Realistic or Modern Jazz Jin [1x1 Junedingo&Mephisto]

[junedingo]

Modern Day Tokyo. Evening.

From an entrance that started in an alley, you have to walk down a set of steps only lit by a single neon sign. "BAR" it says, its cloudy pink glow against the brick walls giving nothing else away. Steps away from a busy downtown, its nothing special from the outside, but inside, there is an atmosphere of timelessness. Seemingly transported out of Japan, underground its walls and furnishings are lined with a rich dark wood, speaking to lost craftsmanship that the modern era won't stand to wait for any longer. A small stage with dimmed lighting adds to the mood, a gentleman sat at the piano with his back turned to the entrance, chatting with a woman in a maroon cocktail dress, the two of them musicians on break for the moment. The interior smells of the polished wood, of a lingering cigarette perfume, leather lined booths and chairs, and the one scent that called you in here: liquor. Jin, whiskey, vodka, all of their cousins can be found against the back wall, set on glass shelves behind the long bar, built with that same dark chocolate and cayenne colored wood. Two bartenders in black button downs neatly tucked into belted black slacks are at work behind the counter. One of them, a woman with a long tail of hair neatly tied in a low black ribbon against the back of her neck speaks to the other male bartender. He nods to her without looking up from finishing an order for a customer, and she walks behind him, heading into an unnoticed doorway behind the bar, disappearing from view.

The male bartender has his sleeves rolled up the forearms, revealing pale skin with black ink just peeking out from where the sleeves curl back. With his head down, he's got enough hair to block his eyes from view, so its not until someone's waiting to order, do they get a glance at his face. He assesses you quietly, the room too dim to tell exactly what color his dark eyes are, and just a few seconds later he's turned his back, starting on mixing a drink. Maybe you call out to him, maybe you say you want to order thinking he's blatantly ignored you, or maybe you know already because you're a regular and sit quietly in wait, because this is his specialty: he knows what the patron wants to drink with just a glance.

 

[Mephisto]

---
The setting matched its patrons down to the letter. Suave, elegant, downtrodden, and forgotten, society's forlorn were gathered up and left here for one reason or another. They continued to come here, despite the monotony of the outside world. Here, they were spoken to as equals. Here, they had friends - at least on the other side of the murky glass.

A few, sure, drifted in to cause trouble - but that was merely the way of things. Others wanted validation, craving the years lost to the bottle to return. The more they drank, the further they sank, until there was no more drain to circle.

There was one who frequented the place. He arrived without a car, without entering through the door, and occupied the same perch each and every time. As the bar curled around, his was the furthest stool from the entrance. He also had the best seat in the house for the live music, which is really all he wanted besides a fresh Ramos Gin Fizz.

He was tall and lithe, pale as a corpse, but livelier than most living folk. He wore the finest pinstripe suit, favoring red, black, and white. His shoes were always polished, his round spectacles always gleaming, but most importantly of all: he always wore a smile on his face.

He leaned against the bar without trace of him even being there a moment before. While appreciating the stage as one would when presented with quality entertainment, he tilted his head slightly without looking at the bartender.

"Say, my good man," he began.

"It's been such a long time since I've been out this way. Who's playing tonight?"

 

[junedingo]

The bartender showed his acknowledgment for the regular not with any change in expression, but simply by delivering the desired drink. He was quiet about it, movements languid and calm, but completing the task quicker than the movement of his hands gave credit to. He turned back to facing the bar, stepped closer to the patron, sliding a small black napkin onto the wood surface before placing the drink upon it. Like this, the question was given to him, and with a soft deep voice he replied.

"Ramona and Charles," he told the suit trimmed customer. The pair pianist and jazz singer could be seen still talking to one another, a member of the bar staff also taking part in their conversation, most likely to get confirmation on their preferred lighting. They were a new duo to the venue, new to Tokyo really, though the drummer and saxophone player were familiars. The pair had first performed at the bar just the other night, making this only their second performance for Jin. He'd found their tune more than satisfactory as a background to his occupation, and the bar was filling up as the time to begin their song was approaching.

"Everything been alright?" the black haired employee asked of the man who always seemed to appear in a whisper, though without even a ripple of a breeze appearing in his attire when he did so. The bartender again had his eyes and practiced fingers set on mixing another drink, but he had his ears attentive to the other man's reply. The fact that the fellow hadn't occupied his usual seat in a while left a possible issue to address.

 

[Mephisto]

The phantom stranger's face curled into a wider grin upon hearing the names. He dared not take a sip from his glass until the moment was perfect.

"Ramona and Charles! Here's hoping they last longer than Les Paul and Mary Ford!"

He turned around in his seat, though not completely. He was eager to watch them, to understand their movements and motions, and to read their patterns and insecurities. Ramona was excitable and tense all at once, wanting to explode right there on the stage. Charles held her with enough room for her to spread her wings. He hardly kept a leash because that wasn't his style, and it wouldn't be fair. They seemed happy. They seemed to be on the right path together.

The shadowy man settled down against the bar with one arm, using the straw slowly.

"Oh, come now, you don't have to worry about me. I had some minor business to attend to is all, someone late on their payments," he added with a cruel chuckle.

"But all is well! All is well. How about yourself?"

He kept an ear for the bartender, but as the music kicked into its active tempo he couldn't resist witnessing it then and there with his own two eyes.

 

[junedingo]

Only the very beginning of a smile could be gleaned on the bartender's mouth, gone near as quickly as it had been there. Just a blink of an expression with a polite inclination of his head to the other's response. While he couldn't control the aspects of these customers' lives, he did have some power over the state of their evening. No matter their occupation, it wouldn't do to have their troubles weighing them down when seated before him.

Glancing up from under his bangs at the chuckle, he caught just the profile of their expression, some joke only known to their mind. His gaze was dropped yet again to his work , wiping at what was already a spotless bar with a microfibre towel while he contemplated the gentleman's question. People did ask after him at times, and how he ought to respond, even after all these years of work in the same place, it was always a decision to make.

The music seemed to determine this for him, with the upbeat tone massaging into his thoughts and skin.

"Can't complain." He tucked the towel over his shoulder, eyed the patron again, glad for their enjoyment in the venue, then looked past to the band. "Nights spent like this, its difficult not to be well."

For a moment he simply absorbed the music, then stepped away, filling orders that were prepared for the server who had approached. No order had been required, it had been enough for him to be told who was ordering, leaving him to only glance their way before he innately processed what they needed. His coworker had returned, and unlike himself, she was jovial, grinning as she talked to some newcomers, university aged by the looks of them. They were a stark contrast, yin and yang, and at times he envied her differences. He could have felt the same about the man in pinstripes, who always seemed completely at ease here.

"Minor business keeps you away from your routine, then?" the bartender asked, replacing the emptied drink and damp napkin with fresh ones.

 

[Mephisto]

The dark patron gladly took his refill, craning his neck so he could catch glimpses of the bartender's face between his busy work. He didn't partake of it, rather content holding it and rattling the straw every now and again.

"I suppose you could say so. Negligible or not, it was quite fascinating,"

His smile widened.

"Have I ever told you what I do? I don't think you've ever asked," he started to move and twist towards the bar rather than face the stage.

Perhaps it would be now that the bartender could see that... his regular had not blinked a single time.

"I'll give you three guesses. Tell me what you know, what you've gleaned, and what you can safely assume,"

 

[junedingo]

Unusual, this was, to have the musicians ignored in favor of himself. Perhaps he'd said something to irritate the gentleman? There was a prickling feeling on the back of his neck he couldn't say he liked. He was slow to reply, though that wasn't unusual no matter the conversation, it was just that games were not his particular forte. He was looking from the man's bone-pale fingers against the glass, to the grin, avoiding the eyes.

"Your work isn't something you choose to do, rather, its something no one else can."

The waiter came over, and he gently placed a drink in a martini glass upon it, not even needing to watch what he was doing as it came naturally.

"I'm not sure I should say this, but, you dress nicely because your job is considered dirty. It lets you distance yourself from it."

He cleared his throat, sure he'd overstepped with that one. "I apologize, that was impolite. I'm terrible with games."

 

[Mephisto]

The stranger began to laugh. As he did so, the lights flickered. Shadows crept up and along the walls, crawling along limbs that no longer existed for them. The drumbeat echoed like blood pumping through shallow veins.

No one noticed. The lighting returned to normal, because it never faded away. The stranger took a hearty sip of his fresh Gin Fizz and chuckled again, albeit this time without the theatrics.

"Bad? My friend, you know me better than my own clients,"

He finished his second glass and slid it towards the bartender.

"But you haven't used your third guess. I'll give you a clue... in the form of a riddle!"

He folded his hands in a scholar's cradle, his fingers fanned out like bleached bones.

"I'm as old as sin, I'm as old as pride

I'm the first light, I'm the first to die

I'm a man of miracles, of which I know a few

Miracles, for a price, is what I'll show you

Show me your hand, only one of us can lie

A deal's a deal, and payment is due

What am I?"

 

[junedingo]

Laughter that was not his, echoed in his head, hitting a cadence separate from the one his ears took in. He didn't fear the cracks in the mask, yet he'd still readily admit that it was unsettling. Everything about this patron was just that. Yet, seeing them with regularity had dulled the sense.

Fate?

Simply for sitting here so many nights, a familiar silhouette, yet another ornately unique suit, a polite gesture when promptly served, giving way to a comfortable routine, the bartender had taken peace from it. In the same way his coworkers had become like a family, these guests, well, perhaps they were all friends to him. So when the man before him had mentioned a hiccup in his routine, taking him away from the respite, well, that hadn't sat right with the bartender. Games though, those didn't sit right with him in another way. He much preferred being the observer, allowing Lucky to take on those particular challenges.

While typically, his hands had never stopped moving, always busy with orders, cleaning, rearranging his station, his eyes also on his tasks or the bar's interior, everything stopped in a slow braking of concentration when told he would be given a riddle. He did look up then, finally, at the customer's eyes, before shrugging, acting nonchalant, as he went back to his chores.

"All I see is a business man," he replied, his voice a low, unobtrusively humble pitch. "And, I'm glad to see you back."

Down along the other end of the bar, his coworker was squinting down at them, while filling glasses with chips of ice on autopilot. Why the heck was someone laughing at her coworker? She knew the guy couldn't tell a joke if his life depended on it. Well, maybe if his life depended on it, but still. Highly unusual, and perhaps concerning? She didn't try to hide the scrutiny in her expression as she eyed the pair.

 

[Mephisto]

The guest to the bartender's domain turned his hands around at the wrists in a sudden, fluid motion. He started to applaud, giving his friend a warm and gleeful chuckle.

"Oh bravo! I do adore that answer, I really do,"

He spun in his seat, drinking the last remnant of his beverage through his toothy, carnivorous grin. He set the empty glass down.

"To tell you the truth, I've heard my fair share of replies to that riddle. I've found that the more ambiguous the answer, the less trustworthy the person. They're the ones I do business with. I suppose you can call me somewhat of a debt collector... or even a repo man,"

He tilted his head at the bartender. He seemed focused on something beyond him, not so much his eyes or even the flesh behind them.

"You're too honest. Besides, you make the best gin fizz outside of New Orleans... so you shouldn't worry so much!"

 

[junedingo]

The applause, timed between sets so as not to disturb the atmosphere, had him confused. Even further down his coworker was also glancing over once again.

The black haired man could only take in the customer's words, not feeling worldly enough to make his own response to them. Even if he met people from all over, could smell the night air they dragged in with them on their coats during the winter, or the dampness of the rain showers they carried in their hair in summer months, the bartender himself wasn't so traveled. His own world was quite small, his understanding of life outside the daily routine he held even more so.

Compliments didn't often sway him, but this particular kind, about his craft, his little world, well, that meant something to the bartender. He didn't sense the words were given in false confidence either, and it made him happier than his face showed. Just a hint of a sheepish smile, while looking down at the glass he was filling. In the next movement he was fluidly preparing a martini while he spoke.

"I only worry when I don't see a face for a while," he told the other. He doubted this individual had any worries like most of the regular customers did, but he wouldn't deny that it was possible the fellow had instances to be bothered by. "Is that where you were, New Orleans? Business all that distance away even?"

 

[Mephisto]

"New Orleans, Los Angeles, London, Berlin, Paris, Hong Kong..."

His lips peeled back into a deeper smirk than before, showing off what seemed to be like completely sharp and carnivorous teeth. He wasn't human, whatever this regular was, and he didn't seem shy about hiding it any longer.

"Let's just say I tend to rack up quite the air mileage,"

He curled his fingers in a cascade. Throughout the subtle motions of his digits and knuckles, the telltale shapes of three dice cubes floated along his pale skin. They even changed color each time they sank beyond his palm and rose again. This level of sleight of hand, although unusual, worked in the complete opposite fashion. Usually, performers tried to distract the viewer in some way from the secret of the trick.

How he enacted it, however, the dice simply disappeared from view only to reappear in the glass the bartender had most recently cleaned. They were stacked on top of each other, a neat column of black dice with red numerical symbols. The 6 had a smiling devil looking towards his host all in unison.

"I don't think I've ever introduced myself. It's a pleasure to see you again," he extended his hand.

"My name is Mephisto,"

 

[junedingo]

To say that the bartender was interested in the customer's travels was an understatement. Being tied to this place, he'd never much traveled himself. He'd been employed in this dusky, music lush room for years, honing the lessons he'd received from the owner. The owner was elderly now, and chose only to listen in on the music one night a week, no longer needing to spare even a word if things seemed unaligned at the bar. The bartender was so well trained at managing the drinks, the employees, even the customers in his quiet way, that the owner only needed to share a certain expression to let the younger know they weren't pleased about a situation. The relationship was somewhat parental, yet more distant than that to be a proper descriptive, but nonetheless the bartender did his utmost to make sure everything was as smooth running as the pour of a favorite whiskey.

That didn't mean the man couldn't imagine traveling though, what it might be like to see the world. As the pristinely suited patron spoke, supplying a display of practiced dexterity to draw the eye, the bartender truly began to understand what it meant when they were able to appear in a hush of fabric, and to disappear again like an exhale of cigarette smoke. Even if he hadn't forgotten his earlier guess, that the fellow was tied to his job, it still left the bartender wondering, very nearly wishing, he could experience such a thing himself.

Ah. But perhaps he had- in another time. The past, that was quite foggy to him after all.

For the first moment in their interaction, an uncertainty settled behind that mist of memories. There was something he wasn't able to make out in his past, something without proper shape, just a murky silhouette of unease. A beat of silence, a beat of music, definitely two beats too long showing hesitancy as he looked from the gentleman's eyes, grin, hand, before reaching out to return the handshake.

"Angel," he replied in turn with his name. No inflection was given with it, no emotion for the name to indicate how he felt about it or what it meant to him. His handshake was lukewarm skin with a grip just enough to be called firm, but brief and unfeeling. Quite literally almost, for the bartender. By shaking the other's hand - perhaps a musically inclined hand if the slender fingers were any indicator - he couldn't actually feel much of anything with the action. Still, the hesitancy lingered, battling in a muted soft argument he was mostly ignoring, in favor of his interest in the mentioned cities.

"Are you on business now, here in Tokyo? Where is home for you?"

 

[Mephisto]

Something shifted behind Mephisto. Whether it was a figment of a collective imagination or not remained to be seen… but it wore a smile similar to the man addressing Angel directly now. His lips peeled back in a fascinated grin. The irony of it all was not lost on the traveler, no, that a devil of common folklore would find himself a frequent customer of a man named after those who armed themselves in the Abrahamic God's various temperaments.

He held onto his empty glass, clutching it as though it were a lifeline anchoring himself to this reality. He glared deeply into Angel's eyes, less curious and more akin to a hungry animal looking for a tender underbelly to rip apart.

“Splendid!” Mephisto cheered at length, taking Angel's introspection into consideration.

“My apologies, dear Angel, for all our times together when we weren't so well acquainted,” he hissed with a certain rattling laugh that dripped with an unknown, paralyzing venom.

“But now that formalities have been made, I'll tell you the tricks to my trade,”

He snickered at his little limerick, clapping his hands together gently enough to make a subtle pop. The shadows flickered again. He raised his glass, a fresh Ramos Gin Fizz occupying the container. How it came to pass was anyone's guess, for merely a split second separated the glass from being devoid of purpose and its new, crackling contents.

Mephisto took a sip as fingers that were not his own settled on his shoulders. They were thin, as wispy as smoke. No skin anchored them to a shape nor did they have bones to give them depth and joints. These were the shadowy hands of a thing commanded by Mephisto, one that existed alongside him. His Long Shadow peered out from the corner of the room. Only Angel could see it. Only he could know of its ponderous, contradictory existence.

“Home is wherever I hang my hat, wherever is a good hook to hang my coat, and - sadly - I am here on business. The gentleman who owns this establishment, broke ground and laid the foundation, watered it with his blood, sweat, and tears, is who I'm looking for. He's evaded me for quite some time. He's overdue on his payments,”

Mephisto drank until half of his glass remained. His fingers cascaded along the edge of the bar, his smile never once breaking or fading. He was here and nothing could keep him from the truth for he knew too many lies. He spoke too many half-truths and played too many tricks to be fooled. He knew what he wanted because he knew the measure of the truth by how many times he twisted it. He knew the tension, the fragments, the breaking point, and so much more.

So it came to be that the King of Lies wanted the truth, whether it was from the man named Angel or the defender against his lies that Angel was named after… it didn't matter. He sat in eager anticipation for the bartender's answer because, regardless of what it was, it was what he wanted to hear.

 

[junedingo]

While some considered him obtuse, unobservant, that wasn't actually the truth. Angel was in fact incredibly keen on even the slightest detail amiss in the bar, possessed a way of reading into someone's face to understand what drink they needed that evening. Though, when it came to understanding their feelings, that he was unable to comprehend. This was what Lucky - his coworker - always got frustrated by, his indifference that couldn't be written off as callousness, not when Angel was known for being considerate and generous, even if it was with little expression. It was contradictory certainly, though perhaps it was quite human of him to be riddled with such complications, even as Angel recognized his lack of proper human emotions.

The bartender didn't think himself a complicated individual though, far from both of those things. He thought himself simple, and not at all unique, and certainly not to be of interest to anyone. Particularly to one who ghosted about the world, spoke in verbose riddles, and possessed power enough to bend at the edges of reality. Was it contradictory that they also enjoyed music? No, likely not, the bartender himself even appreciated it, and he knew there was something inherently off about his own existence. Maybe that was why the both of them enjoyed jazz, due to the very nature of the music being unpredictable, never meant to be read or predetermined. They both liked the sort of thing that was at a cross with their very beings, enjoying spontaneity when both their lives possessed very little of it.

In this way, Angel was not surprised when the patron's grin shifted, when their eyes glared with an inhuman desire. To perhaps surprise this person, who so very often dealt with the mundane - at least in their eyes anyway - that was just asking for things to change between them. Not that he'd meant to surprise the man. After all, his name was only ever one question away.

"I see," came his simple reply to Mephisto's business. He gave nothing away, didn't look in any direction other than back to working with yet another drink in his hands in process of being made. "You'll have to reach him yourself. I'm not allowed to pass on requests from visitors, no matter how frequent they may be."

He stopped then, truly halted every movement to the point that even the rise and fall of the chest ceased, like he'd turned to stone. He realized a thought that hadn't ever occurred to him before. If Mephisto was what Angel thought, then, what would become of him with the owner's debts paid? A chill descended upon his shoulders, his back, it was a feeling that had only been described to him before.

"Sir. I implore you to give more time. Its- Well you see-"

Lucky would be happy wouldn't she? She would go her own way, glad to be gone of this place. It was wrong of him to ask this then, for his own benefit, wasn't it?

"Its just that I don't have anywhere else to be," he finally said, his voice so low and quiet, that no human would have been able to hear it over the din of the bar.

 

[Mephisto]

Mephisto realized that his ruse might have been found out at last. His nameless Shadow curled around him, sending a beady glare at Angel through its glowing eyes. The drinks stopped coming. He was done playing that part of the game. The music kept roaring around them. Business as usual swirled as if nothing happened, as if nothing was happening between them.

The telltale smile told a thousand stories. The rictus grin had seen countless people with similar experiences. Perhaps they owed money, or were owed money. It wasn't uncommon for favors or life debts to be called into question. Based on Angel's reaction and heightened sense of self-preservation, his plea that he had nowhere else to go, Mephisto assumed that there was only one way for this to end.

He tapped his crooked fingers along the edge of the bar.

“I make bandits and vagabonds everywhere I go, my friend. Deals with me are not to be thrown away and forgotten. The old man owes me something he can't repay in this world,”

His expression shifted, if only slightly. The barest semblance of anger flashed in his piercing gaze. He remembered something from long ago, a debt left unsatisfied or cheated perhaps.

“But I am curious about more than professionalism. At this point, he may not even remember our last game. I'll see him soon regardless. This place, however,”

He looked around, observing the rafters.

“It's what he'll leave behind. He'll entrust his friends and students to take care of it. So, Angel, how about a deal?”

He produced a pair of dice from his sleeve. They were red - of course they were red.

“I know you hate games. Just think of this as picking up where the old man left off,”

He set the dice down for Angel to inspect. They weren't loaded, surprisingly.

“Fifty years and I never forgot his smug little grin thinking he got away scot-free. Thing is, he never bothered with the fine print,”

He whisked his hand through the air and a contract answered him from the other side with a gasp of green smoke. It was certainly old, aged and weathered as if it were preserved in a folder for a number of decades. He began to read out loud.

“Ahem… in the event of a victory against Mephisto, Mephisto reserves the right to a rematch if foul play is suspected. This does not work the other way around. If Mephisto wins that second round, not only is the participant's soul ripped away… but also all his earthly possessions are to be immediately rebranded,”

He snapped his fingers, sending the document away as he cackled maliciously.

“So, if he doesn't want to come out and play… you have to. Simple as that!”