Fallen

The decision to return to work so soon hadn't exactly been part of Ruìsāng's plan. His right hand, swathed in bandages, throbbed incessantly, a sharp reminder of his recent ordeal. His ribs, similarly wrapped, sent jolts of pain with each breath. Using his injured hand felt like plunging it into an inferno, yet necessity dictated his presence here. His new colleagues, it seemed, were woefully inept, eclipsed even by his own left-handed attempts.

The burden of competence weighed heavily on his shoulders.

As he stood behind the counter, nursing his discomfort in stoic silence, a familiar figure with fiery red hair approached. She settled herself at the counter, requesting a shot of something potent. Ruìsāng arched an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If it isn’t the little miss,” he remarked, his voice tinged with a blend of amusement and mock surprise. “Something strong, you ask? Tequila will do. Now, tell me, with lime or without?”

With practised ease, he reached for a shot glass, his movements fluid despite the left hand’s unfamiliar role. A bottle of tequila was retrieved next, its cap presenting a brief but intense battle. Wincing slightly at the pain in his right hand, he managed to fill the glass, a few drops escaping as he pushed the shot glass in her direction.

Lime. It seemed almost ironic that the girl would request her tequila with a slice of lime. Ruìsāng’s gaze fixated on the small, unassuming fruit perched on the bar counter, a silent challenge. Despite the obvious hindrance of his left hand, he mused inwardly about the possibility of slicing it. Worst case scenario, he thought, glancing at the bandages already swathing his right hand, he was well-prepared for any minor mishaps.

“It’s alright. I must have a forgettable face,” he retorted with a wry twist of his lips, managing to carve out a neat slice against all odds. With a deft, albeit slightly awkward, movement, he leaned forward to place the lime delicately on the rim of her glass. He then nudged the salt towards her. “You know how to do this, right? Salt, shot, lime,” he instructed, his voice low and steady, as he gave a quick, pointed nod towards the salt.

Her inquiry about whether a woman had hit him again drew a short, dry chuckle from him. “A grandmother this time,” he quipped back, his eyes glinting with a hint of humour. He hoped the absurdity of his response would be enough to make her think he was joking around.

The girl’s admission of distraction elicited a soft chuckle from Ruìsāng. “I was joking,” he reassured her, turning back to the task of the lime with a nonchalant air. Her offer to help seemed out of place in the rhythm of the bar. The very thought of passing a knife to a patron was absurd – it was his responsibility, and he was determined to uphold it, far more adept than the clumsy attempts of the cleaner boy these past weeks.

As the redhead expressed her gratitude for his tequila tutorial, Ruìsāng’s grin widened mischievously. “Don’t worry. Just try not to throw up if you dislike the taste,” he teased. Tequila was not for the weak hearted, and he couldn’t help but wonder what drove her to request something so potent. Yet, he wasn’t the type to pry into personal matters; he was there to serve, not to counsel.

Her comment about the interesting women he encountered drew a scoff from him. “I’d rather not,” he replied. For a moment, it seemed as though the girl was lost in her own thoughts, disconnecting from the present. Her request for another shot raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure about that, girl? Don’t want you passing out on the streets later,” he responded, a tone of cautious concern underlying his words. Nevertheless, he took the glass to refill it. If it was tequila she sought, he would oblige – after all, that was his job.

The girl's assertion was met with a soft, noncommittal hum from Ruìsāng. In the grand scheme of things, her capacity to handle her drinks was not his concern. His role was straightforward: to serve drinks. Although he maintained a basic level of responsibility, refusing service to those blatantly overindulging, his duty did not extend to arbitrating between a need for professional intervention, a heart-to-heart with friends, or the solace found in alcohol. If a patron opted for the latter, he would fulfil his part, pouring their choice and accepting payment. Perhaps he should have been more invested, but with the persistent throb in his hand and the weight of his own issues clouding his thoughts, detached professionalism was easy.

Her words carried a hint of sarcasm, eliciting a scoff from Ruìsāng. “You do you, then,” he replied, his tone laced with indifference. “Let me know if you need another,” he added, shifting his focus to the task at hand. He began collecting empty glasses scattered along the bar, pushing them aside for one of the errand boys to retrieve and return to the kitchen.

Ruìsāng was never one to harbour illusions of grandeur about saving the world. Life had shown him its harsh realities too often for him to nurture such naive aspirations. His philosophy was simple: look out for immediate dangers, intervene when necessary, but beyond that, keep a distance. His history was a testament to why he kept his concerns limited. So, when the girl showed signs of struggle, he remained detached. Her initial sarcasm had already dimmed his interest.

Her subsequent apology, followed by an admission of feeling nauseous, elicited an involuntary grimace from him. Dealing with the aftermath of excessive drinking was something he despised, a disdain rooted in personal experiences with his alcoholic mother.

“The toilets are that way if you need to throw up. Remember to go outside if you have trouble breathing,” he instructed, his tone pragmatic. This was a script he had recited countless times, his gesture towards the toilets more a reflex than a conscious effort.

Ruìsāng looked up as the girl seemed to have another request. He arched an eyebrow, a silent invitation for her to continue. He was momentarily tempted to question her desire for another alcoholic beverage, but he chose to bite back the remark. After all, he had already directed her to the toilets; she was now well-equipped to make her own decisions.

“Coming right up,” he responded. Pondering her request for a lighter drink, he decided on a Suzie - a refreshing, low-alcohol cocktail. It was an uncomplicated mix, primarily consisting of club soda with a twist of grapefruit, subtly enhanced with Suze and Carpano Bianco. Even a novice drinker could handle such a concoction with ease.

“Enjoy. Let me know if there is anything else,” he said, his words smooth and practised as he placed the drink before her. His left hand, despite its limitations, performed the task with a surprising grace.

click for drink

Sometimes, Ruìsāng struggled to understand the mind of another. The girl's shift from sarcasm to a seemingly genuine concern about his Pokémon caught him off guard. A scoff escaped him before he could catch it, the notion of his Mawile, Lìeyàn, being in any real danger seemed ludicrous. Lìeyàn, while not yet at her peak strength, was a formidable fighter in her own right. The thought of her rising to dominance was a comforting certainty in his mind.

“She is fine,” he responded curtly, his voice carrying a mix of pride and reassurance. Exhaling a tired sigh, he leaned on the counter with his left hand, his brows lifting in a display of perplexity. “You’re behaving weirdly. Call a friend. Talk out whatever is bothering you. This clearly isn’t working for you,” he advised, his gesture toward the drinks underlining his point. While he typically played the role of host and entertainer for his patrons, he would not do so for a pathetic young girl.