Chapter 1: A Welcome Calm

Bao looked on in disgust as Lagoon Company entered the recently-repaired Yellowflag. He was less than enthusiastic about their appearance considering they were responsible for much of the destruction the establishment had seen in the past. Truth be told, he was praying someone would open another bar nearby for them to go to. But he would not refuse them, either. Their business would certainly help him get back on his feet. Not that he really needed it, though. Three months ago, shortly after the Black Marchers had been defeated, Bao received an anonymous payment of five-million dollars. All that was written on the note attached to the crate of cash was 'Regards, the Formation.' Though nobody had any idea who they were, Revy had a theory they were Ulysses's old group, going by an actual name now that they had established themselves in the criminal underworld. Rock was the only member of Lagoon not present. He told the others that he would join them later, though what exactly he was doing was something he had not deigned to share with them. They took a seat at the bar and ordered their drinks, eager to relax. Roanapur had seen the better part of these last few months under extensive repairs. The many crime lords and cartels that made their homes here had done all they could to re-establish themselves as prime organisations in the criminal underworld. It was an understatement to say that the invasion of the city had had an incredibly negative effect on the city's many illegal dealings. Even now, things were slow. Only time would tell if Roanapur would ever return to normal. That idea seemed more and more like a pipe dream every day.

"Goddamn," Dutch moaned before knocking back his beer and gesturing to a disgruntled Bao that he wanted a refill. "What a long fucking day."

"You said it, Dutch," Revy agreed, sipping at her rum. Benny lit a cigarette and slipped it into his mouth, taking a long, well-needed drag and exhaling a stream of smoke.

"We ought to leave the damn city," he told them. "For a while, at least. Might give us the break we've been dreaming of."

"Nothing for us out there, Benny-Boy," Dutch told him. "I'm afraid we're stuck with this shithole for the foreseeable future."

"Great," Revy groaned sarcastically. "Just what I wanted to hear."

"You've been putting up with it for years now," Dutch reminded her, taking another drink. "What changed?" She did not answer. They remained silent for a few minutes. Rock finally entered the bar, the trench coat he was so fond of draped over his shoulders. He almost resembled Balalaika. He strode up to the bar and planted himself on the stool between Dutch and Revy.

"Jeez, what did I miss?" he asked, noticing their glum expressions. He gestured to Bao, ordering a rum just like Revy. The two of them often competed to see who could keep drinking the longest. It was quite humorous, to say the least, considering both of them had a fairly equal tolerance and they ended up getting heavily drunk at an alarming rate.

"You think you got the balls, Rock?" Revy asked him, pointing to his drink. As always, she was confident as ever that she would drink him under the table. He removed his tie and coat, took his drink in his hand and clinked it against hers.

"Try and keep up, Revy!"

"Christ on a bike, you know I can outdrink you both," a familiar voice came from the door. Bao looked even less pleased at the sudden appearance of Wolf, who drank at the newly opened bar more often than most in the city. If he was at the Yellowflag more often, Bao would have considered him an alcoholic.

"How's the new apartment treating ya?" Dutch asked, turning to face Wolf. The assassin had bought his own place two months ago, seeing as how he was going to be here for a while. There had been no threats to the city, nor had it seen any unrest over the last while. That was the initial reason the assassin had decided to stay. Now, it was more a situation of comfort and attachment. He was better suited to this place than a lot of the would-be criminals that attempted to make a name for themselves here. It was safe to say he would be here for a while longer.

"Warm as fuck," Wolf answered crudely.

"How'd you even manage to get the place?" Benny asked.

"Well, when the owner is in debt to the wrong people and he's considering fleeing the country, a bag of half a million dollars is quite the bargaining chip. It's not the most glamourous apartment in the world, but it has a bed and a toilet. The basics, you know?"

"Grab a glass, then," Revy challenged him. "Let's see how long you can go before your eyes start bleeding pure alcohol!" Dutch chuckled before downing his own beer once more.

"You sure you want to go toe-to-toe with them?" he asked. "I've seen them drink. Competitively. It's not a pretty sight."

"I grew up in Ireland, man," Wolf assured him. "The fucking culture revolves around drinking. I was shitfaced for the first time when I was fifteen." The others all turned to glare at him. "That doesn't make me come off so good," he muttered before clearing his throat awkwardly and ordering a glass of rum.

"Is this what we can expect every time we come here?" Benny asked quietly as the three avid drinkers attempted so passionately to drink one another under the table.

"I imagine so," Dutch told him. "It's been a long year, Benny. Remember when we were bored of sitting on our asses? We just wanted to work."

"Now look at us," Benny grumbled. "Afraid that the next job will burn the fucking city down."

"Exactly. We might as well get used to this, my man. We may not be able to enjoy it someday."

"Jesus, that's a grim thought." Dutch smirked as he sipped his drink.

"Yeah, I suppose it is. World's changing, Benny. Who knows where we'll be in ten years?"

"Living it up in a penthouse with our millions, I hope," Benny joked as he stood and stretched his legs. Truly, Lagoon Company had never been through such a rigorous attitude adjustment before. They actually longed for the good old days when they didn't have to worry about Roanapur's next enemy. But that was a trivial problem not worth getting bent out of shape about. Tonight, they likely had three drunks to look after. The walk home would not be pretty.