Its flesh and bone were mixed concrete and dabbed plaster, no longer the ramshackle wood of old. The salt-cured surly atmosphere bowed out ages ago in favor of a carpeted and climate-controlled aura of class and respectability. The Flashing Swords Inn -- an ancient monument from the days when the nations and individuals fought for control of the waves -- had shelved its nasty, brutish past and tried to make itself more acceptable in the eyes of society.

The latest Inish pop song cast a lethargic waft through the quality sound system of the Flashing Swords, leaving patrons in a manageably civilized if not docile mood. Bawdy and uproarious wenching was but a phantasm here, the quiet small talk of small circles reigning as the social activity of now. The staff went about trying to uphold the new "classy" decorum of the Flashing Swords, enabled by the declining necessity for the constant vigilance of centuries. Hosts and hostesses ported over trays of drinks and steaming four-star meals. A bartender dressed in shirt and black bow certainly cast a professional image as he mixed Castillian orange and Ussuran vodka as one in an ice-laden glass. Behind him, bottles of every national origin sat in a quiet gallery of shelves, hardly a dust speckling them. And yet only one sat at the bar near him.

The sole patron sitting at the bar spending his moments in between Inish whisky staring at those bottles and the bowl of pretzels old enough to be Syrneth, lost in wandering contemplation. Khaki trench coat draped down over the man's broad shoulders, an imperial cape stripped of hue; blonde hair was neatly tied down in a ponytail. Through his private meditation the man kept a straight lip, his caterpillar moustache staying rigid effortlessly. Dark irises flitted between the colorful lamp-shaped flasks of Eisen schnapp and the glass of whiskey he clasped in prayer between leather driving gloves.

"You're awful quiet there, Alexander," the bartender noted as he set the screwdriver down on a tray before a serving girl appropriated it.

The blonde glanced at him. "So?" he asked with a distinctly Montaigne tenor.

"Usually you bother with a 'Hey Julian,'" the bartender replied. "Not even that tonight. Spill."

Alexander snorted a brief smirk. "Waiting for word on a job offer."

"You? Lookin' fer work?" Julian huffed at the image. Alexander lined up for an interview, indeed.

"Steady income." Alexander finished half of the whiskey, watching ice slowly melt.

"Pardon me if I have trouble associating you with a steady anything."

"My usual money is sporadic at best."

"Point taken. So, how did you get this far anyway? Browsing through classifieds?" The smirk on Julian was sublime as hair.

"Hmph," the trenchcoated man pondered in recollection. "A bit on the mysterious actually. Got a phone call a couple days ago. Man said his employers were impressed with my credentials and lineage. Could use someone like me. Right."

An eyebrow raised on the bartenders face. "Lineage? What's up with that? You're in line fer some crazy old uncle's inheritance?"

"Heh. I wish," Alexander snorted to himself. "Can't figure out that part either. Not complaining though if it means I don't have to squeeze a budget."

"Yah, means you might actually have a shot at paying off yer tab."

Alexander snorted again. "Cute."

Julian wiped some glasses dry true to bartending tradition. "So, when do you get word on if you've got a paycheck or not?"

"Tonight. Don't know when." The caterpillar stretched taught and low on his face.

Julian noted the moustache and his gut roiled for attention that only a proper restroom could relieve. "You need to smile more Alexander. Every time I see that frown nothing good comes of it."

"What do you mean?"

It was then that the constant drone of easy pop grew louder, or rather the patronage and staff of the Flashing Swords Inn grew quieter. Alexander looked over his shoulder towards the front door. A small crowd of gang types had welcomed themselves towards the upper class scenery down the street past the windows; their gritty urban jackets and tees making it impossible for them to blend in. The blood-hued bandannas they all wore certainly didn't dissuade anyone from thinking them as local street punks either. The squads worth of pistols and shotguns in their tow was merely the topping that sent the unspoken suggestion to the servers to subtly back out of the scenery; Julian assumed an instinctual stance, namely of submerging eye level beneath the bar. The other patrons merely looked on as spectators at a coliseum, looking for an extra slow hold on security.

The apparent gang leader had scoped the defensive and leery faces here and there, smirking until his eyes met the sight of Alexander glancing nonchalant over the shoulder. Spit-hissing in contemptuous disbelief, the punk looked to his associates. "That the guy?" his gestures conveyed to those who could read them, Alexander being one such. Another hoodlum nodded, and soon afterwards the blonde Montaigne found himself tumbling over the bar top a heartbeat ahead of the inaugural fireworks.

Screams and shattered glass harmonized the thundering chords of pellets and bullets that heralded ancient memories of the Flashing Swords Inn. Business dinners and dinner dates became emergency drills as people ducked under the tables and booths without hesitation. Alexander crawled behind the bar into the kitchen doorway.

After a few seconds of metal blizzard, the gang ceased fire and rudely swarmed into the Flashing Swords Inn, first checking over the bar only to find a faultlessly cringing Julian. "The kitchen!" the gang leader shouted to the others and soon a small wolf pack clumped boldly into a charge across the swinging doors. The cooking staff prudently vacated the area during the initial barrage, leaving half-prepared ingredients and completed platters of steak, marlin, and other pricey meals at their mercy. Pots boiled and pans sizzled, one wall lined with the steel of a walk-in freezer.

They started the motions of a methodical sweep, when the sight of the rear exit gaping open caught their collective attention. Most of the Bandannas swarmed on out through it, but a few took the moment to prey on helpless four-star course sitting out in the open.

One of the stragglers ripped off a chunk from a T-bone and chewed on it. "Too salty," he scowled.

The second stared at him with annoyance, picking up steak tartare and gobbling them crudely. "Whaddaya bitching about? How often you get a free meal that costs more than a night with your mama?"

The third hoodlum snorted and almost choked on the filet mignon that he was eating like a burger. Three little friends were dining like kings.

"The food's just fine."

The Bandannas stopped chewing to look in the direction of that voice. Three little friends never saw the freezer door swing. There stood the Montaigne, lips grim and straight. Black eyes glared upon them barely recognizing their existence. Chrome death gleamed in each of his hands; index fingers nestled over the triggers in a subtle caress.

Alexander never understood why it felt so natural and effortless. Only that he could feel it in his blood literally, whatever it was. The automatics were natural extensions of his arms, the triggers spongy with each pull. Thundering staccato resonated with sublime clarity, the recoils reminded him how alive the moment truly was. Oh how the Bandannas danced... their torsos jerked in spasms as he tore gaping wound after wound into them, spiraling around and taking brief flight before they collapsed onto the marble floor moribund. Blood painted the kitchen with rivers and flowers, a sickening contrast to the warm welcome of food. And just as it had started, the dance ended in a matter of heartbeats and smoking muzzles. Alexander sighed reluctantly as he ejected spent clips and slapped a fresh load into each pistol. Messed up one of the best kitchens he ever knew.

"Son of a bitch!"

A sudden crack and the ping of a bullet deflected by a hanging pan snapped him back in focus. The rest of the gang had rushed back inside, and only the horrified exclamation of one seeing the carcasses that were their brothers gave him the briefest of warnings. But it was enough. Alexander scooted behind the hanging freezer door, more sparks of deflected shots nipping at his heels before pellets and bullets dented and bounced off the chrome portal. Peering around with instinct and experience, his dark eyes caught two more of the Bandannas skulking towards his position under the cover of fellow hoodlums just starting to pass by a fire extinguisher hanging on a wall stand. Alexander aimed one of his pistols and squeezed off a shot; the canister exploded in a loud burst of cold powder, frazzling the nerves of the approaching gangsters in that instance. They barely had the opportunity to regain their senses and look at him before a flurry of jacketed steel added their lifeblood to the ever-growing crimson.

He ducked into the chill of the freezer again, biding just enough time to reload once more amidst the ever-changing storm of lead. Alexander liked the Flashing Swords, and resentment welled at how the bandanna-clad punks forced him to defile the kitchens sanctity. Satisfied that both pistols were ready he turned to face the gang and suppressed them briefly with a steady barrage, backing himself against the swinging doors. Squeezing off a few more rounds into the kitchen, he stepped into the carpeted interior of the main room, unperturbed by the graveness of his predicament.

Immediately spinning to face the front door, Alexander's eyes widened as a pair of lingering thugs raised their guns and blasted away. Blood churned thick in his veins with the abruptness of his lean back against a wall. Stucco chipped and powdered too close for his liking. Alexander returned the favor to them, dropping one with a bullet through the chest and drilling the second clean as he tried to turn and flee. Left hand twirled the automatic and holstered it at his side before a handful of crumpled paper was grabbed from a trench coat pocket. He set the wads of money on the bar top. "Damages," he mused to the cringing bartender before the pistol was redrawn and twirled back into action. The double doors creaked violently and Julian caught sight of another Bandanna in leather jacket with a pump-action; a warning welled up in his mouth. Astonishment then replaced terror in a single gasp as he watched Alexander whip his right arm out behind himself, another crackle of thunder bursting through the leather-clad man before he collapsed.

Cold exhale, cold sweat and cold veins permeated his body as he stepped out into the lamp lit parking lot just outside the Flashing Swords Inn. Twin automatics gripped in reassurance and defense, Alexander did not even spare a glance to the people who gave him prudent berth. He merely kept on walking, perhaps waiting for those bandanna-wearing thugs to catch up so he could finish the affair. Already in the distance he could hear the shrill screams of the police sirens drifting towards the Flashing Swords. He didnt note which buildings he went past or which street he took, just simply tried to walk off the coldness that lingered.

A polite clapping snapped him out of his brooding. A man attired immaculately in Vodacce tailoring had subtly concealed in the shadows between lampposts, nodding with approval; his unseen face was an inconvenient mystery to the weary gunman. "Alexander du Paix," the accented voice chuckled. "You certainly live up to the name."

Blonde eyebrows furrowed as he raised a pistol towards the shadowy figure. "The answer had better be acceptable, for your sake."

"My apologies for that sordid affair Mister du Paix, but my employer simply would not accept my voucher of your talents. An audition was required to convince my employer that you were more than capable of doing what you and I know are quite aware of."

"An audition?" Alexander's eyes narrowed at the shadow man. "Is there a reason you shouldn't be the curtain closer?" He thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

"My sincere apologies Mister du Paix. Some employers are quite demanding when it comes to finding good help. I hope you understand."

"I take it this means I've got the job, whatever it is."

"Well, we do have to formalize some necessary legalities Mister du Paix, but you are pretty much a shoe-in, as they say in Avalon." As through some unheard, unseen cue a dark limousine drifted silently on the street next to the two men. The door opened automatically, the maw within an opulent couch of velvet furnished with a small wet bar.

"Please take a seat and help yourself to the amenities," the stranger gestured to the interior of the vehicle. "You can use rest and relaxation after your amazing performance, and we have to discuss the terms of your employment."

Alexander looked between the man and the limousine slowly, contemplating the surge of awareness and information before he holstered his automatics with a twirl and slipped inside with defensiveness. The shadowy man followed him in and shut the door. Still with the barest of sounds, the black limousine drifted down the lamp lit streets and into the night.