Fae Apoc has a landing page here.
“Look out for Captain Fuzzy.”
As advice went, it wasn’t the best their employer could have given them, but it was something. Something was more than they often got.
So they had a warning, a goal, and a direction – “When you find the wannabees, you’re probably going the right way.”
They’d found the wannabees, or at least a gathering of fuzzy-motive sorts that could definitely have been called that, full of tight clothes and a certain style of make-up that suggested inhumanity. They fit right in, which was funny, as long as nobody looked too closely at their leather, or their prosthetic ears, or the beads in Tinka’s dreads. They looked a little rough around the edges, truth be told, compared to the shining people, but wasn’t that always the case with originals against cheap imitations?
The crowd was surging towards the 51 Cards, bopping along like the world wasn’t ending, Tink and Rube moving with them, smiling and laughing and joking. If they could find the damn Mandrake, they could get out of here before the glow sticks came out and the wannabees started making fools of themselves.
Whoever had told some teenybopper than 51 Cards was a fae bar had a lot to answer for. And whichever teenybopper had then decided that, with Thor and Athena coming out of the woodwork, pretending to be fae was a brilliant idea – she had some pain coming to her, too. It made 51 Cards into a place that no true fae wanted to spend much time. It was like a football game being taken over by tutus.
Orders were orders, and the idea would appeal to Catnip anyway. Their boss liked making them uncomfortable.
They stepped into the club, into the thudding beat and the brightly-hued crowd. It was Real Night, but you can barely tell the unMasked from the made up in the strobe lights; were the DJ’s horns real or prosthetic? Was the bartender that color naturally? In this crowd, Tink and Rube were sparrows among peacocks. They slipped to the bar; there was always information to be had there.
The doors slammed open.
The man in the giant Captain’s hat with the rabbit ears strode in like he owned, not just the place, but the city.
Tink and Rube slipped behind a pillar, only to find their hiding spot already occupied.
To one side of them, somebody muttered something about a Mandrake and Lute. To the other side, a girl looked up, her ears perking.
The rabbit-eared pirate yowled into the music, and the music redoubled its efforts to deafen them all.
They crowded further behind the pillar, trying to dislodge the previous tenant. He, in return, was holding both hands to his ears while trying to curl up on himself. His drink spread forgotten over the floor, red as a pool of blood.
It was staining the smoke that had, presumably, at one time been his feet a sickly mauve.
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