Chapter 155: Chapter 149

It wasn’t a far walk, and the upgrades Axle had ordered really made the place something special. It was in classic Nu-Earth style, which meant expensive wooden walls and furniture. The whole vibe was off, ever so slightly, as everything had been crafted by hobbs, and based on what they thought a Nu-Earth bar should look like.

So we got a bar that looked the way they perceived classic Nu-Earth American bars, mostly gleaned from our media. Morbin Time was an odd amalgamation of dive bar, seedy speakeasy, and Wild West saloon.

The bat-wing doors swung in to show a group of hobbs playing snooker, to the side of a long teak bar with two floors. Pool and billiards were available as well, but the hobbs preferred snooker, to near exclusivity. The bartender was able to travel up and down a flight of spiral stairs, to reach the second floor level of the bar as needed. Usually, we just had two bartenders working.

The windows were all paper, balsa wood, and sugar-glass, so our patrons could all throw one another through them as desired. Our hobb forces often visited from Prescott, and they watched a lot of movies.

Morbin dodged a heavy foot fall as we entered, from one of the pool players.

“Hey, watch your feet! Morbin walkin’ here!” he exclaimed.

The hobb turned and looked down, his bleary drunken eyes taking a moment to recognize the little bat creature. “Morbin? Morbin time?” He asked.

“Yes, Morbin time. Don’t step on Morbin though,” my little friend replied.

The hobb struck his chest with the pool cue, somber and serious. “Yes, Morbin time,” he grumbled.

I pulled out a wooden stool and mounted it, leaning forward on the bar. “You guys have weird traditions in this bar.”

“Bar not weird, you weird. Morbin time mean everything good, everything happy. No trouble,” he explained as he climbed into place.

The bartender poured us a pair of tequila shooters. We made our own, bottled, and sold it. It was the only thing hobbs in BuyMort wanted to drink anymore. BlueCleave agave tequila, so fine they come with a preserved Nu-Earth yarsp larva.

BLUECLEAVE NEW RECIPE AGAVE TEQUILA - WE NO INVENT IT, WE JUST MAKE BEST.

YARSP LARVA EVERY BOTTLE. YUM-CRUNCH GUARANTEE. 41000 morties, 4.8 stars.

I shook my head again at the proud English. It was really heart-warming the way they had adopted this world and its language as their own. But, maybe, before paying for ads, they should have let someone native edit them first? I swirled the liquid, watching light filter through it.

I still preferred gold, but the blue stuff we made was genuinely delicious. Morbin claimed the just-laid yarsp larva was much tastier than whatever beetle larva we’d used before too. I can’t confirm or deny that. I always let him eat it once we finished a bottle.

“It is weird, cause the whole bar shouts ‘Morbin time’ anytime someone gets thrown through a window,” I replied. “If it's about having a good time, why are the brawls started with a shout of ‘Morbin time?’” I asked, gulping my shot. “Guess I answered my own question, never mind.”

The burn in my throat helped. The reaper hound, Kraken Corp, even the sinkhole and my thieving ravens all washed away with that first gulp, and my smile became more natural. Less forced. It was hard to tell when I was faking a smile anymore, but I felt better, just sitting down with my friend for a drink.

A few hours, more drinks than we should have had, some hasty excuses to Molls, and a change of seating later, Morbin asked the real question.

“What happened when they brought up the old manager? What was his name? Sadist?” he slurred.

“No, no, no,” I said, waving my hands. “It’s Morbin time! No questions about Mr. Sada during Morbin time. It was Sada, by the way, not sadist.”

The jukebox started playing some Nietzsche Wasn’t Read, and Morbin fixed me an unimpressed stare. “Morbin time means honesty above all else.” He reached across the table and poked me in the chest with a claw. “Nobody can have good time if they’re not honest with themselves.”

“Your hearing is too good,” I muttered, before taking another swallow of tequila. After extensive testing, I had discovered that the suit would not repair me until I was impaired enough for it to affect my ability to perform in combat, which meant my ability to stand on my own power. Sadly, if I got too drunk, it scooped out my brains and stomach in addition to my liver, which made for a disorienting walk home.

Since that particularly disgusting evening, I’d learned to avoid my limit. Morbin had no such compunctions, and as one of my closest friends, he got rawer with me the more he drank.

“Blame my eyes, human, not my ears. Morbin know when friend is upset, and even saying that man’s name wrong clearly upset you,” he said. “Come, tell your friend about your burden, and you may find it lighter.”

I looked at the little bat creature for a long moment before shaking my head. “I killed him,” I finally said.

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Morbin blinked up at me, then reached for the bottle in between us on the table.

“He forced me to, I tried so hard . . . it doesn’t matter. I was always going to have to kill him, it just took me a few days to figure it out,” I muttered.

“Well, Morbin never know you to kill someone who not deserve it. You even let some live you really shouldn’t, like that Wizard guy. He’s rich and pissed,” Morbin said.

“What does ‘deserve’ have to do with anything?” I asked, sarcastically. “Deserve isn’t how the multiverse works.”

The little bat-creature opposite me nodded slowly. “True. Morbin not deserve five million morties a week, but you give it anyway.” He glanced around before leaning in closer. “BlueCleave not deserve ten percent of affiliates morties either, but you no tell them Morbin said that.”

I had to stare at my friend for a few seconds, before I could form the question I wanted to ask. “What do you mean you don’t deserve your pay?”

Morbin waved a claw. “Ah. You hire me for high risk defense job, but now I never work,” he said. “All I do is warn Lee if anyone spying. Happen like twice, is hardly worth weekly pay. Morbin feel guilty,” he said with a shrug.

“Would it make you feel better if I cut your pay?” I asked, staring at him in confusion.

He spluttered in his shot glass. “No!” His shoulders raised above his head in a shrug. “Need the morties, just feel bad. Sometimes,” he finished.

“Oh, only sometimes, that’s good,” I said, smiling as I tipped the bottle to pour myself another. It felt like I could take a few more shots before the suit got involved.

“Look, you kill boss because you have to, right? Morbin work for morties because Morbin have to as well,” Morbin said. He shrugged again and shook his head. “No choice.”

I scowled and cocked my head to the side. “I killed Mr. Sada because he had become a threat to every life in this campground. None of this would have been possible with him around. He was greedy and self-destructive,” I said. “You are not. The service you provide is unique and has saved us from some pretty serious shit more than once, my friend. You’re worth every mortie, never doubt it again.”

Morbin’s eyes lit up and he smiled at me. “You good friend Tyson. Morbin not care you kill your old friend.”

“He wasn’t . . .” the words died before I could get them out. Mr. Sada hadn’t exactly been my friend, but he’d been important. I could still feel the way the bones in his neck had first broken, and then crushed when I squeezed. I could still hear his last words, fear and confusion lacing every choked syllable as he begged for what was left of his life.

I imagine he died never knowing why I, of all people, had killed him.

Tears threatened to form, burning the bottoms of my eyes. Then something twisted in my chest, and the tears receded. I blinked a few times and drank my shot.

“Hey, why do you need the morties?” I asked. Morbin’s apartment was still sparse, I’d seen it recently. He had a bed for sleeping, a small table to eat at, and a MortMobile device he used as both phone and TV. Beyond that, I never saw any creature comforts around the alien bat.

He waved a claw at me dismissively. “Eh. Morbin have big family. They need morties,” he said, with a shrug.

It clicked. Even in my drunken stupor, it clicked. Morbin’s casual disregard of personal safety, his excess with intoxicants, even his desire for friendship, and the near constant parties he threw at the bar. He’d never expected to survive this job, he’d merely hoped to earn enough to provide for his family.

“Where are they? Storage?” I asked.

“Psh, no,” he replied. “Nothing so cheap. Morbin’s family with the church, on home-world. Is good life, if you can afford it.”

I poured us each one more from the bottle, and stood, raising my glass. Morbin happily hopped on the table.

“To a good life!” I shouted. The hobbs and odd occasional humans in the rest of the bar erupted in cheers and raised their glasses. Turning back to Morbin, I added quietly, for his ears only, “if you can afford it.”

My little bat creature friend grinned and raised his glass to clink against my own, before throwing it back with a satisfied gulp.

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