THE ORB OF PLEIADIA

3. Ginsel Bar

"What are you doing here!?" A short dark man with a pot belly seethed in anger as he pointed his stubby finger to Logan. "You good for nothing brat, who told you that you can sit and rest anytime you want."

“John, I’m going back to work now.”

"You must be very insane. You dare call me by my name? I am sir or supervisor to you. Don't forget I can get you thrown out of this company, I run things here.” He leaned closer to Logan. “You know, you don't deserve to be a staff here, you’re just a shameless loser Blue-Sky decided to take off the streets."

Logan had gotten quite fond of people talking down on him, so supervisor John’s taunts meant nothing to him. He simply averted his gaze, and resumed work.

The sun set, casting an orange glow over Greenville. Logan had already left work, focused on the mission at hand, he navigated shady streets, searching for answers. He made his way to the edgy corner of Cohun, where all sorts of shady transactions were done.

The smell of cigarettes and cracked cocaine lingered, and the sound of hushed conversation filled the air.

Cohun was a place for outlaws.

An elderly man with one arm, eyed Logan. “You're on the wrong side of the city, kid,” he growled, his voice stern. His clothes were ragged and the ooze of gin was really strong on him.

“I'm looking for someone… a pleiadian,” Logan retorted with a firm voice.

The old man snorted. “The elixir’s not here, if that's what you're looking for. Fucking Pleiadians don't bring the good stuff no more.”

“I'm not here for the elixir. Do you know Louis? He often comes around here to buy white lilies.” Logan had gotten some information about the Pleiadian earlier.

“I presume you a cop.”

Logan shook his head. “No I'm not a cop, Louis is a friend of mine,” he lied, his voice smooth.

The old man eyed him up and down before nodding. “Okay, 50,” he said, stretching out his arm.

Logan sighed, digging into his pocket for the money. “Tell me everything you know.”

The old man grabbed his arm, pulling him closer.

“You're getting yourself in a big mess, kid. Asking questions like that around here will get you killed. Go home, save yourself the trouble.”

Logan's eye widened as the old man took his money and walked away, leaving him standing there, feeling like he'd just been played.

‘I can't believe a beggar just duped me.”

A glowing inscription caught his attention ‘GINSEL’ a bar, someone in there would have some good information he could use. He shrugged off the old man's warning and went in.

A strong stench of sweat, smoke and stale ale greeted him as he swung the doors of GINSEL open. Noise slammed into him instantly—Laughter, shouting, clinking glasses, the low hum of illegal trade.

All eyes in the room were focused on him, cold and calculating. Rusty floorboards groaned under his boots as he walked towards the bar, his senses on high alert.

The dim lighting and murky atmosphere made it difficult to see, but he could feel the weight of their stares.

The bartender, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard, raised an eyebrow as Logan approached.

“What’ll it be?” he growled, his voice low and gravelly.

“I'm not here to drink.”

That alone earned Logan a few glances.

“Then you're in the wrong place,” the bartender replied.

“I just want some information,” Logan said, his eyes scanning the room. “About a Pleiadian… who was killed recently. You know anything?”

The bartender shook his head, his expression unreadable. “If you're here to ask questions, you won't find any answers. These men…” he motioned to the angry looking lads in the bar using his head, “they don't talk, they rather decide who dies first.”

Logan’s finger twitched, a subtle reflex he barely noticed. He knew he didn't belong here, but he had to try. He ordered a shot of gin, trying to blend in with the rough crowd.

The men in the bar were a rough bunch, their faces etched with scars, and their eyes gleaming with a wicked intensity. Logan knew he was in over his head, but he had to keep going.

A hand slammed against the table beside him, making him flinch. “You’re not from here,” a voice snapped. A sturdy man with tattoos crawling up

his neck leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “You've not touched your drink lad, is it too strong for you soft skin ehh?”

Some men grinned from teeth to teeth at the man's comment.

Logan smirked faintly. “I’m not asking for trouble… but I don't run from it either.”

The man laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the walls. “That's exactly why trouble’s coming for you.”

Immediately, his fist launched directly at Logan's face. He barely ducked, his body moving

on instincts, years of street survival taking over. Countering with a strong jab that sent the man crashing into a table.

The sound of shattering glass and wood filled the air as the crowd roared.

A bottle smashed against the wall. Some men lunged at him. He slammed his elbow into a man's ribs, kicked another on the knee. He fought like a cornered animal, every move precise and deliberate. Landing fatal punches on the already drunk men that swarmed him.

A sharp pain stung his shoulder, but he didn't mind. He only had instincts, wasn’t so calculative and good at analyzing situations, his fist has solved more issues than reasoning.

‘I have to become stronger.’ He thought.

When the dust settled, Logan stood panting, his knuckles stained with blood.

The room was silent, except the sound of heavy breathing and the clinking of broken glass.

The old man from earlier appeared, his eyes boring into Logan's.

“You have to leave here now,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “They're coming.”