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The bar at Sheffield station had quite a reputation. And an odour.
A man that looked like a university professor, and yet like something more, walked up to said bar, and gestured lightly to the bartender, who, without a word, provided a drink strong enough for the rest of the clientele, rather than some mincing prof.
"Is that them?", he asked the bartender, quietly, gesturing to a group at a corner table.
"Yessir, Mr Humboldt. I expect they'll give me cause to call in my security, before the night's out. What do you want with them anyway? They ain't Guild, and not even proper Mancunians."
"Would you also consider me to be an 'improper' Mancunian, as well, Jacob?"
"Well sir, you've never given trouble, Mr Humboldt."
"None that you're aware of, Jacob. None that you're aware of.." He downed his drink, gestured, and for his gesture, received another, winked, and walked with concealed purpose to the mixed bag of folks at the table in question.
He threw a large number of credits on the table. This tended to get people's attention, and to immediately put one in better favour. And so it did. Within limits.
One man, aged similarly to the professor, opened his mouth and eyes in a wide smile. It was an open question whether he was more, or less, threatening as a consequence of so doing.
"What can we do for you, Poindexter?"
Their bespectacled vistor smiled thinly." I believe it is more accurate to ask what we can do for each other." His accent betrayed his Rheinland origins, but only slightly. He sat, albeit a bit awkwardly.
The lone woman at the table looked at him intensely. He became self aware of the fact that she alone actually gave him any fear. Interesting. Her expression indicated that he was to continue, but also contained the hint that he'd better not be wasting their time, credits or not.
"I know of each of you. I have sources. You two", he said pointing to two men who hadn't yet shown much interest, "Hail from Leeds, or what is left of it. You have, or is it 'had', a security company. You are Phillip Blair, and Emery Gleen. And you drink here, and then go and kill as many Gallics as you can before you sober up. Not precisely a safe hobby, nor a lucrative one. Hmm?"
The two men glowered at the newcomer, who realized that he might have overestimated his chances with this bunch. Oh well, in for a Pfennig...
"And you, Mr McCread, also hail from Leeds, and have something of a reputation in the 'industry', though I daresay your reflexes aren't what they were, correct? Do not be offended; neither are mine. Time does that to us all."
"You, Mr Blaine, lost everything too. And what precisely are you doing to get any of it back, or make those who took it from you pay in a meaningful way?"
"And you, Ms Lynx", addressing the woman now, "I know you saw with your own eyes what happened to Leeds. I know little else, and yet still enough, about you to have a certain amount of misgiving about speaking to you. But needs must..."
She smiled. It wasn't warm. About 4 Kelvin, to be precise. "Go on...", she said.
He took a breath, and finished his second drink, then gestured to a tattooed barmaid for another round. And then continued.
"I have a 'chicken and egg' problem", he said. He let them chew on that phrase, but they remained nonplussed.
"I have some opportunities, and am working on others. But I have no pilots. And without pilots, my capacity to deliver on the, erm, 'projects' is limited, which strains my credibility with said clients." He paused, noting that all of them would play excellent poker. He simply could not read if he was getting through to them at all.
"And so," with the giveaway Rheinland 'zo', "I put to you a proposal."
"The Guild doesn't particularly want you. And frankly, it seems you want no part of them. Moreover, you, at least a few of you, will simply burn yourselves out. I understand that. You are motivated by revenge, and that eventually consumes one from the inside out, sooner or later."
"I posit the suggestion to you all that your desire for revenge can become concurrent with your desire, and my desire, for profit. Which, properly applied, can magnify your, or rather OUR, capacity for profit, and revenge."
The woman leaned foward, slowly. With precisely the right amount of menace.
"Why does a Rheinlander come here, now, and bring us this offer? I do not know your motives, and therefore see no reason to trust you in the slightest."
Their would-be patron smiled a tired smile.
"My name is Wilhelm Von Humboldt. I spent the better part of my adult life designing weapons for the Kanzler. And then killing a great many people with them."
"A very.. great many."
"For reasons which I shall not disclose, I am now here. Doing this. I am not 'home', nor can I be, for the foreseeable future. This characteristic, I share with you."
He downed his third drink, gently placed the glass upside down on the table, and looked at the five of them in turn. Then asked, quietly, and deliberately:
"So... what say you, to my offer?"
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//You will note this is a fully inRP Recruitment thread. What does that tell you? It is open to anyone who wishes to join and can RP. Not just Pew-Pew.
Mac McCread caught sight of the oddly dressed man as he strolled into the bar. He formed an impression, judging the threat level of the newly arrived patron. Low to non-existent, which was strange. Everyone drinking at this dive was a potential threat. What was he? A professor at some university?
He continued observing the man as he spoke with the bartender. The bartender handed the man a small drink. Mac's eyebrow raised ever so slightly as the man gulped down the drink in one go. That was not the drink of a professor. That was some serious rotgut. The threat level of this man just climbed up a couple of notches.
The bartender pointed over to his table with a scowl. Yeah, he didn't like the bartender much either. The professor grabbed another glass of rotgut and made his way over to them, reaching into his pocket for...a weapon?
Mac glanced at his mates at the table. Were they seeing this? Just as he was about to upturn the table and throw a chair at his attacker, the professor tossed a bag of credit chips on the table and flashed a self-assured smile. The bag landed with a loud thud. There was some serious jack being offered here. For a brief moment, Mac considered grabbing the bag and running. He was not a thief, but every man had their price, right? He quickly dismissed the idea, smiled largely at himself and listened for the catch. There was always a catch.
The professor's name was Humboldt. Something-something Humboldt. A Rheinlander. A weapon manufacturer. A killer. He seemed to take great pride in his work. He appeared to know much about him and his mates. Too much. Mac quickly reassessed the threat level of this man. High. Very high.
The offer was for his services as a mercenary. A chance at revenge. But more than that. A chance at redeeming his honor and dignity, his self-respect. Mac looked at the bag of credits. He would have accepted far less for this opportunity. He looked at his mates. He was fairly confident he knew what they would do. The look in their eyes was one of hope, or maybe just greed. It was difficult to tell the difference sometimes. Either way, his answer was set.
"Mr Humboldt," he said. "You've got yourself a pilot."
Two of the men, about 27 years old, looked at each other and then turned their attention back to the professor. One of the two sighed and drank a bit of inexpensive Scotch from a glass.
"Well, Mr Humboldt. It looks like your sources know their job. You're right about our names and jobs, but what about the rest, you know ... not the whole truth. Yes, we both were security company operators, and the remains of this company are what is sitting right in front of you. As for Gauls… We kill them, yeah. But only those, that call themselves Enclave, or those supporting them. And we don't fly when we're drunk. It's too risky, and we aren't idiots."
While his comrade negotiated with the professor, the second pilot kept an eye on the bar. He wore a polarized helmet and an old Bretonian Armed Forces flight suit. His tactical shotgun was hanging on his shoulder. However, two details gave away the fact that these guys had been working together for a long time. First was a shabby patch with the logo of an old security company. Both of them wore that on the right arm of their jackets. The other details were the bullet proof vests of the same model.
Emery Gleen continued his speech.
"Anyway, since we don't have work, I'd say I accept your offer. As for Phillip…"
He looked at his mate. Phillip didn't said anything. He just glanced on Emery and nodded.
"Well… you've got yourself two new pilots, Mr Humboldt."
A woman - in her late twenties, possibly early thirties at this point, could be seen staring from across the bar at the men who were being rather open and rowdy about joining together for something she didn't quite hear. But the commotion certainly caught her attention as she started getting up from the table. The moderately framed woman then made her way towards the grouping of men, listening more intently on what they were discussing. The formation of... something and two of them ready to be pilots for this old man. The prospect of some potential work made her gleeful. Since abandoning her post in both the Armed Forces, and then the Crayter Republic near the end of the Gallic War, she had been without something to do and mainly drifted from job to job in a vain attempt to keep afloat, and if this man was hiring... she'd be all in. Didn't matter if it was dirty work or not. Credits are credits, at least in this point in time.
"I don't know any of you, but the names Aeyrn Langley, and I'm interested in whatever this little shin-dig is. Use to fly for the Armed Forces and Crayter Republic. I can handle my own in a pickle, so don't discount me because of my small frame, yeah? If you've got the credits, you've got a pilot." She announced, butting into the conversation entirely, the red-headed petite framed woman continued though, eyeing the older man amongst them "Whatever line of work, I'm ya girl."
Wilhelm looked up from his drink. His liver had just told him that three was enough. He noted his liver's objections and considered them possibly worth considering.
The redhead was staring at him, waiting for an answer.
"Young Lady, if you really flew for the Armed Forces, and the Crayter Republic these last few years, you likely have more experience than I do. And I'm twice your age."
He raised his glass.
"You're in!"
Eve was sitting near the wall of the bar at Sheffield station. Her glass was near empty, on the table, half a dozen more like it. She wasn't trying to get drunk, no, she was just trying to maintain her intoxication in order to hold the hangover at bay. Her head was hammering already and she was in a foul mood, but as always, pretended like everything was fine. She had found a few drinking mates, or rather, some people she had duped into buying her a few rounds. Being an attractive woman had it's perks, and Eve knew how to take advantage of those.
Then, in comes a old man. He walked slowly, but deliberately towards the bar. Eve decided to pay him no mind, she wasn't in the mood for anything right now.
The man signaled to the barmaid, who served him up something right away. He then started addressing them. Humboldt was his name, former weapons designer for the Rheinwehr. She tried to ignore him, she was simply not in the mood right now.
He then turned around, and approached the table, Eve and her new friends were sitting at. He was looking for pilots. She rolled her eyes, not again. The Rheinlander began a monologue, it appears he had been eyeing them for a while, it seems he had been looking into them. He wanted them to join him, in an effort to create a mercenary syndicate of sorts. Their allegiances seemed, loose and impersonal, just how Eve had come to like things.
Eve sighed, She wasn't looking forward to where this were going, but, he bank account were in need of some deposits.
The Rheinlander concluded his speech, the others all opted in.
Humboldt glanced at her, he said no words, but his eyes clearly conveyed his intentions.
Her head was hammering, she knew he wouldn't take no for an answer.
All right then, i'm in
The day was slowly coming to an end for Heather. A long and tedious day at the office in a job that she thoroughly despised, a menial desk job that involved nothing more than stamping and signing a few papers where boredom thoroughly destroyed her. She would re-enact the same day everyday; wake up, go to work, visit the pub, sleep. A life almost not worth living for some but for Heather this was her way of making ends meat.
After sifting through all the available jobs she headed straight for the bar for the usual chit chat and drink. A tired arm stretched for a weary looking jacket which was slung over her shoulders as she walked out of the door. Emblems and insignia decorated the jacket, but most notably a few stood out. Dull Captain insignia worn proudly over her epaulettes, a scuffed badge that indicated she was an incredibly important person at one time. The XO of New Londons Primary First Fleet, serving directly under Fleet Admiral O'Brian. Unfortunately those glory days were behind her as her fleet was ruined at the Battle of New London leaving her and many others left for dead.
The bar was the veterans way of getting over the war. Having a drink or two easied the burdon on her shoulders and allowed her to relax just a little bit. Today, however, would be an unusual day for her. Just like any other day she walked into the bar and took a look around to see who was there. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a group of people making a small comotion but before she could investigate a stern voice bellowed from across the room.
"Miss Pearson" spoke the bar man. "You want a job? I'd suggest you speak to that man over there. He's looking for pilots. Good ones too" pointing at the oddly dressed man speaking to a small group of people. A nod was the only reply the bar man got as Heather found a table to sit at. Patience was certainly a virtue, something she learned while serving in the armed forces to great use. "Could this be the day I finally brake out of this terrible routine" she thought quietly to herself. "I will not miss this opportunity."
Some time passed and the gaggle of people finally disapeared leaving an opening for Heather. She stood up and slowly walked over. Although she appeared very confident deep down inside she felt like she wanted to collapse. Her legs were like jelly, she could barely move her arms. This was something she couldn't mess up.
"I hear you are looking for pilots" she spoke in a strong voice as she leaned in with her shoulder showing off her insignia and badges, specifically the pimary fleet "Good ones too."
Wilhelm looked at her jacket, and read each badge and insignia, knowingly and deliberately. He was nodding slightly.
"Young lady", he said quietly, "Some of these units didn't survive the war. Too many casualties."
He drained his glass of whisky, and continued:
"How do the Libertonians say it? 'You've seen some s**t'? Crude, but perhaps accurate in your case?"
"You are either very fortunate, or very skilled, but most likely both."
"We would be honoured to have you aboard."
Hangar decks are always bloody cold.
Wilhelm looked at the roster, and the sorry lot in front of him. He reflected on his own (brief) military experience and realized that it was possible to be hungover and still fly. Easier to shoot at somebody when you're grumpy.
"Bishop, Collishaw, and Mannock", he began. "You'll keep station at Freeport 1, Nottingham. You will stay alert for Bretonian alerts, and also, if we secure an agreement in Rheinland, you will be able to deploy there through Omega 7."
A couple of those ones shrugged. There were worse postings.
"Beauchamp, MacLaren, and McCullen. You'll be at Freeport 2, Bering. For service in Liberty, if needed, and again, Rheinland, if needed."
Those pilots were the most hungover. They didn't react at all; too occupied trying to put out the fire in their eye sockets. Maclaren, a female, looked the better of the three, if only because, from the stories told, she had the liver of a demigod, and could drink the others under the table, and apparently recently had.
"Barker, Dallas, and McElroy, you drew the short straws." He paused.
"You'll be stationed in Cortez, at Curacao." Wilhelm explained they were to support Liberty and Bretonia as needed. But he wasn't heard over their jubilant exclamations, and the groaning and griping from the others.
"Packing sunscreen, Barker?"
"Yeah, and your mom."
Several uplifted fingers were exchanged.
Professionals maybe. Ladies and Gentlemen not so much.
Wilhelm shook his head and made his way back to the office.
On the way back he yelled over his shoulder.
"You've been provided generous retainers. I expect frequent, though not constant, sobriety. I am a realist."
Hell, half of them likely fly better in the bag.
Robert Keane walked into the Sheffield station bar. He was a well-worn man in his late 30s. He was wearing a green beret and old, but still serviceable, light body armour bearing a Sergeant's stripes and the insignia of the 45 Commando Royal Marines. Most of the Four-five Commando had been lost attempting to hold the line against the Kusari Empire during the Tau War. The exoskeleton on his legs and his stiff, almost-robotic gait showed that, while he was luckier than most, he did not make it through the war unscathed. Most incongruously, given where he was and the rest of his outfit, a priest's collar was visible under the body armour. He walked up to the bartender.
"Good morning, Winston. Scotch and water, if you would. Hold the scotch, of course."
He smiled at his own joke, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. The bartender gave Father Keane a disapproving look, but poured a glass of water anyway. He took his water and sat down at an empty table and brought up the public job boards on the table's built-in terminal. Though the Guild kept the choicest work for itself, they did allow non-guild members to pick up the remaining work. Father Keane scrolled through the board for a while, but declined every job that came up, including a few easy and reasonably well paying ones. Eventually, sure that he wouldn't find what he was looking for, he closed out the terminal and settled in to drink his water.