When Claire emerged from the kitchen, she loitered about the work station at the bar. The barista steamed a fresh carafe of milk and set it aside. Claire watched dully, leaning against the station. She idly wondered if one of the two soldier-boys, or thus she was going to call them, would call her. It wouldn't keep her awake at night, but something about them tweaked her interest something fierce. Tony had the potential and handsome enough features for it, but he was too laid back, too laissez-faire, to be more fun than teasing. Michael had the right amount of danger, on the other hand, and much closer to her age, but he was far too boring to pursue. His passionless gaze made her yawn. Pretty much everyone she'd encountered at Kallisti were not in her league. They made for fun work and fine tips, but to spend longer than an hour with one would be a nightmare.
Her gaze finally roamed back to her tables. John and Koloman kept talking, probably about Africa and how big their dicks were. A mousey looking guy with a huge dimple in his chin that looked like a face-crater was obviously striking out with a slender brunette he was with at a nearby table. Interesting to watch the disaster unfold, but they lacked the tell-tale signs of needing a waitress. An older balding man with a rim of gray around the sides of his skull slurped on noodles and browsed a flat wallet-screen as he ate.
A couple of new comers finally made their way inside. Older men, yes, but not so much as the balding slob. She waited for them to pull up their own table-top menus and place their own orders. When instead they looked around absently, Claire screwed her best fake smile onto her lips and went over to hold their hands.
"Hi there!"
She greeted, dredging up the enthusiasm to sound perky. "My name's Claire,"
she said in case they were illiterate and couldn't see the obvious nametag on her skull-studded shirt. She touched finger tips to the table and the menus rippled to life. "We're out of cod, unfortunately,"
she warned, although the menu noted that the fried item was unavailable. "Do you have any questions?"
She waited and resisted the urge to let her eyes drift elsewhere.
Michael's appreciation of the open air lasted little more than a day. The morning after he had returned to his own bed, blessedly above ground, Moscow's biting freeze imposed upon him once again. His indigo coat was twice as thick as the those he used underground and he wore thermal wear under his similarly coloured jeans.
As a result, he found himself in need of a warm place to relax after a morning of travelling through the winding streets of the capital. It was supposed to be a holiday of sorts, but he needed information. Browsing the news centres on the Internet would have been much easier, but for the days ahead it was much more effective to gauge the atmosphere by walking through the mass of humanity himself. To feel the tension or lack thereof that permeated the air.
For now though, warmth was foremost in his mind and he settled on a clean establishment that appeared to be enjoying success. Even though it was up-market, there was a healthy influx of customers. It would serve Michael's purpose well. He didn't particularly want to stand out.
"Do you have any questions?"
He opened the door behind a pair of men being served by a smiling waitress who's cheerful tone seemed at odds with her otherwise shrewd demeanour.
Michael surveyed the scene with a sweeping eye before fully entering. A side-effect of his time underground, it would appear. Sure that there were no Ascendant Power wielding soldiers to command, he made his way towards a table next to another pair of men intent on their own conversation.
The two men at the table next to them were discussing Sierra Leone and the Legion it seemed. Calvin didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it couldn't be helped. Even had the men been whispering, he would have heard at this distance. It seemed like one of them was signing up.
He was just about to comment and wish the gentleman good luck when a waitress appeared at the table - Claire by the name tag. She was pretty and her accent reminded Calvin of home. The door behind them opened, and to Calvin's ears it seemed louder than it would to most. He turned his head to look, seeing a man who's face he recognized but couldn't place anywhere. The man surveyed the room and Calvin turned back to the waitress and Kristoff.
Calvin let Kristoff do the talking. "Well, that's interesting. I've never seen that before,"
Kristoff said about the menus, eliciting a smile from Calvin. "So we just order here? Sorry if we wasted your time making you come over here."
Kristoff's voice was polite and his apology sincere. "Well, we might as well place our drink orders now. I'll have a house ale, and..."
Kristoff found the appropriate spaces on the menu to order drinks.
Despite his silence, Calvin was clearly enjoying himself, but honestly, he had never seen that sort of a menu before either. Food service in Wisconsin was still pretty personal - at least at the places he frequented, and since he had moved, he hadn't really eaten out a lot.
"A coke, please,"
Calvin said, finishing Kristoff's sentence.
"Not even for a celebration?"
Kristoff asked.
"Nope,"
Calvin responded with a smile and turned to face Claire. "Thanks for the help, Claire. Hopefully we should be able to get it."
After their drink orders had been placed, Calvin turned towards the men at the table next to him. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. One of you is heading to Sierra Leone to join the Legion. I just wanted to wish you luck."
There was a sense of admiration in his voice. Doing something to help others at risk of yourself was a noble goal.
Again, new comers drew casual glances from both White and Koloman, before the two men returned to their mostly empty-aired debate over Koloman's pending trip to Africa. Their conversation broke briefly with chuckles at Claire's airs of enthusiasm; neither doubted she had much trouble wracking up decent tips from her regulars.
They glanced left and nodded relatively disinterested greetings as Michael took the next adjacent table, and White flagged off the table-top for a refill on his coffee, "Fine. So what about the training program? You ready to go through three months of outdated bullshit? All esprit de corps and that crap. You won't be seeing action any time soon you know."
Koloman smirked and shrugged, "Well, not all of us are super-soldiers John. One day you'll have to tell me where the hell you came from."
"I don't think so. You're in love with the mystery that is me. And besides, I'd have to kill you."
He smirked, an almost honest smile that still never quite reached his eyes, as was the case with most emotion.
They both glanced to Calvin when the man spoke to them, and while White groaned and shook his head, Koloman flashed a broad smile and nodded, "Thank you. Felt it was time to really do something that mattered."
"Great, just what you fucking need. Fuel for the fire that is your ego."
There was no malice in his tone of course; he was still just poking fun at Koloman for the man's foolish decision. "Don't encourage him, buddy. Koloman here just has a hard-on for that playboy kid-turned-general. Thinks the kid'll actually manage to make a difference before Africa kills him."
As Michael waited, he caught the end of the two men's conversation. The Legion in Africa. He had heard as much, and before being isolated underground had followed its progress across the war torn continent.
"Excuse me,"
he interjected after the one named John finished.
"How much progress has the Legion? I have a friend there, but I have not had the time to speak to him."
(OOC: sorry, short one but not much more to say when I'm butting in a conversation)
Edited by
Michael Vellas, Aug 10 2015, 11:06 AM.
"Well, that wanna-be General of theirs is wanted on no shortage of white-collar crimes. Up and took the whole company, booted the investors and backers. He hasn't out-right said they're his own private army now, but it's written between the lines."
He shared a look with Koloman and shrugged, "Hey, it's Africa. Spend enough time there, you learn to read the signs. He's got the dead Sierra Leonean president's family bottled up somewhere and is moving more troops into the country. And the slaughtered refugees? Cold blooded, that was. He's going to use that as justification for his next big play."
Koloman shook his head and turned a bit on his seat to better face Michael, "Ignore him. He's just sad I'm running off to Africa without him. The Legion...he's right that it's no longer a company, exactly. They are currently in the center of the Sierra Leone civil war. Any reporters in the area, as always, are offering some very different opinions on what is going on. But the few local free-lancers are reporting favorably towards the Legion. They were instrumental in minimizing blood-shed in the first few days of the civil war, rescued the family of the former president, as well as a high-profile Red Cross worker. Their CEO, or maybe General now? put out a public address not too long ago, and now their training camp in Morocco is swamped with new recruits from around the world."
Africa?
It seemed Jacques Danjou liked to pick his battles. The Legion were good, but Africa was not a continent so easily tamed.
"Hmmm, Africa,"
he found himself reverting to what he knew best. "The Legion are a group of good men and women, but they are not fools, neither is the CEO."
"It seems he has big plans..."
Michael thought he could see what Jacques was trying to do. Bold, very bold. Very dangerous.
Very bloody.
"I wish you luck,"
he said to the one that was going to join the Legion. "But remember your friend's words. No battle is won without bloodshed."
He had forgotten he was in a cafe, forgotten the reason why he was here in the first place. Work, it seemed, never escaped him.
Calvin chuckled at White's remark, and he could tell it was all in jest. These two apparently got along well. The Legion's CEO was young, but ambitious, and from what Calvin had heard, was a guy who believed in doing good. Calvin wished him success in those endeavors.
The newcomer in the cafe joined the conversation. Mostly just wondering what has been going on. Whoever he was, he looked familiar, but Calvin still couldn't place him anywhere. The newcomer was right though. Danjou likely had big plans.
Calvin nooded at the man's last comment.
"It will get worse before it gets better. That country has been a powder keg waiting to go off for awhile now. Looks like Danjou wants to determine when and where it will go off."
Calvin sat back in his chair in a relaxed posture.
"Whoever that guy running the country now - what's his name - Wallace-Johnson - he sounds like a jack-ass."
Kristoff piped in.
Calvin smirked.
"More like a modern Hitler. The guys killing people for no other reason than to show that he's in charge."
Calvin turned to the newcomer.
"You're here, if you have no other plans, feel free to join us.
Calvin gestured to a chair next to him in case the man wanted to. It didn't really matter either way.
Edited by
Calvin, Aug 27 2015, 11:16 AM.
Koloman let out a warm chuckle at Michael's warning, while White simply shook his head. Blood was an understatement, and Calvin's comment of 'worse before better' implied something in Africa would get better. He didn't consider himself particularly bitter to the world, or even a pessimist. He was a realist, and Africa's once fragile economy and stability had only worsened in the past few decades. It was amazing that there were as many 'governments' left standing in the region as there were.
"Wallace-Johnson is your typical African wanna-be emperor. A dime a dozen, and as soon as you take one out another three will pop up in his place. Mr playboy-general will probably end up like every would-be do-gooder there. Give it a few years of trying and he'll be just as bad as everyone else."
Constant failure and pressure, the endless corruption and violence, had worn down more then a few would-be heroes in Africa over the decades. "And if he puts Wallace-Johnson down, there's still Katlego in the north to deal with. Can't have a civil war without at least two sides, after all."
"He will have his work cut out for him, certainly. The country has already lost thousands of jobs. Foreign investors have fled, businesses destroyed. Crops too. The region never recovered from the drought years, so what farmland is left needs constant attention. This season's crops have probably already failed. And the lost infrastructure? Hospitals aren't exactly cheap to replace, and there are never enough of them in Africa to begin with."
Koloman finished his coffee and set the empty to one edge of the table, flagging for another cup off the table menu system.
Rising to take the seat that was offered, Michael listened laconically to the assessment of the strangers.
None of them seemed to have a grasp of military strategy. Koloman was enthusiastic, attracted to the charisma of Jacques and the justice of his cause.
The one that had asked him to join along with his friend were not even soldiers. The words were echoed by millions who read the news but meant little. An echo of an echo that rarely touched on the truth.
Then there was John. He knew enough to speak with some wisdom, but his words were typical of a soldier cynic. Caution was a good trait, an even better one to keep yourself alive, but cynical pessimism did not make a commander.
He found himself speaking.
"To the bold go the spoils. The greatest Empire the world has seen would not have been born had Caesar been too meek to cross the Rubicon. 'The die is cast,' so to speak. Jacques Danjou is not a peacemaker, he takes the path of a conqueror and a tyrant. Tyrant of course has negative connotations, but a tyrant is neither inherently good nor evil. None have tamed Africa before because politics have prevented them. Greed or apathy have allowed the likes of Wallace-Johnson to flourish."
He realised what he was doing. Speaking as if
he as leading the Legion. Michael shook his head.
"There is no room for mercy in Africa. It may be for the greater good, but to save one, they must kill ten others. This isn't a war of skill or tactics, it will be decided by how far Danjou is willing to go."
Even were he to become another Alexander or Caesar, both suffered the same fate.
It reminded him of the words of Plutarch.
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At the time of his death Caesar was fully fifty-six years old, but he had survived Pompey not much more than four years, while of the power and dominion which he had sought all his life at so great risks, and barely achieved at last, of this he had reaped no fruit but the name of it only, and a glory which had awakened envy on the part of his fellow citizens.
Edited by
Michael Vellas, Sep 6 2015, 09:49 AM.