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I took a break from the Guild for 6 years. I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it, and what's it seems weird and scary to me.

It'll happen to you.

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Afterlife, Omega — present day

“What does one call this game, again?” said the quarian, regarding the two paper cards grasped in his three digits. He struggled to be heard over the pumping electronic music on the other side of the wall invading his ear-canals. He found it difficult to think in a place like this.
“Poker… well, this is Texas Hold ‘Em” replied the man sitting next to him; a slim, blonde-haired human, gently swaying in his chair. His third glass of Akantha sat untouched in front of him, the condensation gently dripping down its outside.
The only Texas Vaan’Hadaal knew of was an Alliance frigate; he was fairly sure it had been present in the battle against Sovereign, though he was halfway through his second glass of turian brandy, and so he couldn’t vouch for his own memory.
“Why would a game involving cards be named after an Alliance vessel?” The human to his left dropped his hand onto the table, peering over at the quarian in disbelief.
“No, Texas… it’s a place, it’s on Earth.” he said incredulously.
“I see.” came the curt reply. Vaan was struggling to understand the mechanics of this game. He had gleaned that the main objective was to lie as well as one could, and that for some reason the cards with crude pictures of human men and women on were the most valuable, though strangely a card with one pictogram on it was more valuable than the one with ten on it. He couldn’t understand why.
“Hmm. I have played this game for nearly thirty minutes and yet I have still not discovered why one calls it ‘Poker’. There does not appear to be any ‘poking’ involved.” across from him, a hefty krogan laughed into a glass of ryncol. The man to his left did not join him.
“Will you just bet already?” he shot, irritatedly.
Vaan carefully placed a plastic coin into the centre of the table.
“No, you idiot! You have to match his bet!” the human gestured wildly to the turian to Vaan’s right.
“Let him be, Harold. You invited him to play.” the turian responded. “You humans are always in such a rush.” the human fell silent. The turian regarded Vaan for a moment.
“Here, you just need to put two more of those red ones in.” he pushed two chips from Vaan’s pile into the middle.
“Are we all done?” he addressed the table. No one said anything for a few seconds. “Very well.” he said, and laid his two cards down. “Two pairs, aces over sixes.” The krogan threw his cards down with a small grunt of frustration and emptied his glass. Vaan followed suit, laying his cards down.
“I have a lady, and a two.” he said calmly. “I have less pairs than Paius, so I suppose he wins?”
“No, you’ve got…” with an annoyed grunt, Harold jabbed his finger at the five other cards in the middle. “Look, you’ve got a flush!” Vaan regarded the seemingly random selection of cards on the table. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at, and he didn’t get much of a chance to make any sense of it as they were quickly gathered and the chips pushed towards him.
Paius, the turian stood.
“Well, thank you gentlemen but I think my luck has run out for tonight.” he looked down at Vaan. “Are you continuing or would care to join me?” Paius had been something of a contact of Vaan’s on Omega since he returned. Vaan suspected he had some involvement with the Blue Suns, but Paius kept his mouth shut about any such dealings. Vaan raised himself from the table and followed, collecting his winnings from the batarian at a smaller table just off to the side.

Afterlife was abuzz. It wasn’t normally the kind of place that Vaan’Hadaal tended to frequent, even in his younger days, but Paius had wanted to, to ‘celebrate’ Vaan leaving the station.
“Tell me more about this asari you’re serving under, Vaan.” Paius said, shooting Vaan a smile and a sideways look.
“Your tone suggests you would like to know about more than just her credentials.” Paius laughed. Vaan did not. “I haven’t met her yet, but from the dossier I pulled up she seems a formidable Captain.”
Paius held up both of his fingers to the bartender, who swiftly placed down two glasses of turian brandy, along with an emergency induction port.
“I’ve been on ships with plenty of formidable captains, what makes this one so special?” Vaan didn’t have a good answer to that question. The truth was, he was afraid to stay on Omega for too long. He didn’t know if the Talons would still hold a grudge, or if his former captors on Illium were on his tail, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. On Omega, your life was in your own hands —or the hands of those who you could pay enough to keep it safe— there was no C-Sec to maintain order, no Admiralty to keep you safe, and he was no fighter; if someone arrived looking for retribution, he was in no position to deny them. Vaan couldn’t articulate that feeling to Paius, especially if his suspicions were true, and Paius had links to organised crime on Omega, so he was left to meekly reply:
“I don’t know. I suppose I just have a good feeling about her.”


On board the Marduk, the outskirts of the Sahrabarik system — some time ago

Gunshots. That was what woke him. The ship had been quiet for days, even with the lumbering Elcor moving around. The cold darkness of the small cargo pushed in on him, suffocating him even more than the toxic air that wormed its way through his respiratory system. He struggled to breathe, or even to sit upright. The bloodthirsty mercenaries had stripped him of his life force, pulling him indelicately out of his enviro-suit, knowing full well what the experience would do to him. It was punishment. His work had been paid for by the Talons, and they wanted their cut. Fortunately for him, he had managed to secrete it on his person, although he didn’t know what good it would do him now.

Every time his eyes closed for the respite of sleep, he thought, even hoped, that it might be the last time. Every cell in his body was crying out to him in agony. His lungs burned, his skin blistered and blackened. If he wanted to call out for help, he couldn’t; his oesophagus was so swollen that he could barely make a sound.
Now, at last, something interrupted his quiet shamble to the grave. More than just gunshots; raised voices and stomping footsteps. He wondered perhaps if the Elcor had managed to re-arm themselves and take back control of the ship. Unlikely.

He passed out.

He was awoken by the sound of the door mechanism sliding open, and a hard boot to the stomach.
“Quarian. Wake up.” came the voice, calm, but with a layer of threatening menace. He opened his eyes. A turian. He recognised him, barely. He wore a simple set of armour, emblazoned with the red logo of the Talons, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him, two batarians, similarly armed. Vaan’s hands went instinctively to the sight of the pain. He would bruise badly.
“I’m awake,” he said quietly.
“Good.” came the curt reply. “Listen. I’ve taken command of this ship.” the turian crouched down beside him. “Could I take a look at your research?” the turian phrased it like a request, but Vaan knew it was a command, and he understood the veiled threat beneath it.
His hand reached behind his back, and pulled the dataclip from its hiding place, before he threw it onto the ground at the turian’s feet. Even that movement took almost all of his strength.
The turian smiled, or at least the closest approximation the turian anatomy could muster.
“Get him back in his suit.” he said, with a commanding finality, before picking up the dataclip and leaving the room.

The two batarians were rough with him, contorting his battered frame this way and that, feeding every appendage into every slot with the grace that he had come to expect from batarians. It bruised him further, and the two mercenaries took a while to figure out where everything was supposed to go, but eventually, mercifully, his air filter re-engaged and his breaths began to feel less like burning sulphur and more how they had used to. Even so, he didn’t have the strength to sit upright. It would be a week before he could walk, but he wasn’t going to die.
Probably.


The streets were littered with drunks and wretches. Omega really was a hellhole. He had come to realise that in the two months he had been back. The wonder he had felt when he was young had fallen away and been replaced by something bordering on disgust. In truth, he would be happy to be off this station, at least until its lawless allure called him back. The draw of Omega was freedom. It was why so many scientists, mercenaries, engineers and people from every background flocked here.
But when the mission was over, where then? Back to the Migrant Fleet, where his existence mattered not one iota? The Citadel, where every ambassador’s desk was scrubbed of any personality? He supposed that decision didn’t have to be made yet. He hadn’t been given a precise end date for the expedition, probably because Captain Kesir didn’t know herself. It mattered not.

Paius was an odd turian. Usually, they said only what they had to, yet Paius was clearly the exception, droning on and on, very rarely needing a response.
“...are you even listening to me?” Paius had stopped some ten feet back. Vaan hadn’t even noticed. Maybe it was the brandy. He turned back to his turian counterpart.
“No.” came the brusque reply.
“You’re a charmer.” they had been making their way to the spaceport, to board the Caelestis, but Vaan suspected Paius had taken him via the scenic route.
“Why have we come this way?” he asked.
“Well, I thought you might just want to see some of Omega’s sights for the last time before you set off.”
“We’ve been to Afterlife. Where else did you want to go, the eezo processing plant?” came Vaan’s drole reply. Paius laughed boisterously. Vaan did not. There was a brief silence between the two.
“...Fine. Come on then.” the turian said as he stomped past Vaan.

The Caelestis looked to be a well-built ship, salarian by design, meaning its interior would no doubt be immaculately built, and crushingly functional. Vaan thrived on ships that were a little older, a little dirtier and a little less well put together. The Migrant Fleet should have been the perfect place for him, by that logic; half the ships in the flotilla were held together by suspect welding and omni-gel adhesive. They juddered through space, threatening to lose integrity and jettison their crew out into the icy death of space. There looked to be no fear of that on board the Caelestis. He could hear voices emanating out from inside already, no doubt some of the crew had already embarked. He turned to Paius, also admiring the craftsmanship.
“I suppose I’d better get on.”
“You sure?” Paius said, keeping his gaze fixed on the ship. “Looks like it might fall apart at any moment.” he smiled again, and chuckled to himself. He turned to Vaan. “You think they’ve got room for another old hand?”
“You should have responded to the advertisement.” Vaan said tersely. Paius laughed again.
“Ha… no, I still have things to attend to here. She looks a good vessel though, you could do worse.”
“Much worse.” Vaan replied. The two shared a moment of content quiet.

“Well, farewell, friend. Safe travels.” the turian said quietly.
“And to you.”
Paius took another moment to regard the ship, before turning on his heel and walking back into the steely streets of Omega, leaving Vaan’Hadaal alone.
Vaan too, waited for a moment, letting Paius get out of sight before taking his first steps up the gangplank.
Above him splinters fell and blood trickled through gaps in the wood. The Kyselica hadn’t been built for this kind of carnage. For months he had been trying to salvage something of this situation, but little inspiration had come. He had been, for the first time, thankful the Inquisitors were on board: the presence of Varya’s clenched fist instilled the men and women under his command with a sense of righteous zeal. The wind didn’t cut as deep, the clouded darkness didn’t seem so oppressive. Not only that, but had the Inquisitors not been on the ark when the fury from the ice fell upon them, it would have been a massacre the like of which was only recorded in song. Instead, here he was, working frantically to do three months work in a matter of minutes. Gone were his team of engineers, either cowering on the lower decks, or dead on the top. The damage from the collision had been catastrophic. It would have sunk a lesser ship, but his Kyselica, a vessel he had come to grow very fond of, stayed afloat, crippled and lame, a home for some, and a tomb for many.

“Captain! They’re breaking through!” came the call from behind him. The group had barred the doors down to the maintenance hold after them. They needed every second; he was sure it had cost the lives of a dozen men, but the sacrifice had to be made. He would mourn each man, as he mourned the Kyselica, but the time for sadness would come later. Their death was nigh if they failed here. Without looking back he called:
“Then arm yourself and prepare to meet thy god, Isidor!” he turned to the man to his right, also working on the husk of the ether cannon, and with a steely look, said:
“Work fast, Vadim, unless you want my mangled corpse to be the last thing you remember.”
He picked up the weapon leaning against the wall and gripped it tightly. The gunlance was a brutal, yet elegant weapon, and it looked ungainly in his hand, and to say he had mastered it would be a grave falsehood, but once you had served for long enough, you learned the basic rule that covered all weapons: ‘stick ‘em with the hot end’. He pulled a shortened shotgun out of its holster on his left side and advanced to the door.

The wood buckled quickly. The living wall of ice on the other side wanted his blood, but he would not give it willingly.
“Soldier,” he barked at the private as he strode into rank beside him. “It’s just you, me, and them. Aim true.”
As the glacial beast broke through, its head and shoulders came into view first. Fyodor pulled the trigger of his shotgun and the world went quiet. The splintering wood struck him about the head and chest and he fired again, blindly. As the muzzle flare abated, his vision was filled with the icy figure, ghostly white except for two large dark spots where the buckshot had struck. He felt the ground fall away from him as the icekin struck him, and then meet him again sharply as he fell flat, about eight feet from where he had originally stood. Instinctively, he brandished the blade of the gunlance in front of him, and felt it connect. It squeaked and scraped against the monster’s icy flesh. He pulled the trigger, and a crackle of ether engulfed the creature, blowing its torso into pieces. Still deafened, and reeling from the impact, he stumbled to regain his footing, surveying the scene for anything else that wanted to meet its maker today. To his right, the young private, Isidor, at the end of an icy spear, blood drenching him, and the tall figure of his killer.
He may have let out a bestial war-cry as he charged toward the second icekin, he wasn’t sure of himself in the moment. Impaling the creature through the side, he fired with both weapons, blowing the brute off its feet and into the wooden wall behind it. He took a moment to regard the young man, who’s blood formed a river at his feet, and remember his name. Isidor. He would need to write to the boy’s family; he would need to write more letters than ever before.


Lanostre - The Southern Warfront — 205AV

All around him his men fell, their blood painting a crimson canvas on the pale ground. Before him, the whirling figure of the Lanostran Inquisitor spiralled around what was now a brutal battlefield. They made war look like a beautiful dance, even in the face of the monstrosities that had climbed from the ice. Moments before, they had been enemies, but now the colours they wore meant nothing, Varyan and Lanostran fought together against their frigid grave.
The enemy were countless, a wall of unfeeling hate descending upon them as they fought for their lives.
A sharp shot of pain hit him from the side, and he was on his back, slavering jaws doing everything they could to end him. It must only have been an instant that he wrestled with the glassy-eyed beast, but when one’s life is in one’s hands, time seems to slow down. A blast of ether washed over him, burning across his face. His eye went dark, and he felt the warmth of his own blood run into his nose and mouth, but the fiend on top of him was washed away by the brunt of the blast. He coughed and choked, before he was pulled to his feet. The face of the Lanostran Inquisitor was at last visible to him. A woman. From afar, beneath the helmet and the intricate plate, he couldn’t tell, but now there was no mistaking it. In any other situation, he would have noticed her beauty, but now as she held his life in her hands, he couldn’t even begin to think about such things.
“If anyone is killing you today, it’s me.” she said sharply. In her other hand, she had his rifle, and she pushed it into his hands, and he fought the urge to wince as the wood and metal jutted into his now broken ribs. “Now fight.”


A hand on his shoulder roused him from his momentary lapse. He turned to see Vadim, mouth flapping wide, fire in his eyes. The ringing in his ears had not let up yet, if Vadim was saying something, he didn’t know what. The world around him was in slow-motion at the moment. Vadim threw a hand out towards the ether cannon that stuck out through the floor and onto the main deck. It was whirring, gears turning for the first time in months, a gentle glow of ether emanating from the engine powering it. Fyodor’s eyes grew wide, not in panic, but in glorious anticipation. He patted the engineer on the shoulder and ran to the steps up to the main deck.

All at once, his hearing returned, and above deck the din of battle was all too loud. Fierce struggles raged all around him. Inquisitors dove and tumbled, ether coursing through the air in their wake, and the crackle of rifles and shotguns filled his ears. The icekins’ roars completed the chaotic symphony. The battle, miraculously it seemed, was going well —or as well as it could— for the most part. He made out a few Inquisitors, cutting bloody swathes through the monstrous glacier-spawn.
As a soldier ran past him, rifle in hand, Fyodor caught him by the arm. The soldier, wide-eyed and pale-faced, regarded him for a moment, before remembering himself.
“Captain?”
“Aye, get your wits together man!” Fyodor barked. “That cannon!” He said, gesturing with the gunlance. “Aim it at something!” and he threw the soldier in its direction, following after him.
“But Sir, the cannons are out of action…” the soldier called over the din.
“By Varya, soldier, do as I command and aim the fucking thing!
“At what?” Fyodor looked around him. Lighting up the sky, a monstrous, flying, glassy terror, hurtling towards the earth. In its talons, he could just make out a figure clutched in the icy grip, cape billowing as they plummeted with their windborne foe. It must have been an Inquisitor, it wouldn’t have targeted a regular soldier. These creatures were slavering, monstrous beasts, but they weren’t without strategy. Fyodor pointed the gunlance skyward, at the murderous dance happening above them.
“That!” he cried. Together, he and the soldier manoeuvred the hulking cannon into position. This was a job for four men, but the pair was all that could be mustered. Fyodor leaned a shoulder into the warm metalwork and shoved all his weight into it, and with a satisfying grinding of metal against metal, the cannon lurched around. With his one good eye, he peered through the eyeglass.
“Steady soldier, keep it on him.” it must have been only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity that they trained the cannon on the flying aberration, waiting until it held a steady course.

“Fire.” he said. It was quiet, but the authority of the command carried it over the drone of the battle. The soldier wrenched back the metal lever and the ground shook around them. The ringing in his ears returned. It was luck, really, that fired the cannon. They hadn’t been inspected since the crash; the shells had remained loaded and dormant, and the cold had wormed its way into the barrels, but the power of these weapons was undeniable. If there had been three yards of ice plugging the barrel, it would have been fired out along the ether-powered shell. The moment hung for a second, as the two soldiers peered out towards their target, not knowing whether or not the shell had been fired true until the last moment.
The aberration lit up with white light, as the ether-powered shell connected squarely into the creatures underside. It careened away towards the glacier, as now the Inquisitor that had been gripped in its talons started to fall straight down. Fyodor only hoped that he hit water; there would be no saving the boy if he was dashed against the ice or the hull of a ship. The freezing water would be difficult to survive, but possible at least.
“Get another shell in there! This isn’t over!” he called to the soldier, as he took a few quick steps towards the bow of the ark. The battle still raged, but they had struck a crucial blow to their enemy.
He had fought enemies like this before, probably more than any man in the SA, but these creatures were different. These huge, hulking leviathans carrying even more wicked-looking weapons were a far cry from the almost vestigial creatures he had fought during the war, but they numbered just as many. If these were the same beasts he had fought in Lanostre, then they were evolving, learning, somehow.


Annexed Lanostre - near the Black Glacier — some years ago

”Your Reverence, please. I know what lurks beneath the Black Glacier, if something were to be awakened, my men…”
“Your men can serve Varya in death as well, Captain, as can you.” the look in the old Inquisitor's eyes was one of dark madness as the threat was shot across the room. Father Konstantin was beyond saving. Fyodor knew this would end one of two ways, with the old Inquisitor’s death, or with his. His fingers gripped the holster of his pistol, and the Inquisitor’s eyes darted to his hip, and then back up to meet his gaze.
“Do it, Captain. See what hell you unleash upon yourself.” Konstantin warned, his own hand reaching down to the hilt of his sword. Fyodor did nothing. His hand fell to his side and he took a step back. The Inquisitor did not break his gaze, and his grip lingered at his hip for a few seconds, before he turned back to his work. Fyodor’s mouth was dry. How many shots could he get off before the Inquisitor was on him? Two? Three? He had seen their kind survive worse than a bullet in the back. This wasn’t the way. He turned on his heel and left the room. It was a few minutes before he emerged from the connecting corridor, his young Sergeant waiting for him.
“Sir?” the pause lingered in the air.
“Be watchful, Andrei, this isn’t over.” he didn’t stop or regard the soldier in any other way. When he needed to stress the seriousness of a situation, he remained quiet. The soldiers in his command had learned to read the grizzled veteran’s mood.
By Varya, the men! They would all die if he didn’t act. He couldn’t bury any more. He had written so many letters, knowing that his words would cut like a knife into the heart of any mother who looked upon them.
He would write one more letter. If help didn’t come, then he would die here with his men, and his letter-writing days would be over. He swore it to himself. Before he knew it, he was alone at his bureau, a pen held shakily in his hands as he stared into the blank parchment. He steeled himself for a moment before touching the point to the paper.
“To His Grand Reverence, Father Creid, I beseech you in my hour of need…”


The sound of the limp body hitting the water cut through the sounds of battle. From the height the young Inquisitor had fallen, the surface was like steel. Still, Inquisitors were hardier by far than your average soldier. Even so, the frigid water would steal the life from him if he were left in there long enough. He wouldn’t leave a man or woman under his command to die, no matter what his thoughts about the Seminary. He laughed under his breath. Under his command? The Inquisitors outranked him in almost every way, and yet he still couldn’t think of them as his superiors. Perhaps it was their age. He had seen so many fresh-faced men and women come through the ranks of the Imperial Secular Army, that any time he saw a new Inquisitor, with nary a scar on them, he couldn’t help but think of them as anything but children, and yet he had to call them Father?
He looked to his right, then to his left. There were no men left at his disposal. Every soldier was either locked in a deathly battle with the enemy, or they were already dead. It was down to him then.
From the bow of the ark, he took hold of a length of chain, wound around a spool, and with everything he could, hurled it into the water, as close to the submerged body as he could.
Now, he could only hope the young man would have enough strength to save himself before the glacial water squeezed the last drops of life from him.
Alright, here we go. Hope it's alright.



With permission and a great deal of collaboration from @Lovejoy and @CollectorOfMyst.


Thankful to be a part of this great RP again!
The two cast a long shadow across the table. He didn’t need to look up to know who had joined him. He could feel the stiffness in the bar, hear the hush settle over the place when the doors had swung open. Some people didn’t dare to even speak the name Negan Grange. The police drew straws to see who would have to take the call to head into the marshy backwaters that the family called home.

A smarter man would have kept Grange at arm’s reach, but Waylon had had dealings with the family since they had arrived. Grange put a bullet in the old pastor’s back when he had threatened Waylon’s freedom, and in exchange, Waylon looked after their needs should any ever arise. Of all the bodies secreted in the graveyard, almost half could be tied back to Negan somehow.
Both men had served time, but where Waylon had become a skeptic of the US’s involvement overseas, Grange had thrived, going to war three times over, though Waylon suspected it was not by choice.

Waylon looked up from his drink and eyed the two young men. Behind them he spied Ja-Ki, or “Jackie” in his South Tennessee drawl, nothing like her two brothers in terms of looks. He was surprised not to see the youngest, Kimber. The four of them rolled in a pack usually, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary to see the two boys causing a ruckus in town, or even on the pews in Calvary Hill on a Sunday. You never knew what was going to happen when the Grange boys walked into a watering hole, but it seemed that Hawkins’ Spirits was an exception. Everyone paid their dues to Amelia Hawkins, even Old Man Grange.

“Boys” he greeted them quietly, packing more tobacco into his pipe. ”You need somethin’? I’m here on business, tonight.” The two would pester him whenever they had the chance. Waylon didn’t mind, it was nice not to have to talk shop all the time, and Maverick and Alejandro reminded him of his own boys, in a way, and they were similar in age. Waylon Jr. may have had a few years on Maverick, but he wasn’t sure. The Granges were notoriously secretive of those sorts of details. In fact, Negan had told Waylon he had served in the Second World War, but Myers was sure he couldn’t be old enough. It just added to the mystery surrounding them.

He was lucky to be a friend to the Grange family, especially now. If things were going to go south with the outfit from Chicago, and Waylon suspected they might —he couldn’t imagine Rawlins or Harlow, or even Mrs. Hawkins, bowing to the same demands they had made of him— then the kind of family who fired first and asked questions later, might be a valuable commodity.
He needed to speak to Mrs. Hawkins first, to get a good grip on what her plans were. The Liquor Queen had never taken an order in her life. Hell, she was the Liquor Queen for a reason. The Liquor Princess didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

She was conspicuously absent. Mrs. Hawkins was normally around at this time of evening, tossing out barflies personally. She was a strong woman, and Waylon admired that. O’Connor County wasn’t an easy place to be a woman, even less a widow, and Amelia Hawkins had carved out a piece of it tooth and nail that was all her own. A few years ago Waylon had considered trying to make her the second Mrs. Myers, but his business got in the way, as it always did. When you’re burying ‘shine for your business associate, it was straightforward. When it was your wife, it became a lot more complicated, or so he assumed.

Waylon was a little anxious. He lazily lit a match and re-lit his pipe. He needed answers, and Mrs. Hawkins was the only one who could give them to him.
I'd be super interested in something like this. Would there be restrictions on races?
The engine of the ‘58 Ford rumbled underneath him. Hawkins’ Spirits was busy at this time of day, work was letting out, the men folk needed a taste of amber before they headed home to their wives. He had never developed a taste for it; being in the speakeasy for so long he had seen no end of men make fools of themselves when they’d had one too many jars. He had had every intention of storming in and demanding an explanation for his recent visit, but this was Amelia Hawkins, the Liquor Queen of O’Connor County, it wasn’t that easy. One word out of line and she could have Dawkins on his doorstep before the day was out, or worse, the Jaggers could come calling. Waylon knew his way around firearms well enough, and sure, he might be able to cap a couple of them before they filled him with lead, but then the boys would be coming home to the same thing he had when he returned from Okinawa. Still, twenty percent to the Chicago outfit, ten to the Sheriff's Office, as well as what he was already paying her? And then what happened when Chicago came calling for twenty-five percent? Thirty? Maybe this wasn’t the right way to go about it. Maybe he needed to pull in some more business from other places; Rawlins or Harlow or one of the other crooks around town?

Another fifteen minutes passed, Waylon not moving, before he put the truck back into drive and pulled away. Aunt Addie’s tenement was not far, he only had to drive a block or two before he pulled up in front of the dilapidated building.

Addie left the front door unlocked. She always had. In the Depression, people didn’t have anything worth taking, he supposed.
“Addie?” he called as he entered the cramped apartment.
“Through here.” came a weak reply. Addie was sitting as she often was in front of the television set. “Have you heard?” she asked, continuing before Waylon could reply “This McGovern is going to be running.” Waylon wordlessly filled a coffee pot and set in on the burner. “Too many damn democrats running the country these days.” she declared.
“Bill Waller’s a democrat, you like him.” said Waylon. He’d had this conversation more times than he cared to count.
“Bill Waller’s a nice man, Waylon. A lawyer. You could have been a lawyer, you were such a smart boy.”
“But instead I turned into a criminal?” he replied, smiling wryly.
“Well of course that’s not what I meant, Waylon. You just took up Elmer’s business, you didn’t have a choice.”
“Men like us never have a choice, Addie. Or at least that we tell ourselves.”
“Your pappy took you up to the city to give you a better life. Boss Crump’s money paid for this apartment, you know? You sound like you ain’t proud of the life you’ve made for those boys. And you know what? If Lyndon Johnson hadn’t squared up to Hutch Man like a school boy maybe they’d be home by now.” Waylon laughed.
“Ho Chi Minh, you mean?” he jeered.
“You know who I mean!”

Waylon poured the coffee and handed a cup to Aunt Addie, took one himself and sat in a lumpy chair, grunting annoyedly as he did.
“Addie, why won’t you let me get you some new things for this place?”
“I’m alright, I don’t need nothin’”
“I sat on comfier chairs in Guam. You ain’t bought anythin’ new since FDR died.” he teased. Addie fixed him with a hard look.
“You come here just to be cruel to your old aunt or you need somethin’?” Waylon took a long sip of coffee and sat back in the chair.
“Chicago’s come callin’...” he finally said. There was a long pause between the two. Addie took a sip of her coffee from the old tin cup.
“Pass me my Luckys.” she snapped. He did. As she pulled one slim cigarette from the carton, Waylon drew his pipe and tobacco. “Tell me what’s happened.”

An hour later the small apartment had a thick cloud of smoke hanging below the ceiling. Addie stubbed out her Lucky Strike and wiped her hands on her skirt.
“I think you’re going to have to pay them Waylon. Unless you can make some arrangement with Mrs. Hawkins, but she’s probably getting squeezed by ‘em too.” Waylon sighed and sat back resignedly.
“It’s not about the money Addie, it’s…” he paused “...well, it is, but it ain’t just that.” he rubbed his hands together nervously. He had never liked having these kinds of conversations with Aunt Addie.
“These folk are musclin’ in on Dixie territory, it ain’t right.”
“Ain’t right?!” Addie exclaimed. “Waylon, you and these folk do plenty of things that ain’t right, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
“We do what we got to...” Waylon replied darkly.
“Hush now.” she retorted. She reached to draw another cigarette, but the packet was empty, and, nettled, she threw the packet back down. “Listen, it seems to me that you got two options: pay ‘em or don’t, but either way you need to get your ducks in a row.” Again, Waylon said nothing for a few seconds. He placed his pipe in his mouth, and the hot wood burned his tongue.
“Agh, damn.” he threw the book of matches down angrily and rose quickly. “Alright. I need to make a few calls around town.” and he wordlessly walked to the door.
Addie called after him:
“I need more smokes!”



He found himself back where he had been a few hours earlier: sat outside Hawkins’ Spirits. The buzz had died down somewhat now, but the bar was always busy. He turned the key and the eight cylinders went quiet.

The doorman, face illuminated now only by the dull, orange glow of a street lamp waved him in.
“Mr. Myers.”
Waylon tipped his battered sun hat and stepped through the open door. Hawkins’ Spirits was every bit as packed as it had sounded. All manner of folk from around town were here. Since Prohibition’s end, more and more people took to casual drinking; of course, there were still those who abstained, but they were getting fewer and fewer; these days the men were bringing their wives to places like this.

The boy behind the bar looked a little surprised to see him.
“Mr. Myers? I thought Ronnie brought the shipment this afternoon? I… I’ll talk to him, sir, make sure he don’t miss no more deliveries…” the young man stammered as he spoke. Waylon Myers didn’t come around town much these days, when he did, it was normally to deal with something he couldn’t send someone else to do.
“I ain’t here about that.” he said, plainly, resting his forearms against the bar. “Your boss here?”
The glass the bartender had in his hands was as clean as it was going to get, but his nervous polishing continued unabated.
“N...no sir. She out with Mr. Cokeley. Uhh, she’ll be along, by-and-by.” before Waylon could reply he continued: “Can I get you a drink Mr. Myers? We just had a shipment come by today…”
“I ain’t much of a drinker.” Waylon cut him off.
“Uhh… I got uhh, root beer? Coca-Cola? Tab?”
“Sure. Coke sounds fine.” Waylon replied quietly. He didn’t love the jitters that the small folk that knew his ‘business’ got around him, it only served to make others suspicious. He enjoyed the respect with which he was addressed though. The boy tending bar fumbled with the bottle opener, but it was only a few seconds before the ice cold coke was sat before him, the condensation dripping from the bottle invitingly.

“That’s uh, two bits, sir.” Waylon reached into his front pocket and pulled out a rough dollar bill. The boy moved to take it, but it was snatched from his grasp before he could lay a finger on it. Waylon fixed his gaze on the now sweating bartender.
“You tell her I’m here.” he said darkly. The boy took a pause before he replied.
“Yessir.” Waylon dropped the bill on the bar, collected his drink and turned on his heel before the boy could say anything else, finding a free table.

He took a single table near a window. A few of the patrons nodded to him as he passed, but he chose to forego any conversation, instead lighting his pipe and adding to the cloud of smoke that sat thick on the ceiling.
Same, all good, just waiting on the next few posts.
Noon. The sun was as high as it was going to be. The heat baked down on his back, and his linen shirt clung to him with the sweat. Still, “Mr Williamson” needed a proper send off. Waylon wouldn’t be happy till there was six feet of ground between them.
He stepped back to admire his work.

”How long do you think he’ll be down there?” came a voice from behind him.
”Couldn’t say,” Myers replied, removing his glove and wiping the sweat from his brow. ”Folk round here always lookin’ for uh… men like him.” There was a long silence between the two. Father MacMillan had always insisted on this code; no one suspected graves in a churchyard, but the pastor made sure each grave had a story attached to it. Made sense, he supposed. The feds never came down this way, and even if they did, Dawkins would deal with them, but you could never be too careful, not in this line of work. His pappy had been pulled in by G-men in ‘44; he hadn’t covered his tracks well enough. His Uncle Elmer had told him how as his father got pulled into the car he had been shouting: “Get Crump on the phone! Call the Boss!” but Boss Crump had never heard of Winston Myers Jr.
Waylon had been putting off visiting his father at Shelby County. He had been too busy with the boys, or with the business, and now it had been twenty-five years. Pappy would be eighty years old now, near enough. Poor, old crook.

”I had a call from Mr. Cokeley not long ago.”
”Who?” replied Waylon, pulling a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbing his brow.
”Harold Cokeley? He works with Mrs. Hawkins.”
”He say what he wanted?”
”Well, he said something about a man from Chicago? And perhaps to expect a not so auspicious visit.”
”Chicago?” Waylon turned to look at the pastor for the first time. There was a pregnant pause between the two. ”We don’t deal with Chicago... we pay people so we don’t have to deal with Chicago.”
”Waylon, I’m just telling you what Mr. Cokeley told me. I’ve always said: you can take the calls yourself if...” The pastor was cut off by Waylon’s annoyed growl. He yanked the shovel out of the ground and marched towards the church, muttering to himself as he walked.
”God damned Chicago bigwigs think they make the rules. Man can’t run a damn business in peace.” The door to the rear vestibule creaked angrily as Waylon threw it open and stomped through.

He seethed for a few moments before Father MacMillan followed him through the door.
”I know it’s not the kind of visit we hope for but… you never know what these people want.”
”...Money’s what they want, Father. Money’s all people ever want. Hawkins has been payin’ ‘em off and now they want their due from us.” said Waylon darkly. He stepped through another door to the church’s kitchen, with the pastor close behind. He turned and leaned against the counter to be face-to-face with MacMillan.
”Hammond around?”
”He’s around somewhere.”
”Get ridda him. He’ll make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
There was another long pause between the two men.
”I have a sermon to prepare.” MacMillan said as he left the room.

A long sigh escaped from Myers’ lips. He let go of the shovel he had neglected to put down and it clattered to the ground. He waited for a few minutes until he was sure the pastor had gone before he stooped, opened the cabinet under the sink and reached in, a few moments later pulling out the Type 14 Nambu that had been duct-taped to the pipe and tucking it into the back of his trousers.



The sun was lower in the sky when the car arrived. The black sedan cast a long shadow as it drove slowly, one might even say menacingly towards Calvary Hill Baptist Church. From the passenger seat emerged a well-dressed man, who walked similarly to how the car had driven; every step was calculated. He made Waylon uneasy. He’d met enough city-slickers as a boy in Memphis, always thought they were too good for this part of the country. The driver was visible only by his silhouette, and the occasional puff of cigarette smoke that emerged from the barely open window. He heard Father MacMillan’s hurried greetings and nervous small talk. The man engaged in the pleasantries for a few minutes, before the words that every man who visited Calvary Hill with business on their mind inevitably uttered.

”...I need to talk to The Bishop.” That was Waylon’s cue. He had dressed up a little bit for the occasion. He had put on a clean shirt, blue with white pinstripes, but the collar still turned up at the corners with wear, and the colour had faded. The cold steel of the Type 14 pushed against his back; an ever present reminder of the gravity of this situation. He lit his wooden pipe and took a long draw, and made his way out to the front of the church.

”Ah, this must be him. I gotta say, I was expecting someone a little more…”
”Respectable looking?” Waylon said, curtly.
”You the Bishop?” the man said, blankly ignoring Waylon’s words.
”Who’s asking?”
There was a pause.
”Okay.” said the man, lighting a cigarette. ”We can play it that way, I’m not here to be anybody’s friend.” he took a few slow steps forward.
”You’ve had it easy, pal. Operating out of a church, nobody’s any the wiser. Your friend here says ‘God bless’ and sends them on their way.” he continued, casually gesturing to Father MacMillan with his cigarette. ”It’s a smart operation, I gotta be honest, I’m a fan of what you’re doing, and I want you to be able to continue without any burdens.”
He took a long drag. Waylon did the same.

”But, I hear you have connections in town and…those connections have connections with me, so the way I see it, you owe me.” He spoke as if he had rehearsed this speech, or perhaps he had repeated it enough times he knew it by heart. Each word was weighed out carefully, and each phrase was choreographed in his body language. He reminded Waylon of Uncle Elmer.
”You picking up what I’m putting down?”
Waylon didn’t speak for a moment. He took a few puffs on his pipe and cleared his throat.
”I uh… I suppose some arrangement could be made.” The man broke into a wide smile.
”Now that’s what I like to hear” he said, tossing his smoke casually to the floor. ”Hey, Bishop. Because I’m a nice guy, I won’t take anything from you today, and I’ll even forgive you not inviting me in for a glass of communion wine and some of those little wafers. But next month, and every month after that, I’ll be here, and I need twenty percent of your action.”

Waylon stiffened. Once again, he said nothing. Before he spoke again, the man’s smile dropped, and his tone shifted.
”I’m glad we understand each other” he said, darkly, taking a few steps back as he did. He nodded towards MacMillan. ”Thank you pastor, God bless.” He shot one more look at Waylon before turning on his heel and walking purposefully back to the car.

Father MacMillan turned and walked towards the church.
”That went well.” He said dryly. Waylon said nothing. He watched the black sedan disappear over the horizon before he moved a muscle.

He headed inside and grabbed the keys to his truck.
”The Calaway boys will be here soon. Deal with them.” he said as he passed the Pastor’s chamber door.

”I need to run a few errands.”

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