It was a humid August evening. The streets of New York had been more empty than usual during the day as the people tried to escape the relentless heat. It felt like the long dog days of summer slinked by painfully slowly, baking the chipped bricks of dilapidated buildings and the cracked asphalt of the lonely streets. For as slow and endless as the days felt, however, it seemed there was more and more drama going on every day.

“The heat makes people do crazy things,” MS always said.

And she was right. From drug busts and alleyway stabbings to broken hearts and surprise pregnancies, there was hardly a dull moment that summer. Though most of what she heard of didn’t require her involvement, MS felt almost exhausted from the nonstop and often upsetting news she would receive. No amount of cigarette would calm down her mounting stress either.

What better way was there to destress than grabbing a drink? Except, it’ll be much more than just a drink.

MS didn’t really go out to bars much, but when she did, she made sure everyone around her, strangers and friends alike, knew it was a big deal. She spent the brunt of her afternoon cooped up in the little bedroom she had for herself in the basement of the Wolves’ main hideout. She tried out five different dresses before deciding on a tight but elegant white one that hugged her waist and stopped dangerously close to her hips. Her black hair she left down, leaving its slight curls to be formed by the wind. Looking into her mirror she applied a small amount of make-up.

She emerged from her room, feeling confident. But before she left, she made sure to grab her purse—with her pistol and pocket knife inside.

As expected, the walk to The Spit was uneventful until she drew closer. The Spit was located on McNerta Avenue, a more or less neutral area that housed the majority of the city’s dive bars, and businesses of the like. The Spit was among the top on the list of the infamous bars of that area, known for being a hub for drug sales and rumors of underage drinking. Upon turning onto McNerta, MS already saw the roaming drunk, the groups of giggling women clad in colorful dresses and reeking of cheap, overpowering perfume.

MS stepped inside the bar and immediately felt the attention of more than a few men focus on her. Before she could even take a seat at the bar, a large, lumbering man hobbled over and stepped in front of her.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he boomed, his voice already saturated with the stench of alcohol. “How about your first couple drinks on me?”

MS was always keen on getting free drinks, but not from the likes of this inebriated fool. Without giving him a word, she stepped to the side and continued toward the bar.

She felt a hand clap down on her shoulder.

“Is that a no?”

MS halted and rolled her eyes.

“Please don’t touch me,” she told him, her voice oddly calm over the blaring music and shouting of drunkards. “I really don’t want this to get ugly so quickly.”

Before he could react, another drunk man came by and locked the first one in a bear-hug type of greeting, momentarily releasing MS from his grasp and freeing her from his attention. She slipped away and snaked through the throngs of dancing people over to the bar area, where she pulled up a seat at the very end.
 

“Vodka shot!” she barked at the bartender, throwing the cash down from her purse onto the greasy bartop.

"You wanna explain to me why you think you gotta pay for your drinks here?" a familiar voice addressed her.

Deon took up the stool next to MS and got comfortable, nodding his head to the bartender who took out another shot glass and filled them both with MS's poison of choice.

The Spit was his stomping grounds - had been for the last handful of years. He scratched the side of his shaved head above the angry scar that split his scalp. A handful months short of three years since he had been given perhaps one of his largest trademarks, the feeling of the scar, despite being healed, was certainly a new one.

Dropping his hand then to take up one of the shots that the bartender put in front of them, Deon raised his glass to her before pounding down the beverage in one quick gulp. Exhaling out a burning breath, Deon cleared his throat and returned the empty shot glass to the bar, signaling to the bartender with a simple motion of his finger for another round.

With a small smirk, MS folded up her bills and placed them back into her purse when Deon had pulled up a seat next to her at bar. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere, as MS was sure she would’ve seen him upon entering. He had probably been camouflaged by an entourage of girls at the time.

“The ones who offer to pay don’t really… rub me the right way,” MS answered him, placing coy emphasis on the last bit. She took her first shot with him, needing no mixer or chaser at her side in order to do so. She also exhaled, feeling the liquor dive into her stomach and warm her cheeks somewhat.

“Maybe I just came here hoping to avoid you on one of your off nights.” She winked at him and smiled at the bartender who placed another round before them.

"What are you really doing here, MS? We both know you don't know how to have fun." He took down the shot, feeling now the alcohol starting to warm his body.

MS chuckled to herself. He was partially correct. She was the poster child for Type-A personality, and it was rare to see her relaxing for relaxing’s sake.

“You still think I don’t go to bars unless it’s for a mission?” MS teased right back. “Sure, I look a little out of place here right now, but what can I say? These are my people.” She gestured to the source of drunken clamor behind her and reached down to take her shot.

“I could ask you the same thing, you know,” MS told him after setting down the empty glass. “If your little part-time job isn’t paying out tonight, why’d you come here? I hope it wasn’t just for the fangirls. Your lawyer can only shake off so many paternity suits.”

Deon chuckled. Luckily, he hadn't actually gotten anyone pregnant yet. At least, to his knowledge he hadn't. Not like he cared, anyway.

"Small-time fight tonight. My agent thinks it a good idea to watch and try to learn a thing or two from how they fight." He scoffed. "Like he thinks they'll beat me." He shook his head before switching up his order from vodka shots to a pint of dark beer.

"Now your turn. What's the deal?"
 

For once, MS agreed with and understood his cockiness. She has yet to see Deon lose a fistfight, official or otherwise. In the back of her head, she toyed with the idea of whether he always won because of his skill, or because his contempt for losing was so strong.

MS watched the bartender closely and grabbed the pint of beer from Deon before he could take a sip for himself. She took a few hearty gulps and set down the mug, sliding it over to him. Her face was one that hard to read—if she was ever showing any emotion, it was probably because she wanted you to see it.

“Deal?” she asked. “There’s no deal. Can’t a gal come out to the bars and take a load off? What did you expect? Robbing the bookie? Or reconnaissance? Did you know it’s French for recognition? Believe me, I recognize this place well enough, unfortunately.”

She ordered a vodka cranberry, deciding she didn’t care much for Deon’s beer selection.

“Or will you not believe me, no matter what I say?” she asked, taking a delicate sip from her chilled glass after it arrived.

“It’d probably be a bit more fun.” Deon commented, taking his mug back and took a long drink, practically emptying it. “Although, it goes to question… if you really are just here to relax… here, of all places… then I’m starting to believe that you really did just miss me.” He theatrically placed his free hand over his heart. “MS Baby, I’m touched.”

MS resisted rolling her eyes at her cocky comrade. She watched him down his drink like a thirsty animal and nearly grimaced at the thought of washing down such a drink so quickly. It would’ve almost been more efficient for him to funnel the drink down his gullet, she thought.

“You’ve caught me red-handed,” MS said with a tone of sarcasm. The alcohol’s buzz migrated from her warmed cheeks to a tingling sensation in the back of her head. “I guess I was just really craving the kind of… fun you tend to bring along when you’re around.”

Behind them, the emcee announced the two who would be fighting that night, bringing out some cheers from the lookers-on. MS glanced at the ring for a moment, and easily deduced Deon could pummel either of them in a fight.

“Yawn,” MS commented, referring to the fighters. “I’d rather watch two pigeons fight over a breadcrumb.” She chuckled at herself and took another sip.

“Is it… just alcohol that you’re indulging in tonight, Deon?” she asked.

Deon quirked a curious brow.

“Oh?” A faint smirk played across his lips.Women, usually, in his company were looking for one of three things: sex, booze, drugs. And since they could already mark off one of those options, that left the more… interesting two. He laughed lightly, turning his attention to his nearly empty mug and finished it off, using the back of his hand to wipe his lips.

“Alright… you’ve got my attention.” he confessed. Not like he could ever turn MS down for anything, anyway. “I’m… meeting someone here in about an hour for some.. PayDay.” He didn’t even dare shift his gaze around at other people to see if his choice of random candy stirred any attention that might let someone know there was much more to what he was talking about. “Stick around long enough, MS Baby, and I can show you a good time.” he promised with a wink before motioning the bartender for another drink.

“That implies I never had your attention to begin with,” MS cooed, leaning forward so her chest pressed a little more against the bartop. When Deon mentioned “PayDay,”MS pursed her lips, her expression growing grim for second. But her face relaxed as she took another sip of her fruity beverage.

“I see,” she sighed. “I was expecting one of your improperly rolled joints. And who is this someone? What you’re looking for can be hard to come by.”

“Improperly?” Deon grumbled lowly, messing around with the handle of his mug for a few moments before recovering from the little jab.

“She’s a... contact I’ve had for a few years. Quality stuff. Now that I can afford it, I don’t get anything else. Like I said, if you stick around long enough, you’ll find out what I’m talking about.”