A small and sumptuous bar opened at the start of the new Don's reign. Madeline's has since become a hub for freelance workers.
Madeline's is decorated in an unassuming but tasteful style that preserves the forlorn luxury of the slums. The bar itself is a long wooden hall, with a low ceiling and lacquered interior. Dim lights, pillowed lounge chairs, and soft jazz music give the bar an intimate atmosphere that separates it from the bustling Wall Market.
Madeline controls the bottles and taps at a classic ten-stool counter in the back, exchanging occasional banter with her patrons to keep them entertained, and an ensemble of sultry barmaids strut around serving her flavorsome wines and spirits.
An assortment of brochures and flyers dot the interior walls, varying from simple requests by townsfolk and business owners, to more portending calls to action from the local factions.
Come in, take a load off, then pick up a problem on your way out, as Madeline would put it.
"I'm expected," Dallas said at the door, walking into Madeline's without a pause. He couldn't show any hesitation, not here, not now. Someone had tried to blow him away, someone had bombed him using the Don's own purchase codes, and if it was the Don after all, if the Don had tried to scrub him off the face of the Planet, Dallas was walking into a lion's den right now.
If Dallas had learned anything from the Wutai War, it was that you couldn't flinch in the face of the enemy. Flinchers died real fast. And so he took his time as he entered, pausing at the bar to light a cigarette. He ordered a quick whiskey and flipped the jutebox to Midgar Blues.
Someone called, "Hey Dallas, oh boy! I heard you was dead. I heard you got bombed!"
"It'd take a megaton or more to kill me," Dallas replied before walking to to the VIP section, where the Don himself waited.
Bowing his head respectfully to Cactus Jack , Dallas took a seat.
"If you haven't heard yet," Dallas began, taking a deep pull of his cigarette. "I killed our bombmaker the other morning. On account of my unpaid hospital bills." He gestured to his bandaged face before taking a drink of his whiskey. "I've been uh, busy, tryin to find out just who did it," Dallas went on, "Just who bombed me. They used Manji codes to buy the bomb, which threw me for a loop. And I got to thinking -- if it was a friend of mine, if it wasn't a fink or a thief and instead a friend, well, misunderstandings happen between friends. Between colleagues, even. Between bosses and subordinates, sometimes. You're the boss, Cactus Jack. I've never doubted that. Not for a nanosecond."
Dallas had ice water for blood, but it was still a dumb idea to provoke or insinuate or disrespect the Don. Cactus Jack was the Planet, and Dallas was a mere moon. Perhaps the biggest moon, but a moon nonetheless.
[/b] Jack said calmly, sitting the papers on the table to take up a pen and carve an audible "X" over Marty's picture. "One that never missed a payment."
"And you're definitely not here to remind me that I'm the boss." Jack raised his head, finally, and locked eyes with his chief enforcer. "You're here because you think I tried to have you killed. Right, Dallas?"
Just then, the audible click of footsteps would emerge from behind Dallas. They belonged to Jack's personal escorts, Sheck and Tolliver, who now stood shoulder to shoulder, barricading Jack and Dallas from the rest of the bar.
"And just for.. curiosity's sake: if I did want you dead, what would you do, Dallas?"
Jack looked on with a steely eye; his voice, an ominous growl. It wasn't clear whether he was involved in the assassination attempt, or if his anger stemmed from Marty's death and the notion that Jack would betray him.
Dallas took a look down at the big X drawn through Marty and took a long drag of his cigarette. Since the Don was being so forward, he would too.
"If I really thought that, Don, if I was sure about that, if you ever really tried to kill me for some whacky reason -- you'd never seen me again. That's all." He didn't elaborate.
When the Don's ever-present shadows encircled Dallas, he smiled, looking up over his shoulder. "Ey, Raian," He said, slickly producing a Cactaur Bar from his coat pocket, wiggling the glossy green wrapper between his fingers. "Lookit what I found topside," He said, offering the candy bar to Tolliver, who had a sorta sweet tooth. If Tolliver wanted, he'd freely give it. If not, he'd leave it on the table. He knew eventually it'd get eaten.
While one hand was doing this, his other was slipped casually around the curved head of his electro cane.
Dallas blew smoke from his nostrils. "I'm gonna be honest. I'm a little upset." He said this evenly, "That's why Marty's dead. I'm a little upset that somebody tried to bomb me, and that means someone tried to bomb us. They tried to mess with Manji.'
He met Cactus Jack's gaze. "Someone tried to break your sword, Don. Who could it be? The Shin-Ra?"
Dallas had a long history with the company. He'd left the Turks on good terms, as good as you can anyway without being AWOL, but he had no love for it, no zeal. Dallas was on this Planet to live a life of high adventure, and Shin-Ra's little secret police was too by-the-book for his liking. In a strange way, the recent attempt on Dallas's life had given him some fresh zest, like a nice splash of water to the face in the morning.
So, he'd left on good terms. Cactus Jack on the other hand -- who knows what his dealings were with Shin-Ra? Past, present, future? The guy was a black box. Maybe he was even Turks himself. They didn't all know each other. There wasn't a Turks clubhouse that they all went to. The Investigation Sector was secretive by nature. The idea amused him.
Itching a fingertip along a bandage on his chin, Dallas went on. "There's no reason for the company to have a problem with me. But maybe the Manji are getting too big for their liking, huh?"
Of course, he hadn't been entirely honest with the Don. He still half-suspected it'd been Cactus Jack himself who planted the bomb. Who knew what went on in that black box head of his? Still, Dallas would find out for sure what happened, and then, one way or another, make his moves.
When Sheck and Tolliver appeared in the periphery, Jack lit a cigarette of his own. Tolliver, seeing the candy bar, tucked it away after looking to Jack, who gave him a nod.
Sheck, on the other hand, kept his eyes on Dallas, and rested a hand on his hip to flirt with the handle of his butterfly knife.
The tension between them was starting to swell, to the point that every gesture felt barbed and dissembling. Jack felt it was best to deescalate the situation before it got out of control and flashed a palm at Sheck, signalling him to stand down.
Then he relaxed, sinking back into the cushion of his seat while Dallas laid out his concerns. He wasn't wrong to speculate, or to want revenge. Jack had been in Dallas' shoes more times than he could remember, and had the scars to prove it. Being "Don" came with a target, and there was always someone ready to take a shot at him. Many had tried, all had failed, and somewhere down the line, Jack gained a reputation for paying his debts.
But there were rules of engagement to abide by; even for him.
"How 'bout we ask Marty?" Sheck quipped. Tolliver shushed him with an elbow to the side, but Jack's expression had already softened. He was looking at Dallas' bandages.
"They gotcha good." He wasn't the sentimental type, but he cared about the group more than he'd ever let on. A lot of them were guys and girls with problems; the kind of stuff proper society didn't want to deal with.
Dallas was Jack's Sword: more experienced than anyone in Manji, especially when it came to close encounters of the worst kind, but the attempt on his life was turning him into a loose cannon.
"Sheck's got a point though. Marty's the only lead we have, and now he's dead because.."
"Dally got upset." Sheck chimed in with a laugh, earning him another elbow to the ribs.
"It doesn't matter." Jack continued. "This ain't the first time someone's tried to get us out of the way." He pointed a thumb at his eye patch. "And it won't be the last. We could sit here and play who-done-it 'til the chocobos crow, but the enemy's made their move. Now we'll make ours."
"Go to Marty's and clear the space for a new tenet. We'll be liquidating his assets to make up for any losses this setback may cause. Sheck and Tolliver will keep you company." Jack gathered the documents on the table and left the three men together, looking over his shoulder one last time before he left the bar entirely.
"And look for anything that can shed some light on who's actually behind this attack."
Dallas ignored Sheck's little jokes about Marty. The Don's little knife-man thought he was a funny guy. If Dallas wanted to, he could break Sheck into five pieces before he knew what was happening.
"Sure," Dallas said, drinking down the last of his whiskey. He raised the empty glass in salute before standing and lighting a fresh cigarette. "I questioned him, and I can spot a lie a mile away -- I'm not slippin, Cactus Jack . But maybe he left something on his computer." He bowed his head to the Don of the Slums.
Dallas gave Sheck a flat, cold glance while turning to leave. "See ya there, Fulton," He said, blowing out a cloud of smoke through his nostrils. Sliding past Sheck, Dallas would walk straight out of Madeline's.
He was now convinced that the Don had nothing to do with it. If the Don had done it, he wouldn't have let Dallas walk out alive.
Back at Marty's, Dallas was the opposite of cool and collected. If Sheck and Tolliver came with, they'd see quite the scene. He turned the desk into a pile of shattered splinters with the blurring wails of his electro-cane. He kicked open file cabinets, tore open couch cushions. The place looked like a tornado, and Dallas was in a fuming rage.
"Not one clue, not one damn clue!"
He cloned the computer, but so far his sniffer bot had turned up nothing. And why should it? Marty was meticulous and loyal, he wouldn't have blinked twice at a blind-buy from the Don's own codes. That left other suspects... and as much as Dallas might like giving Sheck a good thrashing, he wasn't convinced either of the Don's lackeys had the brains or the merits to try to bump him.
He was back at square one. Closing his eyes, he went over the bare facts. Someone wanted him dead. If it wasn't the Don... it couldn't be anyone else in the Slums. That left topsiders. That left Shin-Ra. The Don had been mum on his thoughts in that regard.
%#@$ing Shin-Ra.
Maybe it was time to pay his old colleagues a visit...
Post by Sergeant Oswald on Jun 2, 2020 3:30:16 GMT
What am I doing in a place like this? Oswald thought to himself as he entered Madeline's out of uniform. He had wavy flaxen blonde hair and piercing amber eyes that scanned the bar and the mercenaries drinking at nearby tables. He was wearing a black leather jacket and had his hands tucked in the pockets.
Oz couldn’t remember the last time he had taken time off. He had accrued so much leave that he was being forced to take a week off of work. He really didn’t like it and didn’t know what to do with himself. So like he was a young private again he had decided to hit up a bar. Ever frugal, he never drank topside, where the drinks were always at a considerable markup.
He was carrying a pistol on him, holstered inside of his jacket to keep it concealed. He approached the bar and ignored the looks of the other patrons.
“I’ll take a draft of whatever is cheap,” Oswald told one of the ladies behind the bar. He had no idea where he had just walked into. His thoughts were on lost comrades.
Even in cities like Midgar, where the divide between the haves and have-nots is pronounced to almost impossible extremes, there are still places where the classes will mingle; certain lines they must travel along. The most profitable of these, of course, is vice – red light districts and black markets and back alley deals. And there are always certain fixtures in these places – some are obvious, like the loud street vendors, show hawkers, and tourist traps. Others less so, despite their universality. Rainer is one of them. In the seedier parts of every city there are always men like him in bars like Madeline's.
He has a disarming, easygoing smile (you'd never guess a compact submachine gun lurked under that jacket), a glint of mischief in his eye, and a pretty nice suit for some of the shithole slum dives he can be found in some other nights. People of almost every class and profession have casually, amicably called him ‘Ray’ – the homeless, the affluent executives flush with recent dividends, tired salarymen, artists, teamsters, the rock and roller mercenaries with a foot in their graves, most criminals, and the hopeful revolutionaries and the enforcers they fight. The keenest observers among them would think that he was a decent sort of bloke, but for the right price he just might sell you his mother.
Rainer attracts such diverse clientele by virtue of being the fellow the bartender motions to when you discretely ask for someone who can provide certain services or knowledge. If you move to a more private place, then for a fee he can give information like reactor security patrol routes, manpower, and timetables, or just what Public Security has recently confiscated that could vanish from the manifest, or how certain goods – say, a crate of plastic explosives – have gone missing. Services like providing just such a crate, or smuggling a person or thing into a restricted area, or most any number of activities. He is efficient, fast, and low-profile – but perhaps most importantly, he won’t ask why you want it done, because under almost no circumstances will he give a good goddamn about your motivation. The only important thing to him is making sure that when it's done there are absolutely no tracks connecting him to whatever harebrained scheme you’ve concocted.
He liked the décor, but Madeline’s was a small bar, and one he visited irregularly. This combined with its heavy Manji presence (he got in without any trouble, but it was hard to say whether they would provide an obstacle - and whether it would just be competition or something greater) was, perhaps, not so good for business. It was still early, though, and the night could always – and often did – surprise. Ray took in his surroundings as he took a swallow of vodka.
Lots of mercenaries, a common sight, and a lot of this lot had the boisterous energy of rookies. The city slums were a magnet for them, and by Rainer’s figuring many of these guys would not be long in this field of work. If the monsters they hunted or the coliseum didn’t eat them alive, then the city itself certainly would. Maybe if the Manji fellows really didn’t want him around (and were particularly sadistic) they’d nudge these new guys in his direction.
There was a standout. Ray noted Sergeant Oswald . His posture and the way he carried himself had none of the piss and vinegar you found in the new mercs and the Wall Market thugs. Probably Public Security or he’d used to be. Perhaps they had been on an operation or two together. If so, Ray didn’t remember. After so long in Public Security, most of his colleagues blended together and he wouldn’t recognize them outside of work or uniform. It was clock-in, get the job done, don’t die, clock-out for Ray. No, not a common bar for grunts. But Rainer wasn’t a typical grunt – perhaps this man wasn’t either. Maybe this was his first customer. In any event, if there were to be no clients here, he could still get a few drinks and there were plenty of other places to go, so no harm done.
Post by Sergeant Oswald on Jun 24, 2020 5:38:23 GMT
The bartender returned with Oswald’s drink, and he reached out to grab it only to find it intercepted by a towering pale skinned man in a faded black pinstripe suit and a bald head. Oswald looked up with a frown as the man started chugging his beer.
“Ahh-” the gangster sighed as he wiped foam from his lips. He grinned at the scowling Oswald. “You got a problem stud?” the man asked him before turning the remainder of the glass over and pouring it onto Oswald’s hair. “We don’t like your kind around here!”
Oswald stood up and bowed his chest out towards the man with a growl as alcohol dripped down his face. The two were locked in a stare and it looked like a fight would break out at any moment.
Quietly, Rainer watched the altercation unfold. This was the problem with places like Wall Market. If you gave people a little more power and autonomy than everyone else then some idiots would think they’d earned it or were equal players. Shin-Ra had a hands-off approach with Wall Market because places like this were useful to the company; questionably legal methods were of just as much use to people in high places as low. He was no proud employee of the company, but sometimes people like this evolutionary throwback needed to be reminded that they could be crushed with contemptible ease, because guys like this brought the wrong kind of attention. Attacking someone because they were in Shin-Ra (if this guy was and didn’t just look the part) would bring all sorts of heat down on this place, and nobody with any neurons wanted that. Public Security would be all over this place in the morning and business all over the Market could take a hit.
Rainer drew attention to himself by clearing his throat. He hadn’t bothered to stand up. ”You don’t look like a Madeline to me, chum. I’m not sure you’re speaking for the establishment.”
If the worst thing that happened was a fight, it would be better to be over a few smartass lines than Shin-Ra.