GrafvonMoltke
Shoutbox Purity League
Chapter Three - The Battle of Beanertown
Part One - The Priest and the Pauper
Sunday, 21st of September, 2042. St. Proverbius Church, between Globohomo Central and the dilapidated shacks and shanties known as Beanertown.
In the tropical heat of New Codexia, a modestly-sized church sits nestled between pretty suburban houses and a small shopping precinct. Its spires and steeples point triumphantly outward into the sky, as if to reach up to God himself in his heavenly realm. It's the Lord's day, almost lunchtime. As life buzzes around the church, the people coming and going, a congregation gathered within its walls hums its own tune.
The church is alive with the sounds of holy scripture: a fiery sermon delivered by the Padre himself. The people packed in amongst the cramped pews listen attentively, hanging on the preacher's every word.
Father Pedro, the conveniently un-avatared priest:
God? What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us. Just a stranger on the bus. Tryin' to make his way home?
The crowd murmurs its approval. At the back of the room, a cloaked woman starts chanting, swaying back and forth.
Father Pedro, the conveniently un-avatared priest:
Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers. Just because he doesn't answer doesn't mean he don't care. Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.
The message reaches the huddled masses squeezed within the crowded aisles like a warm glove greets a shivering hand on a cold Irkutskian morning. The crowd is a mish-mash of various groups, most of whom live in the slums to the west rather than the cosy detached houses to the east. Slavs, Brazilians, Mexicans. The downtrodden peoples of Codexia.
Despite the preacher's invigorating words, he sweats profusely under his clergical garments, looking down at the freshly-printed piece of paper lying on the pulpit's lectern. Thank God nobody has noticed that he has been reciting nothing but song lyrics for the last twenty minutes.
Father Pedro, the conveniently un-avatared priest:
Lord give me a sign. I really need to talk to you Lord. Since the last time we talked the work has been hard. Now I know you haven't left me.
Father Pedro, a kind yet somewhat clueless man, is not the regular priest at St. Proverbius. Most of his time as a junior priest at the church has so far been spent fetching water for the regular priest, Father Fluent, and the occasional charity drive down amongst the poor of the eyesore to the west. When Father Fluent was called away last moment on "business", the responsibility for Sunday service naturally fell to the junior priest, even though he had no practical experience of doing so.
His first step was to go to google.
Father Pedro, the conveniently un-avatared priest:
You are the strength that keeps me walking. You are the hope that keeps me trusting. You are the light to my soul. You are my purpose. You're everything.
Still, no-one seems to mind too much. The assorted slavs and favella-dwellers don't speak English as their first language, and not many of those in the crowd seem to recognise the lyrics. Some don't understand anything at all.
Father Pedro, the conveniently un-avatared priest:
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold and she's buying a stairway-
The heavy wooden doors at the church's main entrance suddenly swing inward violently, as if slammed open by God himself. The assorted band of rag-tag rogues and killers that now stands in the doorway certainly haven't been sent by God, or by any other divine entity.
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger no.1:
Ey, holmes. Check out these chingados.
The gang of vatos saunters slowly, menacingly, into the church. These bad hombres are all armed to the teeth with automatic weaponry, and their eyes glisten with malicious intent. Red-turbans rest snugly on their bald heads. A number of them grab their crotches provokingly. The female parishioners blush and turn away silently.
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger no.2:
Do me a solid, lady. Give this a good tug for me.
The gangbanger snarls as he passes one especially unfortunate female. She looks down at the floor, defeated.
As they make their way toward to the pulpit, it becomes clear that these guys are in charge now. The new law around these parts. Whoever was in charge before is now no longer in this position.
One especially malevolent delinquent from this posse licks his lips, looking pretty loco. He steps in front of the pulpit, addressing the utterly bewildered Father Pedro. He is by now completely flabbergasted, staying absolutely silent as he is unable to process the events unfolding before him.
The loco one speaks.
Latro:
Latro, baby!
He extends his arms out wide, as if to greet the preacher as a treacherous brother. His arms outstretched, his eyes are full of the vision of Christ.
A man in a trucker's hat and a windbreaker barges to the front of the crowd, intent on confronting the man.
Conveniently un-named parishioner:
You fellas can't barge in here. This ain't bean person of colour heaven.
One of the bad hombres blows his shoulder apart with a warm embrace of 12 gauge buckshot. It seems to the congregation as if the hombre never took his hand off his crotch the whole time.
The loco vato ascends the stairs to the top of the pulpit, pushing poor Father Pedro out and down the stairs as he goes. He lands at the bottom with a dull thump. His backside will surely be sore tomorrow.
The red-turbaned hombre addresses the crowd.
Latro:
Chicanos i chicanas, you listen to this white boi too long. He fills your head with poison, and you get soft, hombres.
The crowd gasps as one of the eses grabs Father Pedro by his hair, using his kalashnikov as a pointer to indicate that he is indeed the source of the moral rot inside their heads.
Latro:
The LOS ALDOLPHOS run this town now. The casas and the slums, they all belong to us now, chingados. Anyone who don't agree, end up like that white boi over there.
He gestures in the direction of the twitching corpse of the man in the trucker hat, dead from blood loss.
Latro:
Let all them know who's the boss. Let our names ring in the city streets! Vamonos, muchachos!
The gangbangers round up the mass of congregants, sending them back to their hovels and homes. Father Pedro, not so fortunately, is chained ad loaded into the back of a surplus Mexican army truck.
The loco one, remaining in the church, stares up at the statue of Christ, crosses himself, and leaves with the others.
The Los Adolphos run things in Beanertown now.
--------------------------
The streets wind past as a car speeds down Poland Avenue. The almost-new sedan maintains a steady speed as its owner cruises past the buses and trucks driving along slowly. It's another beautifully hot and sticky Codexian evening, even if the rain is soaking into every crack and crevice that the city has to offer. Far off in the distance, the sun is setting, saying farewell to another fine day.
The archtect, our humble protagonist, is of course behind the wheel, and he's had a barrelful today. He's heading away from the potato power plant after being assaulted all day long with its million and one problems, but right now there are bigger things to think about; bigger proverbial fish to fry. A situation is unfolding way out to the west, in a part of town ventured to by few but known by all. There has been big talk: of bad hombres with red turbans and murderous intent. What exactly was going on out there is anybody's guess though; nobody in the city administration had bothered to tell our intrepid architect what's going on, so he thought he would go take a look see.
The architect takes a left off the main throughfare of the city and onto a small, unknown road. The name's road is unknown to the architect, and presumably unimportant. Around him life continues: families take strolls down park lanes, gamers get their daily rations of gamer fuel, cool cats play Settlers of Catan on street corners. The Codexian Dream. Codexia has been good to these people, and they all reap the benefit. Little do they know what goes on behind the puppeteer's curtain.
The architect heads down the street, hanging a right way before reaching Prosper Park. In truth, he doesn't have much idea where he's supposed to head; the west side of town was the only major district that had undergone little development in the city, and is still mostly shacks and shanties. He has heard stories of what goes on over there, but never anything quite so...menacing.
He spots a donut van, which he assumes must be making a delivery to the brave boys in blue at the heart of this veritable heart of darkness. He decides to follow it, heading west down the backroads of the suburbs. It doesn't take long for him to come to the police cordon.
The roadblocks stop him from going any further, so he heads left on a road he does know: Max Payne Road. The Police have made their camp in a vacant lot surrounded by a chainlink fence that wouldn't take too much effort to bring down. The chainlink fence is adorned with Moltke Construction Limited signs; upon seeing these, the blonde-haired man behind the wheel of the affordable sedan groans with indignation.
He reaches the entrance to the lot, and rolls his car up to the barricades, winding down his window. Standing behind them, soldiers of varying stripes and uniforms perch at their positions, seemingly a little on edge. The architect is almost completely unaware that Codexia even has a military force, and this rag-tag militia with their mish-mash of uniforms, equipment and weapons seem a little unimpressive and unintimidating. The M2 gunner on the humvee to the left of him stares off into the distance, seemingly negligent in his duties as a soldier of Codexia.
The officer on the right-hand side of the gate is another story, however.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
Listen lady, I'm not gonna tell you again.
He is arguing with one of Codexia's lowest creatures, the lowest of all pond life. Lower than the all the whores, junkies and street cleaners put together; she is a journalist.
Conveniently un-named journalist no.1:
Come on, Bill. Can't we just get a few shots? I still see your mother on Sundays at the mall. She asks after you, ya know.
Using familiarity and emotional blackmail to get her way: only journalists are capable of such low-brow, dishonourable tactics.
The architect rolls up to the kerb closer, as no-one seems to have noticed his car at all.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
That ain't gonna work again, Marie. You know I don't-
He finally sees the architect.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
Hey, buddy. This is a restricted area. I'm gonna have to ask you to turn your car around and get back on the road.
GrafvonMoltke:
Who's in charge here? What are you doing on my property?
He flashes his corporate badge, identifying him as the CEO and founder of Moltke Construction Limited.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
Sir, I don't know nothing about that, but if you don't leave we're authorized to use lethal force. This is an active conflict zone.
The M2 gunner, seemingly unfrozen from his game of guessing what his purpose was in life, eyes the car, levelling the machine gun at its windscreen.
GrafvonMoltke:
Well, seeing as how you're on my property, I'd like to make a complaint to your commanding officer.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
If you have a problem, you can take it up with the mayor.
GrafvonMoltke:
And where is he?
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
He's in the command centre, with the chief of-
The soldier realises he has said too much and stops talking. The architect sits and smiles, smugly.
GrafvonMoltke:
So?
The soldier turns around, looking at the radio operator.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
Hey Jack! Radio the command centre and tell them we have a Mr Moltke down here.
Word comes back in a few seconds.
Conveniently un-named soldier no.1:
You can go through, sir, but the car stays here.
He walks briskly towards the police buses in the centre of the lot. Through the gap, he spies the "command centre", in fact a tent with a table underneath it. A radio and a map of the district are sitting on top of the table. Despite the rather ramshackle operational organisation, the heavy ordnance littered around the place clearly means business.
He walks through the buses and into the jaws of a beartrap, loaded and ready to spring.
Rusty Shackleford:
What I'm saying is that we take what forces we have, drive them into Beanertown and pummel those goddamn Mexican commie sons'v'bitches back to Tijuana.
The Chief of Police looks up from his seat, noticing the architect for the first time.
Rusty Shackleford:
Although I'm sure this peacenik has a better idea.
GrafvonMoltke:
I see my reputation proceeds me.
Around the table are gathered the top brass of Codexia: Rusty, the no-nonsense police chief, Darkpatriot, the last of the remaining colonels who had led the forces of Old Codexia into battle, and Mayor Gregz himself in his fine Italian suit, characteristic drum-round Thompson in hand.
The Mayor acknowledges the entrance of the CEO of MCL with a curt nod, and then turns his head to the colonel.
Gregz:
Colonel? What's your take on the situation?
Darkpatriot:
We can't show any weakness in this situation. But taking all our men and slamming them into the center of that thing? Tactically speaking, it's a nightmare in there. Their positions are well-entrenched, and they have the support of the local population. There'll be a gun behind every cactus needle.
The Mayor looks at him gravely.
Rusty Shackleford:
What do we need the subtle approach for? I say we load Big Bertha over there and send those goddamn bean-munching, turban-packing monkeys packing.
He gestures towards a rather mean-looking artillery piece standing over in the vacant lot's edge. The howitzer is aimed threateningly at the compound less than 50 metres away.
Thank God nobody actually has any shells for it, the architect thinks to himself.
After a moment of reflective silence, the Mayor starts speaking.
Gregz:
Gentlemen, you're not giving my a whole lot of options. We're not looking for a bloodbath here, but how many more lives are these animals going to take? The longer we let this go on, the more innocents are going to get caught up in this.
He finally looks at the blonde interloper standing outside the tent, soaked to the bone.
Gregz:
I suppose this is where you're going to throw your opinion in.
Though he's a little taken aback by this remark, he takes a few steps forward into the tent, closing the circle.
GrafvonMoltke:
There's no need for anyone else to die today, that's true. You're certainly showing your strength here, and it's clear you outnumber them, but there's always a peaceful solution to problems.
The Mayor eyes him sceptically. The Police Chief laughs in deep, southern-accented booms. The colonel does nothing.
GrafvonMoltke:
They have a leader, right? These red-turban dudes? They have to be taking orders from someone. You get me in there, and I'll see to it that the city gives them a deal so good they can't help but take it. Then later, when the wheels of justice swing round again-
He glances at the Police Chief.
GrafvonMoltke:
-well, let's just say we'll make law-abiding citizens out of all of these "sons'v'biches".
Rusty Shackleford:
You're really considering this hippy trash?
He glares at the Mayor, his expression painting a tremendous picture.
Gregz:
These hombres, they aren't just druggy trash in a yurt this time. They mean serious business. They're armed to the teeth and have sympathisers all over this town.
GrafvonMoltke:
Everyone has their price. We just need to find it.
Silence hangs in the air. Nobody seems to want to give an inch more in this debate. The pause continues until one of them breaks, unable to take the silence anymore.
Gregz:
It all sounds a little touchy-feely to me, but you did deliver on the whole Prosperium situation. The time now is what, 7.43pm? I'm giving you until 8am tomorrow morning to find a peaceful solution to this. That's more than twelve hours. You'll need to be careful, and I mean seriously careful. These guys aren't messing around.
GrafvonMoltke:
I realise that, Mr Mayor. I wouldn't be going if it wasn't worth the cost.
He sighs, turning his head. He stares at the helicopter for a moment.
GrafvonMoltke:
I don't suppose there's any chance of going in on that thing.
Darkpatriot:
Sadly, no. We are reliably informed that the Los Adolphos have CIA contacts who have equipped them with FIM-92 Stingers in exchange for God knows what.
Gregz:
It doesn't make any sense at all.
Darkpatriot:
They're also equipped with surplus Ukrainian armored personal carriers and a whole arsenal of small arms. These really aren't guys you want to underestimate.
The architect gulps.
GrafvonMoltke:
How am I getting in, then?
Rusty Shackleford:
You ain't gonna like it, hoss.
He says, grinning.
Darkpatriot:
The only traffic they're letting in or out of the compound is cargo traffic, although they check every package coming in and out. There is one type of cargo that they might not check, though.
GrafvonMoltke:
What about the shacks to the south?
He brings this up, eyeing the rather unfortunate-looking corrugated structures immediately opposite the vacant lot. They are not part of the compound, but still constitute an eye-sore all the same.
Gregz:
There may be some turban sympathisers amongst them, but we're not anticipating them to be a threat.
Rusty Shackleford:
They're hard-working slav game designers, for the most part., come to take part in the glorious Codexian Dream.
Gregz:
Also we stuck a gay club in there when nobody was looking, and that seems to have pacified them.
The architect glances over once more.
Hmmm.
Darkpatriot:
When you're ready, I'll get my people ready. They'll be able to help get you inside.
GrafvonMoltke:
Who's the chick?
He points at a lonely woman sitting on a small chair over by one of the command vans. She's soaking, what with all the rain water, but she seems not to care. A can of Mountain Dew is cradled in her hands, which she gulps down with intermittent fury despite the impressive selection of alcoholic drinks on the table beside her.
Rusty Shackleford:
I don't see any women. Just us dudes here.
He snickers.
The architect steps over to the woman, curious as to her presence.
GrafvonMoltke:
Hello?
The woman jumps up with shock, failing to recognise our inquisitive protagonist approaching her.
Fluent:
He-heello?
She says sheepishly, not sure how to deal with this new character.
GrafvonMoltke:
My name's Moltke; I'm kind of a big deal around here-
No sign of ego or shame what so ever.
GrafvonMoltke:
-I was just wondering who you were, looking so afraid all over here by yourself.
Fluent:
Well I'm Father Fluent, the priest over at St. Proverbius.
He looks the woman up and down, noting her hips and breasts which, despite the clerical vestments, were much more noticeable than a man's.
GrafvonMoltke:
But you're a woman.
Fluent:
I assure you, I am a man, as God made me. My pronouns are he/she/it.
Baffled by this, the architect makes a mental note of the priest's gender.
Fluent:
Anyway, I'm just hanging out over here. Everything's cool
The ability to represent an emoji in oral speech in such a way was an impressive feat indeed, the architect further notes.
GrafvonMoltke:
So if nothing's wrong, why are you here? With the Mayor and all his, er, staff.
The Police Chief shoots an annoyed glance. The colonel continues stone-walling, full of martial stoicism. Darkpatriot is an apt moniker for such a character, although the architect knows for a fact that his real name is Ted.
Fluent:
Well, there's just a small problem. And, well, it's not even really a problem,-
She hesitates, not sure whether to bring down the facade of positivity she has worked so hard to build in her own mind.
Fluent:
-my junior, Father Pedro was taken captive by those awful gangsters
She gasps, realising what she has just said.
Fluent:
I'm....I'm sure they had their reasons though! Socio-economic injustice, internalized white-supremacy and all that.
She clearly doesn't believe a word of what she is saying, but the architect stays silent all the same.
Fluent:
So the Mayor was nice enough to let me stay here while I figure out how to get him out of Mexicantown.
Nobody called it Mexicantown: nobody at all. Even the locals always call it Beanertown. The architect makes another mental notification, this time of the priest's forced political correctness.
GrafvonMoltke:
This is the part where fate forces us into the compound together.
He sighs; the mission is dangerous enough as it is.
Fluent:
What, really? You'll help me rescue Father Pedro?
He sighs once more.
GrafvonMoltke:
Sure, why not? It's not like anyone else will.
He turns.
GrafvonMoltke:
Colonel, it's time we made a move.
The colonel nods, wordless.
A few minutes later, they're aboard a BTR, rumbling towards the checkpoint.
--------------------------
You ain't gonna like it, the Chief of Police had said, and like it he most certainly does not.
The mail sack is uncomfortably snug, and the burlap makes the stiff tropical heat in the back of the mail van almost unbearable. The only thing keeping the blonde architect going is the thought that somewhere out there in Beanertown, a job is waiting to be done. His civic pride thumps around in his chest, while he thumps around in a sack, hitting the side whenever the van hits a pothole.
GrafvonMoltke:
Jesus, can you be a little more careful please?
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Sorry there, boss.
The postmen are kindly folk who have very little malice or hostility. What they do have are keen eyes and sharp memories.
GrafvonMoltke:
So what's waiting for us when we get inside?
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
There's a checkpoint that's usually manned by some rowdy local types, not Los Adolphos characters. You can think of them more of a local militia; they take orders from the guys in turbans, but not by choice. Beyond that, there's a few sights. We'll show you once we're past the first hurdle.
He speaks with a quiet confidence, an inner tranquility. He's clearly not worried about how things are going to go down.
The van bounces down Boyarsky Lane, past St. Proverbius on its right-hand side. It has already been sent through the police roadblock on Daikatana Avenue, being "searched" so as not to arouse suspicion, but now they face a real obstacle: the front gate of the Beanertown compound, where gangbangers are waiting to greet the post vehicle with open arms.
The van slows and stops in front of a Mexican army-surplus pickup truck.
A gangbanger raises his AK at the windscreen.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Alright, let's see dem hands, holmes. You know the drill.
The postman behind the wheel puts his hands out of the window, a routine he has seemingly got used to. The postman in the passenger seat does the same, abeit a little slower.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger lady:
Out the truck, real slow like.
She gestures towards the driver. He opens the door and steps out without a murmur.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger lady:
Easy, now. No sudden moves.
She looks over at her vato.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger lady:
I think you can handle this one babe.
She goes and stands over by the guardpost. He is visibly annoyed at having to do pretty much all of the work himself. He groans and mumbles as he mounts the army truck, moving it out of the path of the driveway.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
I've got my documents right here, boss.
He says as he steps away from the open door, holding his clearance documents in his hands. The gangbanger, returning from the moved truck, slams them out of his hand and drags him to the back of the truck.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Hands on the back, NOW!
In the truck an architect and a priest, pretending to be mail sacks, can only hear all of this. They wait with bated breath.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Open it, chingado. Show me what you got.
The postman looks puzzled at this; he has never done this before. This is not standard procedure for Mexicantown.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
I'm not sure you're-
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Shut up!
The gangbanger grips his rifle tighter, pushing the muzzle into the back of the postman's head. The postman knows that something disastrous is about to happen.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
New rules around here, little bitch. There's a toll here now. You wanna get through, you gotta let something go.
The postman, quietly, skittishly, opens the back of the mail truck. The gangbanger, lowering his rifle, licks his lips and grabs his balls.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Open that one there. I'm gonna get me something good.
He points to the mailsack containing the priest, which he/she/it can make out through the microscopic holes in the canvas. He/she/it starts to sweat, letting out a tiny, almost imperciptible squeak. The postman hears it; the architect hears it; luckily, the gangbanger does not, squeezing his balls for a quick endorphine rush.
The postman, sweating conspicuously, makes a move towards the burlap sack. He pulls it part way out of the van, about to open the bag. The goon licks his lips again, his tongue this time alerting his lady to the loot. She starts licking as well.
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger:
¿Qué demonios te crees que estás haciendo?
All of the hood's bravado and brazenness are wiped away in a second. His expression is one of a little lost boy, about to recieve a dressing down for taking one too many cookies from the cookie jar.
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Lo siento, señor. I was just-
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger:
You been told about this before, cabrón. All mail trucks get a free pass. You know the boss is waiting for his Ghost in the Shell action figures.
The red-turbanned gangster, an auténtico Los Adolphos, strolls up to the security booth and the scene unfolding before it.
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger:
You better let them through before we put you in the cage with los gatos. ¿Comprendido?
Conveniently un-named gangbanger:
Si jefe.
The unturbanned hood sighs and then moves away from the truck. After the postman closes the rear doors and gets back into the driver's seat, the hood waves them through.
And they are off into the heart of Beanertown.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Now that was a goddamn, cotton-picking close call!
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
Never seen anything like it in all my years. You two can come out now.
The postvan rounds the corner, passing a one-storey shack on the left and a few workers in overalls.
The architect clambers out of the sack, struggling with the tight-ropes. The priest, on the other hand, deftly peels off the bag, uncorking a can of Mountain Dew he/she/it had hidden God knows where.
GrafvonMoltke:
I think you've exceeded your gamer fuel ration for today.
He says jokingly, nodding at the can. He/she/it shrugs indifferently.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
We're pretty much safe for now, but try not to draw too much attention to yourselves.
The van rounds another corner, by the outer edge of the compound, in the North-East. Chicos and chicas walk home from a hard day's work. Corrugated shacks flank them on either side.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
The roads here all follow a spiral pattern right into the centre of town, right where we'll drop you off, so you'll get a good view of everything.
How convenient.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Out here it's all makeshift, but the places in the centre of town are a little nicer. The Los Adolphos live in a separated area from the rest of the compound. I hear it's real purdy in there.
The van once more turns another corner, this time in the North-West corner of the compound. They are heading south now. The architect looks East, towards St. Proverbius. The church rises majestically over the shacks, imbuing all the shack-dwellers with at least some hope.
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
Hey look, it's El Gordo's place! Tell him the story.
The postman's junior points at the taco truck as they pass it. While a queue forms behind it, off to the side a Los Adolphos pukes up what remains of his supper.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Why tell that story? It's happening out there in real time.
The van turns the penultimate corner, this time in the South-West. The shacks over the fence in slavtown come into view.
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
Well, at least we aren't there
The other postman nods in silent agreement. The architect sneaks a quick peek out of the window. The houses down here were indeed much nicer than the shacks on the North side. Still a shithole, but a slightly nicer degree of shithole.
The truck glides along quietly, the postmen staying silent as they pass a Los Adolphos patrol. Eventually, they roll pass another taco truck.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
This place has much better tacos.
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
Two Brother's? I heard they were owned by The Aweigh Consortium.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Maybe. Corporate registration ain't what it used to be.
GrafvonMoltke:
Hey, where's this Los Adolphos base?
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Back there, on the opposite side of the taco truck.
GrafvonMoltke:
You didn't think it was important to tell me?
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
Hey we were talking about tacos.
The architect groans noisily. The two postman continue to natter.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
This is el local watering hole-io.
They pass a grimey-looking cocktail bar next to a patch of waste ground. In spite of its OPEN sign, customers are sparse, and the place looks deserted.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
If you wanna pump the locals for information without worrying too much about getting caught, this is the place to go. It's only ever frequented by residents; the Los Adolphos never go here.
GrafvonMoltke:
Why's that?
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
They don't serve sake.
GrafvonMoltke:
Sake?
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
You know, Japanese rice wine.
GrafvonMoltke:
I know what sake is. Why do they only drink sake?
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
They're "men of culture".
The two postmen uniformly put their fingers into quotation marks at this and then chuckle. The architect fails to understand what they mean, but he will come to realise with time. The priest quietly sips his/her/its sugary drink.
The van rounds its last corner, into the centre of the compound and stops next to a small, almost-quaint market.
Conveniently un-named postman no.1:
This is where we part ways, blondeman.
GrafvonMoltke:
You've been tremendously helpful.
He flips a gold coin to the postman, and then he flips another to his junior, perhaps a little hesitantly. Codexian rules of generosity are notoriously rigid.
GrafvonMoltke:
If you ever need a favour, you know where to find me.
Conveniently un-named postman no.2:
We'll let the mayor know that everything went as planned.
The two interlopers step out into the tropical night; the man in his cheap polyester suit and expensive tie, and the priest in his/her/its vestaments. The humidity hits them at once.
The van rolls away and with it the only hope of any kind of escape. The point of no return had been passed some time ago.
Fluent:
What do we do now?
GrafvonMoltke:
Beats me.
Out of the frying pan, into another Codexian night.
--------------------------
They walk quickly in the direction of the market. What exactly are they doing here? What's the plan? How do we get in? A hundred questions rolled around the blonde architect's mind, all of them remaining unanswered.
The market is probably not their best bet to find information, but they go there anyway. It is right in front of them, after all. It would be such a shame to miss it before-
No. I can't think like that, the architect muses. We have to save this place, disgusting as though it may be.
The market has a number of different stalls, although most of them are winding down for the night. A few customers mingle between boxes of carrots, fine arabic earthernware, and assorted odds and ends.
Butchers ply their meat; cheese craftsmen offer samples from far-flung corners of the world. A dodgy character even sells what looks to be discarded M16 rifles from whatever conflicts their owners died in.
Our intrepid explorers weave in and out of the stalls, taking in the sights and sounds. Their mission seems not to be important for the moment.
Conveniently un-named merchant no.1:
Dry fruit! You want try? I get best one for you!
Conveniently un-named merchant no.2:
FISH! COME GET YOUR FRESH FISH! BEST IN ALL CODEXIA!
Conveniently un-named merchant no.3:
Sir! Sir! How can I interest you in an almost new TV? Only dropped once! Sir?
They keep wandering, the smells conjuring a thousand tastes in their mouths. Cumin, paprika, coriander. Peppers, garlic, onions. Pork, lamb, beef. Tobacco, gunpowder and sweat. The aromas waft and intertwine and lift the artchitect and the priest up, high onto another plain of existence.
But beneath it all, there is another smell, easily recognisable. A heady mix of fear, resentment and fury.
And its source is the dark heart at the centre of the market. The dark heart of Beanertown, maybe even the entirety of Codexia.
At the centre of the market, a small enclosure, ringed by a 12 metre-high chainlink fence and barbed wire, is guarded by a man in surplus military equipment. His M4 rests in his hands like a cat resting on a warm radiator. But, make no mistake, he stands firmly, guarding that enclosure with all the seriousness that it deserves. His boss, the merchant by the cage's bolted door, attracts a very different type of clientele from the other stalls.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
Catgirls! Seven, adorable little catgirls, all for sale! For fun, for decoration, for whatever!
Catgirls? Did he really just said that he's selling catgirls?
The two step over to this bizarre corner of the market.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
Hello sir! Catgirls for sale here.
GrafvonMoltke:
What the hell is this?
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
Catgirls!, sir. Very tame and lovable. I give you good price, only seven thousand dorra!
GrafvonMoltke:
You'd put a price on a person's life?! You disgust me.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
Not person, sir: catgirl! Very adorable, willing to be your slave for any purpose!
He peers into the cage. The catgirls have very little in the way of expression; their faces are blank. Perhaps as a cruel joke, it seems as if someone has adorned their cage with doghouses.
A crowd of regular cats gathers on the oher side, staring at these godforsaken abominations. The stony expressions on the catgirls' faces continue regardless.
GrafvonMoltke:
They certainly don't look adorable.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
Hold on, sir.
The slave trader turns to the cage, his friendly demeanour suddenly transformed into a cruel scowl.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
ねえ、あなたは愚痴！ 少し笑って！
The catgirls transform in a split second. One adopts a cutesy smile of a shy anime girl, while another turns her face into a seductive grin. Their eyes beam with an unnatural light.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
You see, sir! Very cute! Will do everything for you! You want to try?
The seductive grin on the closest catgirl tightens, and a supernatural force hooks the architect's soul. His dick enlargens.
Well, seven thousand isn't tha-
GrafvonMoltke:
What? Absolutely not!
He pushes the thought away, and turns his head to the merchant.
GrafvonMoltke:
Listen here, and listen good. Open that goddamn cage and let those girls go.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
But why sir? You want to buy all?
He grabs the merchant, forgetting completely about the guard. The guard pushes him away with a shove and the merchant starts screaming.
Conveniently un-named slave merchant:
GET OUT! YOU NO GOOD CUSTOMER! HELP! LOS ADOLPHOS!
They run. Nobody chases them, thank God.
After running for a while, they slow down. Stopping completely, they find themselves outside an outdoor gym which is completely empty. The priest, exhaustion and defeatism taking over, squats down on the ground next to an old water tanker. He/she/it starts crying, a river of tears unleashed as if someone had overflowed a bath.
Fluent:
Why did we come here? Oh cruel fate, why did you take Father Pedro away from us?
GrafvonMoltke:
Pull yourself together.
He says as he taps him/her/it on the shoulder gently. He is clearly not comfortable with the emotionality of this man/woman/robot.
Fluent:
And those catgirls. How can someone do something so cruel? So inhumane?
GrafvonMoltke:
There's always someone willing to make a quick buck. We're going to find a way to free them, don't worry.
He is more interested in what they are and where they have come from, truth be told.
The priest rests on the ground for a couple more minutes, then wipes away his/her/its tears with his/her/its sleeve. Standing up quickly, he/she/it stumbles.
The blonde man puts his hand out, steadying the priest.
Fluent:
I feel dizzy. I need some sugar.
GrafvonMoltke:
Let's head back to that cocktail bar we passed earlier. Maybe we can question some of the locals.
They walk slowly, their eyes pointed down at the ground. The architect has his hands in his pockets, projecting an air of confident cluelessness.
GrafvonMoltke:
Do you think we'll make it here?
Fluent:
Make it? Here?
GrafvonMoltke:
Yeah, here in Codexia. Realising the Codexian Dream.
Fluent:
I really don't know. I used to believe in the vision of the dark one and his colorful subordinates, but now-
He/she/it takes in a large mouthful of stale, taco-ridden air.
Fluent:
Now, I really don't know.
They continue to walk in silence. The sun has completely disappeared by now, and the night, the time of the wolf, howls with excitement.
--------------------------
A small group of musclemen walk into the all-night gym. They eye the dejected travellers as they cross paths.
The architect follows the neon OPEN sign along a dark and treacherous path, the ground soaked with rain and piss.
They pass an old shipping container, tracing their path back to the waste ground near the bar. On the left, at the end of the dirt track, he spies the back of the catgirl enclosure in the distance. He looks momentarily but returns his eyes back to the path; taking your eyes off of it in this light could very easily lead to a bad injury in the pitch black of night. As he comes a little closer though, he finds himself unable to resist sneaking another glance back at the enclosure; the catgirl who had given him a hard-on back in the market is staring at him, her feline eyes picking him out easily in the deadness of night. She blows him a kiss just before their eyeline is broken by the container, and he feels an all too familiar rumbling in his loins. What fowl magic does this temptress have? He returns his gaze to the small cocktail bar.
The two freeze as they come up on the small terrace area in front of the bar: a Los Adolphos! The postman told them that they don't come here, but here this one is.
They relax as they see him move through the courtyard and out of a side exit. A short patrol, nothing more.
The two settle down and make themselves at home in the rather cheap looking deck chairs. A waitress in a short skirt with large hoop earrings comes over; her face betrays her Mexican heritage.
Conveniently un-named waitress:
What you want gacho?
GrafvonMoltke:
I'll take a pina colada. Dark rum instead of white, please.
Conveniently un-named waitress:
And for the lady?
The architect grits his teeth at this misgendering; the priest appears, or pretends not to appear, to notice.
Fluent:
Mountain Dew, extra ice.
GrafvonMoltke:
Sure you don't want something a little, err, stronger?
Fluent:
The Lord will be my strength.
A few hours pass. Drinks are drunk. Locals are questioned discretely. New friends are made, and everyone starts to relax a little more.
Perhaps a little too much.
It is around the fourth pina colada where things start to go wrong.
Mysterious rastafarian fellow:
Hey bumbaclot. One hears that you've been askin' questions about dem red-turbanned boys and ting.
The architect, almost jumping out of his skin, turns around to face this mysterious figure. Up until this point, he has been debating thermodynamics with a down-and-out tennis player named Trevor (possibly, but also possibly not), and this has come completely out of blue.
GrafvonMoltke:
Maybe. So what if I have?
Mysterious rastafarian fellow:
Me name be Bob, boyo. Dat's short for Robert. People call me Bayonet Bob.
GrafvonMoltke:
So it is. Well met, Bob. My name is Graf, Graf von Moltke.
They shake hands.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Always a pleasure.
He shfts position, lowering his voice somewhat.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Got me a friend who works wit' dem boys, tells me all kind wild tings 'bout dem. Reckon he can set you up a meetin'...
Bob grins toothily. Gold stares back at the blonde man.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
...for a price.
Of course.
GrafvonMoltke:
How can I know you're genuine?
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Ask all da boys round da wae 'bout Bayonet Bob. Everyone know he good as his wurd.
Fluent:
I don't like it.
He/she/it whispers in his ear. He nods; he's also sceptical, but time is getting away from them and all he has to show for it is an erection and a raging headache.
GrafvonMoltke:
How much?
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Seven t'ousand.
He's heard that number once already today. Where? He's alcohol-soaked brain just can't connect the dots.
He digs the money out of his inside jacket pocket. His wife isn't going to be pleased, but nevermind about that.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Alright, me boi. Ya know dat taco truck what sits out der on da wes'side of town? Da one what gives all dem city-slickers salmonella and ting. Der's an outhouse near der; meet me next to dat in an hour.
He disappears into the night, not waiting for a reply.
Fluent:
Why'd you do that?
GrafvonMoltke:
That's a good, good question.
Four pina coladas; what an absolute lightweight.
GrafvonMoltke:
Listen, we've got to do something here. Time's running out.
Fluent:
So what?
GrafvonMoltke:
I'll go meet this guy alone. There's no reason for us both to go. If I'm not back in, let's say, two hours then you get the hell out of here. Get back to Mayor Gregz, report everything you've seen. The Los Adolphos, the catgirls, everything.
He seems to have sobered up tremendously now he's back on the mission.
GrafvonMoltke:
If this turns out to be right, to be good, then we'll recollect our thoughts in two hours time.
Fluent:
I hope you know what you're doing.
GrafvonMoltke:
Believe me, so do I.
They part ways with a tight hug. The architect, still seated in his deck chair, takes a few seconds to regain his composure. Then he sets out to find his destiny in the hands of a rastafarian h doesn't know.
And he finds it, amongst the rubble and cum-stained mattresses out in the wasteground of Beanertown.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Been waiting for you a while, bombaclot.
The drunken architect stumbles clumsily through the waste in the pitch-black night. The world reverberates around him. The ground beneath him feels paper thin.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Didn't think a white boi like yourself would giv' up on dat amount o'cash so easily.
He smiles; a fierce grin of triumph is glued to his face, the architect sees as he draws closer.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
But den again, I didn' tink dey would wanna miss it none, eit'er.
From the left, a squad of of Los Adolphos close in. They march together triumphantly, the same triumph as pasted on the black man's face.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
Ya see-
The accent is suddenly gone.
Bayonet Bob, the conveniently unavatared rastafarian:
I was never one of yours to begin with.
A rifle butt cracks the blonde architect in the back of the head. He goes down with a dull thud, his hands missing the ground. He falls face first into an old mattress.
Conveniently un-named red-turbanned gangbanger:
What are we doing with this one?
Bayonet Bob, of the Los Adolphos:
Take him to the boss.
He fades in and out of consciousness. He feels himself being dragged across concrete. A pain builds in his right ankle. Darkness.
Then blinding light. The Los Adolphos compound.
And once more, darkness.
Part One - The Priest and the Pauper
Sunday, 21st of September, 2042. St. Proverbius Church, between Globohomo Central and the dilapidated shacks and shanties known as Beanertown.
In the tropical heat of New Codexia, a modestly-sized church sits nestled between pretty suburban houses and a small shopping precinct. Its spires and steeples point triumphantly outward into the sky, as if to reach up to God himself in his heavenly realm. It's the Lord's day, almost lunchtime. As life buzzes around the church, the people coming and going, a congregation gathered within its walls hums its own tune.
The church is alive with the sounds of holy scripture: a fiery sermon delivered by the Padre himself. The people packed in amongst the cramped pews listen attentively, hanging on the preacher's every word.
God? What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us. Just a stranger on the bus. Tryin' to make his way home?
The crowd murmurs its approval. At the back of the room, a cloaked woman starts chanting, swaying back and forth.
Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers. Just because he doesn't answer doesn't mean he don't care. Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.
The message reaches the huddled masses squeezed within the crowded aisles like a warm glove greets a shivering hand on a cold Irkutskian morning. The crowd is a mish-mash of various groups, most of whom live in the slums to the west rather than the cosy detached houses to the east. Slavs, Brazilians, Mexicans. The downtrodden peoples of Codexia.
Despite the preacher's invigorating words, he sweats profusely under his clergical garments, looking down at the freshly-printed piece of paper lying on the pulpit's lectern. Thank God nobody has noticed that he has been reciting nothing but song lyrics for the last twenty minutes.
Lord give me a sign. I really need to talk to you Lord. Since the last time we talked the work has been hard. Now I know you haven't left me.
Father Pedro, a kind yet somewhat clueless man, is not the regular priest at St. Proverbius. Most of his time as a junior priest at the church has so far been spent fetching water for the regular priest, Father Fluent, and the occasional charity drive down amongst the poor of the eyesore to the west. When Father Fluent was called away last moment on "business", the responsibility for Sunday service naturally fell to the junior priest, even though he had no practical experience of doing so.
His first step was to go to google.
You are the strength that keeps me walking. You are the hope that keeps me trusting. You are the light to my soul. You are my purpose. You're everything.
Still, no-one seems to mind too much. The assorted slavs and favella-dwellers don't speak English as their first language, and not many of those in the crowd seem to recognise the lyrics. Some don't understand anything at all.
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold and she's buying a stairway-
The heavy wooden doors at the church's main entrance suddenly swing inward violently, as if slammed open by God himself. The assorted band of rag-tag rogues and killers that now stands in the doorway certainly haven't been sent by God, or by any other divine entity.
Ey, holmes. Check out these chingados.
The gang of vatos saunters slowly, menacingly, into the church. These bad hombres are all armed to the teeth with automatic weaponry, and their eyes glisten with malicious intent. Red-turbans rest snugly on their bald heads. A number of them grab their crotches provokingly. The female parishioners blush and turn away silently.
Do me a solid, lady. Give this a good tug for me.
The gangbanger snarls as he passes one especially unfortunate female. She looks down at the floor, defeated.
As they make their way toward to the pulpit, it becomes clear that these guys are in charge now. The new law around these parts. Whoever was in charge before is now no longer in this position.
One especially malevolent delinquent from this posse licks his lips, looking pretty loco. He steps in front of the pulpit, addressing the utterly bewildered Father Pedro. He is by now completely flabbergasted, staying absolutely silent as he is unable to process the events unfolding before him.
The loco one speaks.
Latro, baby!
He extends his arms out wide, as if to greet the preacher as a treacherous brother. His arms outstretched, his eyes are full of the vision of Christ.
A man in a trucker's hat and a windbreaker barges to the front of the crowd, intent on confronting the man.
You fellas can't barge in here. This ain't bean person of colour heaven.
One of the bad hombres blows his shoulder apart with a warm embrace of 12 gauge buckshot. It seems to the congregation as if the hombre never took his hand off his crotch the whole time.
The loco vato ascends the stairs to the top of the pulpit, pushing poor Father Pedro out and down the stairs as he goes. He lands at the bottom with a dull thump. His backside will surely be sore tomorrow.
The red-turbaned hombre addresses the crowd.
Chicanos i chicanas, you listen to this white boi too long. He fills your head with poison, and you get soft, hombres.
The crowd gasps as one of the eses grabs Father Pedro by his hair, using his kalashnikov as a pointer to indicate that he is indeed the source of the moral rot inside their heads.
The LOS ALDOLPHOS run this town now. The casas and the slums, they all belong to us now, chingados. Anyone who don't agree, end up like that white boi over there.
He gestures in the direction of the twitching corpse of the man in the trucker hat, dead from blood loss.
Let all them know who's the boss. Let our names ring in the city streets! Vamonos, muchachos!
The gangbangers round up the mass of congregants, sending them back to their hovels and homes. Father Pedro, not so fortunately, is chained ad loaded into the back of a surplus Mexican army truck.
The loco one, remaining in the church, stares up at the statue of Christ, crosses himself, and leaves with the others.
The Los Adolphos run things in Beanertown now.
--------------------------
The streets wind past as a car speeds down Poland Avenue. The almost-new sedan maintains a steady speed as its owner cruises past the buses and trucks driving along slowly. It's another beautifully hot and sticky Codexian evening, even if the rain is soaking into every crack and crevice that the city has to offer. Far off in the distance, the sun is setting, saying farewell to another fine day.
The archtect, our humble protagonist, is of course behind the wheel, and he's had a barrelful today. He's heading away from the potato power plant after being assaulted all day long with its million and one problems, but right now there are bigger things to think about; bigger proverbial fish to fry. A situation is unfolding way out to the west, in a part of town ventured to by few but known by all. There has been big talk: of bad hombres with red turbans and murderous intent. What exactly was going on out there is anybody's guess though; nobody in the city administration had bothered to tell our intrepid architect what's going on, so he thought he would go take a look see.
The architect takes a left off the main throughfare of the city and onto a small, unknown road. The name's road is unknown to the architect, and presumably unimportant. Around him life continues: families take strolls down park lanes, gamers get their daily rations of gamer fuel, cool cats play Settlers of Catan on street corners. The Codexian Dream. Codexia has been good to these people, and they all reap the benefit. Little do they know what goes on behind the puppeteer's curtain.
The architect heads down the street, hanging a right way before reaching Prosper Park. In truth, he doesn't have much idea where he's supposed to head; the west side of town was the only major district that had undergone little development in the city, and is still mostly shacks and shanties. He has heard stories of what goes on over there, but never anything quite so...menacing.
He spots a donut van, which he assumes must be making a delivery to the brave boys in blue at the heart of this veritable heart of darkness. He decides to follow it, heading west down the backroads of the suburbs. It doesn't take long for him to come to the police cordon.
The roadblocks stop him from going any further, so he heads left on a road he does know: Max Payne Road. The Police have made their camp in a vacant lot surrounded by a chainlink fence that wouldn't take too much effort to bring down. The chainlink fence is adorned with Moltke Construction Limited signs; upon seeing these, the blonde-haired man behind the wheel of the affordable sedan groans with indignation.
He reaches the entrance to the lot, and rolls his car up to the barricades, winding down his window. Standing behind them, soldiers of varying stripes and uniforms perch at their positions, seemingly a little on edge. The architect is almost completely unaware that Codexia even has a military force, and this rag-tag militia with their mish-mash of uniforms, equipment and weapons seem a little unimpressive and unintimidating. The M2 gunner on the humvee to the left of him stares off into the distance, seemingly negligent in his duties as a soldier of Codexia.
The officer on the right-hand side of the gate is another story, however.
Listen lady, I'm not gonna tell you again.
He is arguing with one of Codexia's lowest creatures, the lowest of all pond life. Lower than the all the whores, junkies and street cleaners put together; she is a journalist.
Come on, Bill. Can't we just get a few shots? I still see your mother on Sundays at the mall. She asks after you, ya know.
Using familiarity and emotional blackmail to get her way: only journalists are capable of such low-brow, dishonourable tactics.
The architect rolls up to the kerb closer, as no-one seems to have noticed his car at all.
That ain't gonna work again, Marie. You know I don't-
He finally sees the architect.
Hey, buddy. This is a restricted area. I'm gonna have to ask you to turn your car around and get back on the road.
Who's in charge here? What are you doing on my property?
He flashes his corporate badge, identifying him as the CEO and founder of Moltke Construction Limited.
Sir, I don't know nothing about that, but if you don't leave we're authorized to use lethal force. This is an active conflict zone.
The M2 gunner, seemingly unfrozen from his game of guessing what his purpose was in life, eyes the car, levelling the machine gun at its windscreen.
Well, seeing as how you're on my property, I'd like to make a complaint to your commanding officer.
If you have a problem, you can take it up with the mayor.
And where is he?
He's in the command centre, with the chief of-
The soldier realises he has said too much and stops talking. The architect sits and smiles, smugly.
So?
The soldier turns around, looking at the radio operator.
Hey Jack! Radio the command centre and tell them we have a Mr Moltke down here.
Word comes back in a few seconds.
You can go through, sir, but the car stays here.
He walks briskly towards the police buses in the centre of the lot. Through the gap, he spies the "command centre", in fact a tent with a table underneath it. A radio and a map of the district are sitting on top of the table. Despite the rather ramshackle operational organisation, the heavy ordnance littered around the place clearly means business.
He walks through the buses and into the jaws of a beartrap, loaded and ready to spring.
What I'm saying is that we take what forces we have, drive them into Beanertown and pummel those goddamn Mexican commie sons'v'bitches back to Tijuana.
The Chief of Police looks up from his seat, noticing the architect for the first time.
Although I'm sure this peacenik has a better idea.
I see my reputation proceeds me.
Around the table are gathered the top brass of Codexia: Rusty, the no-nonsense police chief, Darkpatriot, the last of the remaining colonels who had led the forces of Old Codexia into battle, and Mayor Gregz himself in his fine Italian suit, characteristic drum-round Thompson in hand.
The Mayor acknowledges the entrance of the CEO of MCL with a curt nod, and then turns his head to the colonel.
Colonel? What's your take on the situation?
We can't show any weakness in this situation. But taking all our men and slamming them into the center of that thing? Tactically speaking, it's a nightmare in there. Their positions are well-entrenched, and they have the support of the local population. There'll be a gun behind every cactus needle.
The Mayor looks at him gravely.
What do we need the subtle approach for? I say we load Big Bertha over there and send those goddamn bean-munching, turban-packing monkeys packing.
He gestures towards a rather mean-looking artillery piece standing over in the vacant lot's edge. The howitzer is aimed threateningly at the compound less than 50 metres away.
Thank God nobody actually has any shells for it, the architect thinks to himself.
After a moment of reflective silence, the Mayor starts speaking.
Gentlemen, you're not giving my a whole lot of options. We're not looking for a bloodbath here, but how many more lives are these animals going to take? The longer we let this go on, the more innocents are going to get caught up in this.
He finally looks at the blonde interloper standing outside the tent, soaked to the bone.
I suppose this is where you're going to throw your opinion in.
Though he's a little taken aback by this remark, he takes a few steps forward into the tent, closing the circle.
There's no need for anyone else to die today, that's true. You're certainly showing your strength here, and it's clear you outnumber them, but there's always a peaceful solution to problems.
The Mayor eyes him sceptically. The Police Chief laughs in deep, southern-accented booms. The colonel does nothing.
They have a leader, right? These red-turban dudes? They have to be taking orders from someone. You get me in there, and I'll see to it that the city gives them a deal so good they can't help but take it. Then later, when the wheels of justice swing round again-
He glances at the Police Chief.
-well, let's just say we'll make law-abiding citizens out of all of these "sons'v'biches".
You're really considering this hippy trash?
He glares at the Mayor, his expression painting a tremendous picture.
These hombres, they aren't just druggy trash in a yurt this time. They mean serious business. They're armed to the teeth and have sympathisers all over this town.
Everyone has their price. We just need to find it.
Silence hangs in the air. Nobody seems to want to give an inch more in this debate. The pause continues until one of them breaks, unable to take the silence anymore.
It all sounds a little touchy-feely to me, but you did deliver on the whole Prosperium situation. The time now is what, 7.43pm? I'm giving you until 8am tomorrow morning to find a peaceful solution to this. That's more than twelve hours. You'll need to be careful, and I mean seriously careful. These guys aren't messing around.
I realise that, Mr Mayor. I wouldn't be going if it wasn't worth the cost.
He sighs, turning his head. He stares at the helicopter for a moment.
I don't suppose there's any chance of going in on that thing.
Sadly, no. We are reliably informed that the Los Adolphos have CIA contacts who have equipped them with FIM-92 Stingers in exchange for God knows what.
It doesn't make any sense at all.
They're also equipped with surplus Ukrainian armored personal carriers and a whole arsenal of small arms. These really aren't guys you want to underestimate.
The architect gulps.
How am I getting in, then?
You ain't gonna like it, hoss.
He says, grinning.
The only traffic they're letting in or out of the compound is cargo traffic, although they check every package coming in and out. There is one type of cargo that they might not check, though.
What about the shacks to the south?
He brings this up, eyeing the rather unfortunate-looking corrugated structures immediately opposite the vacant lot. They are not part of the compound, but still constitute an eye-sore all the same.
There may be some turban sympathisers amongst them, but we're not anticipating them to be a threat.
They're hard-working slav game designers, for the most part., come to take part in the glorious Codexian Dream.
Also we stuck a gay club in there when nobody was looking, and that seems to have pacified them.
The architect glances over once more.
Hmmm.
When you're ready, I'll get my people ready. They'll be able to help get you inside.
Who's the chick?
He points at a lonely woman sitting on a small chair over by one of the command vans. She's soaking, what with all the rain water, but she seems not to care. A can of Mountain Dew is cradled in her hands, which she gulps down with intermittent fury despite the impressive selection of alcoholic drinks on the table beside her.
I don't see any women. Just us dudes here.
He snickers.
The architect steps over to the woman, curious as to her presence.
Hello?
The woman jumps up with shock, failing to recognise our inquisitive protagonist approaching her.
He-heello?
She says sheepishly, not sure how to deal with this new character.
My name's Moltke; I'm kind of a big deal around here-
No sign of ego or shame what so ever.
-I was just wondering who you were, looking so afraid all over here by yourself.
Well I'm Father Fluent, the priest over at St. Proverbius.
He looks the woman up and down, noting her hips and breasts which, despite the clerical vestments, were much more noticeable than a man's.
But you're a woman.
I assure you, I am a man, as God made me. My pronouns are he/she/it.
Baffled by this, the architect makes a mental note of the priest's gender.
Anyway, I'm just hanging out over here. Everything's cool
The ability to represent an emoji in oral speech in such a way was an impressive feat indeed, the architect further notes.
So if nothing's wrong, why are you here? With the Mayor and all his, er, staff.
The Police Chief shoots an annoyed glance. The colonel continues stone-walling, full of martial stoicism. Darkpatriot is an apt moniker for such a character, although the architect knows for a fact that his real name is Ted.
Well, there's just a small problem. And, well, it's not even really a problem,-
She hesitates, not sure whether to bring down the facade of positivity she has worked so hard to build in her own mind.
-my junior, Father Pedro was taken captive by those awful gangsters
She gasps, realising what she has just said.
I'm....I'm sure they had their reasons though! Socio-economic injustice, internalized white-supremacy and all that.
She clearly doesn't believe a word of what she is saying, but the architect stays silent all the same.
So the Mayor was nice enough to let me stay here while I figure out how to get him out of Mexicantown.
Nobody called it Mexicantown: nobody at all. Even the locals always call it Beanertown. The architect makes another mental notification, this time of the priest's forced political correctness.
This is the part where fate forces us into the compound together.
He sighs; the mission is dangerous enough as it is.
What, really? You'll help me rescue Father Pedro?
He sighs once more.
Sure, why not? It's not like anyone else will.
He turns.
Colonel, it's time we made a move.
The colonel nods, wordless.
A few minutes later, they're aboard a BTR, rumbling towards the checkpoint.
--------------------------
You ain't gonna like it, the Chief of Police had said, and like it he most certainly does not.
The mail sack is uncomfortably snug, and the burlap makes the stiff tropical heat in the back of the mail van almost unbearable. The only thing keeping the blonde architect going is the thought that somewhere out there in Beanertown, a job is waiting to be done. His civic pride thumps around in his chest, while he thumps around in a sack, hitting the side whenever the van hits a pothole.
Jesus, can you be a little more careful please?
Sorry there, boss.
The postmen are kindly folk who have very little malice or hostility. What they do have are keen eyes and sharp memories.
So what's waiting for us when we get inside?
There's a checkpoint that's usually manned by some rowdy local types, not Los Adolphos characters. You can think of them more of a local militia; they take orders from the guys in turbans, but not by choice. Beyond that, there's a few sights. We'll show you once we're past the first hurdle.
He speaks with a quiet confidence, an inner tranquility. He's clearly not worried about how things are going to go down.
The van bounces down Boyarsky Lane, past St. Proverbius on its right-hand side. It has already been sent through the police roadblock on Daikatana Avenue, being "searched" so as not to arouse suspicion, but now they face a real obstacle: the front gate of the Beanertown compound, where gangbangers are waiting to greet the post vehicle with open arms.
The van slows and stops in front of a Mexican army-surplus pickup truck.
A gangbanger raises his AK at the windscreen.
Alright, let's see dem hands, holmes. You know the drill.
The postman behind the wheel puts his hands out of the window, a routine he has seemingly got used to. The postman in the passenger seat does the same, abeit a little slower.
Out the truck, real slow like.
She gestures towards the driver. He opens the door and steps out without a murmur.
Easy, now. No sudden moves.
She looks over at her vato.
I think you can handle this one babe.
She goes and stands over by the guardpost. He is visibly annoyed at having to do pretty much all of the work himself. He groans and mumbles as he mounts the army truck, moving it out of the path of the driveway.
I've got my documents right here, boss.
He says as he steps away from the open door, holding his clearance documents in his hands. The gangbanger, returning from the moved truck, slams them out of his hand and drags him to the back of the truck.
Hands on the back, NOW!
In the truck an architect and a priest, pretending to be mail sacks, can only hear all of this. They wait with bated breath.
Open it, chingado. Show me what you got.
The postman looks puzzled at this; he has never done this before. This is not standard procedure for Mexicantown.
I'm not sure you're-
Shut up!
The gangbanger grips his rifle tighter, pushing the muzzle into the back of the postman's head. The postman knows that something disastrous is about to happen.
New rules around here, little bitch. There's a toll here now. You wanna get through, you gotta let something go.
The postman, quietly, skittishly, opens the back of the mail truck. The gangbanger, lowering his rifle, licks his lips and grabs his balls.
Open that one there. I'm gonna get me something good.
He points to the mailsack containing the priest, which he/she/it can make out through the microscopic holes in the canvas. He/she/it starts to sweat, letting out a tiny, almost imperciptible squeak. The postman hears it; the architect hears it; luckily, the gangbanger does not, squeezing his balls for a quick endorphine rush.
The postman, sweating conspicuously, makes a move towards the burlap sack. He pulls it part way out of the van, about to open the bag. The goon licks his lips again, his tongue this time alerting his lady to the loot. She starts licking as well.
¿Qué demonios te crees que estás haciendo?
All of the hood's bravado and brazenness are wiped away in a second. His expression is one of a little lost boy, about to recieve a dressing down for taking one too many cookies from the cookie jar.
Lo siento, señor. I was just-
You been told about this before, cabrón. All mail trucks get a free pass. You know the boss is waiting for his Ghost in the Shell action figures.
The red-turbanned gangster, an auténtico Los Adolphos, strolls up to the security booth and the scene unfolding before it.
You better let them through before we put you in the cage with los gatos. ¿Comprendido?
Si jefe.
The unturbanned hood sighs and then moves away from the truck. After the postman closes the rear doors and gets back into the driver's seat, the hood waves them through.
And they are off into the heart of Beanertown.
Now that was a goddamn, cotton-picking close call!
Never seen anything like it in all my years. You two can come out now.
The postvan rounds the corner, passing a one-storey shack on the left and a few workers in overalls.
The architect clambers out of the sack, struggling with the tight-ropes. The priest, on the other hand, deftly peels off the bag, uncorking a can of Mountain Dew he/she/it had hidden God knows where.
I think you've exceeded your gamer fuel ration for today.
He says jokingly, nodding at the can. He/she/it shrugs indifferently.
We're pretty much safe for now, but try not to draw too much attention to yourselves.
The van rounds another corner, by the outer edge of the compound, in the North-East. Chicos and chicas walk home from a hard day's work. Corrugated shacks flank them on either side.
The roads here all follow a spiral pattern right into the centre of town, right where we'll drop you off, so you'll get a good view of everything.
How convenient.
Out here it's all makeshift, but the places in the centre of town are a little nicer. The Los Adolphos live in a separated area from the rest of the compound. I hear it's real purdy in there.
The van once more turns another corner, this time in the North-West corner of the compound. They are heading south now. The architect looks East, towards St. Proverbius. The church rises majestically over the shacks, imbuing all the shack-dwellers with at least some hope.
Hey look, it's El Gordo's place! Tell him the story.
The postman's junior points at the taco truck as they pass it. While a queue forms behind it, off to the side a Los Adolphos pukes up what remains of his supper.
Why tell that story? It's happening out there in real time.
The van turns the penultimate corner, this time in the South-West. The shacks over the fence in slavtown come into view.
Well, at least we aren't there
The other postman nods in silent agreement. The architect sneaks a quick peek out of the window. The houses down here were indeed much nicer than the shacks on the North side. Still a shithole, but a slightly nicer degree of shithole.
The truck glides along quietly, the postmen staying silent as they pass a Los Adolphos patrol. Eventually, they roll pass another taco truck.
This place has much better tacos.
Two Brother's? I heard they were owned by The Aweigh Consortium.
Maybe. Corporate registration ain't what it used to be.
Hey, where's this Los Adolphos base?
Back there, on the opposite side of the taco truck.
You didn't think it was important to tell me?
Hey we were talking about tacos.
The architect groans noisily. The two postman continue to natter.
This is el local watering hole-io.
They pass a grimey-looking cocktail bar next to a patch of waste ground. In spite of its OPEN sign, customers are sparse, and the place looks deserted.
If you wanna pump the locals for information without worrying too much about getting caught, this is the place to go. It's only ever frequented by residents; the Los Adolphos never go here.
Why's that?
They don't serve sake.
Sake?
You know, Japanese rice wine.
I know what sake is. Why do they only drink sake?
They're "men of culture".
The two postmen uniformly put their fingers into quotation marks at this and then chuckle. The architect fails to understand what they mean, but he will come to realise with time. The priest quietly sips his/her/its sugary drink.
The van rounds its last corner, into the centre of the compound and stops next to a small, almost-quaint market.
This is where we part ways, blondeman.
You've been tremendously helpful.
He flips a gold coin to the postman, and then he flips another to his junior, perhaps a little hesitantly. Codexian rules of generosity are notoriously rigid.
If you ever need a favour, you know where to find me.
We'll let the mayor know that everything went as planned.
The two interlopers step out into the tropical night; the man in his cheap polyester suit and expensive tie, and the priest in his/her/its vestaments. The humidity hits them at once.
The van rolls away and with it the only hope of any kind of escape. The point of no return had been passed some time ago.
What do we do now?
Beats me.
Out of the frying pan, into another Codexian night.
--------------------------
They walk quickly in the direction of the market. What exactly are they doing here? What's the plan? How do we get in? A hundred questions rolled around the blonde architect's mind, all of them remaining unanswered.
The market is probably not their best bet to find information, but they go there anyway. It is right in front of them, after all. It would be such a shame to miss it before-
No. I can't think like that, the architect muses. We have to save this place, disgusting as though it may be.
The market has a number of different stalls, although most of them are winding down for the night. A few customers mingle between boxes of carrots, fine arabic earthernware, and assorted odds and ends.
Butchers ply their meat; cheese craftsmen offer samples from far-flung corners of the world. A dodgy character even sells what looks to be discarded M16 rifles from whatever conflicts their owners died in.
Our intrepid explorers weave in and out of the stalls, taking in the sights and sounds. Their mission seems not to be important for the moment.
Dry fruit! You want try? I get best one for you!
FISH! COME GET YOUR FRESH FISH! BEST IN ALL CODEXIA!
Sir! Sir! How can I interest you in an almost new TV? Only dropped once! Sir?
They keep wandering, the smells conjuring a thousand tastes in their mouths. Cumin, paprika, coriander. Peppers, garlic, onions. Pork, lamb, beef. Tobacco, gunpowder and sweat. The aromas waft and intertwine and lift the artchitect and the priest up, high onto another plain of existence.
But beneath it all, there is another smell, easily recognisable. A heady mix of fear, resentment and fury.
And its source is the dark heart at the centre of the market. The dark heart of Beanertown, maybe even the entirety of Codexia.
At the centre of the market, a small enclosure, ringed by a 12 metre-high chainlink fence and barbed wire, is guarded by a man in surplus military equipment. His M4 rests in his hands like a cat resting on a warm radiator. But, make no mistake, he stands firmly, guarding that enclosure with all the seriousness that it deserves. His boss, the merchant by the cage's bolted door, attracts a very different type of clientele from the other stalls.
Catgirls! Seven, adorable little catgirls, all for sale! For fun, for decoration, for whatever!
Catgirls? Did he really just said that he's selling catgirls?
The two step over to this bizarre corner of the market.
Hello sir! Catgirls for sale here.
What the hell is this?
Catgirls!, sir. Very tame and lovable. I give you good price, only seven thousand dorra!
You'd put a price on a person's life?! You disgust me.
Not person, sir: catgirl! Very adorable, willing to be your slave for any purpose!
He peers into the cage. The catgirls have very little in the way of expression; their faces are blank. Perhaps as a cruel joke, it seems as if someone has adorned their cage with doghouses.
A crowd of regular cats gathers on the oher side, staring at these godforsaken abominations. The stony expressions on the catgirls' faces continue regardless.
They certainly don't look adorable.
Hold on, sir.
The slave trader turns to the cage, his friendly demeanour suddenly transformed into a cruel scowl.
ねえ、あなたは愚痴！ 少し笑って！
The catgirls transform in a split second. One adopts a cutesy smile of a shy anime girl, while another turns her face into a seductive grin. Their eyes beam with an unnatural light.
You see, sir! Very cute! Will do everything for you! You want to try?
The seductive grin on the closest catgirl tightens, and a supernatural force hooks the architect's soul. His dick enlargens.
Well, seven thousand isn't tha-
What? Absolutely not!
He pushes the thought away, and turns his head to the merchant.
Listen here, and listen good. Open that goddamn cage and let those girls go.
But why sir? You want to buy all?
He grabs the merchant, forgetting completely about the guard. The guard pushes him away with a shove and the merchant starts screaming.
GET OUT! YOU NO GOOD CUSTOMER! HELP! LOS ADOLPHOS!
They run. Nobody chases them, thank God.
After running for a while, they slow down. Stopping completely, they find themselves outside an outdoor gym which is completely empty. The priest, exhaustion and defeatism taking over, squats down on the ground next to an old water tanker. He/she/it starts crying, a river of tears unleashed as if someone had overflowed a bath.
Why did we come here? Oh cruel fate, why did you take Father Pedro away from us?
Pull yourself together.
He says as he taps him/her/it on the shoulder gently. He is clearly not comfortable with the emotionality of this man/woman/robot.
And those catgirls. How can someone do something so cruel? So inhumane?
There's always someone willing to make a quick buck. We're going to find a way to free them, don't worry.
He is more interested in what they are and where they have come from, truth be told.
The priest rests on the ground for a couple more minutes, then wipes away his/her/its tears with his/her/its sleeve. Standing up quickly, he/she/it stumbles.
The blonde man puts his hand out, steadying the priest.
I feel dizzy. I need some sugar.
Let's head back to that cocktail bar we passed earlier. Maybe we can question some of the locals.
They walk slowly, their eyes pointed down at the ground. The architect has his hands in his pockets, projecting an air of confident cluelessness.
Do you think we'll make it here?
Make it? Here?
Yeah, here in Codexia. Realising the Codexian Dream.
I really don't know. I used to believe in the vision of the dark one and his colorful subordinates, but now-
He/she/it takes in a large mouthful of stale, taco-ridden air.
Now, I really don't know.
They continue to walk in silence. The sun has completely disappeared by now, and the night, the time of the wolf, howls with excitement.
--------------------------
A small group of musclemen walk into the all-night gym. They eye the dejected travellers as they cross paths.
The architect follows the neon OPEN sign along a dark and treacherous path, the ground soaked with rain and piss.
They pass an old shipping container, tracing their path back to the waste ground near the bar. On the left, at the end of the dirt track, he spies the back of the catgirl enclosure in the distance. He looks momentarily but returns his eyes back to the path; taking your eyes off of it in this light could very easily lead to a bad injury in the pitch black of night. As he comes a little closer though, he finds himself unable to resist sneaking another glance back at the enclosure; the catgirl who had given him a hard-on back in the market is staring at him, her feline eyes picking him out easily in the deadness of night. She blows him a kiss just before their eyeline is broken by the container, and he feels an all too familiar rumbling in his loins. What fowl magic does this temptress have? He returns his gaze to the small cocktail bar.
The two freeze as they come up on the small terrace area in front of the bar: a Los Adolphos! The postman told them that they don't come here, but here this one is.
They relax as they see him move through the courtyard and out of a side exit. A short patrol, nothing more.
The two settle down and make themselves at home in the rather cheap looking deck chairs. A waitress in a short skirt with large hoop earrings comes over; her face betrays her Mexican heritage.
What you want gacho?
I'll take a pina colada. Dark rum instead of white, please.
And for the lady?
The architect grits his teeth at this misgendering; the priest appears, or pretends not to appear, to notice.
Mountain Dew, extra ice.
Sure you don't want something a little, err, stronger?
The Lord will be my strength.
A few hours pass. Drinks are drunk. Locals are questioned discretely. New friends are made, and everyone starts to relax a little more.
Perhaps a little too much.
It is around the fourth pina colada where things start to go wrong.
Hey bumbaclot. One hears that you've been askin' questions about dem red-turbanned boys and ting.
The architect, almost jumping out of his skin, turns around to face this mysterious figure. Up until this point, he has been debating thermodynamics with a down-and-out tennis player named Trevor (possibly, but also possibly not), and this has come completely out of blue.
Maybe. So what if I have?
Me name be Bob, boyo. Dat's short for Robert. People call me Bayonet Bob.
So it is. Well met, Bob. My name is Graf, Graf von Moltke.
They shake hands.
Always a pleasure.
He shfts position, lowering his voice somewhat.
Got me a friend who works wit' dem boys, tells me all kind wild tings 'bout dem. Reckon he can set you up a meetin'...
Bob grins toothily. Gold stares back at the blonde man.
...for a price.
Of course.
How can I know you're genuine?
Ask all da boys round da wae 'bout Bayonet Bob. Everyone know he good as his wurd.
I don't like it.
He/she/it whispers in his ear. He nods; he's also sceptical, but time is getting away from them and all he has to show for it is an erection and a raging headache.
How much?
Seven t'ousand.
He's heard that number once already today. Where? He's alcohol-soaked brain just can't connect the dots.
He digs the money out of his inside jacket pocket. His wife isn't going to be pleased, but nevermind about that.
Alright, me boi. Ya know dat taco truck what sits out der on da wes'side of town? Da one what gives all dem city-slickers salmonella and ting. Der's an outhouse near der; meet me next to dat in an hour.
He disappears into the night, not waiting for a reply.
Why'd you do that?
That's a good, good question.
Four pina coladas; what an absolute lightweight.
Listen, we've got to do something here. Time's running out.
So what?
I'll go meet this guy alone. There's no reason for us both to go. If I'm not back in, let's say, two hours then you get the hell out of here. Get back to Mayor Gregz, report everything you've seen. The Los Adolphos, the catgirls, everything.
He seems to have sobered up tremendously now he's back on the mission.
If this turns out to be right, to be good, then we'll recollect our thoughts in two hours time.
I hope you know what you're doing.
Believe me, so do I.
They part ways with a tight hug. The architect, still seated in his deck chair, takes a few seconds to regain his composure. Then he sets out to find his destiny in the hands of a rastafarian h doesn't know.
And he finds it, amongst the rubble and cum-stained mattresses out in the wasteground of Beanertown.
Been waiting for you a while, bombaclot.
The drunken architect stumbles clumsily through the waste in the pitch-black night. The world reverberates around him. The ground beneath him feels paper thin.
Didn't think a white boi like yourself would giv' up on dat amount o'cash so easily.
He smiles; a fierce grin of triumph is glued to his face, the architect sees as he draws closer.
But den again, I didn' tink dey would wanna miss it none, eit'er.
From the left, a squad of of Los Adolphos close in. They march together triumphantly, the same triumph as pasted on the black man's face.
Ya see-
The accent is suddenly gone.
I was never one of yours to begin with.
A rifle butt cracks the blonde architect in the back of the head. He goes down with a dull thud, his hands missing the ground. He falls face first into an old mattress.
What are we doing with this one?
Take him to the boss.
He fades in and out of consciousness. He feels himself being dragged across concrete. A pain builds in his right ankle. Darkness.
Then blinding light. The Los Adolphos compound.
And once more, darkness.
