A/N: I started this way back in 2003, but somewhere along the line, life got in the way and I never got round to finishing it. Then when I did decide to pick it up again, I couldn't get back into the account. I started to rewrite it using a new account name, but would you believe, I can now access this one again. So I've transferred all my rewrites and tweaks to this one.

Since it was written, both Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus have been released, so technically speaking it's riddled with inconsistencies and is in no way canon at all. You'll find a few things have been brought in line though, like Lucrecia's surname.

And after all that hassle... Enjoy "No Brakes".

oOo

The three men sat on high stools next to the bar, drinks in hand and talking idly. Or rather two of them did. The third had his head resting on the smooth wooden bar top, his raven black hair falling across his face, fast asleep, one of his hands still loosely curled around a half full shot glass. Numerous other glasses were littered around them on the surface, although these were conspicuously empty.

One took a long drag on the remains of a stubby roll-up, breathing out a cloud of smoke. Gazing at the battered cigarette for a few moments, he leisurely flicked ash over the floor, before offering it to his companion.

The other man gave a slight questioning look, a subtle raise of an elegantly arched eyebrow, before accepting.

"These things will be the death of you, you know."

The first pointedly ignored him, instead reaching up to his ear to check for a replacement. No luck. Murmuring a curse under his breath, he ran his fingers through his shaggy blonde hair and reached into his jacket. Locating a pristine packet of cigarettes, he unwrapped them from the plastic, opened the box and pulled out a fag with his teeth. Returning the box to his pocket, he patted down his suit.

"Got a light?" he muttered through his slightly open mouth. The second man shook his head, himself finishing off the remnant of the last cigarette. Taking his new one out of his mouth, the first swivelled round slightly on his chair to face the rest of the room.

The bar itself was healthily busy; the majority of the tables were occupied. A group of businessmen were parked in one corner having a game of poker. Nearby, two more were trying their luck at darts. All around, people were drinking quietly. Too quietly. A few years ago, the bar had to undergo a refit every few months or so to replace broken furniture, but there hadn't been a fight in here for a long time. No-one started trouble in this establishment any more.

"Anyone got a light?" the man shouted to the room at large. Silence greeted him. Any patrons who had looked up at the request swiftly averted their eyes, returning to their own drinks. He snorted loudly. "For fucks sake… Shop!" Banging his hand on the top surface, he yelled towards the barman. A couple of the empty glasses jumped up from the counter, tinkling prettily.

His drinking buddy rolled his eyes towards the heavens. "Keep it down, man" he advised. "You'll wake the Sleeping Beauty there." He gestured towards the third man, who was still out for the count.

"Deacon. Bite me" replied the first promptly. He glanced down to their unconscious colleague. "And as for him…" His attention was diverted before he could bestow any more pearls of wisdom by the arrival of the barman, hurrying over to serve him.

"Get me a lighter and another round" he ordered, slapping down a wad of Gil notes. "Nah, damnit better make that another three. We got all night…"

Doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic, the barman gave a quick glance towards the third man before nodding in assent. He wasn't about to argue, instead he pocketed the Gil and poured out nine more shots of the houses' finest sipping whisky. Pushing the order across the bar, he scuttled off to the till. He was always careful never to overcharge these particular customers.

Having given the man his change, the barkeep began clearing up the empties. There were a lot of them. It had to be said that whilst their adoption of his bar had resulted in the loss of more than a few regulars, these three certainly made up for them, accounting for a large portion of his profits. He stacked them up carefully, one after the other. Noticing the half empty glass near the sleeping mans' hand, he reached forward to pick it up. "Excuse me, but is this one fin… Aaah!"

He never got any further than that. Although he would swear later that the guy had been practically passed out on the bar, the man's' hand spasmed, clutching the glass tightly, his head snapped up, fully alert, and his other hand had reached to his side and pulled out a gun. All in the blink of an eye.

The two drinkers barely seemed to notice the sudden transformation, which was more than could be said for the barman, standing stock still, hands quivering, gibbering something about not meaning to do it, please accept his apologies and by all that was holy not to kill him.

Deacon gave a small, longsuffering sigh, as if this were a regular occurrence. "Vincent" he said calmly. "Put the gun down."

The dark haired man blinked a couple of times, coming to and finally seeming to notice that he had a gun held against the trembling barman's' temple. "I hadn't finished" he protested. He lowered his arm away from the barkeeps' head to gesture at the half full glass, except this brought the pistol dangerously level with the barman's' groin. "See?"

Uttering a strangled cry, the poor barman bolted away from the three, scooting out the back to calm his frayed nerves.

"What's with him?"

Deacon sighed again. "Mainly that you went from comatose to holding him at gunpoint. Think you scared the poor dude shitless, he looks like hell on toast…"

"I'm not surprised" chimed in his companion, "I mean one minute dead, the next – bam!" He chuckled. "Even after all this time I still have no idea how you manage to do that. Your reflexes must be wound up tighter than a whor..."

"So would yours be" interrupted the man they called Vincent pointedly, "if you'd had the kind of day I've had." Taking a second to consider the still half-full drink he held, he decided to remedy the situation by knocking it back in one.

"Now be fair" Deacon said, holding up an admonitory finger. "In all honesty, Linden here has had a bit of a shitter as well."

"He has?"

"I have?"

"Yes" he replied to both, who were busy eyeing each other with suspicion. "He tried to chat up a fantastically hot bird today and she told him exactly where to go."

Vincent looked sceptical as Linden moaned into his whiskey. "And that counts as a bad day?" he scoffed. "Give me a break, he should be used to it by now. He hits on practically anything vaguely female with a pulse, and even then he's been known to make exceptions."

"I do have standards, you know" the womaniser in question protested. "Anyway, this one was different. She's got legs all the way up to her armpits and that voice…"

Deacon smirked. "Yeah, she told you to get lost in the sexiest voice imaginable. I've never seen the brush off give a guy a hard on before."

"You may laugh" retorted Linden, seeing his companion sniggering at his plight, "but just you wait till I snag her. Then you'll be laughing on the other side of your face..."

"Look, can we stop talking about fantastically hot women for just one minute?" Vincent asked.

"No" answered Deacon dryly, draining his glass and reaching for another without pause. "You're just jealous because you broke up with Lissa and aren't getting any anymore."

Linden leapt in, happy that the topic had finally been steered off his own shortcomings. "Lissa? Wasn't she that hot chick from Development? Blonde hair, blue eyes, great big…"

"Guys!"

"…I was going to say 'personality', alright Vincent?" Linden finished his sentence without missing a beat. "Hell yeah, now she was a babe. What happened to her in the end?"

Vincent refused to answer the question, stalwartly staring into his drink as if it would provide a route of escape. "No-one wants to hear about my day" he grumbled. Deacon and Linden ignored him, they were on a roll.

"Think she freaked out" Deacon supplied. "You know the usual."

Linden nodded understandingly "Happens to me all the time. They just can't handle the job."

His companion assumed a philosophical expression. "Shame really, since I would really have liked to give her one…"

"Deacon!" Vincent barked. "When you two have quite finished discussing my love life…"

"Or lack of it."

"…Or, yes indeed, lack of it, thank you very much Linden, can we please…"

His plea for a break was cut off by a high pitched ringing noise. He reached inside his deep blue suit jacket and pulled out a small PHS. "Saved by the bell" he muttered, flipping the lid open and bringing the device up to his ear. "Valentine."

He listened carefully, his silence punctuated only by the occasional 'yes' or 'no'. After a few minutes, he closed the PHS and replaced it inside the jacket.

"Drink up you two, we've got to go to work. They'll pick us up in five." He pushed the stool away from the counter and stood up, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to neaten it up. His colleagues immediately finished theirs and rose in unison, pulling on matching blue jackets and smartening up their attire.

"Alright boss" said Linden, adjusting his tie. "What's the job?"

"Later. In the car."

Vincent opened each side of his jacket, revealing twin holsters strapped to his torso. Inside each was a revolver. Having made sure that everything was in order, he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and carefully slid them onto his face before heading for the door. A quick gesture, and Linden and Deacon fell in line behind him. Together, the three Turks strode out the exit.