#hurricane heller is killing me slowly

[nichenarratives]

DUBIOUS DANGER

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspired by this post.

Knowing his history, Atlas May made his role clear when he employed Mordecai Heller, and had since returned to New York to settle any lingering resentments in the underworld personally. As far as the young tom can tell, that involved an excessive amount of money changing hands, most likely to cover the deficit Mordecai scraped off their books in addition to quelling any vigilante tendencies in regard to the bounty on his head with a generous bonus.

Working at Little Daisy Cafe has been easy, almost too easy for an accomplished mathematician and former associate of one of New York City's most prominent gangs. He's well aware of the excessive amount of money he's being asked to hide within their books too, precisely as he used to do back in New York. Suggestive of an illegal undercurrent operation, it isn't Mordecai's place to pry, only cook their books to make the funds seem legitimate, which he does without question for the man who saved his life six months prior.

It's refreshing to work for a job that doesn't require constant moral debauchery or bloodshed, to be able to focus on numerals and digits in a controlled environment and not concern himself with new aliases or keeping secrets. While the wider employment base aren't aware of his past, the core few that are privy have been amicable and discrete with questions, not that Mordecai has shared any details in response. Atlas has left that divulgence up to his individual discretion and the tom doesn't trust anyone enough to offer details yet.

He's been approached by numerous members of staff since being employed, but most have the decency not to query his past, instead informally introducing themselves, sometimes with a handshake and others because they had a question about their wages. Mordecai stays cordial and polite, not wishing to cause dissent at his new job, answering those who want details without even needing to refer to his ledger.

If anything, it helps to have faces to put beside the names. He should memorise their identities, for formality's sake, and he's met every employee on the payroll besides one to date; Viktor Vasko.

Viktor's official role at the Little Daisy Cafe is 'mechanic', a dubious profession for a small social hub in the center of St Louis. Mordecai assumes he's a private employee added to the cafe's books for tax purposes. He's perhaps Atlas May's chauffeur, or some other personal assistant with enough mechanical knowledge to pass as a tradesman, or it could be the car is used for business purposes and as such, the driver and mechanic is technically a Cafe employee.

There's also a possibility he's involved with illegal business, the illicit activity the monochrome tom believes is generating excess funds. His absent introduction would suggest it too, as it maintains his distance from the actual legal staff like Mordecai - even if he himself is knowingly cooking books. He has no desire to meet the man, however, so he doesn't focus on this unknown individual, until the day they run into one another in the Cafe's back corridors.

Mordecai has recently taken to passing his lunch hour in the Cafe, rather than his office. There's more light, and the quiet tones of a radio beneath a gentle hubbub keep his mind too busy to ruminate on past regrets while he drinks his tea and indulges in a pastry or baked goods. He always leaves his suit jacket and coat behind in his office, not intending to go outside, though makes sure to transfer his pocket knife to a pants pocket out of habit. Always better to be prepared.

Today is the same as those before it; he takes a preferred seat by the window opposite the cashier station, orders a muffin and a tea to be deducted from his wage, and quietly works on a crossword as his lunch hour passes. Remaining polite with and tipping the waitress generously from his coin purse, he stands at exactly fifty-five minutes and heads through the back door to return to his office, to ensure he's back to work by the time his hour ticks over.

He's half way back to his office - a flight of stairs and a short corridor away from solitude - when a door opens to his left, drawing the tom's attention. While inherently curious, he's not a snooper, and as such has never seen behind this door because it leads to the garage; a filthy, oily place, Mordecai has no desire to go in, but slows his pace to glance inside out of pure intrigue. It's also possible Atlas will emerge, and the accountant has been itching to query the Cafe's most recent purchase to ensure it's properly categorised without having to arrange a formal meeting.

The figure that emerges is as imposing as his boss, but the immediate differences stop Mordecai in his tracks. He's not met this man before, meaning he's most likely the elusive Viktor Vasko on his ledger. With unknown information right before him, the detail-oriented feline is inclined to update his intracranial files over a swift exit, awkward interactions with this stranger be damned.

Viktor Vasko is easily as tall as Atlas May, if not possessing an inch extra, though it's difficult to tell with the flat cap in between large ears. Broad shoulders and thick chest fill a white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders holding up his pants over shiny shoes. His fur is thick and long, double coat a deeper orange-brown close to his body and fading to vibrant orange at the tips, black markings around his mouth indicative of bobcat or another larger species heritage.

What is most striking however, is the missing right eye, or at least the obscuration of one with a black patch, which melds into the natural dark colouration around the socket. The monochrome short hair doesn't notice it until after Viktor had closed the garage door and turned to face him. Noticing the patch comes with eye contact, a single, bright jade iris locking to intrigued emeralds with such intensity, Mordecai takes an unconscious step away, causing his tail to brush against the wall behind him.

The resplendent feline seems just as intrigued by the new face, though his eyes narrow slightly as, slipping his hands into his pockets, he steps towards the smaller tom, his keen eye scaling the accountant's appearance with a tired glare. He leans a little closer, and Mordecai leans back, shoulders coming to rest on the cool wall, where he stays even as the bobcat rolls his shoulders and adopts a relaxed stance.

Mordecai has engaged with enough mobsters in his time to know the importance of first impressions. He's not scared of this feline per say, but his former physical responses could be interpreted as submissive, something he swiftly rectifies; he steps a leg back to make the leaning stance look more natural, tilting his chin up to maintain eye contact and sure to keep his ears high and alert, though not too attentive, his expression bland to round off his disinterested facade.

The bobcat isn't phased, returning his stare a while before he finally speaks. Viktor's voice is as deep as his tall stature eludes, though the accountant wasn't expecting the heavy, unfamiliar accent or the clipped sentences. "You can run away," Viktor begins, not a hint of humour or warning in his tone, a simple suggestion given out of perhaps expectation the smaller tom will be scared, letting the words hang there a moment before he finishes. "If you vant."

He can see why the colossus doesn't bother to actively try and intimidate him; his stature, build, appearance and accent probably turn most small men into anxious, gibbering messes. Mordecai had dealt with far more intimidating men in the mob attempting to cut him down to size though, so his reaction is muted; a raised brow, a quiet monotone and the illustration of complete calm, almost asking Viktor to try and scare him. "Why should I? Am I in danger?""

Tensions seem to shimmer in the air between them, Viktor and Mordecai both refusing to be the first to look away or answer, determined to come out of this odd introduction with the upper hand. Despite his obvious size advantage and his favourable ground, Mordecai isn't afraid of being attacked; he trusts Atlas not to employ the deranged, and that Viktor would have the sense not to start a fight based on such an idiocratic premise, though glad of the switchblade in his pocket in the unlikely event it should become necessary.

Then finally, after what feels like hours of silence, Viktor lets the smallest of smirks turn the corner of his lip, a subtle and transient smile that's gone as soon as it came. The bobcat then turns and hands still tucked into pockets, wordlessly in the direction of the Cafe. Mordecai watches him go with a bemused blink, unsure what that interaction achieved, but a swift check of his pocket watch and an utterance in Yiddish and he's striding back for his office a few minutes late.

I'm sure it was nothing, he reassures himself as he slips back into his office chair, entirely unaware of how drastically his role at the Little Daisy Cafe - and his relationship with a certain Viktor Vasko - would rapidly develop. Back to work.