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[MFE]Med Force One, cloaked somewhere in Omicron Theta
Conference room 7A was set aside for the meeting between a former Elder of The Corsair Brotherhood and one who was current. Juanez Buonocore was an old friend of Doc's and there was much mutual respect between them. Years earlier, Buonocore went on a hiatus, leaving behind his roots. Many wrote him off as dead. Now he was back and looking to replant the seeds of his power but there was a problem, that problem being Elder Cesar Gutierrez, the current leader of the Brotherhood.
Gutierrez was also someone Doc respected and had recently worked with. Doc didn't know the inner workings of the Corsair Empire nor did he need to know but one thing was certain, he had a lot of respect within that Empire from his workings back on Gran Canaria. This was all he really had to work with.
The arrangements on ship were secretive and life aboard Med Force One went along as normal. Few, if anyone, knew anything was going on. The only ones that knew were security and they kept it so private that still no one noticed.
The conference room was set. No weapons as each man to include Doc, was searched. No surveillance within the room either. Only some iced water, a coffee pot and some beverages at the bar would be available to which Doc would serve. In the center was a small table. On one side would be Elder Gutierrez while on the other would be Elder Buonocore. Sitting in the middle with either to his sides was Doc. There was a notepad for each. Doc didn't know what to expect and he left his expectations of the outcome low. He kept a level of worry as well for the safety of his own people more than that of his own. Regardless of the outcome, someone may not be happy. For the time being, Doc waited for them playing Frederick Chopin's "Nocturn in E Minor," on a piano in the corner of the room.
When the two men would arrive, they would be searched and escorted to the room. The transponder on their ships were disabled and once the last man was aboard, MF1 itself was re-cloaked an relocated. Here was hoping for the best.
In the airlock corridor, Juanez Buonocore walked with purpose, each step a testament to the man he had been and the man he intended to be once again. He wore his finest suit, tailored to perfection, the Elder sash draped across his broad shoulders like a badge of both honor and burden. Adorning his chest was an array of medals, each one a relic of his storied past, from the fiery battles aboard his first gunboat to the campaigns that had once secured his place among the Corsair Brotherhood's finest.
Many might have expected him to arrive as a shadow of his former self -a relic of faded glory- but Buonocore defied such expectations. His posture was unyielding, his stride confident, his demeanor calm yet commanding. He was no spectre of a long lost memory; he was flesh and blood, will and ambition.
As the soft strains of Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor filtered through the corridors, a faint smile tugged at his lips. The music was unmistakable, a signature of the man he was about to meet. Doc Holliday, he thought with fondness, the name carrying with it the weight of mutual respect and shared history. Their paths had diverged for a time, but the bonds of friendship were resilient. He was looking forward to seeing his old comrade once more.
Yet, as much as he anticipated reuniting with Doc, there was another reunion waiting beyond the airlock, one far more fraught. Elder Cesar Gutierrez. His former right hand, now his successor, a man whose rise had not come without cost. Buonocore harbored no illusions about the gravity of this meeting, nor the challenges it might bring. But he also knew the stakes, and for the good of the empire, for the Brotherhood, he was prepared to set aside the ghosts of past grievances.
Humming softly along with the piano’s melody, he stepped forward with measured calm. A lesser man might have felt the weight of the moment pressing down, the tension of walking into a room where power, pride, and purpose converged. But Juanez? He felt only clarity. He was where he wanted to be, where he needed to be. The time for reflection was over; the time for action was now.
For too long, he had lingered in the shadow of his own indecision. No more. With this step, he left the fragments of his midlife crisis behind him. Before him lay the chance to reclaim his legacy. not for personal glory, but for the future of the empire he had once helped to shape. As the airlock doors hissed open, he took a deep breath, adjusted his sash, and stepped forward into destiny.
''Hola señor John. The years have been kind to your appearance.''
Elder Cesar Gutierrez finally made his entrance to Med Force One some minutes later. In the airlock corridor, he moved with purpose, his every step took him closer to the long awaited confrontation with the man who had once been a mentor, now his predecessor. His jacket, emblazoned with the Brotherhood logo on his right arm, was a symbol of his current position, while the mark of the bull on his left arm proudly proclaimed his allegiance to the Corsair Empire. Though his stride was confident, there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something darker. A sense of unexplainable sorrow, mixed with a quiet, simmering anger.
As he approached the airlock doors, they slid open, revealing a much brighter, more pleasant hallway. The contrast was striking. The calming sound of music played softly in the background, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, momentarily easing his mind. It almost made him forget the weight of the difficult meeting awaiting him.
With a steady pace, Cesar headed toward the conference room marked as 7A. As he neared the entrance, the music grew louder, and the aroma of coffee stronger. Despite the seemingly tranquil surroundings, the significance of the upcoming conversation remained heavy on his shoulders.
The doors to the conference room slid open, and Cesar immediately saw Juanez Buonocore greeting Doc Holliday. In an instant, their eyes met, and the air between them changed. What had once been a friendship built on shared goals now felt heavy with years of silence and unspoken tension. The room grew still, the calmness replaced by a quiet charge. Doc Holliday, probably sensing the shift, stood motionless, preparing to what would come next in this tense encounter between the two Corsairs.
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When Buonocore entered the room, he played another bar or two before getting up from his piano.
"I find music to be soothing," he explained with a light smile, "especially when you can create it yourself. Chopin's Nocturn in E Minor was one of the first pieces I ever learned."
He went over and shook his hand, clutching his right hand in his while covering the shake with his left. "It is an honor to be able to do this."
He released his hand and looked over his uniform. With a nod, he complimented it.
About the time he offered Buonocore a drink, Elder Gutierrez entered.
"Elder Gutierrez, it is good to see you," he stated as he went over to shake his hand much in the same way that he shook Buonocore's hand. He also complimented his uniform.
Doc himself was dressed in his black and white diplomatic attire. He didn't have awards on his clothing as they did. The only jewelry on his was a chain that went to an old pocket watch that was currently resting in his left breast pocket.
He motioned to the table. Each had a name plate before it. "Gentlemen, we will talk here. There is no one to bother us or cause trouble and I have cleared my medical schedule for as long as this might take. I will open these talks with an overview and give the floor to you both. First, would either or both of you like something to drink before we get started?"
Buonocore's eyes locked onto Gutierrez as the latter entered, his gaze unwavering, studying the man who once stood by his side and now represented a new, more distant power. There was no immediate greeting, no words exchanged, only the unspoken weight of years gone by. The silence stretched for a moment, and in that time, he saw the man before him: not the eager young man he once mentored, but the hardened Elder, a man who had seen and felt the cost of leadership.
Finally, Buonocore broke the silence, his voice smooth but laced with meaning. "Elder Gutierrez," he said, his tone carrying a faint smile, though his words held no warmth, "the years have not aged you a bit. Here I see you again."
He paused, as if savoring the moment, rolling the silence on his tongue like the faint rrr that occasionally danced through his words, before looking over at Doc, who had asked if either of them would like a drink. Buonocore’s smile turned into a more mischievous, knowing grin.
“Ah, Doc,” Buonocore continued, turning to the Zoner, “I imagine Elder Gutierrez here might want to drink a cup of my sangre, but, unfortunately, that won’t do either of us any good.” His eyes flicked back to Gutierrez, narrowing slightly. “No, I think both of us stand to gain much more by keeping our claws sheathed for now. The Corsair Empire has its future ahead of it, if we can find a way to move past... el pasado.”
Buonocore’s gaze returned to Gutierrez, his eyes slowly traveling up and down, studying him with the precision of a man weighing every detail, every shift of posture. His tone softened, though it retained a sharp edge beneath the surface. “And what is it that you think we need most, mi viejo amigo?” Buonocore’s voice carried the rhythm of a man accustomed to commanding, his words smooth yet weighted with intent. “A mutual understanding? Or something more... decisivo?”
The faintest accent clung to his words, adding a note of irony to his charisma. He leaned back slightly, his grin remaining, though his dark eyes gleamed like a predator gauging the distance to its prey, daring Gutierrez to answer.
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Doc could sense the tension. It wasn't the first time he saw two former friends at odds. In all of his years, Doc learned one thing about the Corsairs...they valued honor and friendship. He knew both were there in both men even if the latter of the two qualities was distant. He didn't say much for now as he was wondering what Guitierrez would say or do next.
The silence was deafening but finally, Doc spoke. "Yes, I would like to see both of you with your claws sheathed as you stated. I think the Corsair Empire has much to lose if one of you kills the other whereas I see the Empire stronger by settling your differences and working together."
Doc was being careful. He was, after all, the mediator and right in the middle of these two war veterans and he was unarmed. He was probably more anxious than they were.
Cesar returned Buonocore's intense gaze and noticed barely any changes in the former elder. His confidence and appearance remained much the same as they had many years ago, but Cesar no longer felt the same respect or warmth of friendship toward him. Much had changed since then, and all three individuals in the meeting room were keenly aware of it.
Cesar finally responded, "Senor Buonocore, I never expected to see your face again unless I were to visit Hell. You vanished without a trace, hiding from everyone, both friend and foe. You even managed to enjoy your wealth and wear your usual fancy suits. I’ll give you credit for that, truly!"
His tone shifted to one of fury, tinged with frustration and sadness. "But was it worth it? Abandoning your loyal hermanos and hiding in the shadows all these years? Many of them suffered because of their unwavering loyalty to you. El Machete, of all people, has endured terrible hardship because of you." In frustration, he slammed his fist on the table, the sharp sound of rattling glass echoing as it shook from the force.
"Did you know that for five damn years, I knew nothing about Machete's whereabouts until recently? He was secretly kept captive in one of the worst cells imaginable all this time, enduring experiences worse than death..." He stood up and pointed an accusing finger at Buonocore. "...because of you! You'll never understand that kind of pain until you experience it yourself! The only thing stopping me from giving you the Alberto Rodriguez treatment right now is the effort Senor Holliday put into organizing this meeting."
After that, Cesar sat back in his chair, seeming to calm down a little. His tone lost some of its hostility, though his gaze still held a noticeable fury toward Buonocore. "I think you’re more than well aware of this, and I doubt you came here for some meaningless cháchara," Cesar growled, his voice thick with disdain. "But sending me a list of your little requests before even looking me in the eye?" That's damn insulting. How dare you?!" He shouted, his anger flaring, then quickly reined it in.
"First, you're gonna tell me everything... your sudden disappearance, why you vanished, your secret life, and why the hell you're back. All of it." He turned to Doc, his tone softening just enough to be dangerous. "Senor Holliday, if you wouldn't mind, I could use a drink right about now."
Buonocore watched Cesar with the same quiet patience he had cultivated over years of navigating the betrayals and shifting alliances of the Council of Elders. The fire in Cesar’s eyes was familiar: once a reflection of his own ambition, now a reminder of the years that had passed. Indeed time had not dulled Cesar’s anger, nor had it softened the sting of his sudden departure from the empire and the Brotherhood.
Buonocore’s lips curled into a faint smirk, the kind of smirk that didn’t quite betray whether it was an annoyed or a mocking smirk. “I didn’t come here to reminisce about the past, Cesar. That is something for old farts and abuelas. I came to arrange matters of greater importance.” He leaned forward, tapping two fingers lightly on the table. “But Machete? Muchachos like him are nothing more than muscle wrapped in skin and pride. Fantastic for spilling blood, poor for making decisions. I've bestowed upon him the rank of Tribune but that was out of sentiment, not strategy. And sentiment is a weakness, one I’ve long since corrected. We all learn.”
Buonocore’s gaze sharpened, his voice lowering to a gravelly rasp. “You think a few years in the dark did him harm? No, mi amigo... that was a gift. A man like Machete? He only learns when he’s suffering and bleeding. You want to shape steel, you put it through the fire, again and again. Let him scrape and claw his way back up. Then, when he starts to feel comfortable, you must knock him down once more. That’s how you mold men like him. Give them just enough to taste power, and watch them destroy themselves trying to keep it. Besides, locking him in a box for a few years might be the only way for a burro like him to learn to think outside of it.” He shrugged, as if the matter was of little consequence. “But enough about Machete. He’s not why we’re here.''
He drew a slow breath, letting the tension linger just long enough to remind Cesar who he was dealing with. His eyes, sharp and unflinching, met Cesar’s with the confidence of a man who had walked through fire and come out untouched.
"I didn’t come here to dwell on the past, cariño." His voice was smooth, almost indulgent, for he were humoring an old friend as well as facing an adversary. "There’s a time for that, and this isn’t it. Right now, we speak as one Elder to another, and we speak about the future. Not just mine, or señor Holiday's or yours… but the future of the Omicrons. The empire’s future."
Buonocore’s gaze hardened, his playful tone thinning to something sharper. "What’s coming doesn’t care about old grudges or bruised egos. We either move forward together, or we get swallowed whole. Your call, Cesar."
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Doc sat and just listened and monitored. He knew there would be tension and Cesar's slamming on the table actually made him jump a bit. As Cesar settled a bit, he just left it alone. Clearly, these two men, these two former soon-to-be-again friends at least, he believed so, had issues to settle. When Cesar asked for the drink, he retrieved it. He set the glass of rum before him a returned to his seat.
Buonocore noticed how Cesar swirled the glass in his hand, watching the dark liquid catch the light, as if the answers he sought lay somewhere in its depths.
"Cesar…" Buonocore sighed, his voice heavy with something between annoyance and disappointment. His eyes lingered on the rum a moment before flicking up to meet Cesar’s gaze. "If you say nothing, others will speak for you. And trust me, mi hermano, there’s an imperio full of muchachos with plenty to say. Their voices are loud, and not all in favor of the Brotherhood."
He leaned forward slightly, the glass tapping softly against the table as he set it down. "Things are happening, muy rápido. Situations are slipping through your fingers whilst the Brotherhood sits still, hands tied by indifference." His eyes narrowed, drilling into Cesar with quiet intensity. "Tell me, cariño, where is that hunger that once burned in you? The one that made you rise above the rest, that made you feared and respected?"
Buonocore’s lip curled faintly, not quite a smirk, but close. "I don't even know if you still have it in you, unlike that niña of yours, the youngest Elder to ever sit at the Council’s table. She has some fuego in her, I'll give her that, yet she lacks the experience and wisdom of the Elders in our days. Very progressive, Cesar, truly. But progress?" He clicked his tongue. "You've been standing still ever since. Stagnation doesn’t suit you, hermano."
His voice darkened, and his gaze sharpened like the edge of a blade. "Yet I do not wish to offend you, you do not need another knife in your back. Those young ‘Sails,’ as they call themselves. Pfft." He waved a dismissive hand but couldn’t quite hide the flicker of disdain in his expression. "It still unsettles me how some rabble could steal the glory of names like Espingarda and Vito. Though..." Buonocore leaned back, resting one arm over the back of his chair, "even they make a point, whether you like it or not."
He paused for a long moment, letting the weight of his words hang in the room.
"The Brotherhood is the oldest and strongest foundation the Council of Elders has to lean on. But you, Cesar " Buonocore’s eyes narrowed to slits, "you must act now. Do your duty, allow me to do it, or step aside and pave the way for those with the fire to lead. And if they rise, Cesar.." he spread his hands slowly, palms up, "then you must do whatever it takes to ensure they succeed. No honour, no diginity, no pride. Only the survival of the empire."
His voice softened, but the urgency in it remained. "Time’s running out. You have my demands. You can no longer delay what is coming. Soon hermano, there’ll be no turning back. Make up your mind."
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