen' in on some chip that don't wantchya'?" he dismissed the topic with a shake of his head. "Come in late again an' you'll get another t' mat--"



Th' hell...? Gannon watched the little "Imp" wiggle his way to the center floor. The money he'd left on the counter was nearly grabbed up by someone, though they were deterred by Gannon's own broad hand slapping down on the coins. "Sorry, there," he sneered in the smaller man's face.

He took the money and filled up a large mug of coffee--he wasn't about to see such a mite guttered in his establishment--as he watched the little urchin out the corner of his eye.

Once Imp got to the stage, he clambered up and rolled back his sleeves out of habit – they only rolled back again after a few brief moments, but he didn’t notice. He rubbed his hands together to work the circulation, and then dove straight forward, catching himself on his hands. His lanky body wobbled a bit as it lifted into the air, but then his tough little muscles bunched, and he was instantly steady as if he were simply walking on his own two feet.

He capered about the stage like this, mostly to get the crowd’s initial attention. Then he bounced back onto his feet, and then back to his hands again. Back and forth he went like a spring. Then he leaped into a fantastic cartwheel coupled with a back flip that landed him at the center of the stage, and without stopping, he ran at full speed towards the back wall and up it without pause. Halfway up, he back-flipped off, twisted in mid-air, and then landed with a loud plunk back in the middle of the platform, his arms spread theatrically and his face beaming.

“Any more?” he panted, more so in the direction of Gannon. If there was anyone Imp hoped to impress with his skills, it was the one-eyed bartender. And not just because he wanted food, either; Imp had met his fair share of gruff bartenders, but there was something definitely different about this one.

And I’ll be darned if I can’t figure out what it is, the boy thought with resolve.

Gannon watched the little street-rat caper about, his little legs doing far more than Gannon could have managed at his age. He was a strange little thing—half the size of a runt kenser foal—and those dual-colored eyes hadn't escaped his notice. But little flips and dives weren't on the patrons' minds as heavily as their supper and drink. If the kid wanted his bread with his coffee, he'd have to try harder than that. Or do something else.


Gannon sighed through his nose, staring at the kid as he was pouring drinks with both hands and smoothly reprimanding a particularly drunken and grabby man with his elbow. This child was the stubborn sort, wasn't he? "Maybe if you jumped off th' roof...?" he drawled across the room, not at all serious and not at all cordial.

He frowned further than usual, noticing the way that kid was studying him, as though he were trying to look right through him but running into a wall. He was pondering something. A heavy eyebrow pulled upward. What th' hell r' you after, Smalls.

Gannon had half a mind to give the kid a stale loaf and chuck him out the door.

"Busy!" Ted practically sung as he bussled about jovially, giving different people their drinks. "A girl? No no." He grinned and shook his head. "My cousin was a bit drunk earlier." The assistant watched imp with interest and shook his head at Gannon.

"I thought it was a fine job, lad!" He told the boy in an encouraging voice. He couldn't give the kid money, but it was still a fine job. "Since when do you let dwarfs into your bar, Gannon?"

Gannon grunted to himself and unconsciously curled his lip. Now THAT was one scrap of flesh that he could empathize with Ted about. That cousin of his was bad blood and his mother was most likely his aunt. Ted was an alright fellow, if a little moony, but that cousin of his was a cur. Gannon was about to say so and politely offer to viciously scrag that spineless fraction of a man, when Ted's closing question made the bartender bristle like an irritated porcupine. "Since they just wander in and start climben' th' walls!" he snarled back, pride smarting. He waved a free hand, gesturing to the expanse of his patrons. "In th' Soots they all just kinda' wander in, like them damn cats!"

"What cats?" Ted quipped, pushing two of the blighters to the side. Damn cats.

Imp may have noticed a tall pile of boxes in the corner of the room. They didn't look...too fragile.

”

Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Imp had previously decided to clamber up onto a tower of crates nearby and show his skills at leaping off, and perhaps even try to catch hold of one of the rafters mid-jump, but at the bartender’s brief (albeit snide) remark, Imp was more than inspired. His wall-jumping would more than earn him a crust or two, he was sure of it.

He hopped down from the stage, weeded his way through the masses again, and approached the bar. His seat had been taken, but there was a space at the bar where he could squeeze in and stand on the foot rail. It gave him enough lift to see past the bar’s edge and drape his arms over it. “I’ll do it,” he replied to Gannon, drumming his fingers excitedly. “Jumpin’ off the roof, that is; ent too far, anyways, so I can do it in a jiffy. Maybe it’ll getcha s’more customers, too! Whaddaya think?" It was, after all, Gannon's establishment, and Imp didn't want to miss out on dinner just because he was excited to show off a bit.

And besides, it had turned into something of a personal war for Imp. He was determined to prove to the surly bartender that he was no ordinary street rat, even if he did miss out on a meal or broke his neck in the process.

This kid was a riot. A lying riot, but still humorous. His gutsy statement made Gannon give one of his more cynical snorts and a harsh grin. "Hah. Sure kid." he waved to the barstool with a dismissive hand. "Why don't you just drink yer coffee an' get on--?"



Gannon narrowed his eye at Imp. That child was looking at him in a way that did nothing to settle his tense neck. He'd been looking at him like that for a while, now. Gannon had half a mind to ask him what the hell he was staring at (though he knew it was the eye. It was always the eye. It wasn't paranoia, he was damn sure) if it wouldn't have meant encouraging that mite to open his trap again.

Imp clambered back up onto the barstool and gratefully pulled the mug of coffee towards him. It was hot and black, and smelled divine; the mug itself was something of a novelty, obviously hand-crafted by someone who had done the best they could. But the drink was very good, and it warmed the boy through and through.

"Thanks again," he chirruped, gesturing towards Gannon with the mug. "Nothin' like good coffee ta warm a soul - ent as strong as some o' them drinks ya serve up normal 'round here, but I ent complainin'. I'm a grateful sort, I am, 'specially when I get good service, e'en though I'm just a gutter kid." He said it without conviction, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to not have a home or family. He didn't know any better, so why would he look for sympathy? "An' when I'm all done, I'll get up to the roof. Don't need no stairs or naught - jus' plenty o' room in a nearby alley, an' I'll get up right quick."

He sipped at his drink, realizing that the bartender was watching him closely, and not in the sense that he was suspected of mischief. It was as if he'd guessed that Imp was trying to figure him out, and wasn't sure about it at all in the purely negative sense. Time ta do s'more talkin', the boy thought quickly. He leaned forward on his elbows and put on his best serious expression.

"Mind if I ask ya 'bout yer eye?" he stated, loud enough for Gannon to hear but quiet enough to keep the other customers out of the conversation. Then his characteristic grin emerged, and he pointed at his own face. "I'll tell ya 'bout mine, if ya like." He could never have imagined how truly irrepressible he actually was - for all of his street-wise ways, Imp was still an innocent boy.

(( Applesause, this is late. Sorry, 'bout that. ))

Gannon snorted to himself. He didn't bother to voice to the urchin what was on his mind--outright waste of time. Becides, he was filling drink orders right and left and had little breath to spare.

Up to the roof, he mentally spat. Gannon had seen bander pups bigger than this child, and still he barked on about that roof. Nothing but big talk. The bartender's lib curled with mild irritation as he turned away from the nucience at his bar.



His spine snapped instantly taught, as it always did once someone mentioned the story behind that blinded patch. This was twice in the past two days that some nosey patron had posed inquries about it. First that coatrack of a golly, now this stringy pup. With an inner growl he hoped that this trend would not persist. Gannon turned his head to look over his shoulder, giving Imp a pointed look. He didi notice the young one's oddly colored eye...but the trade was hardly fair in the barkeeps mind. His reply was low and omenous: "A great big angry bartender snatched it out with his hand and ate it when I asked him too many damn questions, that's how."

There. See if that didn't scare the little runt off.

Imp snickered, completely oblivious to the dark tone Gannon had used. “Hoo, snatched it out…use that ta run off the tykes, eh? No worries ‘bout it, then.” He chugged a bit more of his coffee and wiped his mouth roughly on his sleeve. “Yer a real tough one, mister – not like some o’ the other yabbos I’ve done business wif. They think they’re the kenser’s knees, tossin’ me out on me ear ‘cause they think I’m just pan-handlin’.” He pursed his lips, crinkled his nose, and huffed through his nostrils at the memory of said “yabbos.” Then he lifted his mug in a sort of toast towards Gannon. “But yer a real toughie, an’ nice ta boot. Ya won't take no sass or guff from no-one. Cheers t’ya.” He gulped more coffee, thunked the mug purposefully back onto the counter and jabbed a grubby finger towards his mottled eye. “Got this when I was tryin’ out me wall-jumpin’ fer the first time – fell right on me kisser, I did, right on a pipe. Had a shiner ta rival them boxin’ types, an’ I felt like I’d been sat on by a chrove, but it didn’t do nothin’ to me eye ‘cept change the color.” He rubbed at it unconsciously. “One o’ my key features now, I guess. Ev’ryone always ‘members the goofy-eyed street kid who runs up walls like a fly.” His eyes fell to the contents of the mug and he swirled it quietly for a moment. Then, prodding it forward with several fingers, he asked politely, “Any chance of a top-off afore I get ta work? Gotta work for me meal anyways – ‘tis only fair. I ent no panhandler.”

Gannon sighed heavily through his nose as he continued to take orders from the mob. This kid was incorrigible.



This gesture managed to drag mild surprise from Gannon. Natural cynicism told him the lad was merely flattering him, but his pride warmed to the acknowledgement, even if it was from a street rat. "Well same t' you, Smalls," he growled, allowing Imp a small nod.

The story about his eye didn't surprise him overmuch. He'd heard stories of whacks to the face doing strange things to mens' eyes, and loss of color was one he'd certainly seen upon occasion. And it did lend a particular lopsidedness to a face.



Gannon was almost curious now, and he was rarely stingy about refills on coffee, so, wielding the pot, he poured a bit more and went back onto his business. He kept a close but discreet watch on the lad, though.

(( missushow? could you toss in some random spectators around here? people are bound to take notice of some kid throwing himself off of rooftops for their entertainment ))

The new coffee in the mug warmed Imp’s hands as he held it steady while Gannon poured, and the boy offered his widest and most grateful smile. In one movement, he lifted the mug, jerked his head back and swigged the coffee down in several noisy gulps (the mug really wasn’t that big). Placing the cup back on the counter, Imp slid off the seat once more. “Well, off to work,” he announced briskly, and trotted around the bustling customers and out the door. He decided to keep up the nonchalant appearance, inwardly hoping Gannon was interested enough that he’d follow to see the show. The fact that he could try and impress this barkeeper was starting to weigh out over his empty stomach.

It was still raining outside, but the boy paid no heed – he’d done this during storms, and when the roofs were slick with ice. A little rain wouldn’t hurt. Imp faced the Clockwork Stag and sized it up carefully. Both walls were wedged almost right up against the adjacent buildings, so any actual wall jumping was out of the question at this point. He’d have to get up to the roof and go from there, though the only visible and available access was a drain pipe crookedly lining the edge of the roof’s overhang like a snake with a hangover; the pipe allowing the water to cascade down to the street below hung down the right corner of the building.

The boy headed over to the pipe and grabbed a hold of it, shaking it a bit and then harder. Nodding silently, he then began to pace about as he planned out the rout he would take. Up the pipe, across several rooftops to the balcony a few down, and then… Oh, then he’d have some fun. He could almost smell the dinner waiting for him, let alone imagine the look on the barkeeper’s face.

He began to limber up, bending backwards and nearly folding in half in the process to stretch his back. He stretched his arms, pulled one leg behind his head, and did a few practice wall flips before he felt springy enough. Then he turned, breathed quickly for a few seconds, and ran full on towards the pipe and shimmied up it with hardly a pause. His hands slapped wetly against the cold metal, but he kept going until he’d hooked one leg over the gutter and was standing on the roof.

Not waiting to see if anyone was really watching, he trotted across the rooftop of the Stag and bounded across the gap between it and the nearest building. He headed on like this until he spotted the balcony he was aiming for – it was diagonally across the street, set on the third story of a five-story building. The distance between was well over ten feet.

Don’t stop. Imp’s brain tapped out the motto he’d created for his life of wall-jumping. Never stop. As if in response, his legs quickened their pace, and the boy made a sharp arc towards the edge of the roof. Then at the last minute, he bunched the powerful muscles in his legs that he’d so painstakingly built up over the years, and leaped.

In truth, Gannon originally had no intention of following Imp outside. When he had walked out the door, the big barkeep had breathed an exasperated sigh of gruff relief. Even if the thing wasn't your average street-rat, he was still an antagonizing small thing.

Of course, Gannon ignored his own past when he sneered at Imp. Not a few months into his life in Vienda, Gannon had been not much more than a stinking factory gutterling—a wild-eyed stray dog—before Floretta had taken him in. But of course, such things of the past were shoved back often.

Only when Gannon heard the sound of a rat the size of a small bander crawling up the front of the Stag did the barkeep’s ears perk. His own mind was oddly cumbersome as he tried to fit the pieces together.

The boy.

Fast as a hingle from a burning bush, Gannon leapt over the bar and—bowling over a few indignant drinkers and parting the crowd like the battering ram he was—barreled out the door.

Once outside, he strode into the street, his eye lifted roofward and searched wildly for the leaping creature just in time to see Imp fling himself from the roof….

(( for inspiration: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z40Hy8F7Md8&NR=1 ))

Imp loved this part – it was as if the world paused in all its hustle and bustle to turn and look in wonder at the gangly boy who’d just made a madcap jump from a rooftop. All the noise vanished, the rain paused in its descent, and everything went still.

And then he was on the balcony, skidding a bit in a steady crouch and knocking several planting pots off the nearby ledge as he passed. A cat on the railing hissed disdainfully at the idea of having been startled, and then pounced away. But Imp was off again, having hardly paused. The momentum carried him as he ran up and along the wall, and then he pushed off into a tight sideways flip in midair, flinging his arms out in time to catch hold of a lower roof back on the other side. Still clinging to the edge with his feet braced against the wall in front of him, the boy shambled across to the corner where he could plant his feet against the wall of the next building. Then, moving his feet to where he was walking up and backwards on the wall, he kicked into a one-handed handstand and held himself there to take a brief breather and look around. He was closer to the ground now, and another plan began to take shape in mind when he spotted a bench below on the street.

He vaulted into a set of backwards handsprings across the roof and flipped off the opposite edge, snagging it with his hands at the last moment and hanging there. Just behind him was the wall of another building, positioned just far enough away so that when Imp began to spring back and forth in his descent, he had enough room to execute it properly. Then he sprang forward with all the daring of a piikii, his legs up, his arms thrust out before him. He landed on a windowsill jutting out from the wall, spun, flung himself in a spiraling frontal flip, and landed heavily on the bench below.

Panting, Imp wiped his forehead, and allowed himself to cross one leg over the other. Not bad for a day’s work, if he did say so himself.