Post by Joe Fischer on May 4, 2014 4:14:20 GMT -6
Even though it was only 8:00 AM in Rio de Janeiro, the bar Joe Fischer was looking for was open. It wasn’t that big—property values had skyrocketed since the Alliance military had established its training base there—but it was exactly what he needed. A sign over the entrance read MARTY’S.
Walking through the beaded entrance, he saw it was sparsely populated; just a couple of barflies and bored-looking bartender wiping down the bar. A small vidscreen was showing the news, but the volume was turned down.
“Hey, gringo,” said the bartender, glaring at him. “We don’t serve your kind here.”
Joe smiled at him, showing his perfect white teeth, the product of thrice-a-day brushing and flossing. “Yeah, I’m scaring off all your customers,” he said, coming down the bar to stand before the bartender. He towered over the man, but he seemed unconcerned.
Probably has a shotgun under the bar, he thought. I wonder which one. If it was me, I’d go with an Eviscerator.
“Joo tink you’re funny, meng?” the bartender said.
“If you’re looking for funny, you should check out your mom’s face when she comes,” Joe said, grinning even wider.
The bartender scratched the back of his neck, and then suddenly a knife was a Joe’s throat. “Whachoo say abou’ my mom?” he asked .
“I’m saying your mom is like a hardware store, ten credits a screw,” Joe said, still smiling.
The bartender glared at him for a second longer, then broke into a grin as he made the knife disappear. “My mom’s been dead ten years, you can have her,” he said, all sign of his accent gone.
“I’m N7, which means crazy, but not stupid, Marty,” Joe said.
“So what brings you down to see a broken old cripple like me?” Marty asked.
“Can we talk…in private?” Joe asked.
The humor left Marty’s face as he led towards the back with a slight limp.
Just a few years ago he had been in Joe’s squad and had come under heavy fire from some members of the Blood Pack. Wounded in the leg and stuck under ever-shrinking cover, Joe ran out during a break in their fire, picked him up and brought him under more solid cover. But then the medics screwed up their treatment, working on the wrong leg and accidentally severing a major tendon. He took medical disability and never looked back.
They stepped into a small office in the back, with a desk that had a picture of his daughter and old-style push-button phone. He took seat behind the desk and waited.
Joe took the other seat and it all came out, the good, the bad and everything in between. Marty simply sat and took it all in, not questioning anything, not interrupting.
As Joe talked, he felt pity for civilians. Only a rare few would ever know the level of trust between two Marines who had been under fire together. The heat of the fire created an unbreakable bond that would last until death. No matter the situation, one could ask the other for help and know that it would be given without question, without a single word of protest.
When he was done, Marty simply asked, “What do you need?”
“I need back in, it’s too quiet on the outside,” Joe said.
“You don’t ask for much, do you, bro?” Marty asked, thinking for a moment before shaking his head. “That’s too tall an order, man, the background checks they do these days, there’s no way I can get you in as you or anybody else.”
Joe just looked at him, letting his disappointment fill the room.
“Hold on, I’m still thinking,” Marty said. “Okay, I can’t get you into any organized force, what about independent contracting?”
“A merc? Working with a bunch of wannabes who’d slit their own mother’s throat?” Joe said, incredulous. “Has the heat down here melted your brain?”
“Don’t forget poor intel and no one to bail you out when things go sideways,” Marty said.
“Shit, don’t sugarcoat it, give me the downside here,” Joe said.
“Hold on,” Marty said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Word came out for a job recently. Supposed to be a cakewalk, guarding some egghead engineer while he digs up some ancient ruins.”
“’Supposed to be a cakewalk’?” Joe said. “I’m not some wet-behind-his-ears rookie, give it to me straight.”
“Okay, okay,” Marty said. “He claims his last dig was ambushed by Collectors and he was paying top dollar for a team. I can make some calls, see if he’s still hiring, just say the word.”
A tapping sound filled the room. Joe looked down to see it was his foot, tapping a light year a minute.
“Okay,” he said.
Walking through the beaded entrance, he saw it was sparsely populated; just a couple of barflies and bored-looking bartender wiping down the bar. A small vidscreen was showing the news, but the volume was turned down.
“Hey, gringo,” said the bartender, glaring at him. “We don’t serve your kind here.”
Joe smiled at him, showing his perfect white teeth, the product of thrice-a-day brushing and flossing. “Yeah, I’m scaring off all your customers,” he said, coming down the bar to stand before the bartender. He towered over the man, but he seemed unconcerned.
Probably has a shotgun under the bar, he thought. I wonder which one. If it was me, I’d go with an Eviscerator.
“Joo tink you’re funny, meng?” the bartender said.
“If you’re looking for funny, you should check out your mom’s face when she comes,” Joe said, grinning even wider.
The bartender scratched the back of his neck, and then suddenly a knife was a Joe’s throat. “Whachoo say abou’ my mom?” he asked .
“I’m saying your mom is like a hardware store, ten credits a screw,” Joe said, still smiling.
The bartender glared at him for a second longer, then broke into a grin as he made the knife disappear. “My mom’s been dead ten years, you can have her,” he said, all sign of his accent gone.
“I’m N7, which means crazy, but not stupid, Marty,” Joe said.
“So what brings you down to see a broken old cripple like me?” Marty asked.
“Can we talk…in private?” Joe asked.
The humor left Marty’s face as he led towards the back with a slight limp.
Just a few years ago he had been in Joe’s squad and had come under heavy fire from some members of the Blood Pack. Wounded in the leg and stuck under ever-shrinking cover, Joe ran out during a break in their fire, picked him up and brought him under more solid cover. But then the medics screwed up their treatment, working on the wrong leg and accidentally severing a major tendon. He took medical disability and never looked back.
They stepped into a small office in the back, with a desk that had a picture of his daughter and old-style push-button phone. He took seat behind the desk and waited.
Joe took the other seat and it all came out, the good, the bad and everything in between. Marty simply sat and took it all in, not questioning anything, not interrupting.
As Joe talked, he felt pity for civilians. Only a rare few would ever know the level of trust between two Marines who had been under fire together. The heat of the fire created an unbreakable bond that would last until death. No matter the situation, one could ask the other for help and know that it would be given without question, without a single word of protest.
When he was done, Marty simply asked, “What do you need?”
“I need back in, it’s too quiet on the outside,” Joe said.
“You don’t ask for much, do you, bro?” Marty asked, thinking for a moment before shaking his head. “That’s too tall an order, man, the background checks they do these days, there’s no way I can get you in as you or anybody else.”
Joe just looked at him, letting his disappointment fill the room.
“Hold on, I’m still thinking,” Marty said. “Okay, I can’t get you into any organized force, what about independent contracting?”
“A merc? Working with a bunch of wannabes who’d slit their own mother’s throat?” Joe said, incredulous. “Has the heat down here melted your brain?”
“Don’t forget poor intel and no one to bail you out when things go sideways,” Marty said.
“Shit, don’t sugarcoat it, give me the downside here,” Joe said.
“Hold on,” Marty said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Word came out for a job recently. Supposed to be a cakewalk, guarding some egghead engineer while he digs up some ancient ruins.”
“’Supposed to be a cakewalk’?” Joe said. “I’m not some wet-behind-his-ears rookie, give it to me straight.”
“Okay, okay,” Marty said. “He claims his last dig was ambushed by Collectors and he was paying top dollar for a team. I can make some calls, see if he’s still hiring, just say the word.”
A tapping sound filled the room. Joe looked down to see it was his foot, tapping a light year a minute.
“Okay,” he said.