Lengthy a/n: To anyone with any continued interest in this story, I'm incredibly sorry for abandoning it. Life kinda got in the way. But I always regretted not continuing, and made a futile attempt to keep writing after the new season of Sherlock, where (SHERLOCK SPOILER) appears in flashback. But it was re-watching Breaking Bad, and a bit of Better Call Saul, that set me off to try to continue the story.So, I'm gonna try and finish this story. If I abandon it again I'll at least add a short update explaining why I can't do it yet.
Chapter 9: The Jago
The entrance to the Jago was, Moriarty supposed, intended to give the casual visitor a flavour for the place itself. It was a slope that descended a turnoff to the main road the party were on, with another highway above it cutting off the light. The sloped road was a wider track than the road they had come off of, and when the gang slowed down, he realised how sharply it descended. A rider going down to the Jago at full pelt would almost certainly wipe out. The entrance slope was decked with barbed wire on every side - no vehicle would catch it, however big; it most likely served as a fearsome decoration. Beyond the slope and the barbed wire, there was only a grim, pervading darkness.
"This is it, lads," said Dean uneasily, resting on the bike he'd been lent. "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."
"What the fuck's that?" asked Gary.
"It's Shakespeare, you wazzock," his friend shot back. Moriarty opened his mouth to correct him, but decided not to bother. He peered down into the start of the Jago again, and he noticed Fring eyeing it carefully too. The two continued to ride at the head of the road party.
"Now," said Dean. "When we ride down that slope, you'll see a fella on the left inside a booth. Don't slow down for him, even if he asks you questions. He used to control blast doors further in case there was a riot threatening to spill outside, and he used to stop everyone going in and out and interrogate them. Now he just sits in his booth and shuts the fuck up, more often than not."
"What happened?" asked Fring.
"Well, the blast door was...er, I guess blasted by saboteurs," Dean replied. "They can't manufacture for shit here. And as for the interrogation...charming gang called the Lunar Tics put a stop to that."
"How?" asked Fring.
"They were coming back from a raid and he asked too many annoying questions," said Gary. "So they smashed open his booth, held him down sawed his legs off."
A subtle twitch on Fring's face was all Moriarty needed to tell that he was practically recoiling in horror. But Moriarty grinned enthusiastically. "My kind of psychopaths," he said, gleefully.
"Yeah," Dean replied, uneasily. "Anyway. Let's keep going." He switched back into ride position, as did Fring, Mo and the others. Moriarty noticed it becoming very dark when he started to descend, and the feeling of the elevated highway, with Cadarian cars roaring past, gave him a temporary feeling of claustrophobia. It was as if the party was descending into the earth itself, revving their monstrous bikes into a container they would be buried alive in. But Jim Moriarty was not a man used to submitting to fear, and he continued. On their left, as the scousers had described, was a man standing next to a crude metallic booth. He was polishing the glass widow with a damp cloth. Moriarty smiled as he saw the pathetic excuse the man had for prosthetics. His legs were made of rusted, jagged metal and bent pipes, and he had to drag them around as he moved. He glared at the Hessians as they passed, but said nothing.
The road after the slope was a tight tunnel, forcing the gang into single file on their bikes. Moriarty broke slightly and Fring, without stopping, pulled ahead of him. Moriarty grimaced. He knew the gang were feeling the two out, trying to sense who the true leader was. If Fring was going into the tunnel ahead of him, this would make up their minds. He drove close to his partner, his front wheel within a half centimetre the bike in front. Fring turned his head slightly in the darkness and gave him a look, and Moriarty returned it. But he eased off slightly; if either man lost control of their vehicle it would create a domino effect, with every man to the last falling off their bikes and smashing their heads against the tunnel walls. After around a minute, they exited the tunnel and found themselves on a wide road. This was the Jago proper.
Moriarty marvelled at the place. It was, as their guides had suggested, one of the worst slums he had ever seen. The road was straddled by broken, crumbling buildings, made of stone, metal, wood and low-grade concrete. Each house and building appeared thrown together, as if a nuclear bomb had gone off and the survivors had built a shanty town in several hours. The only stable structures the eye could see were the chain link fences and boundaries that protected a small number of buildings. The road itself was cracked and decrepit, in dire need of repair. He saw people, but they were not casually walking the street like in the upper city. One man to their right stood at his wire gate, brandishing an iron bar in anticipation of intruders. He wore nothing but a suit of clanky metal armour, Ned Kelly style, with a savage face painted on the helmet. A woman knelt further up the road, clearly, arms outstretched, begging for money. Around seventy five meters up, the sun was completely obscured by the bottom of a series of roads and highways. The only light provided came from makeshift street lamps, often with bare bulbs.
As they drove on, he took closer notice of the types of buildings around them. While most buildings were private houses, the Jago clearly had an economy, even if it was almost certainly not thriving. The begging woman knelt next to small sheet metal building with a sign that spelled out BLA KSMITH - the C was missing, possibly stolen. Moriarty wondered if they had designed the booth operator's prosthetic legs, and the thought made him chuckle to himself.
"Turn right from here," shouted Dean, making himself heard over the roar of the engines. Moriarty saw a crossroads ahead and he turned right with Fring. The others followed. This street was much like the one they had been on: crude, dilapidated buildings, cracked road and an omnipresent road ceiling. However, there was one distinction. Ahead on the left was a large building lit by neon. There was a large crowd outside drinking, and Moriarty realised this must be a bar. He had a feeling this was their destination, and a call from behind confirmed it. They pulled in to the car park, which was just a square of tarmac. The revellers observed them with quiet interest, suddenly going hushed. Moriarty got off his bike and looked up at the bar. It was a large metal and concrete structure, but with a building quality far superior to anything seen so far in the Jago. Right above the entrance was a large red neon sign - Rory's Bar. Dean and Gary took the lead as they headed past the drinkers to the main door, which was being guarded by a huge, completely bald man in a suit. When he saw the two scousers, he grimaced.
"What the fuck are you two Northern monkeys doing here?" the man bellowed in a tough, gutteral cockney accent. Up close, he was a monster - as tall as he was wide, and with a look that made it seem like he was capable of tearing a man apart.
Dean was unperturbed. "We're here to see the boss, Barry. Could you fuck off out of the way, please?"
The monster of a man grimaced again, but reluctantly stood to one side. The gang went inside the bar. It was a feast for the eyes: a bright neon scene filled with every type of person one could imagine. From suits to sackcloth, various classes of revellers drank and congregated in the large bar. The only thing that differentiated Rory's Bar from a place on earth was the complete lack of music - all Moriarty could hear was the communal voice of the crowd. It was eerie to step into such a place without a throbbing dance track, but the patrons didn't seem to mind. Before the Hessians could get their bearings, Dean was leading them towards some spiral stairs. There was a velvet rope blocking off access, guarded by an skinny attendant. He rolled his eyes on seeing Gary and Dean and removed it, allowing access.
"Just you three," said Dean over the din, pointing to Moriarty, Fring and Mo. "Boss man is very selective about who he sees."
Fring nodded. "Tell the men to enjoy some drinks down here," he instructed Mark, who was just behind him. The three men plus Gary and Dean ascended the stairs to a plush (by Jago standards) lounge area with sofas. Two large, burly men in dark suits and jet black sunglasses stood in front of a large mahogany door in the far corner of the room. They did not move an inch when the group came up the stairs.
"Please, take a seat," said the man on the left in an Australian accent. "The boss will see you in a moment."
Fring and Moriarty exchanged a look. "We're going to have a quick pow-wow," said Moriarty to the other three. Gesturing to the other three men to sit down, they went over to the far side of the room.
"Did Dean say anything to you about this bar?"Moriarty asked Fring, who shook his head. "I have no idea what we're doing here. This could be a trap."
"Unlikely," said Fring. "What's the angle? The man in that office has no reason to harm us, that we know of, anyway. I propose we go in there open-minded and listen to what he has to say. If it's agreeable, we take things further. If not, we exit from the situation. Regardless of whether Rory wants to let us go."
"Right," said Moriarty. He was about to open his mouth again when the same bodyguards spoke.
"Step this way, please," he said. "The boss is ready to see you."
The five men assembled at the door. The two bodyguards frisked them swiftly. Moriarty stared down the Australian bodyguard as he frisked him, broadcasting cold contempt that was ignored. Once they had all been searched, the two bodyguards swung the doors open.