Dirk pulled back his sleeve and glanced upon his watch. He’d wasted more time dealing with Hyena’s grunts than he wanted, but he still had some time to double back and head for the southern district. He’d led their group on a bit of a sightseeing tour when he brought them to the bridge, partly because it was one of the spots he wanted to visit one last time before he had to part with it forever.
But now, with that being done and over, he headed for the bar with spring in his step, adrenaline still tickling his body from the inside. It felt good to move again. To let his body act. To think. To face adversity and overcome it. It was unlike anything he’d felt for the past few years, and to have this feeling back now felt almost euphoric.
He slapped his face, bringing his mind back to the ground. There was no use getting all giddy over such a small scuffle. If circumstances were a little different, he may have lost and been taken into custody. He made mistakes. He was the first one ready to admit it. He was too cocky and unused to his own body. Sure, he’d been training over the years. Light exercise to keep his mind from spiraling, but in the fight with Diesel he felt a massive difference from when he was in his prime. His limbs simply couldn’t keep up with his head.
He stretched his arms and neck, feeling the pull of their muscles. He’d have to work on that, but in due time. He hoped it wouldn’t affect the mission too much, naively believing the age-old saying that the body remembers the way it wants to be. Getting back into proper shape should take him far less time than building his base from the ground up. Again. In due time.
Now he stood in front of a small bar and diner neatly tucked into the ground floor of an old tenement. The sign up-top read in bold, if a little plain letters: “Byron’s Brews&Breakfast.” It made Dirk smile. Though he mostly came here for the alcohol like most other people, as the owner mixed in a few of his own special brews among the regular, commercially available stuff, there was more to this place than met the eye. Byron also fried some mean fried eggs with bratwurst and tomato for the breakfast menu, and a very nice goulash once a week on Saturdays. A shame that so few people knew about the food part of his business, despite the big, obvious sign.
He rubbed his frost-nibbled face and entered the building, immediately being hit by a wall of warm air filled with an enticing chestnut aroma. He shook his head, determined to stick by his word not to drink, this time for real. There weren’t many people around, but it wasn’t all that strange, considering it was the middle of the day. He hung his coat on the rack by the door and scooted over to the bar where Byron seemed busy pretending to be busy, wiping a glass mug with a small cloth, his thick, black arms seemingly threatening to shatter it with every move.
- Well, well, well. - Byron lifted his gaze from the crystal clear mug, placing it on the counter with a coy smile on his face. - I was hoping I’d never see your ugly face here again.
- Was I that overdue on my last tab? - Dirk asked with a chuckle.
- Who cares about that. I almost convinced myself you’d given up on drinking.
- You’d go out of business without me, and you know it.
- Bah! I’ve got plenty of depressed old fools willing to throw money at me. - he scoffed with a sideways smirk. - Now, don’t go thinking that I’ll serve you more than your usual dose just because you had a little break, y’hear me? So what do you want? The usual?
- Some water. - he answered, deadpan.
At those words, Byron scrunched up his big, bushy brows and rubbed his eyes with one hand, making sure that his eyes did not deceive him.
- You are Dirk, right? Not some weird imperial doppelgänger clone thing, right?
- Oh, come on. Is it that weird?
- For you? Very weird. - he crossed his arms on his wide chest. - You’re pulling my leg. - he pierced him with a gaze full of scrutiny.
- I’m dead serious. - Dirk lifted both his hands in front of him, placatively.
This time when the owner of the bar felt that his words rang true, he instantly reached over the counter and pulled Dirk’s head into a one-arm lock, almost pulling him over to his side, and Dirk let that happen in good spirit.
- Atta boy! - Byron exclaimed with genuine joy, leaning in to speak with the retired veteran stuck under his arm. - So give me the details. The hottest gossip. What broke the camel’s back? Did you finally find yourself a missus?
- No, “Baron”, no… - he slipped out of the lock with a chuckle, referring to the man by his nickname. - It’s a, uh… it’s about a job.
Dirk could swear he saw Byron’s eyes light up as he heard those words, but his act did not match that perceived excitement. He loosened his grip and leaned on the counter, standing face-to-face with Dirk.
- Nothing dangerous, I hope. - he asked, knowingly. Byron was one of the very few people in the know about most of the City-24 people’s business, and his place was a bit of a hotspot for its outcasts.
He even knew who Dirk was in the past, but didn’t treat him differently from his usual clientele.
Dirk appreciated that.
- Well, the risk’s always there, but…
- Alright, I get it. - the barman interrupted by raising his hand. - Now, I wouldn’t want you to compromise anything important. Just don’t get killed, aye?
- I’m not planning on that. - Dirk grinned back and Byron reciprocated.
- But it won’t do! It won’t do at all to just let you go with a dry mouth like that! - the man threw up his arms in frustration, then ducked behind the counter. - But I have just the thing.
In one swift motion, he pulled out two small glasses and an unmarked bottle of some kind of opaque orange liquid, making Dirk raise an eyebrow.
- I know what you are thinking, but it’s non-alcoholic. One of my newest experiments, and let me tell you, it has a kick. No… The kick of all kicks, Lord be my witness. - he pulled out a small golden cross from behind his collar, gave it a kiss, and immediately gave both of the glasses a pour from the bottle. - My treat.
Dirk took one of them and gave it a sniff, immediately recoiling in surprise with his eyes wide open as the strong aroma tickled the inside of his skull through his nose.
- Wow. - was all Dirk could say
- Told you. - said “Baron” with a shit-eating grin before extending his glass towards the veteran, thus giving him a proposal he couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t proper conduct to reject hospitality from an aristocrat, after all.
They clinked their glasses and downed the contents in an instant, letting it burn their throats all the way down. Through the scorching sensation, Dirk could tell that the drink had a really nice peachy flavor.
- How did you make it? - Dirk couldn’t help but ask, voice hoarse and hushed.
- That’s my little secret. - Byron tapped his temple with a smirk and poured Dirk a cup of tap water. - Your order, sir. - he mocked, but Dirk didn’t care and gulped it down with a sigh of relief.
- You never fail to impress.
- I do my best. - he basked in the small triumph for a second before speaking again. - But since you’re not here to really drink, I assume there’s some other business you’re here for?
- Aye. Aside from getting one last good look at your mug, I need to speak with Morozov. Is he in?
- At the back. - he gave a curt nod and pointed towards a door in one of the far corners of the room.
- Alright. - he stood up from his stool and cracked his fingers. - Let’s see if Lady Luck’s on my side today. - he turned around but stopped for a second. - And Byron?
- Hm? - he looked at Dirk, half-turned himself.
- Thanks for keeping me in check all those years.
- Gah, get outta here, all sappy. - he waved him away, grabbing the cloth again along with some other mug and immediately getting to work to mask the tiny smile forming on his face.
With that, Dirk headed for the door leading down to the basement.
Compared to the bar itself, the staircase leading down seemed more at home in some seedy club. Unprotected wiring hung from the ceiling, neon tubes lined the walls and way too much graffiti sprawled across it all like fungus.
The visual stimulus mixed with the smell of tobacco and cheap booze evoked in Dirk’s mind just one word. A club. This one didn’t smell of piss, though. Not too much, anyway.
- Reap ‘em and weep ‘em cunts!
Screams of discontent erupted from behind the doors which were still a few steps away from his reach. Then came the sound of shattering glass and loud thuds. The unmistakable symphony of “The Basement”.
Surprisingly, no shots were mixed in with all this hollering, reassuring the former soldier that the man he was looking for was keeping all the rabble-rousers in check behind the reinforced metal doors.
As his descent came to a close, Dirk pulled his arm back and slammed the aforementioned door, which from this close looked more akin to a prison gate than anything else. It was almost a full head and a half taller than him, with a closed off vision panel and a more intricate closing mechanism than one would normally expect from a place like this.
In the middle of the door was a giant valve, or at least there used to be one on the outside, now replaced with but a sawn off nub. Despite that, eight large metallic rods converged from the steel frame right on top of it. Each of the rods was stabbing through the frame, straight into the surrounding concrete of the building itself. Each time Dirk looked at this insane contraption, he could swear that if the entire City were to ever be glassed, this blast door would be the only thing left standing.
A metallic creak awoke him from those thoughts as the vision panel slid open, revealing a fine metal mesh alongside a pair of peepers. Dirk didn’t even get to say anything as the panel slammed shut as abruptly as it opened. Then, with a laborious metallic groan, sounding like a whole bridge falling apart under its own weight, the intricate mechanism started moving.
The soldier took a step back and checked if his big custom trench knife was still in its holster. Ares was never one for having a complicated and specific loadout, even in his days of active duty. He could make do with anything at hand, which, now that he thought about it, might have earned him that memorable nickname, among other things.
A soldier who kills people with advanced weaponry on the battlefield is nothing more than a rank-and-file trooper doing his job. But a soldier who plows through with anything that falls into his hands when ammo runs dry, sticks to stones and the enemies’ own weapons - that’s how you leave an impression.
His old self would have thought of the oversized knife as redundant at best, or dead weight at worst, but nowadays, Dirk tried to mostly ignore that prideful voice in his head. “Tried” being a key word. Impressive looking weapons had their uses too, even if their practical applications were at times limited. They certainly made negotiations easier, for one, and scared off any feisty rabble whenever words failed.
After all, having a big shank carried with it a certain amount of status among the bottom-of-the-barrel scum that Dirk had the pleasure of surrounding himself with for the past few years. And this one was special.
Dirk shook his head, returning to reality. The door before him, thicker than Dirk’s chest, started swinging open, letting out a wave of stale air that reeked of blood, piss and cigarettes. The classic mix.
Once the gate fully opened, a tough looking man clad in a faded suit walked out, inspecting Dirk from head to toe.
Each of his fingers was covered by stitches, just like his face. He glared at Dirk with the same cold eyes that peeked at him through the vision panel.
Despite that, Dirk smiled slightly.
- Good to see you, Anton. - said Dirk with a nod
- Likewise. - the man answered before extending a hand towards him.
Even if Dirk wasn’t a fan of notoriety, he couldn’t help but enjoy those little interactions with the people who knew him.
After a shake and a half, the former soldier stepped through the door frame, no longer paying attention to its closing ritual, equally tedious as the opening one, instead focusing on finding the one man he was looking for.
Not like it was particularly difficult.
- Crazy Ruskie. - Dirk mused as a burly man suddenly rose from the poker table a few tables down, his laughter blasting through the room like a rolling thunder.
The words he spoke seemed almost unintelligible, blurted out much too quickly and wildly. A haphazard mishmash of both Russian and Imperial words.
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Not wanting to lag behind schedule even more, Dirk power walked towards the jovial man, only exchanging courteous nods with everyone who recognized him as he passed.
- You must have cheated Morozov, you fuck! - one of the patrons at the table voiced his upset with the Russian clad in a gray jersey.
- Forget it. That’s what you get for trying to gamble with him. - another one spoke out, cradling his weary face in both hands.
A third guy simply walked away, toppling his chair to the ground like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The swelling rage, however, did not stop him from giving Dirk a small nod as he passed him.
- If all the Empire's people were as much a suckers as you guys, we would have had that Rebellion in the bag! - Morozov grabbed a half-full glass from the table and downed its content in a single gulp.
- Don’t you dare fucking start with that soapy moaning of yours, or I’ll gut you like a pig. - someone yelled across the room, scoring a lot of laughs from other patrons.
- I’d like to see you try! - the Russian responded quickly before making a surprised expression. - Oh wait! You did! Tell us, how does it feel to chew with fewer teeth than a toddler?
The jovial atmosphere kept on going, with many glasses being raised to honor a good verbal squabble. As the big winner waved away the losers from the table, Dirk met his gaze.
An enormous grin appeared on the Russian’s face.
- Is it a trick of the light? Do my eyes deceive me from all those flashing neons burning out my retinas? - his loud voice brought everyone's attention to the new arrival. - The prodigal son returns! Came to lose some of that spare change you got in your pantaloons?
- I think I’d have better luck storming the spire with a spoon than winning against your cheating ass. - Dirk spoke out loud, trying to match his volume.
- Maybe. Maybe. But it would be one hell of a spectacle either way.
With a third and final wave of laughter, followed by those sitting a bit further away throwing their greetings towards Dirk, the burly man stepped away from the table, walking straight towards the veteran.
- Dirk, you sonofabitch. - the gambler spoke in Russian in a much softer tone, while preparing a wide right-hand swing.
- Good to see ya, Misha. - the “sonofabitch” in question responded accordingly, both in language and action.
Their arms moved at breakneck speed, so that once their hands collided a slap louder than a gunshot erupted, resulting in a proper manly handshake.
- What brings you to this shithole? - Misha began, not letting go just yet, instead flexing his muscles and tightening his grip with a bit of a mischievous smirk. - Especially at this hour? - he added, glancing at his old watch affixed to his wrist with weathered leather straps.
- In due time, friend. All in due time. - he grinned, answering with his own steel handshake. - I do need you for something, though.
Morozov pulled him into a quick side hug, and with his arm firmly around Dirk’s back, sneakily tried to usher him into one of the seats by the poker table.
- Nah! - Dirk protested, already half-sitting as he caught on to his games, but was suddenly pushed all the way down by the Russian. - I’m on a schedule today. I can’t play.
- Oh, don’t be like that, malchik. - he shot back, taking his place across the table. - Talking’s so much easier over a nice game, right, everybody? - he provoked the surrounding crowd, immediately dodging a plastic cup thrown his way. - They agree. C’mon! Fast rounds, small sums. Don’t leave me hanging.
Dirk pierced him with a suspicious glare.
- No tricks. - he sighed, resigning to his fate. He wanted to play anyway, but giving in too easily would rile the Russian up too much, and one of them would no doubt leave the place with nothing but their pants on.
- I don’t do tricks, Dirk. You know me. - he gave his friend the most innocent smile he could muster.
- Lying right off the bat, huh?
A couple other people naively joined the table, seeing as Dirk was in. Normally he’d be an easy mark and a quick boost of cash to them, but today…
Today, Dirk was feeling lucky.
The cards slid across the table in a rhythmic fashion as the dealer gave each player their hand. It was time for some friendly Texas hold ‘em.
True to his word, Misha kept the game casual at first, bidding pocket change in a swift back and forth with the other three players, evidently playing with them on more than one level, throwing in an obvious bluff every few rounds, only to effortlessly win back his share over the next two.
- So. - the Russian turned to Dirk, laying his cards face down on the green felt of the table. - What do you need me for? Some kind of favor?
- Something like that, but I think you’ll enjoy it too.
- Oh, now that’s interesting. Did you finally come around to the idea of overthrowing this fake country? - he snorted with stifled laughter.
- Even if I did, who would be doing whom a favor in that case?
- We, tovarish, would be doing a favor to the whole world. - he said in a tone of complete seriousness, only betrayed by the slight smirk on his face.
- Maybe when the snow thaws, aye? - Dirk said sarcastically and rolled his eyes with a good-natured smile.
- So spill the beans. What can the lowly me do for you?
- I’ve got a guy who’d like to meet you in the ring.
Misha nodded, his expression remaining unreadable as turns went by.
- That boy of yours, eh?
- Oh, please. He’s no boy, and certainly not mine. - Dirk checked his own cards, barely stopping himself from squinting. - But yes. Him.
- A big fella, but I guess I could throw him around the ring a couple of times. Show him a few grabs.
- Nah. He wants the real deal, if you know what I mean. A mere spar won’t cut it.
- Oh. So it’s about “the thing?” - he cocked an eyebrow, revealing his hand. The pot was his for the taking and a new round began. - Can’t you just like… - he raised his hand and did a little finger gun.
- If only it was that simple… - Dirk sighed, catching the next hand. - You have to get him stressin’. I could throw him off the cliff and it wouldn’t do a thing.
- Well, sure, I could do that, but… - he threw in a few big chips from his previous winnings. - There has to be something in it for me. How about you get me stressin’ first, eh?
- Finally, things are getting interesting. - one of the other players leaned in with a nervous smirk, half-hidden by a scarf on his neck.
- Heh… - Dirk couldn’t help but scoff as he threw in a few crumpled bills to match the Russian’s bid. - Check.
The game snowballed from thereon, each round expanding the pot exponentially. The warm-up was over and so was the relaxed atmosphere of a friendly game. Everyone held on for dear life to their funds as Morozov dictated the pace of the game with ease, pulling impossible hands at the most unexpected of times.
At one point, someone even made him roll up his sleeves right up to his armpits to make sure that he wasn’t cheating, but nothing seemed to be able to stop the devastation that Morozov unleashed upon the table.
The hoard of chips and bills quickly started accepting other things as viable currency, such as rings, watches, pocket knives and much more. Morozov even threw in a few candies as a freebie to mock the others, making the spectating crowd hoot and holler with equal parts schadenfreude and spiteful resentment for past games. Some even started betting on the outcome of the game, adding to the distractions, but it was a small bit of arrogance Misha could very much afford.
It was only after the other players left the table, having nothing left to gamble away, that Dirk started to push Misha back with a few well executed bluffs and one lucky hand that put them in a tie.
- Well, well, well. That was a big risk you just took. - Misha cackled, not at all bothered by the giant loss he just took, walking into the next hand in strides.
- Life’s risky, “Red.” Sometimes you just gotta take the plunge. - Dirk kept his poker face on as he spoke those words, but the truth was that he simply won a coin flip.
- I like that about you, “Fallen God.” When push comes to shove, you don’t pussyfoot around. - they riled each other up, closed in their own little world, deaf to the hollers of pure enthusiasm all around them. - But did you hear that? - he looked around in mock bewilderment, and the crowd fell silent in anticipation. Morozov clicked his fingers and a gun, model Makarov, appeared in his hand out of thin air. - That was the sound of your luck running out. - he held the weapon in the air for a second to the astonishment of the crowd, then threw it into his pile of cash and baubles and slid it all into the pot. - Last hand. All in.
Dirk couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, seeing that relic of a bygone era on the table. The audience was filled with bewilderment and laughter all at the same time.
- Morozov, where the fuck did you get that shit from? The antique store?
- But how the hell did it appear in his hand like that?
- Is it loaded?
The jeers and cheers didn’t distract the other player enough to fumble the bag, not one move before showdown. The former imperial spec-op put a hand into his jacket and pulled out the trench knife in pristine condition.
There was a flash in the Russian’s eye.
- So you’re ready to give me my shank back, eh? - the Russian almost stood up from pure excitement. This was the symbol of Dirk’s one great victory over Morozov in the past.
It was fitting to bet it away now.
All the former players now regretted losing too soon to get a chance at the beautiful piece. It wasn’t the most expensive item, but it was the most coveted solely because it signified the rivalry between the two men.
A pile of faded chips, crumpled bills and other knick-knacks stood between them, now complete with a firearm and an impressive looking knife, like a cherry on top. Despite only two players remaining for the showdown, the sheer value of the reward easily outstripped all the previous rounds.
So there was no need to delay it anymore, a river had formed, and it was overflowing, the waters of fate ripping its banks.
Dirk looked at the combination of five cards for the last time. King of hearts, ten of spades, jack of clubs, jack of hearts and queen of hearts. “Not a bad combination, not bad at all.” - he thought to himself without showing any emotions.
With a loud slam, Misha threw his hand onto the table.
- Just like this hell pit with all your stinking mugs, full house! - he declared, throwing both legs on the table and leaning back in his chair.
Jack of spades and ten of clubs glared back at Dirk, seemingly able to take on a brunt of whatever he could throw at it and best it. Ares didn’t even want to know how much luck or cheating had to go into this outcome, but either way he was impressed by the Ruskie
- Somebody is getting fucked!
One of the observers yelled out into the ether, as Dirk’s long stare into the cards didn’t inspire much confidence.
- Get shit on! - Someone else yelled out.
The crowd was growing impatient, about ready to burst with excitement. As one, they started stomping their feet on the ground in a rhythmic fashion, urging Dirk to reveal his hand, throwing obscenities his way. As the house kept getting rowdier and rowdier, Dirk just kept biding his time.
- I hope you’ll be able to keep your part of the deal, Morozov.
- Stop stalling and pay the piper, Dirkie-boy! - the Russian’s face was no longer excited, simply coy and certain of victory at hand.
- Pride comes before the fall.
The soldier stated. It was something he certainly knew more about than most.
As his two cards landed on the table, the entire room went silent.
Ace of hearts and ten of the same suit.
Dirk couldn’t help but smile. Before cranking it up into a shit-eating-grin. He leaned in towards Morozov and enunciated:
- R-O-Y-A-L F-L-U-S-H.
The crowd went wild.
Bar stools started flying, men yelled, roared and jumped, almost scratching the ceiling. All the pent-up masculinity was unleashed simultaneously in a single second. Random people kept on shaking both Morozov and Dirk, providing tangible proof that this was no dream.
Even if his voice was barely audible from all the screams and jeers and sounds of celebratory squabbles erupting from falling furniture, the loser had a few important words to share with the victor.
- Go fuck yourself.
- And here I thought you said you liked me. Where did that go? - Dirk responded with a face painted with fake concern.
- Down the shitter, along with my favorite gun.
- I’ll take good care of it, don’t you worry.
With that, Dirk partook in the spoils, holstering the knife and the outdated pistol as well. If there was one thing he was thankful towards his younger self for at that moment, it was the habit of keeping one empty holster for occasions such as this one. The former soldier stood up among the squabbling rabble and yelled out.
- Drinks are on me!
He didn’t particularly need the money, and doing this felt appropriate for the day of his departure. With the two things that he actually cared about in his pockets, Dirk moved to a place where his arrangement with Misha would take place. Through the crowd he spotted the Russian, already well on his way there, but before they could regroup somebody grabbed the soldier by the shoulder.
His muscles contracted, ready for a pointless squabble with some disgruntled drunk who didn’t like the outcome of their game, but instead saw the gatekeeper of The Basement.
- Anton? Yes, those drinks also include you.
- Thank you, but there is someone outside the door. A big lad. Says he’s with you.
- Oh. - Dirk didn’t need any further descriptions. He merely took a glance at his wristwatch. - Just point him to the “Sandbox” once he’s in, alright?
A silent nod was the only response he got, as the stitched-up bouncer turned and disappeared within the crowd as suddenly as he appeared.
“Time sure flies when you’re a betting man.” - the veteran thought, resuming on his merry way.