Chapter Text
On the first occasion, he believes it’s a mistake.
He very nearly knocks it over with his foot when he steps outside: courtesy of his sluggish speed, and the element of surprise. After all, who would place such a thing in front of his door?
Katana gazes confusedly at the small package—patterned fabric carefully wrapped around an item squarish on one side and round on the other, which he assumes has to be separate items from the difference in shape, tied off into a neat bow at the top. There is no note. He steps outside, crisp air breezing past him as he does, and surveys the surrounding area. Nobody is coming or going at the time. Odd.
He crouches down and takes his hand off the hilt of his weapon to pick up the package with both of his hands, staring at it in passive curiosity. With one more sweep of the area in his sight, Katana deems the person who must have left it by his door long gone.
He walks back into his house and closes the door behind him. It is a strange occurrence for sure, Katana muses silently. He sets the item down onto his counter carefully, afraid of rustling whatever was inside.
The package’s fabric has a reddish base, similar to the natural color of his horns, with circular patterns on top of it, some lines in between. Its hemming contains a deeper, pinkish red, with white threads in between. The fabric is tied into a careful, albeit flimsy, knot at the top to finish it off. Whoever had been tying may have been in a rush, or maybe not quite skilled at tying knots. Still, it adds a heartfelt touch. Overall, it looks… nice.
Katana wordlessly opens the gift, carefully untying the knot at the top, only to discover the contents to be a bottle of sake (which he notes is local, from a place he knows well in Thieves’ Den) and a matching serving set.
Immediately, he is stumped. He doesn’t quite recall doing anything to warrant such a thing; much less knowing anyone who would gift him something. Is this a subtle threat? Are the corrupt trying to convince his guard to lower before they strike?
He narrows his eyes. He doesn’t dismiss his suspicions, but he ponders if the gift may have just been misplaced. After all, his neighbors are considerably more social than an elder like him. They are all lively and cheerful in their own ways, unlike the guarded and monotonous countenance Katana finds himself to be. For some inexplicable reason, each of the trio hangs around him sometimes when they bump into him outside, or stick nearby him in Phights. For some reason, he deems their company… nice. They always try to include him.
(Is this a threat towards them, instead?)
Katana re-wraps the gift just as he left it. Perhaps he is thinking too far into things. If someone does come back for the gift, just in case, or to ask if he’s seen it, he can give it back for the giver to transfer to the right person. There is no note, no scrawl of writing on the bottle, nothing that indicates a hint to who left it or for what reason. All he can deduce from it is that it was local. Maybe the person it was meant for would have immediately known.
He leaves the gift on his counter and steps outside for a second time. The breeze is slow, but the coolness of air still caresses his hands and slides underneath his mask. Nature and its little moments were something to be cherished, little pockets of time where the world was silent and he only listened to the song of wind whistling through the leaves, the pitter-patter of rain on a house, the quiet splash of a nearly dried puddle, the cawing of faint birds as the sun lazily walks its path above the sky.
But Katana was not one meant for cherishing, anymore. Time waited for nature, threaded its hands through her fields and meadows with an unrivaled tenderness; a promise that it would always grow back, that some part of her would always exist in the world. Time does not wait for him, however, his mission wasting away.
Katana has the idea to knock on the door of his neighbors. Perhaps he could inquire as to if they saw anyone passing by the house. It is a useful idea. But when he lifts his hand, he hesitates to knock.
They shouldn’t be involved, if it is really something, and not just an innocent gift. Besides, they may be sleeping, and it would be rude of him to interrupt and demand they answer such an insignificant question. If they did think it distressed him, they also might try to tag along, and he could not have that.
He would ask someone else, he decides, as he walks away with a steady hand seated on his sword’s hilt.
“You haven’t touched your drink.” It is a blatant statement with a well-hidden concern. Hyperlaser motions towards the cup Katana’s hand is wrapped around, but has not taken a sip of during the mere hour and a half they have been here.
Katana hums. He does not offer any more than, “You’re right.”
The comfortable atmosphere still surrounds them in the raucous laughter of a few patrons in the back of the bar and the idle chatter that serves as background noise to their routine excursion. Hyperlaser further, carefully, prods. He is wont to do that sometimes, question the things Katana himself often dismisses like they are second nature. “What’s wrong?”
Katana finally takes his first sip, tentative and short as he swallows the sweet burn of the alcohol. He leans against the bar counter. “I received a package at my door.”
He sees Hyperlaser freeze up in the corner of his eye, but even after he relaxes, the cautiousness is evident in the sniper’s poise as he further inquires, “What was it?”
“...A bottle of wine, actually,” he admits. “I presume it’s a gift. I don’t know whether they left it for me, or got the address wrong.”
Hyperlaser’s cautiousness somewhat evaporated at the admittance, and the mercenary took another swig of his drink. “Have you done anything lately? Perhaps someone only wanted to get in your good graces or send it as thanks.”
“It didn’t have a note, though.” Katana allows himself another sip, staring across the tavern to watch out the window, nothing but night’s darkness and the blurry reflection of lights greeting him in the glass. “If someone desired to get into my good graces or thank me, wouldn’t they have added some kind of signifier?”
“True.” Hyperlaser’s fingers rhythmically drum on the counter, his helmet deferring any kind of attempt of insight into whatever kind of expression he was making underneath it. “And there was no one around when you received it, I presume?”
“Correct. Nobody was in sight.” Katana hums. “It was from a local place, so either they picked it up on the way to my residence, or something else. I find it suspicious. The corruption finds stealthy ways to perform their deeds.”
There is a beat of silence between them, solemn and heavy with the mention of Katana’s enemy. Then, his drinking buddy chimes, “I could see if I could scope it out. Watch for anyone, if it bothers you that much. I don’t have any work until later this week.”
“No.”
“You really need to get better at sharing your problems with other people, Katana.”
He remains silent while Hyperlaser patiently waits for a reply. Hyperlaser is one of his closest—someone he is somewhat anxious of calling a friend, for fear it will be over too soon, and these breaks and nights will be gone like the memory of a person who hummed a song to him in the late of night. The mercenary is one of the only people who is able to know seldom of his problems—which is a lot, for Katana. He is one of the few people who understands Katana and whom Katana can most understand: a bond built off the ashes and wreckage of horrific loss.
When silence befalls them, it is usually with the understanding that it is comfortable, that nothing more is to be said and it’s okay. But this atmosphere is tense, unlike their normal outings, where they merely drink and talk and drink and talk , worming memories and words and confessions out from behind usually guarded lips. Katana finally finds the voice in him to ask neutrally, “We are friends, correct?”
“Correct.” Hyperlaser’s eyes on him feel piercing. “I believe we’ve gone over this. If the status is mutual, I would like to consider us friends.”
“When friends make the decision to go out to a bar, they most often drink, do they not?” Katana questions. He raises his cup.
It seems his friend can understand where this is going, and makes a noise akin to an amused sigh. He raises his cup as well, as if he can foretell what’s next. “Yes.”
“Then let us drink, friend.” The topic is turned around on its head, although Katana can tell Hyperlaser will attempt this again another time—perhaps their next outing.
He has long since moved past the notion that his problems should be shared with other people—Katana was alone in this mission, and he himself was simply not a priority in comparison to the atrocities happening because of the corruption. He wouldn’t mind companions, but he could not let himself burden them with missions that were his and his alone. Time is not unlimited, it presses down on his shoulders with each second and loosens with each drink.
For now, him and his friend—his dear companion, who manages to draw vulnerable words out of him every now and then, and vice versa—should enjoy the night.
The gift would be a mystery he’d solve after.