the mask caught his eye. there he was. gavin merlino, not too long after he’d been alerted.

”well, mr. merlino, if my sources are correct, your guy there just realized he sold a whole truckload of galarian slowbro for that big box of crisp play money sittin’ on the table.”

which did plenty to irk roach too, being that he’d done his own part in the deal. these were bad clients. but he was playing it casual, because despite the battlefield erected around him, his business was not the place to settle this dispute.

back turned, with his whiskey practically on his lips again, he placed a bet.

”one of those two ain’t makin’ it outta here alive.”

Cillian Quinn
mission: currency cozenage

☉

goddamn amateurs. he’d known well enough it’d only been a matter of time before hoenn’s pokéball-happy goof troupe would come and tarnish apogee’s record. these young grunts didn’t know how to do business. they had no finesse, no keen eye, no wise intuition when it came to deals like these.

though annoyed, the look on roach’s face was almost jaded, unsurprised. with too many cooks in the kitchen, he was used to things going wrong these days. at the underboss’s question, he shrugged.

”ah, my guess is this is probably gonna be a shit show any way it goes down. you do whatever you think is appropriate, how ‘bout that?”

he went to sip his whiskey again, but stopped to add, ”try not to break anything, though. this place is expensive.” and with all the product he was losing, things were looking kind of tight.

just then, a there was the all-too-predictable bang, and the sound of glass shattering. the rocket at the table screamed, shoulder bleeding while a bottle on the table had broken. it was followed by other screams, and the scrambling of bodies towards suddenly congested exits.

Cillian Quinn

☉

and he believed it. the thing about rocket was they didn’t care who saw them out in the open. they didn’t care who they hurt, and they didn’t care who had to clean up their shit. there was no mercy. not for him, his business, or anyone else.

indeed, their definition of appropriate might’ve differed—but what did it matter? there was no recovering from this. apogee was marked. he was already losing money.

he watched that fish swim upstream. not a fish, but a shark, rather, or a gator. too many teeth to be much else.

when the screams ran dry, and the bodies had cleared, roach was still sipping his whiskey at the bar. his eyes were on the underboss, cool as they glowed with neon reflection from beneath the shade of his hat. 

”yeup,” he sighed, pushing from his lean finally, and walking glass-in-hand towards deep shadows that obscured a door unaesthetically marked ‘staff only’. ”follow me.”

they’d make their way to his office on the top level. its interior contrasted the modern flavor of the rest of the club, more reminiscent of ritual’s coziness, though still utterly lavish. an ursaring would snarl up at gavin lifelessly, its pelt stretched flat across the floor, until roach pulled it aside. underneath the rug was a door.

”where i keep the goods if i got a deal, usually.” he explained. ”luckily for us, there wudn’t any except that one downstairs. it’s empty.”

he yanked the door up, revealing a small room with stairs down, and little else.

Cillian Quinn

☉

”hopefully not,” roach agreed, but if he did, it was all on the underboss, in his opinion. roach knew about as well as anyone that messes always fell back on the leader, fair or not. such was the plight of the powerful—but he wasn’t about to say shit to some guy who could conjure darkness.

roach followed back down and out of the elevator. he knew everyone with a badge approaching under the neon lights. he was no stranger to handcuffs or the precinct.

”howdy,” he greeted, raising his glass with same casual impudence he greeted all the law with, dirty or not. there was a silent nod of approval as gavin handled the orders. keeping rocket’s name out of it sounded good to him.

when they were left alone in favor of the cleanup, roach returned his attention to gavin. the weariness was noted.

”nah, but you look like you could use a drink.”

Cillian Quinn

☉

”a’course! always, always...” a loop around the bar, and roach set his own drink aside, pulled a step-ladder over to reach the top shelf. hospitality was a hell of trade. it was better to know how to keep his enemies entertained at the table, because they then they couldn’t be behind his back, looking at all of the shit he was hiding.

as he was, a master of hospitality, he knew gavin’s liquor of choice. a bottle of aged scotch was selected and brought down. he poured it heavy and neat.

”now, this one right here. that's a good scotch.” roach never gave him anything but the best. he deftly flipped a napkin down, setting the glass on top.

Cillian Quinn

☉

the power of will let a ray of light into his eyes from somewhere, despite the puddle of blood across his dancefloor. truly hospitable company did not burden the guest with personal frustrations. wisdom pulled a smile across his whiskered lips.

"well shit happens, don't it?"

he lingered there a moment, before patting the bar and turning to refill his own glass.

"'preciate you gettin' here, before all hell really broke loose. coulda been a lot worse, i figure."

turning again, he held his glass, leaning casually against the back counter.

"whatcha think?" about the scotch. or, about whatever else. up to interpretation.

Cillian Quinn

☉