Chapter 19 - Saturday Night's Alright, Part 1
- To Serve With Honor -
The thrum of the bass seemed to double with the addition of a few hundred more bodies on a Saturday night in The Club.
Jaune - this time in his familiar face, replete with scars and a scowl and dressed in his casual jeans and utility shirt - was greeted at the door by the twin in white. Instead of ushering him through the line of metal detectors, she gestured to a side door, opening it for him and then following him in.
Two men in the organization's iconic suit, sunglasses, and tie waited inside - one watched Jaune enter, while the other stared out of a one-way glass window at the regular security line outside. A row of displays lined the wall beneath the window, displaying detailed readouts from the metal detectors outside - which were apparently much more sophisticated than the usual "beep if there's metal" variety, if the detailed x-ray scans were anything to go by.
"I feel like I should say something about ethics and violations of your clientele's privacy," he found himself commenting, "But I'm more impressed than anything, honestly."
"You Atlas-types would be," the twin, Melanie, rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Hei's original chief of security was one of you. Hei was on board because he wanted to establish himself as a safe and reliable go-between for Vale's underworld, and figured that he couldn't pull it off unless he turned this place into a fortress under his total control."
"Sounds vaguely sinister," Jaune commented wryly.
"Says the man who marches around in a mask, a suit of armor, and a voice synthesizer, gunning down terrorists like some kind of murderous robot," she snarked back easily.
Jaune raised his hands in front of his shoulders with a smirk as dry as Vacuo. "Got me there."
"Keep those hands where I can see them," Melanie ordered tauntingly as she stepped towards him and proceeded to swiftly and professionally frisk him - emerging from his pockets with a thin metal cardholder wallet, a battered silver flask, and a Scroll. "Somehow I'm not surprised," she remarked as she rolled the flask in her hand, a brow rising when she noticed the symbols inscribed on it, "I've never met a soldier that doesn't drink."
"Some of us drink to feel, or to not feel," Jaune found himself replying flatly, "To forget, or just to pass the time."
"And why do you?" Melanie asked, a note of genuine curiosity in her voice as she tossed the flask back to him. He caught it easily, holding it in both hands for a moment and brushing his thumbs over the two insignia. Then he unscrewed the cap, took a draught, and sealed it again, the gin passing his lips and going down with barely a sensation except longing.
"To remember," he answered, the flask disappearing again into his pocket.
He wordlessly accepted the wallet and Scroll and pocketed them as well, and followed Melanie out of the security room by way of a side door into a service hallway.
"Hei is a busy man," Melanie said as she walked, "You get one hour, then he has another appointment and you'll need to be out of his way, regardless of how your talks go."
"Do you and your boss really think that you can stand between me and that terrorist?" Jaune asked her without malice.
"I think that you understand as well as I do that crossing Hei while you're in a deadlock with the White Fang is going to go exactly the way you would expect it to," she replied matter-of-factly.
He kept silent at that - having dreaded the answer, but expected it all the same.
"Well?" Miltia called down the alleyway impatiently, "Don't just stand there like a creep."
"I expected you to be a little more cautious about this," Adam replied as he stepped into the glow from the lamp above the service entrance.
"You may be the most dangerous outlaw that we've ever hosted, but you're still middle-of-the-road in terms of notoriety," Miltia crossed her arms and tapped her foot, her clawed gauntlets on full display. "It's not that I don't respect your skills; but if worse comes to worse, I know that I only need to hold you for about a minute before the entire Kingdom comes down on your head."
"Duly noted," he said with a brief smirk, finding the young woman's audacity and blasé attitude refreshing. He started forward, only to halt abruptly and frown when the girl didn't move.
"If you think I'm letting you in here without frisking you first, you're on some serious shit and I want to know your dealer," Miltia stated flatly. "Assume the position, buster."
Once again, amusement overrode annoyance, and Adam chuckled softly as he stepped to the side of the doorway, stretching his arms out and pressing his palms to the wall in front of his head, legs shoulder-width apart.
Miltia - claws and all - started from his legs and worked upwards, causing him to flinch briefly when he felt the blades brush below the belt. After that very clear warning, however, she finished her search, coming up with a burner Scroll and a miniature tanto knife from his coat.
"I'm keeping this," she stated, the blade disappearing into the back folds of her skirt. "I'll also need to inspect that mask," she added in a more cautious tone.
"You have cameras out here," Adam replied flatly, "I've gone the last decade without my face being documented, and I'm keeping that way."
Miltia rolled the inside of her lip between her teeth briefly, before glancing around the alley at what Adam had to assume were the cameras. Finally, she took a step back into the light of a dim recessed lamp on the side of the building, and beckoned him towards her.
"Keep your face towards this spot on the wall and I'll be the only one to see anything," she said after some hesitation, resting her hand on a particular brick on the wall. "Final offer. If you want to cover your face while I'm checking out the mask, fine; but I can't let you in until I know you're not hiding anything back there."
His good humor started to wane, but he knew how important this meeting was, if only for the trust and morale of his troops. "If I find that so much as a profile has gone out after this meeting, I'm coming back for you and your boss," he vowed solemnly as he did as instructed and stared at the wall, keeping his chin tilted towards the ground.
"You're not the first to make that promise; but you're the first that I'd believe would keep it," Miltia muttered as she accepted the mask from him, respectfully keeping her gaze fixed on it for the moment, albeit with his face in her periphery all the same.
At a glance, she had taken the half-mask for ceramic or something else ornamental; with it in her hands, however, it was clearly something closer to polycarbonate, possibly with some type of ballistic weave sandwiched between multiple layers. The eye slots had a different type of lens material that was thinner than the rest of the mask, and obviously treated or tinted. "Fancy little piece of protection, for all of the half of your face it covers," she commented as started to hand the mask back, inadvertently looking squarely at the man and freezing.
Miltia's first impression was fairly in-character: 'This dude is hot.' Smooth skin and a well-defined facial structure complemented a lovely turquoise eye color - the one eye, anyway. While crossing from left to right on his face, her gaze was immediately drawn and fixed to the lettering, which was framed above and below by thick horizontal lines.
"SDC" was cut and burned deeply into his flesh in an angry burgundy, looking old and yet still decidedly vicious, particularly where the end of the "D" and the front of the "C" were interrupted by a bloody maroon sclera, gray iris, and milky white pupil.
Miltia barely restrained her urge to raise a clawed hand to her mouth to cover a soft gasp of shock. Noting her surprise and reading it as disgust, Adam quickly donned his mask before taking a half-step back to offer breathing room as she continued to stare.
"You did ask. All the same, however, I apologize for my... Unsightly appearance," the terrorist leader offered awkwardly.
"Nonono, that's- I'm so sorry!" Miltia stuttered out as her face reddened in genuine embarrassment, "I didn't mean to, you're not ugly! You honestly really hot! I just- the scar caught me off guard is all..." she trailed off, one hand rubbing at her opposite wrist as she glanced away awkwardly, her pale complexion now matching the hue of her dress.
Uncertainty held Adam fast for a long moment until his brain caught up with her words, at which point a bubble of amusement grew in his core and burst; a few chuckles gave way to a full-blown gut-clenching belly laugh that sounded foreign even to his own ears.
The hilarity of the moment lasted for an embarrassingly long time in itself, and came back in full force when he noted that Miltia, still flushing deeply, was also now pouting fiercely and adorably at him.
"I'm- I'm sorry, I just-!" he finally sputtered between laughs, still doubled over as one hand clenched his stomach and the other slapped his leg in an attempt to martial his composure, "-I haven't laughed like that in years," he finally admitted with a deep release of breath and tension. Adam pulled himself upright, smoothing the wrinkles from his undershirt and straightening his jacket, his expression held fast in a genuine grin.
"Just wipe that stupid look off your face and follow me," Miltia spat half-heartedly as she shoved past him and hurried through the door into the back sections of the club.
His confidence returning on a wave of positive emotion, Adam pivoted smoothly on his heel. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks casually, he sauntered - nay, swaggered - after the flustered bouncer.
'Still got it, Taurus.'
Ignoring the urge to scratch the skullcap that disguised his unique hair color, Mercury adjusted the Red Axe Gang's iconic fedora and sunglasses and pressed in with the crowd of other gangsters as a cluster wandered into the club for shift change.
He'd done his homework to ensure that his disguise was as authentic as it needed to be. After spending a night with a female member of Xiong's gang, he'd made note of all of the brands on her suit and accessories; he'd then confirmed the appropriate male selections by paying off a worker at a large Mistrali laundry outfit that did business with the gang.
From there'd he gone straight to the main tailor and ordered a suit coat under the pretense of a wedding next month. He'd then crossed town and picked up slacks and an undershirt that were close enough in style and texture to pass muster as a grunt who couldn't yet afford the genuine article. Shoes came from the correct cobbler located next to the first tailor three days after picking up the coat; and then the fedora, sunglasses, and tie had been a bit of a tricky prospect.
He'd ended up winning a set of the genuine articles at the tail-end of a six-hour poker game with two gangsters and four of their buddies. It had been two in the morning, everyone at the table was thoroughly shitfaced drunk, and - playing it off as a joke - Mercury had talked both men into offering their accessories at a total value of fifty lien, since one of the men was completely out-of-pocket but still wanting to play.
As luck would have it, he'd ended up winning a set off of the other man, and held onto them for the remaining thirty minutes of play before everyone finally agreed to call it quits. The gangsters had waved him off when he'd offered them back, claiming to have plenty of spares, and he'd been invited back to the table next Thursday.
'We'll need to see how this goes,' he noted, genuinely hoping to be able to return for another round without having to risk a hit squad waiting for him at the bar.
"Fresh Meat!" a baritone moonlighting as a chain smoker barked from behind him, and Mercury could tell from the tone that those two words were a new - and unfortunate - name rather than an announcement.
The owner of the equally unfortunate voice turned out to be two meters tall, old, pale, and long past gray in his admittedly impressive and immaculately-groomed full-face beard. The man was built like a brick shithouse, easily mistaken at first glance and shoulder-clap for a hundred and twenty kilos of repeatedly broken-and-mended bones and hard-won muscle to go with a complexion akin to albino leather.
"And where do you think you're off to, now?" the deadly geezer rasped, and Mercury had to repress every instinct to fight his way out as a tree trunk of an arm wound around his neck and stopped short of applying uncomfortable pressure to a distinctly threatening headlock.
"I'm... not really sure?" the younger man replied bluntly, allowing genuine nerves to color his voice as he added, "This is my first night on the job; the guy I talked to last week told me to turn up tonight in uniform and be ready to work a big crowd with not enough backup."
"Extra hands for crowd control, eh? Not a bad call. Too many folks out drinking too much on the weekends trying to forget about all the unpleasantness in the Kingdom these days." The fossil fixed him with a gimlet eye and asked, "And who exactly is bringing you on?"
"Ease up Gio, I'm his designated nanny," a weary sigh came from a stocky olive-skinned man with a dark goatee and an unlit cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth. "Boss put out a call for extra hands, and the kid came recommended by my cousin in the Spiders; says he did some good work busting heads around Mistral's ports for a few months."
'Gio' grunted and turned one gray and one brown eye back to Mercury. "Fresh Meat got a name, Hao?"
"It's Matt," Mercury offered when 'Hao' now looked at him curiously, "Matthaios Argyris. I did two years at Sanctum, then dropped out and got into the underground circuit to support my crippled old man 'till his past finally caught up with him last winter."
'Gio' grunted - in satisfaction, suspicion? There really was no telling through all of the gravel it sounded like he was gargling - before unwinding his arm slowly from Mercury's neck and "gently" prodding him towards Hao, nearly sending the two men tumbling into the adjacent wall.
"Keep him workin', Hao," the disgruntled dinosaur ordered with a jab of his finger. "We've got too much going on here tonight for anybody to be slackin' off."
"Sure thing, Gio," Hao grumbled, straightening and steadying Mercury before brushing himself off and watching 'Gio' saunter off down the service hall. "Don't worry about Giovanni, he's another month or a bad poker hand from retirement," the gangster stated once he figured the older man was out of earshot, "Or so he claims."
"How long has he been claiming that, exactly?" Mercury drawled.
"Going on a decade, I think," Hao admitted despondently. He then turned squarely to face Mercury, his brows furrowed. "My cousin said you did more than just bust heads, I think," he lowered his voice to a suitably conspiratory volume and added.
"I got pretty good at convincing certain people that I was someone worth telling when they had something to say," Mercury replied knowingly. Hao nodded in approval and stepped around to his side, ushering him down another more plain, darker hallway.
"I think we've got a guy in our tender mercies who could use some of that kind of 'talk therapy,' if you catch my drift..."
Mercury's grin was broad, bright, and had a few too many points.
'Easy money.'
- To Serve With Honor -
After five minutes of following Melanie down an increasingly convoluted path of hallways and back rooms, Jaune was relieved to finally come across Hei Xiong waiting beside a nondescript door in an otherwise empty hallway.
The imposing gangster wore his usual bartending attire, and was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed as he stared in their direction. Xiong righted himself when he saw them round the corner, and his arms fell to his sides as he stared Jaune up and down for the entire fifteen seconds that it took for them to reach him. When they stopped a respectful distance away, the man just continued staring. Internally, Jaune twitched as he realized that he was going to have to be properly diplomatic with this engagement.
"Mister Xiong," he greeted, slowly extending an open hand, "I'm Specialist Amsel. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Hei or Junior is fine," Xiong finally rumbled, accepting the handshake firmly. "We can talk in here. Melanie - go find your sister and get back to your posts."
"Whatever," the bouncer huffed, and Jaune heard rather than saw the roll of her eyes before she turned and walked off.
Without further preamble, Xiong turned and opened the nondescript door, leading the way into an already-lit room.
As he followed, Jaune noted the thickness of the door and frame with curiosity and a bit of concern, knowing that it could be from soundproofing, armor, or both. He tried listening closely as the door closed behind him, but the closer caught the heavy door and it shut with barely a whisper.
The room was decorated richly. The lower third of all four walls consisted of dark wood paneling. The upper portion of the walls behind and to either side of Jaune were painted in emerald green, while the wall opposite the door consisted of a continuous mirror. Deep burgundy carpeting barely compressed underfoot, and the whole space was lit by a series of vintage-looking shaded brass sconces that glowed warmly.
Xiong had perched against the front of a small but sturdy-looking old dark wood desk, which was adorned solely with a small brass armature lamp and a wide emerald writing mat.
"Drink?" the man asked flatly, never moving from his reclined stance with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes never leaving Jaune's.
"Maybe later," Jaune replied, his gaze fixing steadfastly on Xiong's once he had finished cataloging the room. Xiong grunted in approval.
"Then let's get down to brass tacks. You were already given one prisoner to interrogate, and yet you are here demanding another. Where's the first one?"
"The first one was so graciously gifted to us with perforated lungs and a sucking chest wound," Jaune replied flatly. "He spent most of his time in captivity in and out of surgery, and only ended up squeezing out a few words before dying in a hospital bed yesterday. We didn't get anything actionable out of him."
"Unfortunate," Xiong deadpanned. "And your loss affects us how?"
"Your man on site, whom I made arrangements with during the capture operation, acknowledged a guarantee from me that I would come to retrieve the Red Axe Gang's prisoner for interrogation should the one initially allotted to us die from his wounds."
"Funny how this supposed acknowledgement came from 'my man' rather than me."
"Should I inform my colleagues from Atlas and our counterparts in Vale that the word of a Red Axe gangster isn't worth anything if it isn't directly backed by words out of your own mouth?" Jaune shot back, thoroughly unimpressed.
Junior's stony visage finally cracked into a smirk. "I'd like to think that no one would believe you," he chuckled as he circled the desk. Slowly and deliberately, he opened a drawer on the far side of the desk, withdrawing a bottle of brown liquor and two crystal tumblers.
"Marko had no place making that sort of deal," the older man continued casually as he popped the cork and poured two fingers into each glass, "But I respect that he did it, because the deal that he made ultimately saved lives. You saved the lives of several of my men as a consequence, and I respect that." There was a pause before the slightly stilted admission of, "As well as my daughter in an unrelated incident several weeks prior, which I likewise respect and appreciate."
Junior passed one glass to Jaune, at the same time taking a draw of his own in a universal gesture of 'look, it's probably not poison.'
Accepting the glass and gesturing with it in acknowledgement, Jaune took a drink and immediately let out a sigh at the pleasant burn of Patch whiskey.
"That being said, I would like to try and convey the difficult political and legal position that releasing such a problematic individual to you would put me in," Junior carried on, sliding the tray to the back of the desk and resuming his perch at the front.
"I think I already have an inkling," Jaune grunted as he restrained himself from draining the glass in his hand. "Kidnapping, extrajudicial incarceration, assault and battery... Am I in the ballpark?"
Junior took another drink in response.
"It's been heavily implied to me by several separate people that you're a man who knows things," Jaune carried on, knowing that waiting for a response was counterproductive in this case. "I would assume that one such subject in your encyclopedia is the Atlas Foreign Legion?"
"I may have come into contact in the past with individuals who've claimed affiliation with such a group," Xiong said airily.
Jaune grimaced and polished off "I would appreciate it if we could drop the doubletalk and lawyer-speak, Junior. My partner might appreciate that kind of game, but I'm a soldier first and foremost, no matter how my superiors wish otherwise."
"You're oddly well-spoken for a grunt, Mister Amsel," Junior observed wryly.
"Well I was Airborne, for one thing," Jaune smirked. "I was an NCO for another. I had to be able to speak in multi-syllabic words that the officers flying the plane could understand, since they refused to speak down at our level."
Junior chuckled heartily. "I love the enlisted military's sense of humor. Professional fighters with no love lost for their enemies or their own commanders have the most interesting and refreshing outlooks on life."
"Is that why you've taken to recruiting such men for your "security forces"?"
"Among other reasons," Junior said with a careless shrug, "Who could say anything against it either way? I'm giving jobs to decorated servicemen and troubled veterans who'd have found it difficult to land on their feet otherwise."
"Veterans of foreign militaries?" Jaune took a drink with a raised brow.
"I employ separated and retired VDF as well," Junior shrugged again. "Not as many, since most of them are gainfully employed even while they're serving, and the few full-timers that separate usually get scooped up by private security and paramilitary outfits either way."
"Outfits like the one that was providing personal security for the CEO and CFO of Vale National Foundry?" Jaune probed cautiously.
Junior saluted with his drink in affirmation. "You've done your homework. The CEO's Chief of Personal Security and primary body-man, Theodore "Todd" Aubert, served full-time in the VDF for twenty years. He started from the bottom, was accepted to Officer Candidate School as a Sergeant with six years in, and retired at his twenty as a Captain. Very popular man, by all accounts a highly competent and morally-upright soldier through-and-through.
"Had a bit of trouble after getting out, though," Junior carried on nonchalantly as he set his empty glass down and poured two more fingers. "Tried to occupy himself with a few hobbies, coached a youth football league in his neighborhood, but wasn't quite satisfied. Found himself in the bottle within three months and had a few encounters with the boys in blue that ultimately only resulted in a night or two in the drunk tank, usually on account of the arresting officer or the officer-on-duty at the jail being a former subordinate or friend-of-a-friend.
"Ultimately though, somebody close called in a favor, and Todd got picked up by a recruiter from an outfit out of Mistral called Canis Major Private Military Options. Took to it like a fish to water and was leading teams and serving as an instructor and instructor-trainer by the end of his first year."
"How long was he in before he lost his biggest principal?"
"Four years. He's still right pissed about it, mind you; his whole team was subdued and had two vehicles and a principal stolen out from under them after a thirty-second firefight that ended not three meters from the front door of their secure facility. Man's turning over every stone in Vale to try and get his boss back, including many that the police wouldn't even think to look at."
"Thanks for the tip." Jaune killed his glass and stepped forward to Junior's side to set it back on the desk. "Your hiring practices notwithstanding, I'm not one to pass judgment on methods so long as my target is acquired and in operable condition."
"That does offer a bit more leeway for negotiations," Junior admitted. He killed his second glass of whiskey before returning the bottle and both glasses to the desk drawer and pacing towards the corner of the room to Jaune's right. "That being said, there are still... Complications. Externalities, if you will."
"You have a terrorist in custody, and I am here representing the primary and foremost anti-terrorism authority in the Kingdom at the moment," Jaune stated blandly. "What's so complicated about it?"
"The law is only one side of the coin that I regularly flip on a business day, Mister Amsel," Junior replied just as flatly, turning on his heel and settling into the corner of the room with his arms folded.
Jaune's eyes narrowed, and after a moment of thought he grimaced. "You're negotiating with the White Fang?" he demanded sharply.
"Correction," the corner of Junior's mouth cocked into a half-smirk as he raised a finger in emphasis.
With this gesture, slats in the floor at Junior's feet opened, and two transparent walls shot up, meeting the ceiling with a dull thud and cutting him off from the rest of the room.
Jaune's hand shot up and seized the collar of his shirt to press it over his nose and mouth in anticipation of gas; but instead, the mirror lining one wall of the room suddenly turned transparent. An identical room was revealed on the other side, with an individual seated on the far side of an identical desk.
"We are negotiating with the White Fang," Junior finished with relish. The corner walls behind him had fallen away, revealing an alcove that encompassed the corners of both rooms, as well as another room beyond.
Jaune's eyes shot back to the previously-unseen observer, and he let out a low growl as his gaze met a masked visage topped with crimson hair.
"Evening, Jack," Adam Taurus greeted with a smirk as he saluted with a crystal tumbler of whiskey. "I must say, for all that you claim to dislike "doubletalk and lawyer-speak," you've become quite skilled at it since moving to the regular military."
"I have my mentor and partner to thank for that," Jaune replied through gritted teeth before whipping back to face Junior. "I can have you arrested as an accessory to terrorism just for allowing this man on the premises."
Adam tutted chidingly before finishing his glass. He set it on the desk in front of them and then took to his feet. "Threats are hardly an efficient route to successful negotiations; particularly with a man of Mister Xiong's standing and resources."
"Is that why you're here without a platoon of Zealots at your back and fire bombs planted in every room?" Jaune drawled with a roll of his eyes.
"My advisors have made it abundantly clear that it would behoove us to respect the local landscape, particularly where extralegal elements are concerned."
"Nice words to say that your own command has finally managed to collar you with the politics of the civilized world," Jaune smirked in genuine amusement. "Will wonders never cease?"
"I could say the same," Adam retorted easily as he stepped up to the glass separating them. "Then again, I would imagine that there's at least two teams of SWAT standing by somewhere on the block waiting for your signal. Probably wasn't difficult to talk them into throwing their lives away for you again after dropping my name, was it?"
"Gentlemen," Junior interjected firmly. "You may be enemies in your day jobs; but I would remind you that your purpose here tonight is to convince me, not to rehash your old vendettas."
"Well said," Adam acknowledged coolly. He pivoted slightly so that both Jaune and Junior were within his vision. "So, now that we're all properly seated at the table, I must ask: Is this a bidding war? Or do you have some illusion that you're mediating... Peace talks?"
Jaune snorted in disbelief, and Junior laughed loudly.
"I'm not conceited enough to fancy myself a peacemaker for a multi-generational foreign conflict that I barely understand," Junior acknowledged once he collected himself. "My intent here is more along the lines of... Setting boundaries. Guidelines, if you will."
"Rules of engagement," Jaune offered.
"Yes, thank you," Junior nodded, "Rules of engagement."
Two blocks away, in the back of a nondescript navy blue panel van, the leader of Fireteam Alpha, VPD SWAT Third Squad, glanced up from his Scroll tablet as the geek at the wall-length instrument panel swore venomously and tossed his headset aside.
"Problem?"
"Xiong's a right paranoid bastard, that's the problem," the tech groaned and raked a hand through his curly brown hair. "Spec's gone dark; Xiong just took him into a conference room that's either underground or has SCIF-level electronic isolation. No audio or location from the wallet bug."
The fireteam lead turned to his second, who nodded and drew a stopwatch from a pocket on his vest and started a preset thirty-minute timer.
"Notify Bravo and Second Squad that Spec's gone dark and the countdown has started. We wait thirty for a signal, then breach."
Inside two panel vans, three sedans, and an oversized SUV, scattered around a two-block-radius on all major avenues leading to the club, twenty veteran Vale Police SWAT operators checked weapons and equipment. They had all watched the surveillance feed as the piece of shit that had murdered their comrades was snuck in through the back door.
As they finished checking less-than-lethal and started loading carbines, shotguns, and submachine guns, every man was fantasizing about putting a bullet through each eye hole of Adam Taurus's stupid mask.
Adam allowed the silence to linger after Junior's statement. He hesitated long enough to give the impression of consideration; then he turned back to the desk in his room, pulled the bottle of whiskey and a small bucket of ice from a large refrigerated drawer, and circled around to the far side of the desk so that both men could watch as he casually poured himself a double of the high-dollar liquor. Adding a large ice cube to the glass, he set the bottle and the bucket aside on the desk, took a long, slow drink, and then set it aside as well.
"My soldiers already have uniforms," Adam finally stated as he leaned forward with his hands on the desk, "And we are fighting a war against enemies that are superior in most tangible respects. The asymmetrical nature of the conflict is the most significant edge that my forces possess. Knowing that, why would I agree to forfeit our greatest advantage?"
Beneath his mask, he watched in his periphery as Jaune visibly restrained himself from commenting. The Specialist instead looked to Xiong and awaited the self-styled mediator's response.
"You may have chosen Vale as your battlefield, Mister Taurus," Xiong replied slowly, "But having chosen it does not mean that you have the run of it.
"Given the setting, Mister Amsel is not the only party in the Kingdom with a dog in this fight. Thus far, the other factions in the city have exercised admirable restraint, even as they have suffered first- and second-order losses that you and yours have written off as "collateral damage." We have exercised such caution because for most of us, war is bad for business. However, you would be mistaken if you have been assuming that we are not prepared for it."
Xiong turned bodily towards Adam, his arms unfolding from his chest as he shifted to clasp his hands behind his back instead.
"The resistance that you have faced in Vale thus far is but a taste of even the legally sanctioned force that this Kingdom can bring to bear. And as for the... Extralegal element, as you so aptly referred to it... Well."
Xiong's impassive features broke as his eyes narrowed, and his lips parted in a wide, toothy grin. "We have not yet begun to fight. As such, it would behoove you to listen to our terms."
For an instant, Lieutenant Sayonov was interposed over Xiong's form. Adam took another drink to cover his unease until the illusion passed.
"... You make a compelling argument," he finally conceded. "Proceed."
"Thank you, Commander," Xiong acknowledged diplomatically. The gangster then turned until he was facing both men again.
"First, foremost, and non-negotiable, is a stop to all attacks or actions which target, or directly disregard the cost in lives of, civilians."
Adam rolled his eyes beneath his mask. Blake had already all but ordered the same thing, so it wasn't a big ask. "This is acceptable."
Xiong turned to look expectantly at Amsel, who stared back in confusion for a moment before visibly balking. "Obviously I agree," the Specialist retorted, aghast. "Who exactly do you take me for?"
"So that wasn't your bomb that almost killed Mister Taurus and definitely killed six of his men and wounded three, as well as killing or wounding twelve civilians in the adjacent buildings and rendering them structurally unsound?" Xiong rattled off impassively.
Amsel's face fell into a complicated frown for an instant before the man composed himself and blankly replied, "I'm not sure why you would think that was me, specifically."
"The walls in Vale have ears, Specialist," Xiong rumbled, "And I own plenty of those walls."
Adam felt himself smirk unconsciously as Amsel, wearing a deliberately nonplussed look, wordlessly gestured for Xiong to continue.
"Next, there will be no targeted destructive attacks against critical infrastructure or services - namely energy, potable water, and food production; commerce; or emergency services."
Adam had to resist the urge to rub a hand over his face as Xiong launched into specifics. 'You'd better be worth the money and the patience that I've spent on you, Black...'
"You're a stubborn one, old boy, I'll give you that," Mercury said conversationally as he stood back a few paces and watched a Red Axe gangster wipe blood and mucus from his leather gloves with a rag. "Ease up on the face, it's easy to stray too close to the skull or the temples and cause something permanent," the younger man cautioned the thug, who wordlessly craned his neck to look back and nod his understanding.
Setting the rag on a nearby crate, the thug launched a gut shot that he appeared to pull back at the last second, merely taking the wind out of their Zealot prisoner instead of sending his internal organs pinballing into one another.
Said Zealot - Snipe - released several hoarse, wheezing breaths as the thug backed off again. "Finally," the terrorist puffed as soon as he could form words, "A fucking professional. You lot of amateurs were starting to bore me."
"Ah, you've got to give them credit for enthusiasm," Mercury chuckled, pushing off of the crate that he was leaning against and arriving in front of the battered Zealot within as few steps. He squatted to avoid dirtying his suit in the pool of bodily fluids on the floor and looked Snipe in the eye - his one good eye, that is. The other appeared to have swollen shut some time ago, and appeared to even be crusting over with blood. "Vale doesn't make 'em quite like Atlas, after all, and that's not necessarily a bad thing,"
"Ya got me there," Snipe coughed around a grin. "Got a name, sweetheart?"
"Folks around here seem to have taken to 'Fresh Meat,' but I actually prefer Mister Black," Mercury replied with a wink, "Lends an air of mystery."
Snipe's one good eye widened imperceptibly as Mercury raised a hand to mime smoking a cigarette in front of a sly grin. The pair held their silence as the other two gangsters in the room both snickered quietly.
The incognito mercenary then hauled himself to his feet. "They brought me in because I have a special set of skills," the younger man continued, turning from Snipe and folding his hands behind his head as he sauntered away, "I'm told I have a gift for conversation. People seem to feel comfortable telling me things that they wouldn't talk about otherwise." After a few paces, he spun neatly on his heel to look at Snipe again. "Is there anything that you'd like to tell me that you haven't already shared with my friends here, Snipe?"
The Zealot loudly cleared his throat and spat a sickly-looking greenish-red glob onto the floor to one side. "Would be a pretty low bar, considering I haven't told these kiddies shit."
"I'm glad to hear that, Snipe," Mercury said pleasantly, earning confused looks from the Red Axe thugs. "It means that you and I can have a thoroughly enlightening discussion."
One hand, still held behind his head, reached into the back of his jacket and rested on a six-centimeter-long push dagger tucked into the designer label.
In the next instant, Mercury had taken a flying leap clear across the room. On the way past the "muscle," the dagger flicked out in his grasp and bit cleanly into one side of the man's throat, dragging and carving a clean line to the same point on the other side of his neck and severing the jugular vein and the larynx in the same stroke.
Before the first man's knees had hit the floor or his hands had reached his neck, the mercenary was already at the door guard. The end of the same motion that had severed his colleague's neck brought the second man's end as the dagger was used true to its name, and was thrust in directly below his Adam's apple at an upward angle, catching the larynx and jugular in quick succession.
Mercury drew the dagger out swiftly, and stepped back and to the side as a fountain of blood shot from the severed vein. His first victim collapsed to his knees, desperately clutching his throat, before falling forward onto his face and falling still within seconds as the pools of blood beneath his body spread with alarming and deadly speed.
The second man was caught mid-fall, and Mercury restrained him aloft for a few seconds as blood spurted from the vein unabated; unconsciousness came swiftly, and death only a few seconds later, before he set the cooling body down on its side to keep the residual fluids from staining the dead man's suit.
Once the audible gurgling and writhing had stopped, Snipe spoke up. "How did I get my name?" he demanded hoarsely.
"I was there when you got it," Mercury replied as he bent down to wipe the blood from his dagger on the back of the "muscle's" jacket. "Two years ago, at the training camp on the west bank of the Baikal. You were a designated marksman for the defending team, standing watch in a tower during a five-day field exercise where a platoon was supposed to assault or infiltrate an internment camp to rescue prisoners, sabotage infrastructure, or assassinate military personnel.
"On the third day, your craving got the better of you and you had a smoke at your post; a sniper lying doggo on the side of the wooded mountain twelve hundred meters away spotted your cherry and took the shot, and you were eliminated within ten seconds of lighting up. Ever since then, even after you qualified as a sniper yourself, your handle has been Snipe."
"Move past your mistakes, but never forget them," Snipe sighed, "They serve well as motivation for improvement. What were you doing out there?"
"Part of the assault force," Mercury grinned faintly in remembrance as he moved and started to cut away the ropes holding the Zealot to the chair. "I'd just arrived in-country and been picked up at the port by Adam for an attack on Camp 314; but the Lieutenant in charge said that he wouldn't have me until I'd at least taken part in an exercise alongside his troops. Got two hours' notice and was issued gear thirty minutes before go-time. I was the spotter for the shooter that got you, by the way. You were looking a little ruffled, probably from enjoying a little more than your share of the case of vodka that we slipped into camp to lower your guard."
"Alright, alright, I believe you," Snipe grumbled as he shakily raised himself out of the chair and stepped over the pile of fluids at his feet to rest against the nearby crate. "What's the plan?"
"Adam is somewhere else in the building distracting Xiong with negotiations for your release," Mercury explained as he moved to the corpse with the unsullied clothing and started to strip the iconic suit from it. "You're going to put on this suit, and we're going to walk out of here; if we get spotted, that'll give Adam a distraction to break out of his meeting and meet with us on the outside, compounding the chaos in the process."
"Simple, straightforward, and effective," the Zealot nodded approvingly, "I like it. And if we're not spotted?"
"You'll get clear and I'll duck back in and blow something up on my way out," Mercury replied with a dismissive wave. "I don't expect that we won't be spotted, though. All that I or Adam ask is that we try to keep casualties to a minimum; if we get out of here clean, we're basically straight with the Red Axe Gang and the Xiong Family. The last thing we want is to give them a reason to believe that the scales are still unbalanced."
"Copy that," Snipe grunted as he shakily bent down to rummage through the other dead man's suit for weapons. The Zealot came up with a pair of brass knuckles and an automatic knife, donning the former and setting the latter aside as Mercury tossed him the suit pants, jacket, and button-down shirt.
"Make sure that tie is snug, the front of the shirt's got a bit of blood on it," the mercenary warned.
"Yes, Dad," the Zealot drawled with a smirk.
"Shall we make our grand escape, then?"
"Let's; I'd say that I've had quite enough "hospitality" from the Xiong Family."
Just as the words left his Snipe's mouth, Mercury caught the sharp clack of dress shots on concrete outside; the mercenary motioned for silence and moved to the hinged side of the doorway and readied his push dagger. Snipe slipped around and concealed himself behind the crate that his tormentor had been perching on.
The footfalls stopped on the other side of the door and were followed by two sharp raps on the dense wood that echoed in the space. Mercury shuffled so that he was just clear of the door's swing and pressed against the wall.
After five seconds, the door slammed open, admitting the grizzled Giovanni with a large revolver at the ready. The man first sighted the corpses on the floor and snarled.
In that moment of distraction, Mercury was on him. A steel boot lashed out and met the old man's outstretched hand with the crack of a gunshot, shattering the grip of the revolver as well as the fingers that clenched it. Without a moment's pause, he closed the remaining distance, flinging one arm around the older man's throat and using the other to press the tip of the push dagger tightly against his spine at the base of his neck.
"Easy there Gio," Mercury said casually, "No need to get bent out of shape; my new friend and I just need you to walk us out to the loading dock."
"I knew you were a dirty little shit from the moment I smelled you," Giovanni half-growled and half-gurgled through the pain of his shattered hand. "I felt it in my gut the moment I laid eyes on you!"
"Too bad your gut didn't remind you to check your doors and corners," Mercury replied wryly. "C'mon buddy, my colleague here just volunteered to show us out."
"So much for quiet and smooth," Snipe grumbled as he trailed after the mercenary and his hostage.
"Shot fired!" the tech shouted excitedly, "Storage rooms off the loading dock!"
"Any signal from the Spec?"
"Negative, still nothing on scopes."
The stopwatch started going off a moment later.
"He'll know what to do when the shooting starts," the assistant team lead, a former VDF rifleman, stated confidently as he silenced and pocketed the watch. The team lead nodded in agreement.
"Tell Delta Two to cut the main circuit to the dance floor; that should get Xiong's men to start evacuating the civvies."
The tech nodded, only to stop and put a hand to his one earphone as a report came in. "Uh, sir? Delta Two is reporting that the power was just cut at the breaker inside and the staff are already showing people out."
Alpha Lead and Alpha Two exchanged looks. Xiong's men had the initiative and were preparing for a firefight.
Alpha Two threw the back doors open as Alpha Lead barked, "Order all units to go NOW!" Both operators leapt out of the van, slamming the doors behind them.
The tech left alone in the van flicked a switch on the comms panel.
"Control to all units: Blitzkrieg. I say again, Blitzkrieg."
End Chapter 19
Author's Note: Had this one on the burner for the last four or five months, and honestly just glad to finally wrap it up and be able to proceed. Been working through various motivational issues and other assorted obstacles, so this is a great weight off, especially since Part 2 is definitely going to be up to the gills with action and therefore much faster-paced. Going forward I've decided that I need to do a better job of setting objectives during the planning phase so that I can set clear tonal and thematic goals for myself and thereby make the process more palatable.
Part 2 is going to be a real Vacuan Standoff. Mercury had better keep his skullcap on; or else Combat Class with Jack on Monday is going to get real awkward, real fast.
Thanks for tuning in. Stay safe, stay frosty, and I'll catch y'all in the next one.
-Knightmare Frame Razgriz