She manages just fine.

When you arrive at Betrunkener Wolf, you are met with a light and beaming atmosphere with other musicians and singers. The bar is busy, and there are people of all fashions. So it isn’t surprising to see people dressed in festive attire: reindeer ties, green socks, red dresses, and white blouses.

You start feeling underdressed when you get room to square away in. So Arabella packed a black utility button-down and some dark pants. It isn’t exactly festive, but it’s a good change from what you had on earlier.

Thalia is wearing a red plaid skirt with black stockings and a white sweater. She has a bow in her usual hairstyle.

She’s tuning your rental guitar with her legs folded all feminine-like. When your eyes meet, she smiles.

“You look good,” she hands you the guitar and adjusts the strap.

“Likewise,” you look at her up and down. And then yourself. “Making me feel like the ghost of Christmas future with all this black, though.”

Thalia gives a cute smile in response to your remark but offers nothing else. “Are you ready to get out there then? I’m sure the association is ready for us.”

With a gentle wave for a gesture, you signal her to lead the way back to the lobby. Just as you remembered, the hall was full of seasonal musicians. You saw violins, people near the piano, and trumpets. You supposed they were using their voice to perform if they weren't holding anything specifically.

“It’s a lot of people,” you tell Thalia as you sit next to her. She nods, looking around, looking less nervous.

“I know!” She says with a grin. “I love these kinds of events for that reason. So much wholesome and innocent talent. Nothing feels competitive or aggressive.”

Just as she says this, and when you look around, you do notice that everyone is talking to each other, either to become acquaintances or to catch up simply. The only person that doesn’t seem eager to meet or greet anyone here is Thalia, so you ask if she sees anyone she knows.

Thalia presses her lips to one side and shakes her head. “No. I don’t usually put myself out there. I’m just here to take in the music, not so much the people…”

Just as she starts to talk, someone starts to tickle the piano's keys. It’s another girl, perhaps the age of 15, maybe even younger—Thalia becomes an onlooker and smiles wider. She seems very interested in everything, so you shut up and let her see everything she wants.

When it’s your turn to go up and perform, you find yourself still feeling out of place. Everyone here looks normal enough, and you’re confident to believe that nearly everyone has an ordinary background. The look in their eyes is full of youth and bright memories. Even as Thalia relaxes on a stool, you can tell that despite her awkwardness and odd story, she hasn’t witnessed any real-world nightmares in the beginning.

She looks around the room and tilts her head at a few people to gesture a simple greeting to everyone she sees before she looks at you. Finally, she mouths the words “are you ready” to you with a slight bow.

You press and release your fingers on the strings, feeling a little hollow inside when you consider everything you’ve done before getting in front of everyone to play a song with someone you didn’t know existed less than 48 hours ago.

Thalia nudges you with her boot, and you whisper an apology. The world around you becomes dark, but the lights of the holiday highlight outlines of people and things just as you strum the first note to Thalia’s song, and the execution of the performance leaves everyone in awe.

To you, it sounds different. Thalia’s mood is brighter, and the room's atmosphere changes the song, so it’s more complete and wholesome. There are no dead ends are curious crimes behind the words. The guitar is sharp and strikes out in confident strides that echo in the room as it’s joined by Thalia’s youthful voice. It emits energy that is now hopeful. There’s grace behind her actions, while yours are now robotic and somewhat careless. Thalia quickly becomes the star of the duo as it reaches the middle. You watch her as she looks at the paper where the lyrics are written, her lips curled at the corners while her eyes drift from word to word.

Each word is no longer pointless, but instead, there’s an overtone of “what will come,” not “what was.” Your fingers glide down the strings, producing a characteristic stretching noise. Still, it takes nothing away from the performance. Soon, you are drawing near the end, and there is nothing else to do but let it all fade into silence.

The room emits cheers and claps. Everyone seems to have enjoyed the new version of the song you never practiced. Thalia stands up and bows to the crowd of onlookers. You smile too, but its habit commands it, not a genuine attitude. You adjust the guitar until your arms are over it. The managers or the people running the event seem pleased with the outcome of your tryout and walk over to Thalia.

On the spot, in front of everyone, they tell Thalia she’ll be playing in the morning when the event starts. They suggest another song but fully understand if that isn’t an option, that she is free to sing it all over again.

Of course, this indicates that there is only one more step before you can complete your contract. Thalia gladly accepts the proposal and says she’ll probably just sing the same song again. They don’t complain. You shuffle back with the others, and Thalia is scooped into a small circle of others that were singing too. You excuse yourself and get to the bar just as the same teenage girl starts to play something on the piano. It’s gentle, and even though it takes you a second to realize what song it is, it is beautifully played.

You against the bar and sigh, letting the little pianist across the room please the environment in a friendly version of “Silent Night.” When you hear something sliding on the counter beside you, you look over and see Marcelina giving you a red-colored drink with a cherry floating on top.

Her usual green hair is still the same shade. Her attire now, however, is a red skirt, white stockings, and a red short-sleeved shirt tucked in. A plant on her wrist is probably mistletoe, but you can’t confirm it before she starts talking to you.

“Welcome back, Warren,” she glides over and leans on her elbows, pushing the drink closer to you.

“Aye, thanks, but I can’t drink while on the job,” you push it back, but she shakes her head.

“Everyone gets a free drink,” she pushes the beverage back and winks. “I promise I didn’t make it strong.”

Both you and Marcelina are distracted by some dumb kid trying to play something on his violin. You both watch with expressions that show evident discomfort. You listen with a cringe, but that changes when four people take the child’s place with a cello and three other violins. 2 women and 2 men dressed in matching white suits.

When they start playing, you immediately know what song it is, but Marcelina is the first to say its name. “Oh,” she nods. “Carol of the bells.”

“So it seems,” you glance at the drink and take it. When you drink it, all you taste is fruit and a slight aftertone of peppermint. Aside from the lingering flavor of vodka, you would have suspected it to be juice. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure is mine,” she announces. “So, you give up on contracting, or did you get roped up in this favor?”

“No offense, Marcelina, but don’t you have work to do?”

“Ouch,” she rubs her wrist. “I didn’t strike a nerve, did I? Finally get fired by a big-time client?”

“Nothing of the sort,” you watch the musicians produce a fantastic version of the Christmas classic for a few seconds before continuing. “I’m getting paid to help the girl out. Easiest gig I’ve ever had.”

“Easiest, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You still got the mutants with you?”

“Of course,” you look around, half-expecting Scarlet to materialize somewhere. “Why?”

Marcelina looks around too, but you couldn’t guess why. “Just curious. You took notice of my warning, yeah?”

You smirk slightly. “No one knows nothing. Life couldn’t be better with them around.”

Marcelina arches her brow at you and puts away the glass. “I could do with the sarcasm, Warren. But, since you’ve acted like this, I’m assuming you’ve got some heat on your back now?”

“No heat,” you lie. “Just trying to keep them busy so they don’t do anything stupid.”

“You ought to go somewhere else. That area isn’t ideal.”

“I’m working on it,” you tease the truth but refuse to express any more detail. “What’s got you wondering about the girls so much anyway?”

Marcelina snorts somewhat. “I grew up with a couple of mutants as farmhands– I know there are people out there that treat them like shit. They deserve better.”

“You’re more invested in them than you lead on before,” you remark.

“Maybe it’s the season, but I just wanted to make sure you haven’t sold them off or have taken any…you know…advantages of them.”

Your eyes drift down slightly to her cleavage for some reason. Had she always been teasing herself like that? You slowly blink and look up at her eyes. They’re still blue, but she is showing some odd interest in you.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she teases. “Just in a mood.”

“Well,” you look around, finding Thalia still bantering with the same group. “Find someone else then, would you? I can’t afford to be more distracted than I already am.”

“I’m just playing,” she says. “I’ve got a boyfriend already.”

“Good for you,” you watch the violinists leave. Someone new goes next, but everything sounds out of place. You quickly disengage from the new player and turn to face Marcelina. “Boyfriend not putting out for you, or what?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me,” she sighs. “And you’re the only person I think I’d want to get back at him with.”

You suck on your teeth. “Coming on pretty strong, aren’t we? You’ve **** me to bribe all sorts of information from you, and now you’re trying to tease me into fooling around with you while I’m with a client?”

“No one’s going to do shit until this whole thing is over. You would have to be a pretty low-life scum to hurt anyone in here tonight. Killing a pianist? Come on. We even allowed kids in here to show off what they can do, for Christ’s sake.”

“Professionals have standards,” you tell her.

“Fuck that,” she shoots. “Let’s run off and fuck for a bit. No one is taking any drinks anyway. I can show you a good time, I promise.”