[Abandoned] [Arc - Part I] The Bun Also Rises

- RISE -

Mazin gave several nods as his Captain went on, not giving even a blink at her joke.  Not that he didn’t get it, but moreso that he was used to this game, and usually tried to avoid playing it for too long. Not that he needed to try, either.

Not far away, two voices rose above all other noise nearby. Several chefs at the stalls stopped to watch as the two’s squabble exploded, the sound of rustling pots and pans coming to a temporary halt. Mazin was torn on whether to actually jump in between the two chefs when a crowd formed around them, making the decision for him. Given the crowd’s interest, he imagined such things were common as the contest heated up. Just another part of the appeal, in a sense, not that he necessarily got it himself.

After the two chefs were separated, instead he simply shook his head in disdain as Chef Gamsay in particular took to kicking any nearby trash can he could find. E[/i]ager to find something better to put his attention to, he turned to his Captain, only to find her sitting in a chair, lost in thought. That was when he noticed a second racket, one over the very same featherless bird that was the catalyst for the first.  

No.

This was the first word that popped in his mind.  A word meant for himself.

The two flashy men were clearly trouble.  Mazin could feel it in his bones, and he had years, no, almost a decade of experience with this word and the sort of people that brought it. Where Sinbad had a sixth sense for treasure, Mazin had one for problematic people.  And just a glance at these two made that sense ring off like a very, very, loud alarm.

Still, his feet had begun moving. Yes, he’d been the one to actually sign up for the actual job, unlike Laurel. Yes, that meant he had a sense of responsibility, if not duty, to enforce the rules of the establishment.  And yes, he was feeling perhaps a bit guilty for not helping out with the two chefs. But that didn’t mean he had to be the one to approach these two, did it?

Yet before Mazin could stop himself, his feet had suddenly carried him in front of the pair.  In all the practiced grace one might expect from a butler, he appeared as if from thin air, although, what with his slate-gray uniform and matching cap, perhaps butler was too generous a word for the him.  Regardless, the blue-haired boy gave an apologetic smile as he spoke, “I’m sorry to bother you two, but I’m going to have to ask to have that chicken back. It’s the establishment’s property until its cooked, you see.”

“That is, unless you plan to prepare it yourself. In which case I can help you, well, more help get you supplied.” One time, Mazin had decided to make pancakes. He had knocked over some flour in a puff, and, well, that was the only time Mazin had ever decided to make pancakes. “Although I suggest you hurry.  If I remember correctly the owner mentioned that this batch of birds was quite eager with, erm, droppings...”

- RISE -

Not every boy was in a hurry to grow up, but like most his age, Mazin always at least tried to put on an “adult” face. He hated when people called him kid, or worse, belittled him for his height. But not once did he expect to be addressed in the exact opposite manner.

Old man.

Old man in a kid’s body.

Someone might have heard an arrow being shot through Mazin’s heart, were it not for Alice’s continued theatrics. Yet Mazin still did not discard his stone-faced “adult” persona. No, he kept it up –  not knowing he was making everything all the worse. He watched as the blonde boy continued speaking, moving from pity to accusation and then finally tears, all the while wondering how he might best control the situation. Or was there any control to grasp to begin with?

Laurel’s entry gave him his answer.  One second the blonde was openly checking her out, the next he was asking if he could have her belt  – certainly the most innocent way of asking for some tail – only to once again return to tears and defiance in regards to the bird.

Mazin sighed, resting his hands behind his back. “If you want to purchase the ch—turkey as a pet, I can ask the establishment owner.  Until then, it is best you return to your stall.”

In the back of his mind, Mazin wondered if the boy could even prepare fish. Given his companion’s remarks, Mazin thought it was more likely a fish would serve him, but he felt that was better kept to himself. He’d just have to remember the boy’s name for the obituary…

Mazin reached down for his list of names, realizing he didn’t even have their names yet. “If you like I can even add – Kennedy, was it? – to your staff. I’ll need both of your names too, of course.”  If he had heard correctly, the fishman was called Becky, but it was best to make sure...

Or at least, so he thought, for an additional commotion in the form of groans nearby caught his attention. Mazin, who was looking down to match their names and stall, then glanced up, and doing so just in time to catch three figures squeezing inbetween the still thickening crowd, two of which he recognized.

Oh. Oh no.

One-Eye was the first to make it through, in no small part due his stinky, battered old hat.

Then came Goblin, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

The “adult” face Mazin had been wearing cracked as the frightened boy shot Laurel a worried glance.

Were it just one or the other, he’d have no cause for concern.  One-Eye was the one among the Pompokolin’s crew that best fit the brand of “lawless pirate”, a man whose avarice knew no bound, but he often knew when to pull out.  It was only when he was with his competitor and co-conspirator that the two of them were no better than giggling school children. And that was when it was just the two of them.

Indeed, if there were any consolation of things spiraling out of control, it would’ve been if someone street smart were along for the ride.  The sight of the third man, though, merely made Mazin’s frown deepen further.  The man had light-violet long hair styled with bangs and a long ponytail in the back, and was dressed in an expensive white suit with a violet belt strap around the waist. Mazin had little doubt as the kind of background the man possessed, not that he needed much guess work.  The rest of his ensemble included white gloves. White boots. A blue shirt, made to match blue frills on the ends his suit, marking him a somewhat more color coordinated version of the foppish clown and jester boys in front of him, albeit worse in some ways. He even wore a white cape, which was attached to his collar by a pair of spherical jewels.

In short, he smelled of money, the exact opposite of most of the establishment’s patrons, which had Mazin casting a suspicious glance at One-Eye, who gave him his best “I’ve got this covered” look. He almost would’ve believed it, if not for a cock-sure grin that only a fool would trust.

“Ladies!” he cried, taking a moment to give Laurel and Mazin a wink before turning to Alice and Becky, “Gentlemen! I’d like to introduce you to my client, Count Olivert, who has a proposition for you, and perhaps a special few in the crowd...”

The dark skinned man then gestured toward the third figure, who gracefully stepped forward.

“Why thank you, my good man. And good afternoon, everyone.  I have come to ask first and foremost if you two boys and your fine feathered, my mistake, defeathered friend would like to be sponsored as my contestants for Count Osbourne's private dinner this evening? I will be quite willing to share the majority of any winnings should we win his special prize, of course...and that is not counting the increased chances to win this contest begin with.”

Mazin, who had previously glaring at One-Eye, halted at the man's words.  If he remembered correctly, Count Osbourne was one of the World Best Eating Tournament's biggest backers. One who invited all the world's most notable judges and sometimes even influential figures to dine at an establishment that assuredly had the finest food and atmosphere, coupled with the best furnishing and service – at least until it moved to its public opening, where it was usually ravaged before the end of the night.  The kicker was, of course, that the Tournament wasn't entirely fair. Often the sort of judges and figures invited to the private dinner were given increased voting power, where one might hold a vote equal to thousands of votes. The power tended to actually be even more imbalanced, all to ensure that those in power within Pucci held a large degree of control over the contest.  

Mazin became even more wary as the refined man slid over toward himself Laurel. "Of course, you fine security personnel wouldn't be left out either, as they'd need to ensure no one attempted to interfere with their work, and my two companions here tell me that you quite reliable." The man then waved a hand toward Laurel. "I'm also quite certain I could find an outfit far more befitting toward your beauty, madam..."