Post by Connor Kent on Oct 13, 2019 18:00:20 GMT -5
The Night Shift was a small diner that stood on the corner of Doherty and 82nd Street, nestled at the busy intersection of Lower and Upper East Side. There, it had stood for 28 years, serving as a beacon for Gotham’s weathered workers of collars white and blue. In the cramped spaces, on uneven seats shored up with ancient lengths of duct tape, ghostly accountants rubbed shoulders with dishevelled electricians, and lawyers, security guards, and bartenders alike hunched like war-wounded over steaming cups of coffee, staring vacantly through the steamed glass windows into the shimmering street outside.
There were two figures standing, side by side, as stoic and resolute as the bronze titans that stood sentry over Old Gotham. With their backs to the warm glow of the diner, they watched the road, unflinching in the glare of passing cars, and waited. And although it was plain that these young men were waiting together, they each made a concerted effort to act as if they were very much alone. Connor liked it that way. His neighbour was a 19-year-old wannabe gangbanger called Ángel Flores, but for reasons not lost on him, he preferred to go by the name El Toro. It suited him, he supposed. Ángel was a man of average height, and he was broad-shouldered and muscular, which in turn gave him all the definition of a brick wall; he took himself very seriously, a trait which, when coupled with his violent temper and loud mouth, made for an unappealing travelling companion.
It was not that Connor was some kind of saint. There was just something about humouring a guy who unironically called his spiked knuckle dusters the Bull’s Horns that didn’t sit well with him. There were plenty of colourful characters amongst the Soldiers’ ranks, but there was none that tested his humble patience more than El Toro. So, he stood in silence, and studied the oncoming traffic, with the chainsaw guitar riffs of Megadeth pumping directly into ears. There were all kinds of music, he couldn’t remember the names of them all, just the ones he loved and hated. He hated pop music, and dance music, and country music – they said nothing to him that mattered. Metal, he loved. It was loud and powerful and relentless; listening to a metal track was like being wrapped inside cocoon of thunderous drumbeats, war cry vocals, and furious cyclone solos – it was a maelstrom of sound that kept the world at bay. But it was also criminally misunderstood music, dismissed by many as angry incoherent noise, and demonised by some as a bad influence, dangerous even. If people just stopped to listen, they’d discover a depth and complexity alien to any of Dustin Weeber’s songs, and more fiery passion than anything written by Ted Sheeran. El Toro was one of those people who called it noise, but then, he liked rap, which was talking fast over other people’s music – Connor didn’t get it.
A familiar-looking Honda CR-V rolled up to the diner, gunmetal grey, with dark windows, and… it was immaculate. There was only one person meticulous enough to keep his car untouched by the ubiquitous grime of Gotham City. The passenger window lowered, and the driver regarded them both over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Get in.”
Ezekiel White was wearing a cream shirt paired with an ornate silk tie and an expression that left no room for nonsense; he never wore anything else. Where Ángel insisted on being called El Toro, Ezekiel – never Zeke – had earned for himself the fitting title, Wall Street. Beneath the veneer of smart professionalism, he was just another grunt, but this was who he was: serious, ordered, and with a mind for sharp analytical detail. It was this unique quality that put him in the rarefied position of money-handler for the Soldiers, and there was scarcely a job that he didn’t have a hand in planning. He was everything El Toro was not, and the opposite was also true. They made a balanced, if unlikely, team.
Connor climbed into the back of the Honda, he knew his place in the pecking order, as did his young neighbour. Cullen was just a kid, maybe 14, maybe 15, though he looked like he was fresh out of diapers compared to everyone else. Connor knew not to be fooled by appearances; Cullen was already a Soldier with some experience behind him by the time he joined. Like him, the kid didn’t say a lot until he had to. It was the talent of going unnoticed, a skill Connor had developed quickly out of necessity, but one that the kid honed across the span of years until it was practically an artform. And he could only assume why because, when it came to his past, the kid let nothing slip. And he respected that, too.
They sat in silence as Wall Street navigated a convoluted route through Upper East Side, and Connor put Megadeth to bed to avoid disturbing the sanctity of Ezekiel’s temple. Absently, he wondered what kind of music their designated driver liked, if he liked any music at all. He struggled to marry any of the sub-genres of popular music with the well-ordered man across from him. He was a blank slate. Beneath that cap, he knew the kid had an extraordinary head of curly hair, and he liked the mental image of him rocking out to Metallica with those curls in full flow. Before a smirk could take shape, he turned and looked out the window.
Outside, the city was shrinking, the tightly-packed concrete monoliths giving way to a humbler, more erratic urban sprawl. The chunky SUV slowed to a roll alongside a chain-link fence, and turned into a large yard with a skewed red sign overhead which read, in faded gold lettering: Lockhart’s of Gotham. On either side, rows of locked storage units, like garages that had lost their homes, and ahead, a black Chevy pickup truck. It was empty and dark, and parked beside the only open storage unit in the yard. In the light that spilled out onto the gravel, shadows moved but no-one appeared. The engine was switched off, making the silence choking and absolute. Wall Street and El Toro shared a glance, and climbed out the car. Connor followed, opening his door.
“The fuck you goin’, Lankenstein?” Ángel scowled like he smelled a fart, “Get yo’ ass back in the car while the adults do business.”
A glance to Ezekiel, who straightened his cuffs, entirely unconcerned by his partner’s words, confirmed that he was not needed, or wanted. After a reluctant, dignity-preserving half-beat, he retreated back into the car and found, to his frustration, that even the kid had the good sense not to get out. He watched them disappear into the open storage unit, and when there was no sound of a disturbance, he sank deeper into the seat. Then, as casually as possible, he threw a glance across to Cullen.
“So, what do you think, Crow? Another weed run? Hot car parts?”
There were two figures standing, side by side, as stoic and resolute as the bronze titans that stood sentry over Old Gotham. With their backs to the warm glow of the diner, they watched the road, unflinching in the glare of passing cars, and waited. And although it was plain that these young men were waiting together, they each made a concerted effort to act as if they were very much alone. Connor liked it that way. His neighbour was a 19-year-old wannabe gangbanger called Ángel Flores, but for reasons not lost on him, he preferred to go by the name El Toro. It suited him, he supposed. Ángel was a man of average height, and he was broad-shouldered and muscular, which in turn gave him all the definition of a brick wall; he took himself very seriously, a trait which, when coupled with his violent temper and loud mouth, made for an unappealing travelling companion.
It was not that Connor was some kind of saint. There was just something about humouring a guy who unironically called his spiked knuckle dusters the Bull’s Horns that didn’t sit well with him. There were plenty of colourful characters amongst the Soldiers’ ranks, but there was none that tested his humble patience more than El Toro. So, he stood in silence, and studied the oncoming traffic, with the chainsaw guitar riffs of Megadeth pumping directly into ears. There were all kinds of music, he couldn’t remember the names of them all, just the ones he loved and hated. He hated pop music, and dance music, and country music – they said nothing to him that mattered. Metal, he loved. It was loud and powerful and relentless; listening to a metal track was like being wrapped inside cocoon of thunderous drumbeats, war cry vocals, and furious cyclone solos – it was a maelstrom of sound that kept the world at bay. But it was also criminally misunderstood music, dismissed by many as angry incoherent noise, and demonised by some as a bad influence, dangerous even. If people just stopped to listen, they’d discover a depth and complexity alien to any of Dustin Weeber’s songs, and more fiery passion than anything written by Ted Sheeran. El Toro was one of those people who called it noise, but then, he liked rap, which was talking fast over other people’s music – Connor didn’t get it.
A familiar-looking Honda CR-V rolled up to the diner, gunmetal grey, with dark windows, and… it was immaculate. There was only one person meticulous enough to keep his car untouched by the ubiquitous grime of Gotham City. The passenger window lowered, and the driver regarded them both over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Get in.”
Ezekiel White was wearing a cream shirt paired with an ornate silk tie and an expression that left no room for nonsense; he never wore anything else. Where Ángel insisted on being called El Toro, Ezekiel – never Zeke – had earned for himself the fitting title, Wall Street. Beneath the veneer of smart professionalism, he was just another grunt, but this was who he was: serious, ordered, and with a mind for sharp analytical detail. It was this unique quality that put him in the rarefied position of money-handler for the Soldiers, and there was scarcely a job that he didn’t have a hand in planning. He was everything El Toro was not, and the opposite was also true. They made a balanced, if unlikely, team.
Connor climbed into the back of the Honda, he knew his place in the pecking order, as did his young neighbour. Cullen was just a kid, maybe 14, maybe 15, though he looked like he was fresh out of diapers compared to everyone else. Connor knew not to be fooled by appearances; Cullen was already a Soldier with some experience behind him by the time he joined. Like him, the kid didn’t say a lot until he had to. It was the talent of going unnoticed, a skill Connor had developed quickly out of necessity, but one that the kid honed across the span of years until it was practically an artform. And he could only assume why because, when it came to his past, the kid let nothing slip. And he respected that, too.
They sat in silence as Wall Street navigated a convoluted route through Upper East Side, and Connor put Megadeth to bed to avoid disturbing the sanctity of Ezekiel’s temple. Absently, he wondered what kind of music their designated driver liked, if he liked any music at all. He struggled to marry any of the sub-genres of popular music with the well-ordered man across from him. He was a blank slate. Beneath that cap, he knew the kid had an extraordinary head of curly hair, and he liked the mental image of him rocking out to Metallica with those curls in full flow. Before a smirk could take shape, he turned and looked out the window.
Outside, the city was shrinking, the tightly-packed concrete monoliths giving way to a humbler, more erratic urban sprawl. The chunky SUV slowed to a roll alongside a chain-link fence, and turned into a large yard with a skewed red sign overhead which read, in faded gold lettering: Lockhart’s of Gotham. On either side, rows of locked storage units, like garages that had lost their homes, and ahead, a black Chevy pickup truck. It was empty and dark, and parked beside the only open storage unit in the yard. In the light that spilled out onto the gravel, shadows moved but no-one appeared. The engine was switched off, making the silence choking and absolute. Wall Street and El Toro shared a glance, and climbed out the car. Connor followed, opening his door.
“The fuck you goin’, Lankenstein?” Ángel scowled like he smelled a fart, “Get yo’ ass back in the car while the adults do business.”
A glance to Ezekiel, who straightened his cuffs, entirely unconcerned by his partner’s words, confirmed that he was not needed, or wanted. After a reluctant, dignity-preserving half-beat, he retreated back into the car and found, to his frustration, that even the kid had the good sense not to get out. He watched them disappear into the open storage unit, and when there was no sound of a disturbance, he sank deeper into the seat. Then, as casually as possible, he threw a glance across to Cullen.
“So, what do you think, Crow? Another weed run? Hot car parts?”
