That one prideful guest (unit zero contest entry)

Foreword: Any work of fiction featuring my monsterfolk has no relation to MGE or any subsequent and precedent work centered on monstergirls. Please be mindful and carry on. 

 

Summary: An undead barista deals with a guest far too proud to beg. 

 

Content featured: kitsune, undead mc, female mc, sfw but mature, implicit mature themes, mentions of alcohol, alcohol use. OH SCARY MONSTERBOYS BOOOO.

 

Bass drops shook the glass cups under their base as Triste attempted (read: attempted) to keep her counter nice and stable. Man, beast, demon, and monster pounded their feet amongst the dancefloor for her to know this won’t cut it. Her wrist still froze the moment her finger touched the rim, but a customer aside from her tapped on the surface while gazing at her rather sharply.

 

“Sorry sir, it’s just with all the booming and the noise…uh.” A stab of shame ruptured her spine, and she grabbed a mixer and a chase, trying to feign a smile along the way. “Would you like it shaken or not?”

 

“Have it as is.” He grumbled. The man’s hunched posture helped little in alleviating her rightfully known fears.

 

He resembled her, a being who should be dead yet isn’t. Someway, somehow, that regret grew wings and dragged them out of the grave. His ethnicity combined with the unmistakable mark of Nippon undead signaled a different type, of course, but there’s still an air of common ground between them. His scarred gaze angled at her hands pouring in the ice, the mixture, and a dollop of a finishing touch for him to indulge just this night. 

 

“Here you go, sir.” She smiled, pushing the sour glass towards him. “A midnight delight for a rather ravishing man.” Then, she ended it with a wink.

 

He muttered something in his tongue before holding the glass and tilting it up, letting a bit of the liquid soak down his lips, then setting it down. 

 

He wiped a drop from under his chin “It tastes like death.” The undead man paused. “But not in that meaningless way. It reminds me of how I died.”

 

Wasn’t the first nor last time she heard of that. Some of her clients, mostly those of the undead variety, often reminisced of their alive days. The times when they walked the earth as men and not monsters. It happened well into their living dead years, once the memories come back. If not, they had hints of it like murmurs of a past life they somehow lived. 

 

She would have dreams where her hands worked right, her skin brimming with peachy light flesh, the sounds of her heartbeat echoing through her eardrums while she spoke with someone. Her mind struggled on who they were. Were they someone important? A lover, maybe? She often spoke with her more dream savvy friend about the whole thing but only figured out it was someone close, a cherished piece that once completed her life. 

 

That ceaseless pit explained away the emptiness. Triste found it to be the first thing she sensed as a newborn dead, something supposedly where the soul lived, yet faded as one crawled out of the grave. 

 

A hint of curiosity drove her to ask, “How did you die?”

 

The man lifted his steely eyes away from his drink into her core. Did she word it wrong? Speaking of one’s death wasn’t the most “nice” conversation starter, but a barista wants to know their clients inside and out no matter the answer. Her curiosity yelled at her to know. 

 

“I died a long time ago, when this world felt…disconnected and small.” His mild pause in between coaxed an increasing interest towards the next bit. “I remember being a man, roaming through the field while volleys of rain pelted me down through the mud.”

 

In her mind, thunder roared over the clouds, swords and spears sprouted from the ground as blades of grass. One man looked skyward. The hurling waves of dense undergrowth stop just short of his hips, yet he swam on. His good leg carried him through the rolling soil soaked in blood while his left arm cradled his bad one.

 

He prayed to whoever watched over him to protect his sanity, closing his eyes to brace the pain. He would see them soon.

 

Yet he didn’t. 

 

At the end of that journey, he first saw black, then white, until eventually, finding himself where he left off. No one else but him and the world around him, now awash from a war that once stripped him of dignity. 

 

And as the curtains closed, Triste pulled back to reality and studied the man’s softening expression.

 

“I’m so sorry…Toshi, was it?”

 

He responded with something affirming in his language before switching to “Yes, that was my name. First thing I remembered after so long.” He sighed, before pulling aside his glass, pinching his nose in contemplation. “I humbly apologize to you ma’am.” 

 

“No need, my drinks have that way with people no matter the persuasion.” She tried her best to pass it off as hearsay through a simple chuckle.

 

He was right, though. Her mentor once told her the way she made them did something special for people. One sip, and even the most stoic of individuals would pour their souls out like their life depended on it. A lady once confided to Triste about her sexuality, another a lack thereof, one had admitted he was dying and this was his last drink. All of them left changed more than when they came, more than blazing lights and music ever will. 

 

She smirked a bit too much. Those were the best moments of her career and that nostalgic pang became her new soul. To help them was her meaning, and to let them indulge in the finest in life was her creed. 

 

“I…I need time to think. Thank you, for everything.” He got up and left, shifting into the crowd like a bygone ghost. 

 

“No problem!”

 

A sudden jolt of regret shook her once he departed. One side yearned to know more about him, his day, his life, how he actually feels. Triste pushed those thoughts a bit into the back and continued doing her bar duties, which mostly involved cleaning up shop and setting up ingredients, as one often does in this profession. Several clubbers passed by. Some came by to say hi, others pretended she didn’t exist, while a few asked for some simple offerings. Nothing came out of those but she enjoyed them all the same. 

 

Just as she set another glass to go, the air changed. She glanced from her post then surveyed the dancefloor and stage before her eyes met a newcomer to the scene, a woman with five foxy tails and twitchy ears. The lady entered the light, her red sequin minidress catching the rays in order to shimmer under the beat. Her heels clacked across the floor as she strutted, bright amber eyes gazing upon the different occupants of the club. Almost hungrily, Triste noticed. 

 

She ambled over the counter, having a seat to prop her chin and let her breast flop onto the surface spread with a smug-ish grin. 

 

“Can I help you with anything?” Triste asked, eyeing her overconfident posture and dress. 

 

She simply brushed her honey golden locks back and had the audacity to blabber out. “I don’t know, can I help you?” Unfortunately, that voice of hers dripped like a deluge of maple over a marble fountain. 

 

“Lady, when people come to my place, they ask for drinks or a chat, not favors.”

 

“Oh?” 

 

“Yes ‘oh’, did you need anything or is your ass too tired of carrying that ego around?”

 

The fox woman let out a loud screeching cackle, settling down only to shoot a piercing gaze right into the heart. Then, she leaned close, close enough where the boundaries between worker and client blurred. 

 

“I just wanted to flirt darling, not just ‘chat’, but I would love for something…nice?”

 

Finally, she spoke her order.

 

“Sweet with a dash of pleasure, if you please?”

 

Confused, Triste asked, “Would you like custom or one of our pre-made offerings?”

 

“Oh sweetie, I don’t do pre-made, I go for something by scratch.” And like that one her claws trace down the barista’s cheek, slowly inching away, and into her seat again. 

 

One of those people ain’t she? And the kind asking for excellence from the overworked to the hapless bleeding hearts. Triste made her own drinks, thankfully, but a lingering hunch in her gut grumbled this client wanted more.

 

She sought something sweet from her station. Passion fruit symbolized both pleasure with the notes of sweet she was looking for. Mango, you could do no wrong with, though admittedly some folks think it tasted like soap, go figure. The apple presented as her last option. An odd choice, yet bursting with countless meanings behind both taste and vibe. The crisp experience, often combined with a fresh aroma, ought to be a crowd pleaser. 

 

The barista set off to mix her ingredients, and viola, a drink of her own creation contained inside a margarita glass lined by a drizzle of peach syrup around the rim.

 

Placing hands on hip out of pride, “Here, yea go,” Then handed it over and prayed to whatever’s up there to sway this lady’s opinion, eventually. 

 

“Is that it?” the foxy woman’s face scrunched towards a ball of disappointment the more she ogled it. “It really needs more…pizzaz” She continued, her fingers gesturing over it to invoke her point better. 

 

Triste only sighed in frustration and went back to the drawing board. “What do you even want?”

 

Her oddly particular client rolled back and gave it some thought. A lot of thought. A bit too much thought. It took her several moments before deciding what she actually wanted next. 

 

“Well, I want it to be…redolent of an emotion or experience? Like a soft sunrise or a hanging heartbreak,” She requested, then narrowing eyes with that smug grin of hers. “But in liquid form of course.”

 

Triste knew. That was her specialty yet her last drink did little to persuade her. Now what line of ingredients could do her in this time? She turned back to her station. The barista combed through shelves for the right number of items, back and forth, up and down, until she mixed them again and handed her a second drink. 

 

This one oozed with the colors of passion, smelled of warm sunsets, and chilled her fingers like the bittersweet melancholy of winter. 

 

“How about this one, reminiscent of a moment like you never drank before?”

 

The foxy lady beamed “Aw, this one has promise?” and took to the stem, leaning in to sample the aroma ahead of taking it in by the lip, letting it drip deep through the throat and into her gullet hopefully. 

 

After setting it down, she broke off into a trance. Triste inclined forward in anticipation. Let the gods make this one work, for her sake. 

 

“Hmm.” The woman closed her eyes, softly at first, a little more tight following a few moments, and fluttered them open. “Uh.”

 

And spat it out. 

 

“Did you use dishwater for this?”

 

What? She poured what’s left of her soul into that drink and she just spit it out like a chewed out bubble gum. Triste gritted her teeth. God, she did her best to brace back the boiling waters slowly rising through her lukewarm skin. Triste dealt with many like her, but the second wave usually won them over. But how did she mess this up during the height of her career? 

 

She used the right components. 

 

She noted for their symbolism, the emotions, the metaphors—Only for it all to wash down the drain. 

 

“Alright,” Triste squared down her shoulders. “What am I missing?”

 

The lady smiled. “You missed the most important part?”

 

Triste perked up slightly. To what mattered enough to fully fix the rut was in? 

 

“Every drink has a core ingredient do they not?”

 

That is true. Every drink each possessed an important centerpiece that took it from average to almost godlike in presentation and taste. Maybe the last attempt lacked it for whatever reason. In either case, Triste just wanted to make one and leave it for tonight. 

 

She’d normally respect her request to make it from scratch. But if she tried adding a twist to a pre-made recipe, she’d surely like it? 

 

“True,” she admitted. “Every drink’s special. That’s what makes my night. But I want to know what’s your drink since the last two weren’t to your taste?”

 

That damn fox smirked once again, seeming wider each time she did. Her tails swirled and swished from behind as her eyes closed to hide what lies behind that soul of hers. Trying to get on her nerves, is she? It’s most definitely working judging by her heart just steaming in a pot of frustration. 

 

“Why not try again the third time?” She slowly went for a somber expression to cajole some empathy out of her. “Please? I promise, I’ll like it this time?” 

 

Triste relented, returning to her station once again, this time dead silent. She never thought, murmured, or barked back. She continued to gather what she needed and made her last, possibly final, drink. 

 

Death. This concatenation of a liquid resembled death. 

 

Not in any tangible sense, just is. The drink lingered on as it did since the dawn of life, glaring back at the fox with blistering indignation. The fox glared back through narrow eyes and a grimace expression, mouth still closed but wrinkled at the right corner of her lip. She passed over with a glance, trying it. Savored it. Then, she stopped. 

 

A single tear rolled down her cheek. Life flashed between them. Untold love. Unrequited promises. The cherry blossoms dying in the winter. A mother’s touch. Walking down that street, a boy in uniform glances back before he waves, fading into the petals as spring went from summer and then into fall, culminating into winter again. She ran. Her hands reach out, screaming and begging to see him again. But as soon as she hugs his ghost, the snow takes him away, slipping away from her grasp and into the long blizzard. 

 

A sting burned into Triste’s cheek. The woman, her face now frozen in a monotone manner, stared into her. Unblinking, her left hand balled into a fist. 

 

“You didn’t need to see that?” That sultry voice melted away, revealing a cold bite of venom.

 

“S-see what?”

 

The music died down. Folks turned from their recreational diversions, and into theirs. Triste’s heart rattled up a storm, maybe not as strong as a living man, but it was very close for comfort. 

 

“If I did, I’m sorry.”

 

She fell from her human state and into an animalistic one as she lunged forward, her number dragging behind before dropping any pretense of modesty. Animals didn’t wear clothes, people did. She was no longer a person.

 

A feral animal bit into her neck. She struggled. Ignoring the dull pain, she grabbed the closet bottle. The glass shattered down the fox’s back. It yelped in return. People both cheered and screamed, flashing pictures of the fiasco as if it’s gonna go viral. 

 

“Liar, liar!” It screeched. “Liars shouldn’t know!”

 

It went for her arm next, but got met with another bash through the head. The writhing creatures reeled over the counter and onto the floor. Bystanders gathered around it—her now, form and all—trying to process what transpired. 

 

She got up, covering her indignity in front of hundreds upon hundreds of people.

 

“Triste.” Called a calm, and familiar voice. The Bossman’s coming by.

 

She swiveled back. He appeared inside a veil of shadowy mist, wafting away to reveal a well-trimmed three piece suit and his long, white hair tamed into a ponytail.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

How is she gonna explain this? The fact one of clients turned into a feral attack fox and tried to tear her throat out? For what? Exposing the truth? She bit through the quivering twinge of fear, composing herself into a steady gaze.

 

“I’m…fine, boss.” She answered as faithfully as she could, turning to find the fox woman wallowing in her shame before returning to those dead blue eyes of his. “Just had a bit of scuffle is all.”

 

He signed but accepted the excuse. Slowly, he turned to the rest of the club, clearing his throat. “Night’s over, go home everyone.”  His hands motioned to the door.

 

The crowd erupted in disappointed moans and groans, relinquishing their fun for the eventual return to their boring lives. 

 

“As for you” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Why not we speak somewhere private?”

 

How private? As private as the top of a building overlooking a sprawling cityscape. Her, him, above the entire world under a starry blanket. Rubbing her arms for warmth, Triste turned to the man that saved her life a long time ago. She would be out in the streets munching on brains for subsistence if it weren’t for everything.

 

“Why here of all places?”

 

“It makes life small, all things considered.”

 

The little people roaming under their feet knew little of what it’s like to be alive. That’s what he told her when they first met. It was like yesterday morning, the sky cried, its tears rolling down her cheeks as she gazed upward. She did not know who was back then. He came along and changed that. By one hand, her life changed that day. 

 

That memory almost brought her to tears, just like the sky itself. 

 

He continued “We chase ideals to indulge in life’s delights, yet in the end, energy must change in order to stave off atrophy.”

 

“What does that have anything to do with what happened back there?”

 

“What I’m meaning to say is, we all want to be proud yet in order to be humble, we must admit death.”

 

“So ego death?”

 

He smiled like a teacher proud his student got something right. “precisely.”

 

He told her time and time again her drinks were like death potions lulling people into a state of admitting their final thoughts before their ego passed on. They were free to admit they were wrong. Perhaps combined with her knack of mixology and way of people handling, he hired her out of every candidate coming through his office. 

 

“And yea know, I could’ve stepped in at any time and handled it myself.”

 

A full on blush snatched Triste’s cheeks. Is this man serious? She nearly got mauled to death and he could’ve saved her at any moment. The man was a lesson giver, sure, but he could at least defused the situation before it got nasty quick.

 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she looked back out over the city. “Pssh, whatever, old man.” 

 

His soul-grabbing squint creeped up the spine enough for her to jump up and admit she was being passive-aggressive—emphasis on the aggressive. 

 

“Sorry, you look great for your age.” She added quickly, waving her arms as if that might soften the blow. “No really, like, super great.” She concluded.

 

He chuckled softly and by the sound of it — all forgiven on her end. “And you’re a great tender of bars my astute pupil.”

 

Now the blush got worse, spreading to her entire face until she particularly became a living human for a bit, only settling back to her deathly pallor as she evaded his gaze. Necromancy gave men, like Bossman, borderline youth despite time and time again claiming he was older than he appeared. Like she cared much. He was a twenty something man who had seen many things in his day. 

 

The young undead barista was a toddler waddling through the thick of life. 

 

Some day, she’d like to feel her true age, the age she died. The details never felt clear from his mouth no matter how much she pressed on to tell her the truth. All he knew was she’s dead, and she was good at the craft. She pursed her lips thinking about those non-answers again. 

 

“Bossman.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You necromancers talk to the dead, right?” Her voice dipped. “I was wondering” she bunched her apron into her balling fingers. “How did I die?”

 

He casted a shocked gaze, then a confused one, then settled for one of sadness. “Well, you know how each of our creations bring out memories from people?”

 

“Yea?”

 

“Could the same happen to you?” He placed a curled finger under his chin.

 

She tested drinks often but not a single one had so much as an effect on her. They were just cocktails or mocktails that tasted great but the people who drank them say otherwise. Could she finally understand her dreams?

 

“Well, I’d like to know?”

 

“Very well then.” Digging through his pocket, he fished out a thin vial, shimmering with no need for light. “This here is a piece of death’s reminiscence. A very potent drink. Few tried…” His voice grew dark. “Or lived long to tell me.”

 

My concern widened and softened my eyes.  “Will this kill me?”

 

“In all likelihood, it depends,” He looked to me solemnly, “though chances are pretty high.”

 

She’s been undead for 10 years, two quarters of which were her time as a barista. If whatever happens leads to death’s embrace, she’d live long enough to know life was good. She clutched her eyes shut to think. Taking it would kill her, yes, but she’d continued on not knowing her life before she died. Something inside, something curious, yearned each day so it could die without regrets. She couldn’t hesitate now, she had to know. 

 

With a soft sigh, she looked into his eyes “Let’s do it.”

 

“Very well then.” He lent the vial to her.

 

It gently cooled her palms and bleed its shimmer inside her grasp. She closed her eyes. No taking this back. She took one sip, one tiny sip, and then—

 

A flash.

 

Soft fabric cushioned her legs and backside. Warmth in the air. Across from her on a different couch, a man. No, his name was Jake. He was her boyfriend. They huddled around a fire, a chimney fire born from a couple of logs. They both agreed the winter’s best spent at a cabin after so much quarreling. She still missed the city. The smell of concrete. Steel towers overlooking everyone. The woods weren’t the first nor last place she be.

 

But Jake differed from her in a lot of ways. He loved the great outdoors. That man hiked down and low to see a forest out to its last nook. 

 

This cabin became their compromise for the holiday season. 

 

The holiday season. Now she remembers. Christmas eve decked the halls with ornaments and nick-knacks they carried from way down. 

 

Jake asked. “Do you like this?”

 

A present, gifted wrapped in her favorite color.

 

“For me?”

 

“Of course. I put my soul into this so that when I’m gone, you have a piece of me.”

 

“Jake, I—”

 

She found herself in a swelling storm of snow and hail. Jake hid among the grey backdrop of hellish snowfalls. She barely made out his outlines nor shape amid it all. 

 

“Jake, I’m sorry.”

 

“I did this for you! I built this cabin, I built everything so we could spend time together and this is what I get?”

 

“I didn’t mean to—”

 

“You meant every word from your mouth and here we are.”

 

He rushed into the howling blizzard. Foolishly still holding out, she went after him. 

 

The biggest mistake of her life. 

 

The snow and frost sliced her apart, burying her ten feet under for what felt like days. But just as the sun came up and spring arrived, what it left behind remained dead for a long time.

 

Then she woke up.

 

She carried herself, long into the bowels of the nearest sign of civilization. She had no name, no place to live, nowhere to go. No one to hug. 

 

For a quarter of a decade, she hid behind trash cans and bins, devouring a bunch of garbage no one wanted. Discarded scraps of clothes hung on her back as modesty, but how modest was up to interpretation. Cars frightened her, people even more. Monsters were fine with her but the higher crust ones loved to look down with lifted noses. 

 

She was truly alone.

 

A man came by one day, dressed in a tailored trench-coat and vest. She didn’t know it but he would be her salvation in human form. All it took was taking his hand to get there. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Tristina” She slowly snaps back to reality. “My name is Tristina. How did you know it was Tristina?”

 

“I have my ways.” He gazed out into the horizon where city lights became glowing lines zigzagging across space. 

 

“All this time I called you boss. But I feel like I want to know too.”

 

“Danieal.”

 

Tristina raised an eyebrow out of disbelief “That’s your name?”

 

“Were you expecting something else?”

 

Something on the nose, a name to strike fear in the hearts of man. Danieal, to her, was if some mom wanted her son to feel special but not too much as not to intimidate anybody.

 

Her hands pounced on her knees as she darted her gaze around. “N-no, it’s a fitting name, dummy!”

 

“We don’t consent to our names. I’d admit, my true name is far worse. But I’ve chosen a better one which best suited me. I hope you do the same?” 

 

This name she settled for? Did she know all along? She saw a poster, learned she could read, and said that was her name, Triste. Her name was Triste, short for Tristina. Her surname—Diaz.

 

Tristina Diaz.

 

It’s all flowing back now. The memories, both good and bad, flowing into her subconscious once more. Some soothed her, others stabbed her in the back. Others were fine, forgettable, or still weren’t there. As a kid she loved to mix juices into fresh, new drinks until her mom had to stop her from adding mouthwash into it. How she wasn’t dead will be a tale for the ages. Chemistry was her favorite subject. She was this close to majoring in it then the whole snowstorm happened…and she died…

 

“I’d figured you knew I could do the job because of my skills?” She looked to her outstretched palms “I never lost them had I?”

 

“The undead are like reincarnations in a sense. That you are different but the skills never left, you just had to reawaken them.”

 

“Reawaken them, huh?” The stars shone brighter in acknowledgement of the truth, the truth buried deep within until now. “I think I get it now.”

 

Everything that led up to this point, her death, the meeting, the whole fox incident were all fate training her. She may not be the same as her living self, but she had her passion, dreams, fears, aspirations swimming inside her. 

 

She’s still whole. 

 

Her mind then went back to the fox, wondering what happened to her. “Is she…doing okay?”

 

“Hopefully she’s fine. If not, well, I’ll have to handle it myself.” He swiftly got up and stood at the edge of the building top, hair billowing in the breeze. “You take care.” With a smile, he leaned forward, fell off.

 

Just one of his many dramatic exits so she didn’t have to worry about broken bones or him colliding with a car on the way down. She rolled her eyes but softened her expression. That cheeky guy will never not make her feel safe despite everything. 

 

She went downstairs into the main party area. All dark. Super closed for the night. Triste looked everywhere, from the counter to the chairs, must’ve left? Gut expected no but her brain assumed yes. She opens the door into the biting outside, forcing the barista to huddle herself up for warmth. The streets buzzed with lights, cars, and people, and on the sideway besides the building, a cloaked figure.

 

Their foxy ears stood out like a pair of sore thumbs.

 

A hitch in her breath. Instinct over reason, that old animal sense tugging at her ribs. Triste slowed, heart ticking faster, because loneliness had a shape and it was standing right there, pretending not to be seen.

 

“Hey, are you doing okay, ma’am.”

 

“Hana.”

 

“Didn’t catch it right?”

 

“Hana.”

 

“Oh, that’s your name, huh? Well, I’m Triste and I just wanted to say I’m—”

 

“I know, I’m sorry just the same.” Hana’s tails poked from under the cloak to wrap around her shivering body. “I hated to show that side to people.” 

 

If she wanted to know ugly, she should’ve been there in her first year. She chuckled a bit before sighing. Going close in, she sat by her side, noting the warmth the fox lady’s tails emanated. 

 

They talked, they grew honest, and she learned the boy in Hana’s memories was someone she loved but never had the will to admit her feelings to. She lost him some time ago, not too dissimilar to her bout with the love of her life. For the first time tonight, Hana’s prideful armor broke down, exposing the scared fox cub underneath. 

 

As they leaned against each other, the sorrowing night blossomed into a lovely one. 

 

Hana became more or less an irregular sight. Everyone forgot the bad blood from several nights back, and Bossman could finally rest for once. She could use herself, but it was better than the “ too proud to beg” persona she put on.

 

Triste does what she does best, make drinks and let the hearts pour out. 

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