Asher and Jack pushed open the door to the dingy diner, the bell jingling weakly overhead. The air inside was thick with the greasy aroma of frying food, mingling with the salty tang from the nearby docks.
Dim fluorescent lights flickered, casting a harsh glow over the cracked linoleum floors and faded vinyl booths. The walls, plastered with peeling wallpaper, echoed with the murmurs of tired dockworkers and the clatter of silverware.
"Welcome to the Drowned Mermaid," the grizzled waitress grunted as she shuffled over, her apron stained with a mishmash of sauces. "What'll it be?"
Asher slid into a booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath him. He glanced out the window, taking in the chaotic scene outside. The docks sprawled before him like a forgotten labyrinth, where rusting ships loomed like ancient giants, their hulls creaking in the salty breeze. Towering cranes cast long shadows over weathered cargo containers, each telling a story of hard labor and lost dreams. The air was alive with the sounds of shouts and machinery, the distant call of gulls punctuating the atmosphere. Once a bustling hub, the area had fallen into disrepair, with the vibrant industry now overshadowed by the gritty underbelly of smuggling and desperation.
Jack slid in across from him, surveying the menu with a skeptical frown. "I'm not sure if I'm ready for 'mystery meat' on a bun," he quipped, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Hey, it's either this or nothing. I'm starving," Asher replied with a smirk.
After placing their orders, they settled into a conversation that had been a long time coming. "So, what's your story, Jack?" Asher asked, leaning back against the booth, intrigued. "You're not just a Demon Hunter, right? There's more to you."
Jack chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You could say that. I grew up in a pretty rough neighborhood. Joined the force to escape, but I quickly realized I preferred the hunt. My family had their fair share of problems—addiction, violence. I needed a way out, something to fight for."
Asher nodded, understanding all too well the weight of those words. "I get that. My childhood was a mix of survival and figuring out how to navigate the slums of Menthil City. You learn to rely on your instincts and the people around you. It's how I found my way into this line of work."
Jack leaned forward, his expression serious. "And what about your powers? I've heard you're a Step 9 Jester. What does that mean for us?"
"Step 9 gives me exceptional balance and unreliable fortune-telling. It's not much compared to some other paths, but it helps when you're dodging trouble or navigating through crowds," Asher explained. "Plus, the unpredictability can be an advantage in tight spots."
Just then, their food arrived—two plates of steaming, questionable meat sandwiches and a side of limp fries. Asher grimaced at the sight but dug in anyway, his hunger outweighing his distaste.
"Alright, we've talked about ourselves. What's our next move?" Jack asked, chewing thoughtfully.
Asher wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gears in his mind turning. "I think we should hit the docks directly. There are still workers coming and going. I know a few folks down here who might have their ears to the ground."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You think someone might know about the smuggling operation?"
"Possibly. If anyone does, it'll be the dockworkers. They see everything. Plus, I might run into someone I know," Asher replied, his thoughts turning to the streams of workers who lined up at workhouses in the slums every day.
After finishing their meal, they stepped out into the harsh light of the docks, the cacophony of shouting men and rumbling machinery hitting them like a wave. The contrast between the grimy diner and the bustling activity outside was stark.
As they walked, Asher led the way, relying on instinct and memory to navigate the labyrinthine docks. They passed through narrow alleys between warehouses, their surroundings echoing with the sounds of crates being unloaded and machinery whirring to life. The salty breeze mixed with the distant scent of fish, further highlighting the docks' gritty reality.
Asher's heart raced when he spotted a familiar figure—a burly man with a weathered face and calloused hands. It was Janice's father, looking a little better than last week.
"Mr. Tully!" Asher called, approaching him with cautious optimism.
The man turned, surprise flashing across his features. "Asher! It's been a long time, son. What brings you down to the docks?"
Asher quickly explained their investigation, gauging Mr. Tully's reaction. "I'm looking for information about the recent activity around here. Is work still scarce?"
Mr. Tully nodded, his expression shifting to one of concern. "It's been busy, but not all of it's legal. I'm working for a guy shipping guns for Winchester. It's risky business, and I don't like it one bit."
Asher's pulse quickened. "Have you seen Janice? Is she back?"
"Not yet," Mr. Tully replied, worry etched across his face. "I wish I knew where she was. She's been gone too long, and I'm starting to fear the worst."
A chill ran down Asher's spine, the implications of Mr. Tully's words hanging heavy in the air. "If you hear anything, please let me know."
With a firm handshake, Asher and Jack exchanged determined glances, the weight of their mission settling heavily on their shoulders.
As they walked away from Mr. Tully, Jack said, "Let's watch him from afar and figure out the situation."
"Sounds like a plan. Sure beats flying blind down here. Ugh, the smell is awful! I hate seafood!"
"Oysters! Cockles!! Get your oysters!! Fresh oysters!!" A boisterous woman shouted, nearly shattering Jack's eardrums.
"Bloody hell."
Asher and Jack were dressed appropriately for the job, wearing rundown secondhand clothes. Asher didn't need to look further than his own wardrobe for those. Jack, however, had to borrow some from him.
Asher purchased a couple of cheap beers from a local vendor, and they found a spot to sit on the docks.
Neither of them were gawking about like idiots. Instead, they gazed out at the water, occasionally glancing around. They silently took in their surroundings while keeping an eye on the loading port where Mr. Tully lingered.
Soon, they saw men unloading boxes and boxes of cargo from the ship docked there as the crane delivered it onto the dock. They loaded it onto large cargo carriages, which were drawn by eight horses.
Sipping his beer casually, trying to look downtrodden, Asher whispered under his breath, "Let's follow that carriage to their warehouse."