FIRST REPLY Dog Eat Dog

Charlemagne

“See You In The Afterlife”
Charlemagne
Eddies
61
Afterlife-Database-CP2077.png



CLICK HERE--



The back corner of the Afterlife was bathed in a soft, amber glow, matching the tint of Charlemagne's ever-present shades. He sat reclined in the plush booth, one arm draped casually over the backrest, the other lifting a glass of top-shelf bourbon to his lips. The drink's deep caramel color matched his gold-trimmed vest, and his thick, tattooed fingers tapped against the crystal glass in rhythm with the pulsing bassline of the club.

Charlemagne's presence was magnetic, the kind of aura that drew eyes but kept most people at a respectful distance. He looked like a king holding court, his muscled frame a monument to years of hard living and harder fighting. The tattoos snaking up his arms and over his collarbones whispered stories of old crews, deadly gigs, and victories he didn't need to boast about. The amber shades made it impossible to know where his eyes lingered, but it didn't matter; Charlemagne saw everything. Across from him, a trio of corpos leaned in, laughing nervously, their expensive suits creasing as they sipped their overpriced cocktails. The deal they were discussing wasn't Charlemagne's style, but he indulged them. Money was money, eddies were eddies, and he knew how to keep high-end clients happy, even if their jobs rarely made it past his filter.

Standing sentinel nearby was his bodyguard, a mountain of muscle and chrome that loomed like a warning. The hulking solo had arms thick enough to crush steel and kiroshi optics that glinted faintly under the club's neon haze. He didn't speak unless Charlemagne told him to, but the mere sight of him kept the riff-raff from trying their luck. Charlemagne swirled his drink and leaned back further, letting the faint gold chain of one of his necklaces catch the light. He wasn't in a rush. Anyone looking for work—or for trouble—knew where to find him. And when they did, they'd better come correct.


 
"Don't loike this suh." Corporal Badrick Twigg grunted underneath his breathe, "Skulkin' 'round the Aftuhloife, like we're suckle 'ungry swine." The Barghest veteran grunted, they had of course come discreetly, not carrying armaments. They were smart enough to know not to come packing to the infamous venue. But you wouldn't know it based on their attire. Twigg was attired in full combat gear. Vest. Trousers. And coat. Immediately identifiable as Militech vintage, but specifically of Dogtown era given the paint smeared across it. "Should be runnin' our own meets, our own works and yet we-"

"We are not wasting our time here Mister Twigg," Benedict pointedly snarled, "We are here, at the centre of mercenary activity in Night City and at the largesse of our contractor." The Englishman condescendingly glowered, "Ergo Mister Twigg if these compunctions do not stop I advise you hold your tongue." Benedict coldly retorted. Compared to his cohort, he was much more relaxed in attired. Still wearing a bulletproof vest. But one which was slightly sleeker. More sophisticated. But nonetheless ever present. "If we are to conduct business outside of Dogtowns borders, we must look into relationships beyond the stadium." Comically enough Cross was wearing a hood. A sleek, black one. But it looked childish. Sure the fabric was velvetine. But from a distance, it did look a lot like a child had just cut holes out of a black sheet. Benedict crossed the bar, glaring at those in his path. Mercenaries. Corpos. Beneath him. Or at least that is how one is supposed to play it. That's when he saw him. Charlemagne. The fixer. They had a freewheeling invitation. But Benedict knew opportunity when he saw it. "Stay close." He grunted to Twigg.

The duo approached Charlemagne's table. Benedict felt his skin go all clammy. This was it. There was a lot riding on this interaction. Benedict turned to the man's bodyguard and gave a curt nod. Twigg stood behind Benedict, standing to attention. Hands in front and ready for action. "If you don't mind, sir, I believe I have business to discuss with your charge." He looked to Charlemagne and then averted his gaze. This was all a dance with pagentry, and Benedict had to adhere by it. But by God did it make him anxious.
 
Charlemagne leaned back in the booth, a crystal glass of bourbon in one hand, a lit cigar in the other. The smoke curled lazily around his head, mixing with the dim neon haze of the Afterlife. Behind his amber-shaded gaze, he watched Benedict and Twigg approach, his expression unreadable but tinged with the faintest glint of amusement. The fixer could smell nerves from a mile away, and the tension rolling off these two was enough to clog a filter.

He took a slow sip of his bourbon, letting the burn warm his throat, then tapped the ash from his cigar into the tray on the table. His hulking bodyguard, kept his cybernetic optics locked on the duo, his metal arms resting casually but ready for anything. Charlemagne raised a hand, signaling the brute to ease off. "Easy, big man," he said smoothly, his voice as rich and deep as the liquor in his glass. "They're with me."

He gestured casually to the seats across from him, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. "Go on, sit. You came all this way, might as well get comfortable."

Charlemagne's gaze flicked to Twigg, and the faintest smirk played across his lips. "Maybe next time, maybe don't roll into the Afterlife dressed like you just strolledDogtown warzone. This place has a reputation, and I prefer my guests blend in better with the establishment's clientele."

Leaning forward slightly, he planted his cigar in the ashtray and rested his elbows on the table. The gold trim on his amber shades caught the dim light as his eyes locked on Benedict. "So, Benny boy," he said, his tone steady but edged with steel. "You've got my attention. What pleasure do I owe for you to leave Dogtown to sit at my table?"



 
Benedict sharply inhaled. This was it. This was his moment. He'd been stuck as a fixer for months now, but a seat at the Afterlife? Preem, "Much obliged." The Mongrel fixer curtly responded. His voice did not betray how anxious he was. Just conversational. It was not wise at this juncture to let any weakness through. Just ooze confidence. A skill he had learned attending Oxford. Cross looked expectantly at Twigg who still stood to attention. What was he waiting for?

"I much prefer tah stand." The Trinidadian expat drawled. Obliging a curt nod of his head. Even with his face obscured by the hood, Benedict's expression slumped. Fucking gonk. Here they were, in a premier fixers booth. And Twigg was spitting in the man's hospitality. Bloody perfect. The Midnight Storm vet stood opposite Charlemagne's own huscle, quietly sizing him up. Which Benedict guessed what Twigg was meant to do. But not so blood obviously. And not when impressing company. FUCK.

Still, Benedict's eyes narrowed while Twigg scoffed as their choice of dress was dissected. "I consider it," Benedict began to haughtily retort, "High fashion if you're ever been to EBM Petrochem." Cross replied, instinctively dusting off his right shoulder. It wasn't quite a lie. It was difficult to get any suit that could fit under a bullet proof vest in Dogtown. Especially one not eaten through by moths or used as a cockroach nest. "Although you of all people must be aware of how dangerous Night City proper is, it always pays to be prepared for any eventuality. For us," he gestured to Twigg, "We are but strangers in a strange land. And the wisest of interlopers oblige a tour-de-force." Cross pontificated. This got a chortle out of Twigg. But it was clear his showmanship was just that. Bluster.

The mention that Charlemagne knew of him was something of a surprise. He'd always figured he'd need to run through who he was. Or what he could offer. Benedict never thought that his actions would pass Pacifica at this stage. Even if it was that awful nickname. He betrayed his stoicism with a sharp inhale, punctuated by a cough. "Well, sir." He stumbled over his thoughts, "I was not aware my reputation preceded me, but I'm glad to hear it. I so often despise the awful banality of introducing oneself and one's..... Reportoire."

Benedict fidgeted a little in his seat and leaned forward, "I believe it is no secret that Barghest's best days are behind it." Cross plainly began, "Sure, the wheeling and dealing continues but with increasingly little in regard to returns. In my opinion and that of my employer, without the Good Colonel and his penchant for salesmanship at the helm, Dogtown languishes. And Barghest rots." The English expat elaborated. "I believe, the key to returning Dogtown's prosperity is in making friends and acquaintances beyond the usual set of grifters and shysters we provide ordnance and narcotics to." He continued, "And what better way to make a friend, than to provide a gift, no?"

 
Charlemagne took a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn before exhaling a ribbon of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. His gaze, sharp and discerning, flicked between Benedict and Twigg, weighing them like a butcher eyeing a questionable cut of meat. "Friendship," he mused, rolling the word over his tongue as if tasting it for the first time. A faint smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "That's an awfully poetic way to describe business, especially coming from someone with your pragmatic affiliations."

He let the words settle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down with a soft clink against the polished table. His fingers tapped idly against the rim. "But you're not wrong. Barghest? It's a beast with no leash and no master. You can dress it up in combat gear, slap on all the paint you want, but without the Colonel? It's a dog that don't bite like it used to."

His eyes flicked to Twigg then back to Benedict, studying the latter's posture, the fidgeting, the slight unease buried under layers of forced composure. Leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, the cigar dangling loosely between his fingers. His smirk widened. "I do enjoy a good present."

He took another sip, watching Benedict over the rim of his glass. "Tell me, mongrel, what exactly is in the box?"



 
"If I may, regale you with history for a time," Benedict began as he reached into his coat, "But after Colonel Hansen's unfortunate meet with the FIA, the leadership of Barghest has been naught but a contest between heavyweights." Cross retrieved the article he had been searching for. His eyes smiled at that, "All the current and previous imbeciles who came to sit in the Black Sapphire did so by virtue of storming the tower and other infastructure, slaughtering the inhabitants and then coronating themselves on Growl FM.." He slowly began pulling it out with his leather gloved hand, "This is typically followed by prompt assassination by lynching as the same fate befalls them." Benedict drily pontificated. "In short they are men who believe that Dogtown is for those with the largest guns and biggest armies to control." Ensconsed in Benedict's hand was a searing green cigarette case, emblazoned with a devilish Hellhound. Clearly Barghest vintage. "And they are not wrong, violence and the capacity to perform it are important. My colleagues, however place weight on more than that. To control Dogtown requires subtefuge. Economic power. And most importantly, allies one can call upon."

Benedict slid the case toward Charlemagne, and popped it open. Inside of it, instead of cigarettes was a soft and velvetine lining. And embedded within the middle was a shard. "Feel free to pop it in, your choice, but if you don't trust it I can inform you otherwise." Benedict leaned back, leather of the seat creaking as he shifted backwards. "But that shard, contains proof of the existence of ninety seven Kyubi X-Mod 2 assault rifles. Fresh from a Tsunami refinery in Kyoto and besides two of them for testing purposes, never been fired." Although unseen from behind the hood, he was smirking. Leaning back further, he confidently put his arms behind his head. Wanting to assert some sort of sense of confidence. However in reality, he was terrified. "I don't seem to believe they have any owner."

"So what say you, sir? How would you like to take that mantle?"


 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top