After an hour, the police had shown up in full force to secure the scene. For the whole day, cars filled the side street as the sun rose and fell, with paramedics tending to Josh's, Luke's, and the other hostages' wounds. The dozens of female (duh) police officers wandered about inside and outside the club, dragging out the Mobsters for arrest, taking photos, and repossessing every gun and illegal object that they could find.

The haul was impressive, and showed the Mobsters' tastes didn't really change much from what Jack assumed was the years they were all incarcerated. A few .44 revolvers, some .357 revolvers, two M249s, an original M60, a few Soviet machine guns, countless butterfly and bowie knives, brass knuckles, machetes, katanas, M16s and M4s were all taken into inventory by the police. It took two of the small women to carry the M60 to the back of a van, and even the van seemed to sink under its weight when it was added to the literal pile of guns and sharp objects.

Well...all the ones that were recovered.

Jack had deemed it necessary to take a few things that caught his eye: A pair of Mateba revolvers, in used condition, with one for him and one for anyone else who needed one; a .44 revolver in case he lost his Desert Eagle; an RPD machine gun due to its good accuracy over a long range and its built-in bipod; a pair of brass knuckles; and a trench knife, the last of which he was sharpening with his bayonet as he sat with a paramedic.

The rest of the stuff was things he could probably barter with any other people from Earth, hopefully as a way of gaining their trust and co-operation: Cigarettes, vodka and whiskey flasks, lighters and pens, pins and badges, and a few bits of clothing that he'd scavenged.

The paramedic with him was stitching up the side of his face, where one of the backroom thugs that was looking after their significantly high number of hostages managed to get a good few hits onto Jack's face with a pair of brass knuckles. He probably had a concussion because of it, let alone cuts and bruises. A glance to a nearby reflective surface told him that he had only suffered a few impact marks here and there, but the cuts were open, and that meant the paramedic had to throw alcohol on his face and stab him repeatedly with a sewing needle.

He winced as the needle scraped the side of his skull. "Fuck..." he muttered, closing his eyes so that the feeling would subside. The golden lighting illuminated the whole street fairly well in the late evening glow, meaning that the scene was reminiscent of the ending of every eighties action movie ever where the protagonist sits in an ambulance getting his injuries stitched shut. Nevertheless, Jack didn't like it. Fucking needles.

Once he was finished, he'd be heading back to the basilicom so he could get yelled at for leaving and causing a scene in the city.

He just didn't think Lady Vert would understand how lucky Luke and Josh were that he showed up. When he arrived, the two were ready to be doused in petrol, along with a bunch of the dancing girls that had been held hostage at the club.

And those Mobsters...he'd done the right thing. He had to do it. Otherwise, they would have killed Cave. They were scum anyway.

Yeah.

He...he was in the right.

Right?

That night, after vigorous questioning and stitches...

"And there's the man of the hour," came the familiar, almost expected voice of Chika. Jack sighed, and turned to face her as she approached and sat down at the table they usually sat at on those evenings. "How's it feel to be the hero again?" Jack shrugged, and rubbed his forehead.

"Like shit, really," he groaned. "Killed six people today. Six. Half a dozen dead in a few seconds." Chika smirked, leaning onto the table.

"Really? Wow. You're improving."

"That's not to say I'm proud of what I did."

"Why not?"

Jack stared at her. "What do you mean, 'Why not'? I don't know if you heard me right, but I said I killed SIX FUCKIN' PEOPLE." Chika shrugged, a bored expression now on her face.

"Yeah. So?"

"That's six people. I've never killed anyone before, let alone a half dozen in a few seconds."

"And you think I haven't had to get dirty to get where I am?" the Oracle retorted. "In politics, you either die as someone that the people look up to, or live long enough to see yourself become a part of what you wanted to bring down. And contrary to what you might expect, nobody in Gamindustri's political system hasn't helped someone else become a national icon at their funeral." Jack blinked.

"You've fuckin' murdered people before? Holy fuck, I knew there was summat off about you!" He was about to stand up and leave, when Chika suddenly grabbed his wrist, then stood and grabbed his face.

"Look at me, Mr. Glovebox," she ordered. Jack did so, and realized that the constant frown wasn't just her thinking of anything. It was because she didn't like what she'd done in the past. "Look at me, and try to tell me that you think I stood a chance as a politician without being treated as mere eye-candy by others! I did what I had to so that I could be where I am now. And where am I now?"

"Right and left hands of the government, you say this all the bloody time," Jack snapped, finally pulling his hand free and remaining standing over the woman in front of him that now looked quite shocked at the sudden hostility. "And how the fuck is this helpin' me? I've killed six people. I don't have a political career. I don't have a career. And yet you think tellin' me all this is gonna make a fuckin' difference? You've not gone out and fuckin' shot someone through the head, have you? You haven't punched a knife through someone's face, you haven't cracked someone's fuckin' head open on a marble surface! You poisonin' people and hirin' snipers doesn't even involve you directly, you just sit and watch." Jack gritted his teeth, and glared at Chika. "This isn't some sort of fuckin' joke for me. I have to live with the knowledge that I smashed someone's head open with a worktop, and that I blew someone's brains out at point blank, and that I stabbed someone through the head, and that I gunned down three more people. You don't, because you don't do anything like that yourself." Feebly, Chika raised a hand.

"B-But...Mr. Glo-"

"It's LONDON!" Jack roared as he slammed his fist on the table, cracking the glass slightly and prompting Chika to quickly recoil her hand. She could feel tears springing to her eyes slightly. That hadn't happened in a while. "How many times to I have to tell all of you fuckin' degenerates that it's pronounced London?! Not Glovebox, not Lunnydunny, not Loondumb, not fucking Lovebun! It's London! London! I have a bloody name! It's not interchangeable! How'd you like it if I started calling you Bleacher? Or Cunta? Not good, is it? I'm a man, not just some fuckin' tool for you and the CPUs to use as you fuckin'-well see fit, I'm not some babysitter, I'm not a fuckin' public figure! I'm the guy you send to destroy a field of Dogoos! I'm the guy you send to kill a Dragon! I'm the guy that can shoot down a fuckin' jet with a boxlock shotgun! And yet the way you lot order me around, I'm just...just...just..." Jack clenched his fists, closing his eyes and trembling slightly as he struggled to find the words he wanted.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Jack dropped to his knees, staring at the patio floor. Chika blinked with shock, watching him from her seat. Not even she had a comeback, or witty response. She was probably the first person to ever see Mr. Glovebox having a breakdown. Normally, watching breakdowns was hilarious, but this one...one of her best friends' breakdowns...it wasn't funny.

In fact, she dared say she even felt bad for him.

And amidst the silence, there came a quiet mutter. "...I'm...I'm just a weapon." Neither spoke after this. Chika sat leaned forward on her chair, silently watching him, and Jack was knelt down in the middle of the patio, breathing heavily and staring at the ground with his arms limp. She couldn't see his face, even under the bright moon, but she was certain it was contorted in some expression of pure, unfiltered rage...

...was he crying?

Cautiously, the Oracle stood and slowly approached her hulking gunman friend. Even kneeling to half his height, his face still reached her chest, so she would need to crouch slightly if she ended up needing to calm him down with hugs. Once she was within two meters of him, she could certainly see it: He was crying. The paving tile in front of him had wet drops on it. He was quietly sobbing.

Mr. Glovebox was crying.

A good portion of her wanted to take photos to prove to everyone that he was a softy, and then keep the pictures for blackmail, but then she reconsidered. Mr. Glovebox was the closest thing she had to a best friend whenever Cave wasn't around. Unlike any of her other 'friends', he spoke to her like they were people talking, not having a corporate meeting. He was real. Not just talking for the sake of a raise in stature or getting better funding.

He spoke to her as a friend.

And what did friends do for each other?

Chika sighed, and crouched down, before lifting his right arm and slipping herself under it. Then, she wrapped her own arms around his torso, sat down on his right knee, and placed the left side of her head onto his shoulder, gently patting him on the back. "You're OK, big guy, just let it all out..." she whispered as calmingly as she could. Her shoulder was wet. Why did the area under his left arm smell like blood? "You mean way more to us than just a weapon...you're my best friend, Uni adores you, and Lady Vert says you're one of the most charming gentlemen she's ever wanted to see without a shirt on..."

Shit, did she really just say that? Fuck, roll with it.

"But...if you were just a weapon, you're the nicest weapon I've ever met...I'd say that counts for something, right?" She rubbed his back, and leaned out slightly to look him in the eyes. In the moon's light, she could see they were reddened, and damp. Holy hell, he'd really let something out. Maybe that's why the tears felt like boiling hot coffee. All his bottled frustrations formed thermal energy and nearly cooked her skin, or something. She didn't know.

Giving a reassuring smile, she looked Jack in the eyes. "You feel better?" she asked. After sighing, Jack finally spoke.

"...yeah." Suddenly, he smiled, and put his own arms around the smaller woman, who nearly yelped in surprise. "Thanks, Chika. Dunno where I'd be without you."

Chika grinned as she wrapped her arms around him again.

Just as planned.

The next morning...

Jack walked into the breakfast room, no longer with the miserable trudge he had been doing the day before. Everyone else stopped eating, and looked at him as he entered. Vert, Uni, and Chika gave honest smiles. "Good morning, Mr. Glo..." She stopped herself. "...Lo...Lunn...Dunn...?" she beamed. How was it that hard to pronounce? She was questioning that herself, now. Jack smiled.

"That's the one," he grinned. "Mornin', ladies." Before he sat down, Luke coughed.

"Crybaby."

Jack clenched his fists, marched around the table, and before anyone could say anything, he gripped the back of his friend's head and smashed Luke's face into the Boxwood table hard enough that the wood splintered with an audible crash. Josh remained slightly braced up, since he'd expected something like that, and everyone else just displayed their irritation at Luke's comment in subtle ways. Jack dusted his hands off after a moment, and walked back to his seat.

"Fuckin' buck-teethed twat," he grunted, pulling his chair out and setting himself down in an eerily calm way. Luke, meanwhile, sat there groaning loudly, holding his face in his hands and with some blood dripping from it.

"You fuckigg arsehole!" he whined, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I thikk you broke by dose!" Jack just shrugged, and pulled his chair in.

"It's what you get, so I suggest shuttin' the fuck up, next time." As he leaned forward to grab the water jug, he paused.

Then, he noticed the pilot from two days before, calmly sat at the seat beside him, staring at him almost blankly through the polarized dirt-bike style flight helmet. The table then fell silent.

Finally, Vert cleared her throat. "Jack, this is...this is Chaz." She was definitely having to pick her words carefully. "He's...he's that pilot. He says he's trying to fight the criminals, too. And...and he likes planes." Jack sniffed, sitting back with his arms folded and still looking at 'Chaz' with caution.

"I figured that last part," he said, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes. "He's a bloody airman. He has to like planes. Just like how I enjoy weapons." There was silence, and Chaz cleared his throat through the radio filter on his helmet.

The pilot swallowed. "Uh...we...we, uh, got off on the wron-"

"What's your opinion on In?" Jack asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes. Uni perked up from eating her breakfast, confused as to why her name was mentioned.

"Me?" she inquired, raising a brow and looking up at Jack. "Why me?"

Chaz looked at Uni, then back at Jack. Since his eyes weren't visible, the only thing people could guess his eye movements by was the subtle shifting of his head. He then looked back at the gunman next to him, who he was actually considerably taller than. "She's good, I guess. Not got a problem with her."

Jack extended a hand.

"Then it's good to meet you, and sorry for blowin' your kneecap open."

Everyone else watched the exchange in utter confusion as Jack and Chaz shook hands like they'd known each other for their whole lives.

Uni looked at herself in the reflection of a spoon.

Was she really that significant in how Jack decided things?