A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 7: Back at Strangefellows

The familiar scent of stale beer and old wood greeted Michael as he stepped back into Strangefellows. Despite the massive win at the poker tournament, he hadn't even considered not returning to work. One hundred and twenty thousand pounds and 700 extra years of life were monumental, sure, but they didn't mean he could suddenly stop everything. Not yet. And he wasn't about to leave Alex in the lurch—not when the man had given him a shot when no one else would.

As Michael made his way through the bar, Alex spotted him from behind the counter, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation.

"Well, well, if it isn't the big shot," Alex called, his tone dripping with mockery. "Back already? I thought you'd be out spending your fortune on, I don't know, something ridiculous."

Michael rolled his eyes, dropping his bag onto a nearby chair. "I just won a poker game, that's all."

Alex smirked, leaning on the bar. "That's not what I heard. Word travels fast in the Nightside, you know. Rumor has it you didn't just win money—you walked away with a hell of a lot more."

Michael hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. The regulars were engrossed in their drinks or private conversations, but he still kept his voice low as he walked up to the bar.

"Yeah, the casino pulled a switch halfway through," he admitted. "The last 20 players? They didn't just play for money. The buy-in was 50 years of life."

Alex raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading into something more serious. "And you walked out with...?"

"An extra 700 years," Michael said, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "But that doesn't really change anything right now. I still need to eat, still need a place to live."

Alex stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "Kid, you don't get it, do you? Winning a prize like that? It paints a target on your back. There are a lot of people in the Nightside who'd kill for even half of what you walked away with."

"I figured that might be the case," Michael said. "But what can I do? Hide forever? Pretend it didn't happen?"

Alex sighed, grabbing a glass to clean as he spoke. "No, but you can be smart about it. Lay low, keep your head down, and for God's sake, don't flash that money around. The Nightside's full of scavengers who'll sniff out an opportunity like this faster than you can blink."

Michael nodded, appreciating the advice. "That's why I came back here. The apartment's good, but this place feels... safer."

"Safer?" Alex let out a short laugh. "Kid, this is the Nightside. Safe doesn't exist."

"Safer than most," Michael corrected, offering a faint smile. "Besides, I like it here. And I'm not about to ditch you just because I had a lucky night."

Alex studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening slightly. "Well, I'll give you that—you're loyal. Just don't let it get you killed."

"I'll try," Michael said, smirking. "Now, what's on the to-do list?"

Alex handed him a rag and pointed toward the tables. "Same as always. Wipe the tables, check the stock, and if Lucy or Betty tells you there's a mess, you clean it up. Big shot or not, you're still my employee."

Michael chuckled, grabbing the rag. "Got it, boss."

As he worked, Michael couldn't help but feel a sense of normalcy return. The win had been huge, and the implications of those extra years still loomed large in his mind. But here, at Strangefellows, things were simple. The bar had its own rhythm, its own rules, and Michael was grateful for the grounding it provided.

Still, Alex's warning lingered in the back of his mind. People knew who he was now, and in the Nightside, that could be dangerous. He'd have to be careful, more careful than ever, if he wanted to keep what he'd earned.

For now, though, he focused on the task at hand. There would be time enough to worry about the future later.

Michael walked down the Street of the Gods, his shoulders slightly hunched and his gaze shifting between the divine figures vying for attention. The weight of their presence was undeniable, even oppressive. Some gods stood tall and imposing, radiating power that was almost tangible, while others were quieter, their shrines small and humble. Their followers called out, promising blessings, power, or enlightenment to anyone who'd stop and listen.

Coming from a staunchly atheistic perspective, Michael had always thought gods were myths, stories crafted to explain the world. Now, walking this street, he could feel their eyes on him, their expectations pressing down. He kept his head low and nodded politely when one or another approached, doing his best not to offend. In a place like this, stepping on divine toes wasn't just disrespectful—it could be deadly.

One of the newer gods, a sleek figure surrounded by neon lights, stepped toward him, their voice melodic. "Come, mortal. I can give you a purpose beyond your meager days. Worship me, and you will never want for anything again."

Michael offered a faint smile, keeping his steps steady. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm just passing through."

The god tilted their head, their glowing eyes narrowing. "A pity. Many who pass through find themselves needing my favor eventually."

He didn't respond, letting his pace carry him past the figure and their followers. The sooner he got to his destination, the better.

The Gun Shop stood in stark contrast to the ornate shrines and dazzling displays of the gods. It was unassuming, its dark exterior giving away nothing of what lay inside. The doorbell chimed softly as Michael pushed it open, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. The air was charged, like the hum of an electric current. He glanced around, noting the polished counters, the neatly arranged displays of firearms, and the faint smell of gunpowder in the air.

"Welcome," a deep voice greeted him.

Michael turned to see the shopkeeper standing behind the counter, his tall, broad frame and unnervingly perfect features making it clear he wasn't human. Michael knew from the books that the shopkeeper was a construct, a part of the Gun Shop itself brought to life to serve its purpose. It should have been unsettling, but in the Nightside, it was just another fact of life.

The shopkeeper's sharp gaze studied him. "What can I help you with today?"

"I'm looking for a gun," Michael said, stepping closer. "First-time buyer. I need something practical, reliable."

The shopkeeper nodded, his movements fluid as he gestured toward a glass display case. "We have many options, but for a first-time user, I would recommend something straightforward. A revolver, perhaps. Simple mechanics, easy to maintain."

Michael leaned over the display, his eyes scanning the weapons inside. The shopkeeper unlocked the case and began laying out a few options. Michael picked each one up, testing the weight and balance in his hand.

"This one's solid," Michael said, holding a Smith & Wesson revolver. "But it doesn't feel... right."

The shopkeeper nodded thoughtfully, replacing the gun and retrieving another. "Try this."

Michael took the offered revolver, a Ruger LCRx 5431 with a 3-inch barrel chambered in .38 Special. The moment he held it, something clicked. It wasn't just the weight or the balance—it felt like an extension of his hand.

"This," Michael said, nodding. "This feels good."

"An excellent choice," the shopkeeper said. "Lightweight, reliable, and with just enough kick to make an impression without overwhelming a novice."

The shopkeeper led him to the Gun Shop's firing range, a soundproofed room lined with reinforced walls. Michael loaded the Ruger, his fingers fumbling slightly as he tried to steady his nerves. The shopkeeper watched him with an unreadable expression.

"Grip higher on the handle," the shopkeeper advised. "You'll have more control."

Michael adjusted his hold, nodding as he raised the revolver and aimed at the target. The first shot made him jump slightly, the sound deafening despite the muffling in the room. The shopkeeper stepped closer, gently correcting his stance and offering pointers on aim and recoil management.

By the time Michael emptied the cylinder, he felt more confident. The shopkeeper nodded approvingly. "You'll need practice, but for a beginner, you show promise."

Michael smirked faintly. "Thanks. Let's hope I don't need to use it too often."

"Hope all you want," the shopkeeper said, his tone dry. "But in the Nightside, a weapon is only as useful as the resolve of the one wielding it."

Back at the counter, Michael made his final decision. "I'll take two of the Rugers," he said, placing the gun back on the counter. "And I'll need ammo. Ordinary rounds, sure, but also silver, blessed, and cursed."

The shopkeeper's expression didn't change, but there was a hint of approval in his tone. "Wise choices. Silver for lycanthropes and certain undead. Blessed rounds for infernal entities. Cursed rounds for enchanted targets and protective wards. A versatile selection."

Michael winced slightly at the cost when the shopkeeper tallied everything, but he handed over the money without hesitation. Protection in the Nightside wasn't cheap, but it was invaluable. As the shopkeeper handed him the guns and the neatly packed ammunition, Michael couldn't help but feel a flicker of security.

"You've made a good start," the shopkeeper said as Michael slung the bag of ammunition over his shoulder. "But remember, a weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it. Practice, and don't hesitate when the time comes."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said, nodding. "Thanks."

Walking back through the Streets of the Gods with his new purchases, Michael felt the weight of the revolvers against his side. They weren't a solution to every problem, but they were a start. In the Nightside, protection wasn't just a precaution—it was survival.

For now, he felt just a little bit safer. And in the Nightside, that was a rare and valuable feeling.

Michael sat cross-legged on the floor of his small apartment, his gaze sweeping over the fruits of his recent shopping spree. The room felt a little fuller now, more like a home. A brand-new bed with a proper mattress stood against one wall, replacing the uncomfortable cot he'd been using. On the table nearby was his spare revolver, neatly laid out alongside boxes of ammunition and a cleaning kit. Bottles of gun oil and brushes glinted faintly under the overhead light, tools he'd bought to ensure his weapons were always in top condition.

Beside them sat a local phone he'd picked up earlier, a simple but essential tool for staying connected. Nightside phones weren't like the ones back in the world he'd left—these were designed to work no matter where you were, even in places where normal physics didn't apply. It wasn't much, but it was a start toward being more self-sufficient.

Michael leaned back, letting his eyes drift toward his coat, now finally finished and hanging on a mannequin in the corner. His swarm had worked tirelessly on it for weeks, layer by layer, until it was everything he'd envisioned. The coat was a dark, slate grey, long and flowing with a deep hood that obscured most of his face when pulled up. Its outer appearance was subtle, but it had an otherworldly quality that made it stand out in the Nightside without being gaudy.

He walked over and ran his hand over the fabric. It was smooth but dense, woven from countless layers of silk his spiders had spun. Despite its light weight, the coat was thick and durable, with hidden reinforcements that made it tougher than it looked. On the inside were rows of pockets in varying sizes, sewn with precision. They were perfect for carrying everything from spare ammunition to small tools. The outside had fewer pockets but was still practical for quick access.

The most ingenious feature, though, was the hidden compartments woven specifically for his swarm. Tiny chambers nestled in the fabric allowed his insects to hide, ready to emerge at his command. It was both armor and a weapon, a testament to what his abilities could create when given the time and focus.

Michael slipped the coat on, pulling it snugly around him. It fit perfectly, as though it had been tailored by the swarm itself. With the hood up, he walked to the mirror and studied his reflection. The coat flowed with his movements, its deep grey blending into the shadows of the room. The hood cast his face in darkness, but the faint shimmer of the silk gave it an ethereal quality.

He smirked faintly, turning side to side to get a better look. It wasn't just clothing—it was a statement. Practical, protective, and uniquely his.

As he sat back down, Michael let out a small sigh of satisfaction. The coat was done, the apartment was more livable, and he finally felt like he was getting ahead. The Nightside was still dangerous, still unpredictable, but with his weapons, his swarm, and now his coat, he felt just a little more prepared.

He ran his fingers over the revolver on the table, his thoughts drifting. The Nightside wouldn't let him stay comfortable for long—he knew that much. But for now, he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the calm, knowing full well that when trouble came, he'd be ready.

Michael stepped into Strangefellows, the familiar hum of the bar's lively chatter greeting him. The moment he entered, though, the Coltrane sisters, Lucy and Betty, tensed, their sharp eyes locking on him. It wasn't hard to guess why—the long, dark grey coat with its deep hood gave him an imposing, almost otherworldly presence.

"Relax," Michael said with a small chuckle, reaching up to pull his hood back.

The sisters exchanged glances before easing up. Lucy was the first to break the silence, a grin tugging at her lips. "Nice coat. Looks expensive."

"Thanks," Michael replied, brushing a hand along the fabric. "It's new."

Betty whistled low, circling him slightly to get a better look. "You look like you're about to solve mysteries or cause trouble. Where'd you get it?"

Michael hesitated for only a fraction of a second before offering a casual shrug. "Bought it with some of my winnings. Figured it was about time I got something decent."

Lucy raised an eyebrow. "That's more than decent. Looks like it could stop a bullet."

"Or scare someone off before they even get close," Betty added, clearly impressed.

From behind the bar, Alex scoffed. "Of course, the big shot's out there spending his money on fancy coats."

Michael smirked, walking up to the bar and leaning on it slightly. "A good coat can save your life, Alex. It's practical."

Alex gave him a skeptical look. "Practical? Looks more like you're trying to out-style John Taylor."

Michael chuckled softly, not rising to the bait. "Practical doesn't have to look bad. And, like I said, it could save me one day."

The sisters stayed nearby, admiring the coat while Michael kept the real story to himself. He wasn't about to explain that it was made from spider silk spun by his swarm, reinforced with layers of careful weaving, and designed specifically for protection and utility. Instead, he let them assume it was just another luxury purchase from his winnings.

Lucy poked at one of the outer pockets. "Got anything in these yet?"

Michael shrugged nonchalantly. "Just the basics." He wasn't lying—one pocket held salt, the other ground pepper, inexpensive items that had saved John Taylor's life more than once in the books. If they worked for Taylor, Michael figured they might come in handy for him too.

"What's with the salt and pepper?" Lucy asked, catching a glimpse as he shifted the coat.

Michael smirked faintly. "You'd be surprised how useful they can be."

Betty folded her arms, clearly amused. "What, you planning to season your enemies before you deal with them?"

Michael chuckled. "Let's just say they're versatile tools. I like to be prepared."

As the banter settled, Alex eyed him again. "You planning to take that thing off anytime soon? Looks heavy."

Michael shook his head, his tone easy but firm. "I think I'll keep it on for now. You never know when you'll need a little extra protection."

"Protection," Alex muttered under his breath, but didn't press further.

What Michael didn't say—and wouldn't say—was that the coat, with its multiple layers of reinforced silk, was capable of stopping a knife. The hidden chambers for his swarm made it more than just clothing; it was a functional piece of armor. He felt safer with it on, and in the Nightside, a little extra protection was worth the raised eyebrows.

Michael slipped behind the bar, ready to start his shift. Despite the attention his coat had drawn, he worked as usual, cleaning glasses, checking stock, and keeping an eye on the regulars. Lucy and Betty occasionally threw comments his way, clearly amused by his "upgrade," but he just smiled and kept working.

The Nightside wasn't the kind of place that let you stay comfortable for long. But with his coat, his swarm, and his growing arsenal of tools and tricks, Michael felt more prepared than ever. And if his coat raised a few eyebrows along the way? That was just a bonus.