The View from the Bar

The following takes place following: Threads of War

The Master sat alone in the mansion bar, enjoying a quiet drink. Lloyd, the ever-creepy bartender, poured him another scotch. A faint jazz tune crackled from an old speaker in the corner.

The Master unfolded the latest issue of the Waldopolis Chronicle and read with smug satisfaction as it detailed the escalating war between Reg and Tess.

The door creaked open. Travers walked in and climbed onto the stool beside him.

Travers: Hello, Master Devlin...

Master Devlin: Oh... it's you.

Travers: Hi, Lloyd. Little slow tonight, isn’t it?

Lloyd: Yes it is, Mr. Travers. What will it be?

Travers: Bourbon. Neat.

Lloyd poured the drink. Travers turned to the Master.

Travers: What are you doing, Master Devlin? Relaxing out of turn? This is hardly the time. The evil birds have had a falling out, and we need to fix this.

Master Devlin: Why should I get involved in the drama created by those two squawking buffoons?

Travers: Because it’s spilling over and causing problems for the rest of us. War on the streets is bad for business. And like it or not, those two are the biggest players in town—aside from yours truly, of course. Their bad blood affects us all, no matter what petty aviary squabble started it.

Master Devlin: Oh? That’s too bad.

Travers: Yes, it is. And I thought you might like to have another go at peace negotiations. Redeem yourself after last time.

Master Devlin: Last time?

Travers: Yes. Your diplomacy was... lacking. You insulted everyone, then completely folded and kissed the office bird’s dirty old bedrock feet. It was only thanks to me—Mr. Travers—that you didn’t end up sucking on his horn or something. Which, honestly, I suspect you would have done if asked.

The Master tensed. His fingers curled around the glass, jaw tightening. But after a moment, he calmed. He took a long sip, then turned slowly to Travers, eyes like ice.

Master Devlin: Travers, would you like me to smack you again? You clearly haven’t learned your lesson.

Travers shrank slightly on his stool.

Travers: Um... no. No, thank you. That sounds rather violent and unpleasant.

Master Devlin: Good. Then I suggest you watch your tongue.

Travers: Of course. My apologies... I may have spoken a little out of turn.

The Master nodded.

Travers: However, if I might ask—why don’t you want peace?

Master Devlin: I do. I want a real peace. One we can never have while those birds rule. Von Hildendorf is rash, yes, but she can be kept in line providing she has her luxury wares. Van Der Beak, on the other hand, must be put down for what he’s done. But before we do that, wouldn’t it be better to let them weaken each other first?

Travers: I don’t know. Feels like you’re clinging to the past. Such a lust for revenge—it’s not good for the soul. Why create more misery? More death?

Master Devlin: More misery? More death? Come here. Look at this.

The Master led Travers to the large window and pointed to a telescope trained on the eastern skyline—Reg’s territory.

Travers peered through.

The landscape had transformed. The climate of Birdonia now resembled something out of Ancient Egypt: dry, sandy, brutal. In the distance, slaves toiled under the eclipse-dark sky, forced to build a giant stone Sphinx with Reg’s face. Soldiers in ceremonial bird masks paced the site, cracking whips beneath the glow of floodlights and sickly green mist. Beneath the Sphinx, a statue showed the Master—withered, broken, defeated.

Travers: Huh...Would you look at that...

Master Devlin: Are you not outraged by this?

Travers: Well... I mean, it’s a little narcissistic.

The Master nearly choked. Of all people to call someone else narcissistic.

He took a breath, refocused, and pulled a folded memo from his pocket.

Master Devlin: Also, we received this memo. Reg wishes to be known henceforth as Pharaoh Khufu Van Der Beak.

Travers: Look, it’s not our concern. Think of it as a neighbouring nation. Their ways aren’t our ways—but that doesn’t give us the right to attack. Besides, they provide grain, oil, and other valuable resources. Not to mention... an abundance of beautiful lady slaves.

Master Devlin: And there it is...

Travers: Don’t worry, Master Devlin. I’ll send a strongly worded letter to Pharaoh Khufu Van Der Beak—politely asking him to maybe lay off the whole slavery thing.

Master Devlin: Sure. You do that.

The Master downed the last of his scotch, left a few coins on the bar, and walked out.

Season 5 continues in Hung Kung and the Holy War