Caesar Gonzalez
Location: Purgatory
It wasn't quite Hell, at least not at first. He'd lived through what most men and women would consider Hell, endured tortures both metaphorical and literal that would shatter most men. He had been to the edge of death more than once, staring deeply down past the precipice of this life and into the hereafter. It was dark to him, unknown and unknowing. The intense, brooding man had forcibly dropped many off of that particular cliff as need arose. And need arose far too often that it should have in his life. He was an
artist, death being his medium. Few people in the world were as gifted in that regard, and they were truly soulless. He alone stood out, and likely only because of the bonds of Familia, keeping him grounded in fragile humanity. Love motivated the man to kill, if such a thing were possible, many times over. But he was still a killer, regardless of motivation. Perhaps that was why the last thing he cared about on this earth was taken from him. Light and life of truly remarkable and talented women, snuffed out for cryptic purpose.
Somehow Caesar knew. Just a quiet, unassuming feeling of dread in the center of his being that appeared after Alicia failed to get back in touch with him. He wasn't sure why the grim certainty appeared, despite his more logical sensibilities that the emotional precognition was false; he just knew that it tainted the core of him. He met Lorna, just the once between the night at the Derby and the inevitability held within the next two days. He told her to be careful, and let him know when Alicia finally got home.
That was the last he saw of her, as well.
The morning after the Derby saw the arrival of another MSS employee, this one from across the Atlantic. The man was
huge, both in size and personality. Caesar had made calls to the appropriate contacts about setting up for his needs, furniture, basic equipment, vehicle and the like, but the leasing office at his chosen complex just outright refused to open their doors on a Sunday. This reality prompted an event that hadn't occurred in a remarkable amount of time:
Caesar had a sleepover.
It was all very personable, if a bit quiet at first. Then their mutual interest in alcohol kicked in, followed shortly by war stories, culminating in tales concerning their "most memorable takedown", which may or may not have involved actual or assumed death. It took an hour or two before Caesar was comfortable speaking around the British import, not because there was an air of intimidation around both men (though there was), but because of a tiny language barrier. You see, whereas Caesar spoke English almost as fluently as a native speaker, which is to say that he spoke the language with more propriety than most Americans, the words flowing out of the broad Brit had more in common with a linguistical explosion of forgotten swear words and the spoken spelling of the more confusing parts of Shakespeare, wrapped around a strong Cockney underclass accent.
After DVRing a few episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus and drinking steadily in the meantime, the elder Mexican felt prepared enough to (more or less) carry on a conversation. A little more time smoothed it out well enough. As the lines of communication opened up, Caesar began to relate the happenings of Justice as best as he was able, ending with the events of the previous night at the Roller Derby. The larger man nodded, tossing out the occasional comment or question. Mostly, he listened.
And then he introduced Caesar to the concept of French Omelettes and Kippered Salmon. An interesting meal to both prepare and to consume while under the influence of copious amounts of distilled spirits, but the older man was genuinely impressed by the quality of the food, especially coming from a source as unlikely as his guest.
The day progressed into evening, evening to night, and two things happened with millstone-worthy gradual eventuality: Caesar became more worried, sending messages and trying to contact ...someone... and the English Bruiser's speech degenerated more and more into something resembling the stylized drunken ramblings of The Canterbury Tales.
By the next day, he was settled into his new home a few miles away. By the day after, their plans imploded.
J. Keystone
Location: London, England, U,K. --> Justice, California, U.S. - Boston Heights, Regal Building, Sublevel (1D), Chicago Heights Apt # 1265, Queensguard R&D
Keystone had a man pinned sideways on a crumbling brick wall, held up by a single, ham-sized fist wrapped around his throat. The unnamed man struggled and kicked, at least at first, until the gorilla of a man wrapped his other hand into a punishing, battle scarred fist and battered it relentlessly into his crotch, hammering without remorse nor cessation. Like John Henry pounding railroad spikes into the earth, his mighty fist sledged into the softer tissues of the horizontal victim, crossing his eyes and threatening numbing bowel evacuation with every meaty
thwack. Keystone wanted this man to suffer. The only problem was, he wasn't one hundred percent sure when the fullness of shock would set in, rendering the poor bastard on the receiving end of his attentions incapable of feeling the beating that he was taking to the gonads.
While pondering this great mystery of life, he caught movement on his periphery. There was less than a second of time to react as a loading pallet crashed into him. He had reacted well enough to take the blow to the meatier part of his back and shoulder, but it still hurt. Large splinters of partially painted wood sprayed in different directions, forcing the large man to close his eyes and lose full grip on his original target, who collapsed to the ground, coughing and squeaking in a manner that might very well have gotten him a slew of inquiries by the Vienna Boys' Choir.
He didn't know the guy had a partner. This must be rectified.
The look of shock on the other man's face upon seeing that the big guy didn't go down was priceless. Only slightly less so was the abject terror that slapped itself onto his features as Keystone remarked in a loud, authoritative voice,
"Oh, you're buggered now, my old beauty!". The man tried to run. Turned around and got five good paces before the unkempt brawler recovered the crumpled form of his first victim from the ground beside him. Grabbing him by his ankles, Keystone swung him like a little sister and let go, hurling the unfortunate lump of meat and bones through the air, colliding with his retreating partner.
A multitude of tiny bags spilled from their pockets as they forcibly made connection, each containing a single medicinal-looking tablet featuring a recently popular cartoon duck. Keystone looked upon them with disgust. He then spent the next few seconds beating one man to half unconscious with the other, using him as a bludgeon. Then his phone sounded from his pocket.
Keystone sighed, upset that his work lay unfinished, interrupted by something that he hoped was of extreme importance. He answered with a simple
"Yeah?" A series of monosyllabic responses later, he slipped the phone back into his pocket, and growled at the broken and bleeding men on the ground,
"Gettin' off easy, both of ya. Piss off, an' don't you ever come back. Get me?" The brutish man walked around the crumbling brick building and away from the lot, just as the first of the bright, orange-yellow buses pulled around, dropping off children in time for morning studies. From somewhere inside the building, an electronic bell rang, signalling the start of the day. Keystone didn't bother looking back. Not that he could pay more attention to the situation, anyway: He had to catch the next plane to California.
He didn't expect to get picked up by private car. Nor did he expect that El Jefe himself would be in the back seat to greet him. Likewise, he didn't expect to be equipped immediately, and with the specific gear that he tended to gravitate toward. Even with the appropriate credentials to act in the manner of his profession the minute he set foot outside of the car. Many unexpected things happened that day. Many more over the course of the week.
For further example, he really didn't expect Caesar to douse his eggs and kippers with hot sauce, a thing which earned the spoken phrase of
"Stop cockin' up m'eggs, ya geriatric bloody fucktwat!" Nations had been overthrown for less. Instead, Caesar handed the bottle over to Keystone, surprisingly responding with a calm,
"It's made with three kinds of smoked peppers, asshole. Try it before you say something else that makes me angry. Unless you want to know what your lungs look like." Keystone took the bottle, dabbing a drop onto a corner of his omelette. With minimal hesitation, he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Nodding, he applied a few more drops (not quite as many as Caesar), and set back to his meal. When he was done, Keystone produced a small, spiral-bound notebook and hastily penned some text. It's good to learn new things.
The next day, Keystone moved into his new place in Chicago Heights. The day after that, he was appointed as Acting Director of Operations for the Justice, California branch of Machete Security Solutions. This "by default" promotion came under the worst circumstances imaginable. There were undoubtedly more that were better qualified to hold the position, but with everything that was going on, Caesar had no one else he knew he could trust. Keystone was trained in part by Alicia, and came from a place far removed from the drama going on in this cesspit of a city. He acquainted himself with his new job as best he could, taking direction mostly from Caesar.
Caesar, meanwhile, was indisposed, except to speak with Keystone. Mostly, he remained in his apartment, secluded with his thoughts, memories, and the anguish of his lost family. When he did make it down to Queensguard R&D, the elder man seemed to spend his time pouring over Alicia and Lorna's terminals, as if he were looking for something. Otherwise, he gave Keystone orders and instruction, then quietly made his way back home.
Keystone was still a bit bewildered. He had assumed that this was going to be a totally different kind of job. It was
not his usual type of assignment, by far. Settling into administrative work was not easy for him, but if he got to concentrate on a single aspect of running the company, like Training or Patrols, Checkpoints, maybe Protocol, he was okay. Caesar gave him support in waves; it was either sparse or overflowing. He simply wasn't all there.
He could understand why, though. It was difficult, keeping yourself together while training a new Branch Director and waiting for your daughters' bodies to be released from the morgue. Caesar made several calls, sent several Emails. Mostly to family, both his own and relatives of Lorna to make appropriate arrangements. Caesar also made calls to arrange for the movement of men and equipment inside of MSS. Something hideous was afoot, and his daughters got caught up in the middle of it. He was going to want someone by his side for the foreseeable future, and if this epic clusterfuck took them away from Justice, there had to be personnel in place to protect their interests locally, if for no other reason than to give them a viable excuse to remain. The business plan must continue.
Both of them had their hands full, over the past week. Mostly, Keystone kept an eye out at Queensguard R&D, while Caesar... Well, while Caesar mourned. While still not very talkative, the old man was in a good enough place to meet with Elisabeth Queensguard. The morning of the 21st saw both he and Keystone in working gear, standing just outside of the appointed conference room. The larger man lay a hand on the door, about to open it for Caesar. He paused for a moment, to say,
"Look, Boss... Hows 'bout you let me do the small talk, yeah? Something ain't day-to-day comes up, I'll be deferrin'. Otherwise, I got it. Right?" Caesar nodded to the cockney giant, and motioned for him to open the door.
