A/N: Good question! The answer is yes, but I should probably explain why it's been Moriarty's narrative so far. There are two reasons – one, Fring has a really mathematical, clinical view of reality, whereas Moriarty has got such a warped, perverse and creative mind. Left brain and right brain, basically. I find it much more interesting to explore this weird world with a right-brainer like Moriarty. And two – what makes Fring such a brilliant character in my eyes is that there's absolutely no way of telling what he's thinking. What makes the famous box cutter scene brilliant is that for the two minutes he's in the room, we've got no idea what he's thinking. But yeah, the POV will shift to Gus, but it will be for plot reasons. Seems like a lengthy explanation, but I love talking about the dynamics of the two characters.
Another lengthy A/N: If you're a fan of the Duke but are not sure of where he comes from, now that most of his role is gone I can say that he's meant to be Hunter S Thompson. Not based on him, but the actual guy – right down to the date of suicide. His name in-universe comes from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, where he uses the pseudonym Raoul Duke. I'm a big Thompson fan, and am currently reading his work on the Hell's Angels, which was where the character, and the gang themselves come from. What you'll start to see in the next few chapters is, in addition to original characters, deceased pop culture characters and even real people, but I'll make sure it's tasteful. I plan to drop these in pretty randomly, but I'm going to include an index at the end of the story so I can properly cite the references.
Sorry for the delay! I blame my working schedule and writer's block for publishing this a lot later than I intended to.
Chapter 8!
The journey had, in fact, taken a day and a half. They had driven solidly, making camp at only at what must have been around four in the morning for three hours' worth of sleep. That was purely speculative; the gang travelled without timepieces, using the sun as their sole means of telling the time of day. Moriarty had grown to love the bike he'd been given, and riding it gave him a feeling of power that he normally associated with slitting throats.
They had bypassed Milsbury, a fortified town that looked slightly more genteel than Pangaw. The quaint shotgun houses were joined by well-built thatched cottages, and the town was crowned by a stone church with a tall, Hawksmoor-styled steeple. At the top of the steeple was the engraving of an eye surrounded by a thin ring. Shouting ahead from his bike, Mo had explained that it was the sign of the Protector. There was another sign, on the gate, of two swords, vertically parallel. In the small gap between them was the Protector's symbol, as above. Mo added that this was the emblem of the Lord Protector.
"What's with the names, Mo?" Moriarty shouted back. "Your God is the Protector, your ruler is the Lord Protector…why are the names the same?"
"It's not a coincidence," said Mo, behind. "There's a cathedral in Founder's Hill that's the centre of Protector worship. One of the past Lord Protectors bribed the religious zealots to name their deity after him, and they keep bribing them so that they say that the Lord Protectors are descended from the Protector. They think it gives them a divine right, but it don't help them much. The Lord Protector has about the same level of power as Van Kreike."
From bypassing Milsbury, they continued south east until they came across Bridgetown. It was a small, rough settlement that consisted of a gas station, a flophouse, and a large tavern that had seemed to attract a shifty, possibly violent clientele. The men that stood outside drinking beer had lank, greasy hair and beards that looked like they had not been maintained in months. The women were muscular and heavily tattooed. Both genders wore leather similarly to the gang, but they looked like they had extracted it from the cow by hand.
"Is this country rich in petroleum?" Fring asked Mo as they gassed up the bikes. Instead of the normal hose, the gas was poured into the tank with a bucket and a funnel. The bucket was filled from the central pump, which dispensed a thick trickle of oil when a lever was pulled.
"Some parts," the RC replied. "Most gas stations in the backwoods only have a trace of the stuff, it's mostly synthesised, and cut with badly-fermented ethanol. It won't damage your car, but it won't get as far as it should, either. Don't worry yourself, though, we'll be in the city for days before we need to gas up."
Moriarty gassed up and headed towards the tavern, which was called Braxton's. The Duke, and some of the gang, were there already, and he was amused to notice that the large, rough types standing outside paid quite a lot of deference to the Hessians, stepping out of their way. The Duke appeared to know several of them, and he shook several hands as he made his way to the doors. The gang stayed in Braxton's for approximately twenty minutes, and ate a fast lunch with beer, then set off on the road.
By the time Moriarty saw the road sign for Nuevo, the bright, lush grass surrounding the highway had given way to a dry, dusty plain. It was a warm, pleasant morning, and their approach to the city was marked by an increase of traffic in both directions. It was clear to him that the reputation of the famous Hessians meant nothing here; they had passed many cars on the early leg of the journey, and people had been terrified by the sight of the Hessians on the road during the daytime. One woman had dived out of her car in motion, then ran off the road as fast as she could. But as they approached Nuevo, the drivers of the cars regarded them with cool indifference. They were evidently more amused by their backwoods biker uniforms than scared by their show of force.
Moriarty saw his first glimpse of the city after they crossed a small hill, and the sheer size of it took him by surprise. In front of the convoy was a dense, sweeping city of concrete, glass, and steel. The skyscrapers were incredibly tall, and seemed like they were packed in incredibly tightly. What was unusual about Nuevo was that it had no gradual approach – there were no sprawling suburbs to ease in their entry, or tiny city outposts. There was just one long road, and at the end of it was this huge, sprawling monolith of a city. It was like the Emerald City from the Wizard of Oz – one long, desolate road, and a huge, condensed city at the end.
But this was no Emerald City. Nuevo had an industrial, oppressive look to it, and the best way he could describe it would be to call it a Gomorrah in brutalism. He'd heard enough about the city, and one look at it from a distance told him that the place would turn out to be exactly as described. This would be a city where good souls were trampled on and corrupted, and principles were traded with less value than the sticky, artificial petrol back in Bridgetown.
To put it simply, this would be his kinda town.
To pass into Nuevo was like passing into a forest, with huge concrete buildings taking the form of trees. You didn't enter a forest gradually, you went from the field to the woods once you crossed the first pair of trees. The pair in this case were two brick towers, roughly forty feet high. The scant view from the windows suggested that these functioned as offices. The city began on the other end of these towers. They suddenly found themselves on a busy street, with the ground floors of various skyscrapers and residential blocks greeting them either side. The people looked much different to those in the roadside regions. The poorly-stitched cotton shirts gave way to linen and wool, and many men wore double-breasted jackets, and bizarrely, trilby hats. Those were clearly the rich; Moriarty observed a lot of people who must have been the poorest of the poor, because their fashion tended towards the Dickensian East End. But there was variety here; a woman jogged by in a strange, purple-coloured tracksuit, and even a replica Arsenal shirt that the fan wearing it had clearly taken time to stitch.
The incredibly tall buildings that shot up from the city had a peculiar effect on the lighting of the place. Shadows were everywhere, and although it was only the early afternoon, Nuevo made it feel like it was late evening. As they got closer into the city it got even more shady, and Moriarty even saw some streetlights on a low, but definitely on, setting. The streets were actually fairly presentable, with shops, pedestrians in business wear, and the occasional tree planted for decorative effect. Cut off from the sun, these trees didn't grow particularly well, and he could hardly describe them as vibrant.
"This is the financial sector," Mo called forward, as if divining Moriarty's surprise. "One of the nicer parts of the city. The corporations who hold sway around here pack a bigger punch than the gangs, so there's no point in starting here."
"Where would you recommend we start?" Fring called back, raising his voice over the deafening roar of the bike.
"Let's rendezvous with the guides first, they'll explain more."
They tore their way through the financial district, and when they hit the residential streets Moriarty knew that Mo wasn't lying about it being the one of the nicest areas in the city. The residential district was a broken-down slum, populated by tower blocks. The towers looked like the very worst council estates one would find in East London, and the few people who lingered in the courtyards of these grim monoliths looked ready to beat outsiders senseless. They regarded the mobile army that was the Hessians with what seemed to be withering indifference. There were three men stood in the road, drinking from what looked like soup cans. The way the three men barely seemed able to stay on one spot indicated that the cans contained heavy alcohol.
Fring and Moriarty started to slow the convoy down as they approached the three men, and smirking, they started to shamble out of the road. Led by Mo, the bikers dismounted, and with only the briefest warning, charged at the men. Mo took the first drunk, and reined several blows on his head, sending him down in a crumpled heap. The Duke (who was a good fighter, despite his age) and the Hessians closest were pounding the other two, kicking them both in the side several times to ensure that they would not be getting up for at least a few minutes. There were many eyes on them from around the tower blocks; the beating had captured the attention of everyone in the area. They seemed amused more than anything.
"Not that I don't love a bit of the old utraviolence, and I do," said Moriarty. "What in the hell was that about?"
Mo paused for a second, waiting to get his breath back. When he had done so, he replied, "Things work differently here. It doesn't matter how strong your gang is, the absolute worst thing you can do is let a slight go unpunished. You lose all of your respect. It doesn't matter how minor it is, it's an all-encompassing thing."
"Fair enough. Is this the area we're taking over? It looks like a dump"
Mo threw his head back and laughed. "You think this is a dump? I really can't wait to take you to the Jago, boss. I really can't."
"Are the guys we're looking for around here, though?" Fring asked.
"Couple of blocks away," said Mark, behind him. The gang remounted their bikes. Moriarty, who could never resist revelling in petty sadism, kicked one of the downed men in the face before mounting his bike, prompting a dismissive eye roll from Fring. They drove for around five minutes, before arriving at a small, partially-dilapidated brick office sandwiched between two tower blocks. It was made of a crude wood construction, and looked like it could fall apart at any moment. The gang pulled up outside, and the Duke knocked on the thin wooden door. It was thrown open after several moments.
"Fuck are you lot supposed to be?"
The speaker was a short man in his late forties, with a shaved head, and a shrewd, calculating face. He spoke in a thick, guttural Liverpudlian accent, and wore what looked like a suede jacket, cheap gold chain and jeans that were not quite denim. He held the door open ajar, and Moriarty noticed a latch.
"Hey, Dean," said Johnny , stepping out of the crowd of Hessians.
"Johnny Klebitz?" said the man, and he loosened his grip on the door, as if to remove the latch. "What are you doing here, mate?"
"I'm here with some friends. We need to go to the Jago."
"Paying customers? Fuck me, why didn't you say?" The door was thrown off the latch. Johnny came inside, followed by Moriarty, Fring, Mo and the Duke, and the rest of the gang hung around outside, casting menacing glances at any residents that looked twice. The office was small and had a particular smell about it; Moriarty could not place it but it was certainly unpleasant. When they were inside, they were introduced to Dean's business partner, Gary. He was a bizarre-looking man with a ludicrous afro-like perm, a pale face, and a goatee. He also spoke in a thick Liverpool accent. They sat on plastic stacking chairs, which were deeply uncomfortable.
"How do you three know each other?" Moriarty asked the two men and Johnny once the introductions were made. "You only died a year ago."
"We met Johnny in Bridgetown when he first woke up," said Gary. "We had to make ourselves scarce as far as Nuevo was concerned, and we hired him as a minder while we ducked and dived. When we moved into our new address, we thought we had to send him our address. Old times' sake."
"And why are you here, guys?" said Johnny. "You said you had a huge office!"
"We did, honest," said Dean. "But, we've had to scale down our operations. We weren't allowed to go into the Jago for a while, even if we were allowed back into Nuevo. For guides who know that area so well, it was kind of a business-killer. We're allowed back in now, but the damage has been done."
"What's the Jago?" Fring asked. "It's been mentioned several times."
"The Jago is the biggest area of Nuevo," said Dean, "and the worst. You noticed how the city's circular, right? The Jago is the big circle within it. If Nuevo were a donut, the Jago would be the hole inside. And it really is a hole."
"What's so bad about it?" asked Moriarty.
"Picture the worst slum you ever imagined…the worst European slum, anyway, and then put it right out of your mind because you haven't experienced anything remotely like the Jago. It's always night there; urban sprawl's seen to that. Whole streets have been built over it, and especially motorways, because no one would want to drive through there. Not a speck of sunlight gets through."
"Pretty fucking grim," said Gary.
"Everything goes on in the Jago," Dean continued. "From the looks of you fellas, and from what I know about you, Johnny, I'd say you're not exactly law abidin' citizens. If you're looking to make money…big money…and you're not afraid of breaking the law, the Jago is the place to go. Of course, the only problem is the gangs."
"Why do the gangs centre around this hellhole?" asked Moriarty. "Why don't they set up shop in nicer places in the city?"
"The Jago is natural selection," said Dean, grimly. "The warlord who takes over the Jago will have the power to take over the whole city. It's a place where only the truly strong survive."
"I think it's time we saw this place," said Fring. "I vote we go there tonight."
Gary laughed, and his dismissive snigger briefly captured the terror he clearly felt for the place. "It's always night in the Jago."