The bar was dark and dingy, like many of the others had been. This one was off the coast of Russia, where Stan and Ford had stopped to refuel and restock before setting off to explore the open seas once more. Ford had tried to teach himself Russian before they hit land, but upon arrival the two found that Stanley could throw together enough Russian to get by, which came as a surprise to Ford and Stan both. Ford was tucked away in a corner of the bar sketching their latest monster encounter, while Stan was talking in English and broken Russian to anyone who would give him the time of day, his current conversation partner a short-haired woman with steely eyes who looked to be about half his age.
"And hey, hey Vanya, that's not even the best part." Stan set his glass down on the table with more force than was strictly necessary, a few drops of murky-colored liquid sloshing out of the cup in the process. Vanya, for her part, looked thoroughly unimpressed. "See, after that, there-"
"ESTEBAN!"
Stan paused, looking up to see the source of the shout- a heavily-tattooed man on the other end of the room- then glancing around in an attempt to locate the one being yelled at. A voice with that much volume and anger was always a promising source of entertainment.
A beat passed before Stan gave up the search and resumed speaking. "-so what I was saying was, there were these-"
"Esteban Morales, look me in the eye, you goddamn coward!"
Stan looked back at the tattooed man and the taller men flanking him, who were now making a beeline towards Stan himself.
Oh.
Stan turned back to Vanya, a half-formed explanation on the tip of his tongue, only to see that she had vacated the area when he wasn't looking.
"Now, gentlemen." As Stan faced the three men, it sank in just how much of an advantage they had over him in terms of sheer size and muscle. "If you're speaking to me-" As if there were any doubt of that now, when they were barely an arm's length away, arms crossed and eyes cold- "there's clearly been some misunderstanding."
"Don't play dumb with me, Morales." The tattooed man snorted derisively. (That man had a name, what was it again? Stan couldn't remember, couldn't dig the name out of its hiding spot in the dusty depths of his mind.) "It's been a long time, but I never- never- forget a face." The man's eyes narrowed. "Especially one that owes me so much."
Stan slid off the barroom chair and onto his feet, surreptitiously glancing behind him to see that Ford had put away his notebook and was rushing towards him.
"Right. Well. About that, see, I can explain-"
"Stanley, what's going on? Who are they?" Ford's voice was low, barely loud enough for Stan to make out as they stood side by side.
A few disjointed shreds of memory presented themselves. A long train ride with a bulging suitcase his only companion, most of its contents not his own. A cold that sank through his skin, sank into his very bones. Tight plastic digging into his wrists. A beat-up white sedan where he'd been passenger, then driver, then stuffed in the trunk...
Most of it was still lost to him. Names, dates, chronologies all eluded his grasp. But as Stan slipped on a pair of brass knuckles, he had an answer ready nonetheless.
"They're the guys who're about to get their asses kicked."