May 24, 2001
10:00 A.m.
One of many LAPD Police Station, Los Angeles, California
Although many of us were born into this nation, we have to realize that the United States is nothing like any other country in the world or throughout the course of history. Sure, some aspects are recognizable; that’s certain to occur given the melting part of our cultures. What we often forget is that many of our states are significantly larger than most countries, while having only a fraction of the history and development.
Why do I mention that? To understand that the East Coast is nothing like the West Coast.
There’s a sense of order and prestige in the East Coast; what you get out of the DMV is the type of service you’ll get at a police station. That usually involves a lot of waiting, some busywork but always some basic level of respect and attendance as long as you don’t do anything stupid. The exception, which was now proving to be more often the the rule given the rising fame of self-made celebrities, is that anyone with even a small sort of prestige could ignore the established conventions; being the nephew of a Clinton or a Kennedy, a secretary to Trump or Gates or anything like it would let you be better than your so called equal and make yourself receive a treatment once given only to kings.
West coast mentality ignores that completely; if you aren’t the president, you’re just another cog in a large machine that gets on everyone’s nerves. For better or worse, trips to government ran programs in the west were not fun for anyone, an equal opportunity for everyone to suffer. Fabio Lopez found no special treatments here, especially due to his Hispanic complexion, as he was told to wait by the attendant.
“Twenty minutes? I’m a federal agent on an important case and I have to wait twenty minutes just to get permission to go through your files?”
“Yep. Now shut up and sit down before I make it forty.”
The angry agent at wits end from the terrible night’s sleep in the dusty hotel threw his arms up in despair, resigned to his fate as he took his ticket and walked away in rush. With every passing moment, this trip to find Morales was becoming a bigger and bigger lesson in humility for the middle aged Argentinian; he hadn’t had this rough a go in years, which motivated him all the more to get this assignment done quickly. That he now was forced to sit in this cesspool of vice, filled with junkies and leeches of the lowest low of the socio-economic scale we use to measure society was just another hit to his pride, the man opting to take a seat next to the only other person who had bothered to come to the police station in a suit.
Fabio was on the verge of leaving the moment he did. The pale skinned man sipping a thermos of tea was rather inquisitive, his British accent clear as he remarked “Seems you Americans treat all of your agents bad. I thought they made me wait because I’m European; even then, they told me to take a ten.”
“Look, buddy, I’m not in the mood to talk right now…”
“Not even to an agent of Shadow Bastion?”
The FBI agent nearly shot out of his seat, turning sideways to get a better look at the FTM. With pale skin that made most Englishmen look tan and shining green eyes that glowed even in the brightly lit cubicle that was the entrance to the station, it was a bad mood that didn’t allow Fabio to pick him off as a vampire from the start. Even the man’s hair, a midnight black that flowed long and covered his left eye with Neon Blue highlights, couldn’t hide who he was; no amount of eye liner or painted finger nails would hide that he belonged to that ancient order, save for those with no knowledge of it at all.
“Thomas Moriarty. Pleasure.”
“Agent Fabio Lopez… though you heard that at the counter, didn’t you?”
The English secret agent, either posing or truthfully a full on goth, tapped the small spike that formed the earing on his exposed side of his face. Enhanced hearing was just one of many traits these vampires possessed; to pick up the intimate details of a conversation fifteen feet away as if it was a blare horn was simply part of the package.
Though that wasn’t what piqued Fabio’s interest. “Taking a big risk by telling me about the Bastion. How do you know I’m not a Cerberus man?”
“Because I know why you’re here, Mister Lopez. In fact, the reason you’re here is the same reason I am. Major Jayden.”
So the rumor that the purple haired cyborg was leading her own squad now was true. “She told you about us?”
“That your friend may have smuggled a drug lord into your country by accident? That’s the kind of comedic gold only your countrymen are capable of.”
Certainly was funny when Fabio took more than a few seconds to ponder over. With a shrug, the Argentinian blew the message off as he turned the tables, now playing inquisitor as he asked “So what about you? Why are you here? A plot to kill some member of the Barons?”
“Nothing so ghastly. Our team’s pilot got in a bar fight last night. I’m here to bail her out.”
“A bar fight? Haven’t heard that one before. They must be hiring anyone for Cerberus these days.”
The Englishman took it in stride. “The same can be said for the FBI. You do realize you smell like actual dog shite, right?”
“I actually slept next to a dog last night. I love this dam job.”
With that note we end their encounter. The door on the south end opened to reveal a short Arabic women dressed in a mangled pilot’s jumpsuit, her dark skin unscathed through there were at least four different knife wounds in the dark green uniform. With bag in hand, she completely ignored her rescuer as she began to walk out the door, causing Agent Moriarty to bid a quick farewell and leave without another chance to say goodbye, trying his best to keep up with the shorter companion who outpaced in him with ease.
Fabio simply rolled his eyes and said to himself “Bunch a weridos, those two… wonder when I’ll see them again.”
Not today. His number was finally called, the threat of a long wait cut long short as what appeared to be the police chief stood in an open door way, a portly Latin man who seemed to be fully enjoying the fruits of his new country. That was good; the chief would understand the sensitive nature of his mission and the need to take out Morales, especially as the chief was one of the prime targets at the moment.
“Agent Lopez, huh? So what does the government want with a backyard station like us?”
“Mara 18, senor…”
“Barrios. Senor Barrios.”
In the heart of the station now, Fabio found himself even missing the more compact and sectioned architecture of the Eastern stations. The building here was mostly open, with many officers in full view of each other’s desks and secrets, one way to crack down on corruption and immorality. Everyone was a part of everyone’s business here, something that the secretive man was not used to in the slightest.
Good thing Morales wasn’t a FTM. This would be awkward, otherwise.
“So Government is finally ready to kick those hoodlums out of here, huh? ‘Bout time. I’ve been begging for help for months.”
“Unfortunately, as they’re born in the United States, there’s little we can do besides telling you to do your best. I’m not here to help destroy the gang, but one man.”
“Let me guess. Rodrigo Morales?”
A nod. The portly officer shook his head in silence, his thick mustache blistering about and losing some of its form as a spirit of sadness overtook the chief. Pointing to several pristine desks around the room, all recently cleaned, the chief explained “Dam bastard has been picking off my men like flies. Six cops dead in half a week, all dismembered and labeled traitors to their people. What the hell does Morales know about loyalty and honesty? He’s the one ruining the name for our people; we’re segregated because of puntas like him.”
“Morales isn’t the only reason why racism exists… but it’s hard to argue in our favor when maniacs like him exist. That’s why the FBI is performing a sort of secret op… Morales isn’t from the United States, and he has clearly demonstrated that he ha
s no intention of making our country better. With your cooperation, we’ll take him out. A bullet to the head, the plane or the sword for his men, and the dismantlement of the Ocelotes before the end of the week. All undercover, of course… no one can know about it.”
The chief shrugged. “What’s it to me? I just want these men to get what’s coming to them. What do you need?”
Fabio, pointing to what seemed like a filing room, gestured in that general direction. “Names. Places. Details. The Ocelotes de Justicia are working in tandem with Mara-18. They’re even trading places; as Morales brings in more of his men, he’s helping many of La Mara set up shop in his home country. As such, if we can track down La Mara, we can catch Morales. I’m assuming you know something about them.”
“Oh, I know more than something… I’ll get you a full square meal, served straight on a silver platter. I even have the times their drug dealers push at their locations of choice.”
All that Fabio could ask for. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be as bad as he thought it would be.
Times of Peace: Volume 1 of the side adventures to The Mercenary's Salvation Page 14
