06-19-2015, 06:45 PM
(Open thread)
Usually when Pervaya called White on his off hours, it was something involving an impromptu VIP job. It wasn't to talk to another operator about quitting the company. They had PR people for that sort of B/S. But, considering the person in question, it made sense.
So White had made a phone call, arranged a meeting, and a few hours later was seated in some high-end cafe in the heart of Moscow, the richest city in the world. As it wasn't exactly work related, White was dressed casually. Tan cargo pants and boots, button-down black shirt, sleeves rolled up tight and neat above the elbows, exposing powerful forearms. A tan shemagh was worn loose around his neck, serving as a scarf against the chill day air outside. A brown rough-leather jacket hung off the back of his seat, and the open black shirt hinted at the pistol holster worn on the left side of his chest.
Koloman sat opposite him, dressed in a snug navy-blue military-cut wool sweater and black cargo pants, his own pistol seated away in a simple hip holster. Both men carried their permits, of course, but firearms were, while not necessarily common, seen often enough in Moscow not to draw too many stares. The looks the two large, fit men drew in the high-end cafe were entirely based on their looks, instead.
Where White had a simple cup of black coffee, Koloman had chosen a London Fog. Earl Grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla flavouring. The man had a bit of a sweet tooth, it seemed. The barrista set their drinks on the table, and cast shy glances at either man as she did. White caught her gaze and flashed a ghost of a smile, and she blushed and quickly withdrew from the table. A tall, raven haired Russian beauty, but too shy for White's tastes. And besides, he was at the cafe for work-related reasons.
“So. I want to hear this from you, Koloman. What the fuck are you thinking?”
Koloman chuckled confidently and watched the waitress depart with their order, eyes lingering before looking to White. Both men shared a brief grin then they were back to business. “You should come with me. Hell, imagine the good you could do over there.”
White let out a bark of sarcastic laughter, “Good one. Do good in fucking Africa. I've killed enough of those bass-ackwards shitheads, thank you very much. Now what the fuck do you think you're going to accomplish?”
Koloman was still smiling; he was confident in his decision. He knew it was the right thing to do, and nothing White said was likely to rattle that belief. “The Legion's gearing up to do something big. Something good. What do we do here all day? Safeguard some spoiled rich sod that has never known a day of strife in their lives. Collect a fat pay check. Most of mine is spent on new suits, bribes, women, and at the gun range of course. Then what? Another fat-cat brat. There, we can save lives. Help people.”
White just stared incredulously at his coworker. Friend was perhaps too strong a word, although Koloman was likely the closest to one he had in Moscow. The man knew damn well how the world worked, and the naivety in which he spoke of going to Africa was almost painful. “Help people? For fucks sakes man. It's Africa. Nothing helps there. You can shoot all the warlords and child-soldiers you want. You'll miss a few, and they'll just step into the void. That's how it's always been. Fuck, even if you manage to prop up a new government, soon as you turn your back it just all goes to shit again. Every damn time.”
Koloman couldn't help but laugh at White's casual tone. As far as he seemed to care, they were talking about the benefits of different strains of grass seed. “This one is different, and you know it, White. He's been running around Africa all his life, and he still cares. You can see it in the press releases, the way the reporters aren't hounding him. He's not corrupt, so they have nothing to slander him with.”
“He's a rich playboy who inherited a company and has dreams of grandeur. He's going to get a lot of people killed, and that's all he'll be remembered for. And the pay is fucking terrible. Fuck, she makes more then one of those African private security twits.”
He nodded to the waitress who had returned with their drinks, and she glanced at him curiously when he referenced her.
“It's not about the pay. You saw what they did down south. His men went into that hell hole without hesitating. How many hundreds were saved?”
Koloman accepted his coffee from the waitress, and the girl glanced between the two men, hesitating a moment then leaving as another table waved or her attention.
“And for what? Two hundred of his men dead? You know full well what happened to their carcasses afterwards. And they may not have admitted it, but he got one hell of a fucking paycheck for it. Probably why he's got these damn delusions now. Chikadees go a lot further in Africa then that toilet paper half those hell holes use for money. Fuck, shiny rocks and pretty sea shells go farther.”
White had seen the press release, and had watched the combat footage. Who hadn't? It was powerful stuff. Wasn't a lot of editing involved. Hell, the man had sung to his dying troops. The man cared too much, and that was going to break him eventually. And when he eventually broke, a lot of people were going to die.
“When was the last time you did something that made that much of a difference, John? I'm growing soft here. Hell, I have no idea how you do it. I haven't been challenged in a long time. But that's not what it's about. I want to help people.”
“You already tried that one.”
White's tone was entirely deadpan, just staring at Koloman. “It's fucking Africa. One more gun isn't going to make a lick of difference there.”
Koloman smirked at that, “No, but I know more then how to just kill a man, John. So do you. Kill the right man, and do it the right way, and you take the fight out of his followers.”
“Just a matter of time before one of those half-starved idiots figure that out for themselves. You going to keep an eye on the Frenchie?”
Usually when Pervaya called White on his off hours, it was something involving an impromptu VIP job. It wasn't to talk to another operator about quitting the company. They had PR people for that sort of B/S. But, considering the person in question, it made sense.
So White had made a phone call, arranged a meeting, and a few hours later was seated in some high-end cafe in the heart of Moscow, the richest city in the world. As it wasn't exactly work related, White was dressed casually. Tan cargo pants and boots, button-down black shirt, sleeves rolled up tight and neat above the elbows, exposing powerful forearms. A tan shemagh was worn loose around his neck, serving as a scarf against the chill day air outside. A brown rough-leather jacket hung off the back of his seat, and the open black shirt hinted at the pistol holster worn on the left side of his chest.
Koloman sat opposite him, dressed in a snug navy-blue military-cut wool sweater and black cargo pants, his own pistol seated away in a simple hip holster. Both men carried their permits, of course, but firearms were, while not necessarily common, seen often enough in Moscow not to draw too many stares. The looks the two large, fit men drew in the high-end cafe were entirely based on their looks, instead.
Where White had a simple cup of black coffee, Koloman had chosen a London Fog. Earl Grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla flavouring. The man had a bit of a sweet tooth, it seemed. The barrista set their drinks on the table, and cast shy glances at either man as she did. White caught her gaze and flashed a ghost of a smile, and she blushed and quickly withdrew from the table. A tall, raven haired Russian beauty, but too shy for White's tastes. And besides, he was at the cafe for work-related reasons.
“So. I want to hear this from you, Koloman. What the fuck are you thinking?”
Koloman chuckled confidently and watched the waitress depart with their order, eyes lingering before looking to White. Both men shared a brief grin then they were back to business. “You should come with me. Hell, imagine the good you could do over there.”
White let out a bark of sarcastic laughter, “Good one. Do good in fucking Africa. I've killed enough of those bass-ackwards shitheads, thank you very much. Now what the fuck do you think you're going to accomplish?”
Koloman was still smiling; he was confident in his decision. He knew it was the right thing to do, and nothing White said was likely to rattle that belief. “The Legion's gearing up to do something big. Something good. What do we do here all day? Safeguard some spoiled rich sod that has never known a day of strife in their lives. Collect a fat pay check. Most of mine is spent on new suits, bribes, women, and at the gun range of course. Then what? Another fat-cat brat. There, we can save lives. Help people.”
White just stared incredulously at his coworker. Friend was perhaps too strong a word, although Koloman was likely the closest to one he had in Moscow. The man knew damn well how the world worked, and the naivety in which he spoke of going to Africa was almost painful. “Help people? For fucks sakes man. It's Africa. Nothing helps there. You can shoot all the warlords and child-soldiers you want. You'll miss a few, and they'll just step into the void. That's how it's always been. Fuck, even if you manage to prop up a new government, soon as you turn your back it just all goes to shit again. Every damn time.”
Koloman couldn't help but laugh at White's casual tone. As far as he seemed to care, they were talking about the benefits of different strains of grass seed. “This one is different, and you know it, White. He's been running around Africa all his life, and he still cares. You can see it in the press releases, the way the reporters aren't hounding him. He's not corrupt, so they have nothing to slander him with.”
“He's a rich playboy who inherited a company and has dreams of grandeur. He's going to get a lot of people killed, and that's all he'll be remembered for. And the pay is fucking terrible. Fuck, she makes more then one of those African private security twits.”
He nodded to the waitress who had returned with their drinks, and she glanced at him curiously when he referenced her.
“It's not about the pay. You saw what they did down south. His men went into that hell hole without hesitating. How many hundreds were saved?”
Koloman accepted his coffee from the waitress, and the girl glanced between the two men, hesitating a moment then leaving as another table waved or her attention.
“And for what? Two hundred of his men dead? You know full well what happened to their carcasses afterwards. And they may not have admitted it, but he got one hell of a fucking paycheck for it. Probably why he's got these damn delusions now. Chikadees go a lot further in Africa then that toilet paper half those hell holes use for money. Fuck, shiny rocks and pretty sea shells go farther.”
White had seen the press release, and had watched the combat footage. Who hadn't? It was powerful stuff. Wasn't a lot of editing involved. Hell, the man had sung to his dying troops. The man cared too much, and that was going to break him eventually. And when he eventually broke, a lot of people were going to die.
“When was the last time you did something that made that much of a difference, John? I'm growing soft here. Hell, I have no idea how you do it. I haven't been challenged in a long time. But that's not what it's about. I want to help people.”
“You already tried that one.”
White's tone was entirely deadpan, just staring at Koloman. “It's fucking Africa. One more gun isn't going to make a lick of difference there.”
Koloman smirked at that, “No, but I know more then how to just kill a man, John. So do you. Kill the right man, and do it the right way, and you take the fight out of his followers.”
“Just a matter of time before one of those half-starved idiots figure that out for themselves. You going to keep an eye on the Frenchie?”