It was the kind of day when Doug Riche told himself he wasn't in Kansas any more... which was a relief as there wasn't that much in Kansas... except a whole lot of horny teenagers using the system as 'lovers lookout' and other naughty things...
Not that he minded. He shot the cuffs of his pin-stripe suit and walked into the bar, taking a stool and crossing his legs in such a way that his smashing shoes really could catch the eye, he ordered a scotch.
The problem with Gallia was that it was in Gallic space.
Now, from what he had seen it was a nice enough patch of mostly nothing. There were some charming colors in the background, usually filtered through some debris of war sure but what could you do?
The problem was chiefly one of distance and making a quick call. Given the distance, not even being in the same damn cluster, the business of working for the crown was proving to be troublesome from a logistics point of view. Namely the logistics of flying north everytime the Reavers had another few kills to claim. But, eh, the prospects of future business were a bit too good to ignore. Even if it meant dealing with this stuffy bunch of xenophobes. Though there was doubtless a measure of irony in that particular condemnation.
But he could use a coffee. Or a fight. Or a drink and a fight. Or maybe a chance to get out of the smell of the X Shuttle that he'd taken a fancy to, and bequeathed a certain atmosphere to, in recent days.
With that in mind he cheerfully requested, and grudgingly received, docking rights at Gap station. Onto which he stepped shortly thereafter with threadbare jeans and sweater pulled over hazard suit with intent to track down whatever passed for a joint where a man might sneak up on his sorrows, put them into a headlock and drown the ****ers before they were the wiser.
Lost in these thoughts he blindly approached the door and, upon stepping through, observed the trim and exclamation with no small surprise:
Wow, this place is nice!
Classy entrance accomplished, he settled for tracking down a booth in which he could get that drink and a spot of his work done.
Luc dragged himself to his usual table, weary from the day's events. Command had given him 72 hours off to recollect himself. After all, getting spaced wasn't exactly something one did for fun. At least not those with a will to live.
"May I get you your usual, sir?" the waitress asked politely. Lefevre grunted an approval and turned his attention to a couple chatting idly at a nearby table. Envy crept into his thoughts, so he turned away again and thumbed at a loose thread on the tablecloth. The waitress returned shortly with a cup of caf and a fresh croissant, lightly buttered. Again, the Capitaine grunted an affirmative and dropped a few credits onto the table, enough for the snack plus a little extra for the service. And boy did it look good as the service walked away, too.
The caf was too hot to indulge in, so he nibbled at the croissant, his mind drifting back to the brawl that took place a system over. Luc pulled out his datapad and thumbed through some news reports from the Core, longing for home.
Perrot walks in, rather nonchalantly. A rather far-away grin graces his face, and a strange air surrounds him. He eyes the baguette weilding man, and, without giving it a second thought, grabs one of the loaves.
After a quick inspection, he casually bites off the tip.
Lucas Gerald, Gallic Royal Police Directeur, looks at the newly decorated entrance, trademark wooden boarders leading up to a high arch which hung the Fleur de Lis and crests of the crown. The entrance had two large steel doors which slid out from either side; ornate decorating's carved and etched into it. A large sign on both sides and above displayed Cafe d'Observateur d'Etoile, the name of the Cafe in wooden planks that actually came from previous bar fights, cleaned and decorated to match the entrance.
He walks in, hand rested on his service pistol's grip staring at the new Cafe. Tables flood the floor, though leaving areas clear around the pastry and coffee tables and a large area for dance and merriment. Bar maidens rush to and fro, bringing refills and creamy desserts to tables. A bar lined up perpendicular to the far left wall, the end near the back wall having self-service coffee dispensers. In the back lays new dual staircases that ascend away from each other towards the left and right walls, a smaller second story lining above tables and the bar but not closed in to be able to look out onto the main floor. On the far right lays most of the tables and booths, hard wood with unique designs on the chairs and red fabric for the tablecloth and cushions. Above stairwells on the back wall hangs an old wooden clock, the arms and gears placed in a Fleur de Lis; The hour ticks placed on the wall separate.
He looks around the tables and finds the only one without a table cloth, the top dented and scratched with a permanent coffee ring on one side. The chair near the stain has no cushion, but has a taller back and arm rests. This was Gerald's personal table and chair that lived through many changes in decor and furniture, left as he was one of the most frequent customers, sometimes sleeping there at his table after a long shift.
Taking his hand off the butt of his pistol, he moves towards his table and sits down, where one of the bar maidens instantly hand him a cup of coffee, brewed just the way he liked. He took it and kissed her for being so kind as he always does, then goes to sit. Something snags on the armrest, keeping him from being able to lean back. He looks to see what it is and almost laughs. He forgot about his officer's sword as it became a part of him throughout his training to become the Directeur. Dupont, the Directeur before him, gave him long hard hours each day just to master this blade with her only using a walking cane.
He unclips the sheath from his waist and places it leaning against the table. Finally a sip of coffee reaches his mouth. He smiles as one of the few happy parts of his life flood into him, allowing him to lean back and finally rest for a bit. The Cafe d'Observateur d'Etoile was finally reopened.
Even from inside the furnished and secure walls of the Cafe, the sound of impending hate was clear. Heavy footsteps. Barely suppressed rage. A secured sword clicking against the tarnished uniform of one very pissed off Simon Perrot.
He barged through the door, ignoring every last person who happened to be enjoying an evening in the establishment.
He collapsed angrily into a table down at the far end of the room, and stared angrily at the floor.
Even from inside the furnished and secure walls of the Cafe, the sound of impending happiness was clear. Light footsteps. Barely suppressed happiness. A orangy flower with a yellow tinge prodding out of his front pocket of the uniform of Francis Durand signified his happiness.
Opening the door, waving and saying "Bonjour!" cheerfully to every last person who happened to be enjoying an evening in the establishment.
He sat down at a table of friends and chatted among them.
Gerald looked up as both Brigadier Francis Durand and Brigadier Simon Perrot entered, opposites of each other. He simply shakes his head at their behavior and drinks his coffee waiting for Lefevre to join him.
Lefevre had been to the cafe many times, although his assignment the past week had prevented such luxury. He'd tried every dessert and delicacy that was served, coffees of all fragrances and flavors. None appealed to him more than a simple black with a buttered croissant.
It was comfortable here. The wood and cloth a stark contrast from the usual spartan metal alloy that characterized the stations of the Royal Police. It felt right and warm, like home. Certainly not a nostalgic man, it was his one concession to a past he'd left behind in favor of ambition. Lefevre paced over to the Directeur's table and took the usual seat at his right, nodding as he sat and waving over one of the serving girls for his standard spread. The Commissaire fished a small data pad out of his satchel and laid the bag at the end of the table opposite Gerald. Recently returned from Metz, the two hadn't yet had a chance to speak. Although Gerald was his superior, Lefevre had served a long time with the man, had even mentored him. It was in this capacity that he now served, a Commissaire of the Royal Police.
"Evening, Lucas," he began. "I trust you've managed to keep the new recruits in check?"
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