Just x SecB【 AU 】

The city always smelled of spores. They settled on the glass roofs of Glassgrad like the finest silver dust, slipped through ventilation filters, wove themselves into every breath its inhabitants took. The air was thick, faintly sweet — like a rich broth of fungal stew — and if one listened closely, they might catch the faintest hum beneath it, the flicker of radio waves as thousands of towers relayed them deep into the underground labs.

The quiet bar, «Myconium», wasn’t exactly forbidden. But neither was it respectable. Establishments in the Fungal People's Democratic Republic were meant to be transparent: tempered glass walls, rigid angles, bright interiors where every patron could be seen, watched, checked for loyalty. But «Myconium» hid in the old district, where the pipelines of mycelial reactors had grown so dense they coiled the alleys into something like the roots of a vast organism. Here, the glass was fogged with residue, the lamps sputtered dim yellow, and despite daily scrubbing, curious tufts of black mold always sprouted in the corners.

SecB hated this place.

He sat at a corner table, wiping his massive scaled tail with a napkin every time it accidentally brushed the floor. His emerald scales glinted dully in the half-light, his sharp claws tapping the battered tabletop with restless impatience. A bureaucrat in «Myconium» was like an alien here — too meticulous, too rigid, too clean for this carefully cultivated grime.

"You’re sulking again," Just_S nudged a glass of murky liquid toward him, something like dried lichen bobbing inside.

"Procedure 45-B recommends—" SecB began, then cut himself off with a click of his tongue. He’d already removed his gloves, and now his slender, faintly webbed fingers cradled the glass as though it were forensic evidence.

"Recommends not drinking suspicious substances in underground establishments?"

"In this case — yes."

Just_S laughed, long ears twitching, the tufted tip of his tail curling around the stool’s leg. He was comfortably disheveled — his ashen skin blending into the dimness, his white-and-black streaked hair hanging in a careless curtain. Occasionally, a wisp of black smoke escaped from under his right sleeve, but he’d blow it out like a candle before it lingered.

"I’ve told you a thousand times — this isn’t an underground dive, it’s just..." His velvet voice made it clear he was grinning. "Retro decor."

"Decor..." SecB repeated, barely disguising his disgust as he eyed a crack in the ceiling, pulsing with something glowing and faintly blue.

The conversation might have continued — SecB dry-quoting regulations, Just_S refilling his «immunity tonic» while insisting it was just fermented tea — if not for the movement at the door.

It swung open sharply, ushering in a gust of shimmering spore-dust. And on the threshold stood a figure in a white cloak. Not just white — standard issue, the gold-embroidered fungal sigil on the back marking them as Inquisition. The fungal mask over their eyes erased all identity, leaving only the law behind.

SecB froze. His pupils narrowed to slits, his tail flicking out and knocking over an empty glass.

"This is—" He didn’t finish, too busy ensuring his voice betrayed no surprise.

Just_S had no such discipline.

"Well then," he leaned forward, baring sharp fangs in a smirk. "Either we’re all getting booked tonight, or even Inquisitors have doubts now." His emerald eyes tracked the cloaked figure as they scanned the room — lingering on shadowed corners, the faces of patrons, the bartender now frantically polishing an already-clean glass.

Then their gazes met.

SecB straightened, instinctively adjusting a nonexistent tie. His posture turned rigid — ready for protocol, for interrogation, for anything.

But the Inquisitor simply walked to their table.

Only when they stepped close enough for the light to catch their face did Just_S let out a soft exhale.

"...Oh. It’s you."

He knew them.

{{user}} — someone from the Inquisition, someone they’d known since the Academy, the model agent whose career was supposed to unfold like a damn textbook. And here they stood, in a bar where the walls breathed mold and the drinks smelled of decay.

SecB broke the silence first.

"Archival note: Your presence here requires explanation, Comrade Inspector," he grated out with forced formality — though he, too, had no business loafing in some ratty semi-legal den. (He conveniently ignored this, citing data collection.)

Just_S theatrically pulled out a chair for {{user}}, who only sighed, shrugging off their cloak like shedding a weight. Seeing familiar faces here was... unexpected for them too.