The tedious work was wearing on him, finally.

Fatigue had been chasing him all afternoon, but he'd put on a smile and feigned enthusiasm and bore with it because this was his job. This was what put food on his table and kept him off the streets. This was what he lived for, as sad a life as he led (according to a few key persons he'd rather not recall at the moment), and his smile was everything in this business. Being rude or disgruntled or stiff lost you tips and guaranteed dissatisfied customers.

That in turn guaranteed he'd have his ass kicked out of the establishment by noon.

But he was cracking. Too many hours on the clock, too many belching men with questionable odors. His head throbbed in time with the outdated music that played over the speakers on an endless loop that even invaded his nightmares. And if he had to serve one more flaming cocktail, the combustible drink wouldn't be the only thing he set ablaze, screw the consequences.

No, wait. That wouldn't do, much as he would have liked to claim otherwise. It wasn't only his own welfare he had to worry about, and the other party tended to get... melodramatic in the wake of his life choices.

Melodramatic being an understatement.

"Mate, if ya'd just let me have a little fun once in a while," he mumbled to himself as he worked a damp rag over the worn oak counter, careful to pick the grime from the various scratches ingrained in the lacquer, "we'd be better off! Not scrubbing vomit off the floor, or putting up with having our asses grabbed by plastered old farts..."

He really did not want to recount how many times that exact incident happened on a daily basis.

Complaining, though, was useless in the end. His words fell on deaf ears. He'd learned to live with that, though he had little choice unless he'd rather resort to something drastic. And while drastic had a nice ring to it, it wasn't worth the aftermath.

The last customer (that hadn't dropped, dead drunk, onto the floor) was a middle-aged man, his hair frosted with gray at the edges, sunken eyes, and a wry set to his lips that hinted at secrets untold and promises broken. He sat alone at a table drenched in evening shadows, aimlessly swirling the contents of his drink around in the chipped glass, like he had been every time the barkeep glanced up from his work. All night he'd sat like that, never moving, never conversing with any of the other rowdy patrons (not that the keep could blame him), with just that one drink to tide him over. The barkeep wasn't sure he'd even taken a sip in all that time.

His presence was beginning to dip into the realms of creepy and unsettling.

"Oi. Bastard" - this late at night, he could get away with tossing a few insults out; no one was likely sober enough to question him - "if yer quite finished, 'sabout time I close up shop."

The man raised his head, glassy eyes fluttering with a sudden urgency. The barkeep paused in his cleaning, bracing both palms on the counter as he made a quick study of the man. Fairly portly, well-groomed, he didn't appear to be much of a threat. The barkeep frowned, tapping his toe against the bar in silent contemplation.

"Oh, that time already? How rude of me, I meant to introduce myself earlier," the man said, rising from his chair (with great difficulty; the keep could practically hear the groaning of the guy's knees) and whisking a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his the corners of his mouth, to which the keep rolled his eyes and mumbled something about the detriments of high class. "I'm not at peak condition around others, I'm afraid," the man went on, now seated at the bar, uncomfortably close to the barkeep. His breath stank of the whiskey he'd apparently guzzled in the time it took for him to cross the room.

"Aye, ya look the type," the keep mumbled. He didn't add that he didn't care about this man's particulars, nor did he care for conversation at this hour, especially with a man who looked more at home in a brothel than he did a bar. That would have been just plain rude. "Look, if yer just here to chat, that's no good. Boss ain't happy when I keep the doors open this late."

"Are you sure I couldn't persuade you to have a few words with me?"

Seeing the barkeep's uncompromising scowl, the man chuckled, shaking his head.

"You're just as they describe you, Fox."

Silence. Such a thick, engrossing silence that it claimed the entire bar, wound around the man and squeezed like the coiling body of an anaconda. He drew only short, stale breaths as he waited for the barkeep to reply.

A slow, smug grin flickered over the barkeep's lips. He leaned over the bar, elbows digging into timeworn grooves, chin propped up in his palm. Looking at the man through hooded eyes, lashes lowered, chromatic yellow irises glinting with new interest.

"That be a dangerous name around these parts," he said, fingers tapping at his cheek, eyes dancing with a light more dangerous than any implication the name might have had. "Yer lucky ya caught me on a good day."

"Ah, yes, I've been informed of your... partner's problematic condition. You're Vesper, then?"

"The one and only," Vesper affirmed cheerfully. "'Course, officially, I'm Kitsune, or Fox if ya want. But that's neither here not there. What can I do for ya?"

"I'd like you to steal something."

Vesper bit his lip, checking a dry laugh. "Not like I though ya were asking me to dinner. What's the target?"

By way of answering, the man produced a folded scrap of paper from his pocket, sliding it across the bar for Vesper's perusal. Etched in meticulous and maddening detail on the page was a sword. A katana forged of silver and some gleaming black metal Vesper couldn't name, bearing a hilt of black leather and an obsidian guard. Vesper bent low over the image, a crease appearing between his drawn brows; he cocked his head, then, looking at the man.

"This one of the greats, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, one of the twelve Saijo O Wazamono. Its name is Arashi."

Vesper whistled, long and low, before saying, "That's a tall order, ain't it? Something like this is bound to have a nasty owner. I'm just a thief, ya know."

He looked again at the etching, moving his gaze between it and the man. What use did he have for such a magnificent blade?

"Ah, I can see it in your eyes," the man chuckled, and Vesper found he disliked the sound. It reminded him of a child forcing a laugh to conceal whatever lie they'd told. It didn't give him the impression that this man was attempting to pull one over on him, but nonetheless, there was something in the cadence of his voice that was unpleasant. "You're wondering why a man of my... considerable girth would want to procure something that would require much grace and flexibility to use, yes?"

Vesper nodded instantly. This type of 'customer' hardly required him to play the nice guy and act gentlemanly. He'd take advantage of the freedom while he could.

"Yes, well, that's understandable. However, I don't intend to use the blade myself; I'm more of a collector of sorts. I've already acquired several of the legendary blades; this is just another I want to add to my conquests."

He'd bought them all, most likely, at outrageous prices Vesper would never be able to wrap his head around. Judging by his nervousness (the way he wrung his hands, rubbed at his temples, averted his eyes from Vesper's) this was his first contracted theft. He could probably scam the sap, if he wanted, but if his partner discovered the scheme he'd no doubt pay hell to rectify it.

Vesper smiled, and the effect was disarming.

He pocketed the page, making room for it among the trinkets kept in his apron, then clapped his hands eagerly; the bracelet dangling around his wrist jingled melodiously with the movement, briefly catching the man's interest. But soon he was focused again on Vesper, who had since brought his hands down atop the bar and moved so as to come face to face with his latest patron.

"Let's strike a deal, then, mate," he said. "A sword like this'll come with considerable risk to yers truly. I'd say it's only fair I have fitting compensation, eh?"

"Of course!" The man snatched a napkin from the corner of the bar and a pen from his waistcoat, scribbling something onto the stained cloth. He showed it to Vesper. "Would this suffice?"

It took a fair amount of Vesper's notorious willpower to keep from salivating uncontrollably at the sight of the multi-digit number scrawled across the napkin's discolored surface.

With pay like that, he'd never have to work in this hellhole again. He could chase his dream and sail the open seas and--

Well, he could work out the details some other time, when his partner was willing to cooperate. For now, he'd focus on what lay ahead in his no-doubt perilous excursion, and how he'd rope in a certain someone to do his bidding for the time being.

"Suffice it to say, mate," Vesper grinned, "I'm contractually yers."