Stepping into the office, Vince immediately noticed Calder had freshened up—or at least attempted to. The man still wore the same blue vest and black slacks, but the bloodied sleeves of his shirt had been replaced with a cleaner, albeit wrinkled, button-up. His vest was buttoned neatly now, giving him a more composed appearance, though the aura of violence still clung to him like smoke.
Calder leaned back in his oversized leather chair, his fingers laced together as he gave Vince a broad smile, his eyes brimming with curiosity. "So," Calder began, gesturing to the folding metal chair, which he pushed toward Vince with his foot, "what are you about to propose? And please, sit down."
Vince didn't move immediately, his gaze sweeping over the room again before settling on the chair. With a faint shrug, he lowered himself into the cold, flimsy seat, his posture casual. Calder leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk, still smiling. "Well?" he asked again.
Vince lit his cigarette, the small flame briefly illuminating his face, and exhaled a thin plume of smoke. "I heard about the big fight between you and the Iron Fangs a few weeks ago," he said, his tone casual, almost conversational.
Calder chuckled, spreading his arms wide. "Indeed, indeed," he said lightly. "Well, it was just another normal day for everyone around here—nothing special, I assure you."
"Oh?" Vince replied, his voice steady, the smoke curling lazily from his lips. "The rumors I've been hearing suggest otherwise. Word is, you've been looking for their hideout."
Calder's expression didn't falter, but there was the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masked with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It is true," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "But that's not exactly an urgent matter right now." His face betrayed a carefully crafted nonchalance, though his fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
"Are you sure about that?" Vince asked, his voice calm but with a faint edge. "Because from what I just witnessed—your effort, if I can say—seems... less than fruitful." He smirked slightly, the cigarette still perched between his fingers.
Calder's smile didn't waver, but he leaned forward again, resting his chin lightly on one hand as he spoke. "You know," he said, his voice smooth but tinged with amusement, "there's a story I heard before. A man strolling through the woods may hear the sounds of a scuffle between two wolves. Now, it may tempt him to interfere—curiosity always does—but those wolves? They don't care for onlookers. They don't appreciate their business being interrupted. And the man? He usually walks away with a lot less than he started with, if he's lucky enough to walk away at all."
"Are you stupid? You're really sure about chasing away the one guy who's about to hand you the Iron Fangs' location?" Vince asked, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. One eyebrow arched upward, giving him a look of amused disbelief.
BAM!
The sudden sound of Calder's hands slamming onto the desk broke the tension, the impact sending the scattered cigarette packs and half-empty whiskey bottles bouncing and rattling across the surface. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment as Calder's face darkened, the light casting sharp shadows over his features. His expression was unreadable, his emotions buried beneath a mask of shadow and intensity.
Then, with an almost startling swiftness, Calder moved. He was behind Vince in an instant, his hands clapping onto Vince's shoulders with surprising ease. His grip was firm but oddly warm as he began massaging them, a gesture so out of place it bordered on absurd.
"Oh my, why didn't you say so earlier?" Calder's voice took on a silky, almost exaggerated warmth, the hard edge from before evaporating into something almost nothingness. "You're holding all the cards, my friend—keeping secrets like that? That's just cruel." He chuckled, his tone like that of an indulgent host trying to make amends.
"I didn't want to interrupt your fascinating bedtime story," Vince replied dryly, the faint grin still lingering on his face as he reached into his leather jacket. With a swift movements, he pulled out a small stack of photographs, placing them facedown on the desk. His hand lingered on top of them, his fingers tapping lightly against the surface as if savoring the moment.
Calder stepped to Vince's side, his gaze darting toward the photos like a vulture spotting fresh meat. "Ah, you're a funny man," he said, chuckling as he eased his stance. "Just a little chatty when meeting a friend, eh? Don't mind me—I like a little banter now and then."
He leaned slightly toward the desk, his hand inching toward the photos with casualness, his curiosity almost palpable.
But Vince was faster. With a quick flick of his wrist, he swept his hand across the pictures, pulling them just out of Calder's reach. "Ah ah," Vince said, his tone playful, his smirk growing slightly wider. "Not so fast. Back to back, remember? I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
Calder tilted his head, stepping back slightly but never taking his eyes off the photos. "Yes, of course," he said, his voice dipping into something smoother, almost oily. "What is it?"
He slid back into his oversized chair, the leather groaning under his weight. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, but his gaze remained fixed on the photos, his curiosity now barely concealed.
Monday, October 14, 2024
Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City
Bog Bay City Harbor
The Iron Fangs Hideout
Noon
In the dimly lit cargo hold of the freighter, the atmosphere was electric with tension. The Iron Fangs' hideout hummed with chaotic energy as Dante, their leader, barked orders at his underlings. His voice sharp like broken glass, cut through the metallic clang of weapons being distributed and the shuffle of boots on the steel floor.
"Move it! Faster, you lazy bastards!" Dante snarled, pacing across the hold like a caged wolf. His heavy boots thudded against the grated flooring, each step echoing off the steel walls of the ship.
The gang's members scrambled to arm themselves, pulling out an assortment of melee weapons from a rusted crate shoved against the far wall. A burly man with tattoos spiraling down both arms grabbed a nail-studded bat, giving it a few experimental swings to test its weight. The nails gleamed faintly in the dim light, their jagged tips ready to tear into flesh.
Nearby, a wiry thug, his face obscured by a dirty bandana, examined a length of heavy chain, testing its weight as he let it coil around his fist like a snake. He gave it a sharp flick, the links clattering ominously as they struck the metal floor.
Others dug into the crate, pulling out all manner of brutal tools. One pulled a crowbar, its edges dulled but still capable of delivering bone-breaking blows. Another gripped a machete with a chipped blade, running his thumb along the edge with a smirk.
One of the younger members, barely out of his teens, fumbled nervously with a pair of brass knuckles, his hands trembling as he tried to slide them on. "You better not freeze out there," growled an older member, jabbing a finger at him. "Or I'll use these on you myself."
A short, stocky man retrieved a hammer, its wooden handle wrapped in duct tape for a better grip. He hefted it over his shoulder, grinning wide enough to show his gold tooth. "We're gonna make a mess, boys," he muttered, his words dripping with anticipation.
Dante stopped mid-step, his sharp eyes darting over the gang as they armed themselves. "Enough screwing around!" he barked, his tone carrying the weight of authority.
"You think this is playtime? When we hit them, we hit hard. No one pulls punches. No one holds back!" Dante's voice carried like a storm through the freighter's hold. He paced, his eyes scanning the men like a wolf circling his pack. "The little piggy," he continued, "just told me he's gonna make a distraction in roughly an hour. So be ready. We hit them by the east side, across the water. The docked ships will be our cover."
That was when a scarred thug, his face twisted in fury, spoke up. "Are you sure that motherfucker will keep his promise, boss? Are we really stooping so low to rely on a goddamn po-po?"
The murmurs rose like an uneasy tide. Another voice—this one from the short, stocky thug—chimed in, his tone laced with doubt. "Are you sure this isn't a trap? We're low on numbers, boss. If we get wiped in this fight, that's it for us."
One question led to another, the room filling with a low rumble of worried voices. The tension was palpable, like a frayed wire ready to snap.
BAM!
Dante slammed his fists against the steel wall of the freighter, the clang so loud it silenced the room instantly. The noise blasted through the hold, making the men flinch and stop mid-whisper.
"Shut the fuck up!" Dante's roar echoed with the kind of fury that demanded obedience. His eyes blazed with intensity, he stepped forward, commanding the attention of every man in the room.
"You think I don't know the risks? You think I haven't thought of every goddamn way this could go sideways?" His voice was razor-sharp, cutting through their doubts. "We've been low on numbers since those Marlin bastards tried to wipe us out. But let me ask you this—do you think lying down and whining is gonna change that? You think sitting around and waiting for mercy is how we survive? Fuck no!"
He spun to the scarred thug, pointing a calloused finger at him. "You're scared we're working with a cop? You think it makes us weak? Let me tell you something—this ain't about pride. This is about winning. You use every tool, every weapon, every fucking edge you've got. You think the Marlins fight fair? Hell no, they'd stab you in the back while shaking your hand. And we're gonna do worse."
He turned to the group as a whole, pacing like a predator in a cage. "You're scared this might be a trap? Guess what—everything in life is a goddamn trap if you're not the one pulling the strings. You don't fight, you die. You don't take risks, you rot in the gutter while they laugh over your corpse."
Dante slammed his fist into his palm, his voice rising like a battle cry. "But not today. Today, we hit them back. We show them why the fuck we're called the Iron Fangs. We don't just bite—we tear their throats out and leave nothing but bones behind!"
The room began to stir, the men shifting from nervous hesitation to something darker—something angrier.
He pointed toward the far wall where their weapons lay stacked. "You're low on numbers? Who gives a shit? You've still got fists, blades, chains, bats, and the goddamn will to use them. Numbers don't mean a damn thing when you've got the guts to go for the kill."
Then, his voice dropped lower, simmering with menace as he leaned toward them. "The Black Marlins think they've already won. They think we're broken. But today, we remind those motherfuckers who we are. We make them bleed. We make them beg. We burn their dreams down and piss on their ashes."
He straightened, his chest heaving, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Now tell me—are you Iron Fangs, or are you cowards?"
The room erupted into a chorus of shouts and growls, the men pounding their weapons against the floor or slamming fists into open palms.
"That's what I thought!" Dante barked, his grin savage as he raised his arms. "Now gear up, and get ready. We're gonna show those sons of bitches what it means to fuck with us!"
The hold was alive now, the men buzzing with bloodthirsty energy as they moved faster to prepare. Dante stood at the center of it, his presence a dark force driving the Iron Fangs toward war.