Overheard at Matchbox Terrace

Far as old Levin could see, there wasn't much better to do on a Thursday midnight than slouch over the shortbar at Matchbox Terrace and wait for someone interesting to walk in. The previous evening's highlight, if one could call it that, was watching a cocky young Motorballer slowly slip into drunken melancholy before enrapturing all with the half-coherent tale of her sister's murder at the hands of a scorned lover or somesuch — the story blurred as the drink took over but she had a hell of a way of telling it. Afterwards she cried and cried and cried, reduced to such a pitiable state that the barkeep let her sleep off her miseries on a cot near the taps. Levin was hoping for something more uplifting tonight.

Like all good drinking establishments, Matchbox Terrace was small and remote, tucked away on the fourth story of a five story building, sunnyside so the even the hardcore drunks would know when it was time to head home. The only way to find a place like that in Iron City was by referral or happenstance; Levin's discovery was of the latter sort, but he liked the barkeep's curves and she kept a bottle for him so he called it serendipity. They had grown close over the months, close enough for her to confide that the black blindfold with the gold nightingale embroidery was just for show and she could see plenty fine with cybernetic eyes and intuition besides. A curiosity like that was good for business.

Levin leaned in over his drink and put a hand to his mouth for secrecy. "Cut the next one down for me, dear. I'll still need my wits on call for another hour at least." She did as he asked, surreptitiously so as to not embarrass him in front of the patrons whose wits had long since punched out. He gave her a wink — a crease along the bird's plumage told him she returned it.

Levin liked his curiosities, even if the Factory business he involved himself in didn't care one whit about them. The locket around his neck contained a series of proverbs written in a long-dead language; he recited them often and had come to ascribe a meaning to each. Wrapped around his finger was a bronze ring set with a miniature Motorball, lovingly crafted. A favorite prank of his was to claim it of regulation weight, then snap his hand down with eighty-eight pounds of fakery. Only the barkeep had ever laughed, which was almost as good as the curves and the bottle.

"It's not like you to come here expecting someone. Should I be worried a fight will break out? I'll have you know those avian sculptures were quite expensive and I'd be awful broken up if something happened to them. Do you remember what became of our last troublemaker?" She said it with a tease but Levin acknowledged the friendly warning.

"She left half the woman she used to be, I know. You're being awful dramatic over such a little thing, dear. Who's to say I'm not waiting on a friend for a night of revelry? That explains defanging the drink, yes?"

She traced her nail across the bar idly. Levin made a shape of it anyway: a cat lounging on a sofa. The thought amused him and he stifled a laugh with a cupped hand. The barkeep refrained from asking why, too disciplined to break her masquerade.

"You've given it away, Levin. Clumsy man."

"Clever songbird, but don't worry yourself. I'm merely interested in having a particular conversation with a particular person. Were I expecting violence I would have thought to bring my crueler arm."

In vain admiration he raised his left, sheathed in stained maple from elbow to wrist. A custom build worked through Factory contacts, it was the centerpiece of his eclectic collection.

"Oh, well you should have said so sooner! And here I was thinking you'd brought that horrible bladed thing along to cut another poor malcontent to pieces and spoil my decor in the whirlwind." She belted the words loud enough for the rest of the patrons to hear, never missing a chance to sell them on her lucrative curiosity. "While you wait for your particular person, why not regale us with one of your wonderful melodies? We could all use a bit of soul stirring tonight."

It was a fine idea, Levin thought, so he took five steps from the tiny little bar out to the tiny little terrace that so named the place, large enough for two tables and one very cramped avian sculpture. Settling into a cross-legged lean against the railing, he began to pluck away at strings recessed within the wooden arm. He didn't have much of a knack for music, but the novelty of the thing always had a way of winning people over.

Minutes passed as Levin's tortured tune drifted through the matchbox and died out over the streets. The barkeep swayed and cooed as the patrons, after an initial thinning of those too drunk to stomach the shrill, sat at rapt attention, even volunteering a clap to hold the tempo. Few would consider four to be much of an audience, but Levin only ever played for himself anyway and considered all else a bonus.

A rattle from the wooden door chimes signaled an arrival — a rarity so deep into the night. Levin kept the music playing out of consideration, missing only those notes he didn't mean to miss. Two girls walked into view and seated themselves at the bar: one a cyborg, the other apparently not, both young enough to be his daughters, and neither the man he had been waiting all night to meet. The organic spoke first, taken aback by the barkeep's blindfold.

"Excuse me. Is this Matchbox Terrace? We didn't see a sign outside or anything like that."

"That would be because there is no sign. We don't make a habit of advertising ourselves to the rest of Iron City — keeps most of the riff-raff out, you see. It can be awful messy dealing with riff-raff, awful messy. I take it you're a newcomer?"

"You could say that. I'm Koyomi, and this here's my friend Alita."

Alita gave the barkeep a weak smile and a small wave of greeting, too distracted to realize her mistake. Her eyes were bright and expressive, and even from out on the terrace Levin could see them scanning the room as a Hunter-Warrior would. He tossed the idea around in his mind, but — no, she was much too slight. Alita brought her hand down to rest on the bartop, keeping the other hidden deep in her billowing beige coat where any manner of weapon could be waiting; this girl was either expecting trouble or looking to start it. Finally someone interesting, he thought.

Koyomi ordered one of the wines Levin hated while Alita opted for "anything with orange in it", which he suspected was exactly the kind of request one would make before turning a place inside out. He strummed a little quieter and eavesdropped on the newcomers like any bar rat worth his salt.

"That was a pretty nasty spill you took tonight," said Koyomi, sounding more impressed than concerned. "You're lucky you were able to keep your balance over the jump, or we'd be looking at a lot worse than a shattered leg and a pair of busted skates."

Motorball. It was all anyone in Iron City could seem to talk about — that damned sport where idle conversation would turn even before the weather. Nothing could possibly be more boring than Motorball, but everyone else was too sauced to speak and Levin was desperate for gristle. So he kept playing, and kept listening.

Alita had both hands on the bar now and appeared to be a bit more relaxed. "It wasn't all that bad, was it? I mean, it's always gonna look worse when the limb explodes, but I could've kept going if I still had wheels."

Koyomi had been sipping her wine and it appeared to take quite the effort to keep from laughing it all over the bar. "Anyone else would be shacked up at Kansas drinking away the shakes after a brush with death like that. And yet here we are, enjoying a night on the town like you just won promotion. That fall from Zalem must have popped a few screws loose, I swear."

"Who's to say I wasn't crazy before?" Alita's eyes opened wide before both girls broke down. Only a pair of good friends could get so loose before the second glass, and Levin had been around long enough to know conversation among good friends almost always beat out conversation among strangers. Unless the strangers started throwing haymakers, of course, but good friends could do that from time to time as well.

"Yeah, who's to say?" Koyomi's voice dropped an octave and lost a bit of its cheer. "I'm probably looking at it backwards, right? I don't know what the URM drilled into their Berserkers, but I doubt kindness and compassion were part of the program."

They were off Motorball in an instant and the discussion was turning to Levin's liking. He hastily transitioned to one of his slower tunes and strung it along thin and quiet, trying not to make his voyeurism too obvious. The barkeep noticed his intentions right away — of course she would — but she didn't mind keeping a secret or two.

"Any idea what you were like before? I don't think we've ever talked about it," said Koyomi. Alita scrunched her mouth in concentration, as if the muscles themselves could wring out a few buried truths. "It's only come back in bits and pieces — never enough to form the shape of a person. Just memories of combat, mostly. I'd like to think I was more than that," She shook her head. "But I just don't know. Maybe that was it."

"Does not knowing bother you?"

The question hung in the air as the barkeep refilled the girls' glasses. Alita sipped her drink as she searched for the right words, looking very much like she may never find them. Even Levin found himself frozen with suspense; it took a snap by one of the patrons to set him back to playing.

When Alita at last spoke, her voice was resolute. "No. I've taken what I've needed from the past, when I've needed to take it. Anything more would just complicate things."

"That's the spirit. Regardless of who or what you used to be, people love you for who you are now. Remember that, okay?"

"Thanks, Koyomi. But try telling that to my pit crew."

Koyomi rolled her eyes. "Well, most of us love you. You can't really blame them for getting sour considering how much you've been trashing that Motorball body lately."

Back to Motorball just as quickly as they had left it, and it was there they would stay for the rest of their visit. Levin left them to their conversation and ran through the rest of his repertoire out by the avian sculpture before departing, satisfied by the brief exchange of humanity between the two girls. Such things were a rarity at Matchbox Terrace.

The particular person Levin had been waiting for never showed, and the particular conversation Levin had been seeking never took place, and that meant Levin could go to bed without someone's life weighing on his conscious — a rarity in its own right. Instead he thought about Alita's words, hard — harder than he'd thought about anything in a long time. Those two girls would never know how they had made an old Factory Enforcer's evening.