07-05-2017, 07:53 AM
The waitress smiled as she set down the cup of espresson and the almond biscotti. "Here you are, sir." She said brightly, cheerful and relaxed. Charlie looked up at her and returned the smile, although on the man's scarred lips it looked more piscine. He reached for his wallet, but the girl waved him off. "No, no, please. On the house. We appreciate everything you've been doing, truly."
Charlie looked around and couldn't disagree. He was in a cafe that, only a few months ago, had been dilapidated and run down, barely operating. Now it was newly renovated and, if not bustling, now much more active than before. Young workers and citizens now frequented it. There were success stories like this all over Little New York, the sixty odd blocks the Gentleman Jacks now controlled.
Charlie nodded in acknowledgement, but still pulled out his wallet and tucked a few creds into the waitresses apron. "For you." He mumbled, before picking up the espresso cup and sipping. Harlan liked to do these "personal showings", joining a squad of the troops on a neighborhood patrol to show the colors. This one was closer to the edges of their territory, but it had been quiet. The Gentleman Jacks were becoming a known quantity on Tier 5.
They might have been involved in the typical gang line of work, less than legal, morally gray, but who could argue with the results? Safety without oppression? Charlie at least took solace in the fact that they were better than the Empire. The Jacks didn't care where you ate, where you shopped, who your friends were. All that they cared about was you not rockin' the boat and spoiling it for the rest of the territory. And that you paid your dues, of course. This -was- a community.
Charlie stood up, having finished his espresso and biscotti. He could spot the patrol he'd come with rounding the blocks, talking and joking with each other as the acting boss signalled them it was time to go.
Or...was it?
The hairs on the back of the old gangster's neck prickled with apprehension, and immediately set hin on edge. You didn't get to be an old hitman without developing an instinct for trouble, and that instincf was telling him shit was about to go down.
Just as he pushed his chair back from the table, he heard it. A low, throaty rumble, like a big smoke belching diesel engine.
And an Ork Trukk rounded the corner of 58th street.
"WARYORZ! WARYORZ!" One of them screamed, hurling a flaming bottle towards the cafe. With a practiced hand, Charlie drew his Browning Hi-Power from its shoulder holster and fired off foir shots. The bottle shattered in midair and erupted in a cloud of flame, saving the cafe from that particular danger. "Hit the deck!" The underboss screamed, kicking up a table for cover and letting shots go at the Ork vehicle.
Blue bursts of superheated plasma rained across the cafe storefront, the patrol of Jacks storming up the street and bringing a hail of lead with them from their tommy guns. Even the owner, a fat mustachioed Neptunian burst out of the door with two shotguns, one in each pair of hands. Screaming curses in his native language, he joined the pitched firefight as the Orks realized they wouldn't win this one.
They kept shooting, even as the growling vehicle careened down the street and turned off to get the fuck out of Dodge.
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, noting the fallen bodies of those that hadn't managed to get out of the way, plasma burns marking customers, staff, and a Jack or two. The owner laid down his guns and walked up to Charlie. "Thank you....you hadn't-a been here, could have been much worse. Even still....ahhh....it's a bad day. I thought things wrre getting better."
Charlie grimaced and put his gun away, staring at his casualties. A young man and a woman, both of them shot down next to each other, their hands still tight around their firearms.
"Yeah." Charlie spat. "It was getting better."
Charlie looked around and couldn't disagree. He was in a cafe that, only a few months ago, had been dilapidated and run down, barely operating. Now it was newly renovated and, if not bustling, now much more active than before. Young workers and citizens now frequented it. There were success stories like this all over Little New York, the sixty odd blocks the Gentleman Jacks now controlled.
Charlie nodded in acknowledgement, but still pulled out his wallet and tucked a few creds into the waitresses apron. "For you." He mumbled, before picking up the espresso cup and sipping. Harlan liked to do these "personal showings", joining a squad of the troops on a neighborhood patrol to show the colors. This one was closer to the edges of their territory, but it had been quiet. The Gentleman Jacks were becoming a known quantity on Tier 5.
They might have been involved in the typical gang line of work, less than legal, morally gray, but who could argue with the results? Safety without oppression? Charlie at least took solace in the fact that they were better than the Empire. The Jacks didn't care where you ate, where you shopped, who your friends were. All that they cared about was you not rockin' the boat and spoiling it for the rest of the territory. And that you paid your dues, of course. This -was- a community.
Charlie stood up, having finished his espresso and biscotti. He could spot the patrol he'd come with rounding the blocks, talking and joking with each other as the acting boss signalled them it was time to go.
Or...was it?
The hairs on the back of the old gangster's neck prickled with apprehension, and immediately set hin on edge. You didn't get to be an old hitman without developing an instinct for trouble, and that instincf was telling him shit was about to go down.
Just as he pushed his chair back from the table, he heard it. A low, throaty rumble, like a big smoke belching diesel engine.
And an Ork Trukk rounded the corner of 58th street.
"WARYORZ! WARYORZ!" One of them screamed, hurling a flaming bottle towards the cafe. With a practiced hand, Charlie drew his Browning Hi-Power from its shoulder holster and fired off foir shots. The bottle shattered in midair and erupted in a cloud of flame, saving the cafe from that particular danger. "Hit the deck!" The underboss screamed, kicking up a table for cover and letting shots go at the Ork vehicle.
Blue bursts of superheated plasma rained across the cafe storefront, the patrol of Jacks storming up the street and bringing a hail of lead with them from their tommy guns. Even the owner, a fat mustachioed Neptunian burst out of the door with two shotguns, one in each pair of hands. Screaming curses in his native language, he joined the pitched firefight as the Orks realized they wouldn't win this one.
They kept shooting, even as the growling vehicle careened down the street and turned off to get the fuck out of Dodge.
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, noting the fallen bodies of those that hadn't managed to get out of the way, plasma burns marking customers, staff, and a Jack or two. The owner laid down his guns and walked up to Charlie. "Thank you....you hadn't-a been here, could have been much worse. Even still....ahhh....it's a bad day. I thought things wrre getting better."
Charlie grimaced and put his gun away, staring at his casualties. A young man and a woman, both of them shot down next to each other, their hands still tight around their firearms.
"Yeah." Charlie spat. "It was getting better."
“I don’t wanna be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.”