Chapter Text
One week before the Second Maelstrom, Pocket contemplates a sky heavy with potential. A blanket of gray bears down on the skyscrapers of the Cursed Apple, obscuring the tallest peaks. The Fairfax Industries logo glows as undaunted as ever, but its foreboding shape is lost in the low-hanging clouds.
A single drop of water hits them square between the eyes as if they’ve been spit on by the sky itself. Then the bottom falls out.
The rain comes in sheets, cutting through their trousers and scarf in an instant. Their overcoat can withstand more, but even it succumbs to the torrent eventually.
They can barely see a foot in front of their face. With little else to guide them, they keep close to the buildings, a hand trailing along slick brick and concrete.
Suddenly, the rain parts before them, ceases pounding on their defenseless head.
A man stands a hair too close, holding an umbrella over them both. He is taller than Pocket by head and shoulders, with freckled white skin and ginger hair and cold blue eyes. His intervention seems strange until Pocket notes that his red jacket is not a fashion choice, but a uniform.
“Thank you,” they say.
“You poor dear,” he answers, voice perfectly clear despite the downpour. “Let us get you out of the rain.”
That voice slithers uncomfortably along their skin, but so does the cold water threatening to drown them where they stand. They let themself be guided beneath the meager awning of a grand hotel.
It can only be the Baroness. They’ve passed the creeping ivy covered walls enough times — and they’ve heard enough of the rumors to avoid getting too close.
“Why don’t you come inside and dry off?” the stranger asks.
“I appreciate the help, but I can’t afford… anything in there.”
“You would be there as my guest. We can spare a cup of tea — or coffee, if that better suits you.”
They’re tempted to refuse once more. They’ve relied too much on others lately; they don’t want the weight of another debt. But the rain continues to pour, and the doorman’s hospitality awaits.
“A coffee would be nice,” they concede.
Like so many of the buildings in this city, the lobby is far larger on the inside than it seemed from the street. This one has a high coffered ceiling and a sparkling chandelier hanging dead center. To either side of a marble fireplace, velvet sofas cluster around mahogany tables, each topped with a baroque vase overflowing with flowers. It’s luxurious, certainly, but something about it all feels slightly off. Out of date, maybe, as if they haven’t bothered to redecorate in some time.
Then again, maybe it’s Pocket’s knowledge of interior decor that’s out of date. They haven’t exactly been in a position to keep up with the trends.
“Shall I take your coat?” the doorman asks.
“I’d like to keep it.” This is one concession they won’t make; the coat has saved their life too many times now to let it go.
The doorman’s mouth flattens slightly. “Of course. Hold a moment. I’ll bring you that coffee and something to dry yourself.”
Their wet clothes weigh them down. It is probably unwise to take a seat in this state, so they drip their way toward the fireplace.
No one stands in their way. No one else warms their hands at the fire. No one lounges on any of the furniture.
Skin prickling with the realization, Pocket looks at the room with fresh eyes. The concierge desk is empty. There are no bellhops, no other doormen, no maids, no guests. Early evening at a hotel this size, and the lobby echoes in its emptiness.
“Your coffee,” the doorman says, and Pocket nearly leaps out of their skin. “And towels, should you decide you want them.”
“Thank you.” Pocket is proud of the steadiness of their voice, all things considered. The aroma of strong, decent coffee reminds them of their manners. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
He smiles just slightly, though it never touches his cold eyes. “You may call me, simply, the Doorman.” The implicit capitalization immediately burns itself into Pocket’s mind. “Have a seat, please.”
When they turn, one of those velvet sofas has moved closer to the fireplace, now with extra towels lining it. Between that and the promise of a warm drink, the whole affair is less upsetting than before.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take your coat?” he asks.
“I’m sure. Thank you.” They settle in with their coffee. The first sip is bracing, precisely as hot as they want and not a fraction hotter. They can feel their body relax by a hair. “I’ll be out of your hair soon. Don’t worry.”
“I am hardly going to rush you. In fact, if you wished, you could stay the night.”
Pocket scoffs. “I could barely afford it if you charged me for the coffee. I definitely can’t pay for a room.”
“I don’t believe I mentioned a transaction. You are in need, and I specialize in hospitality.”
“Sorry. I don’t believe anything comes for free.”
“I know you need somewhere to rest, Arin.”
Pocket grips their cup tighter to stop the sudden tremor in their hand. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“I apologize. You claim to prefer Pocket these days, don’t you?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I can’t help but know, just as I know your past and your present, and perhaps some of your future. Stay, Pocket.”
“Why?”
“I know you are intent on summoning a Patron. I am too. I don’t believe mere happenstance brought us together.” His eyes glint with otherworldly light. “I wish to see what you are truly made of. Spend one week here, allow me to observe, and I will be your ally for the upcoming Ritual. But if you’d prefer to make an enemy of me, I will see you on the other side. Trust that I’ve seen enough of that future to know that will go very poorly for you.”
Pocket leaves the Baroness. Now.
Despite every instinct telling them to run, Pocket stays to hear him out.