The sixth instalment in the super spy satire that is the Regulars.

The Regulars: Chapter 6

It's a beautiful, sunlit morning, the kind where you can look at snow through a window and still feel like summer. It's this kind of day when the world you have means a bit more than what you have to do to keep it. This lightness is not lost on the Lounge residents, even the one who actually resides there.
"So, what'd you think of him?" Fluff asks as she hands Seven her morning coffee. Once both hands are on her own cup again her fingertips drum against it nervously.
"That's not what I was there for." Seven answers, trying to balance friendship and professionalism and failing in the way you only do with true friends.
"I know." Fluff stares intently at her drink. "But come on, I want to know." She looks up, failing to avoid a slight blush
Nodding her head in defeat Seven sighs. "He seemed nice enough. Cared if you were alive after the first date."
This brings a grateful grin to Fluff's face. "Yeah he is nice, and cute. Did you think he was cute?"
"Generally I cut off that part of my mind in interrogations."
"Yeah, I know, but this is very not general."
There's nothing worse than smart friends. "Ok, he looked good."
"Just between us I appreciate that, but we know what the real issue is. What did he say about me?"
Ceasing to attempt any show of propriety "I didn't ask him that." Fluff looks back down at her coffee cup. "But he did say that when he picked you up you looked nice in that outfit."
"Yesss" Fluff almost whispers while miming a celebratory arm pump. "Good thing, seeing as it's the only one I have now." Down turned eyes now examine her clothes, which while conservative enough are a bit bright for office work.
"I'll take you out shopping when we get out of here. We can make a girls night out of it."
"Thanks, now that dresser in my bunk will stop staring hungrily."
"You know, you don't have to stay in there. Like I said before you're welcome to come to the hotel with me. It's plenty safe there."
Fluff looks up, her smile now sly. "I appreciate the offer but I'm fine here. Besides, with these guys " indicating the men of the Regulars going about their varied business "us staying together would have tongues wagging. At least in the more accurate stories." She takes a long draw off her drink as for just one moment Seven's eyes lock with hers. Now it's her turn to blush.
There's no blushing in the London office of Michael Sol. There's not even room for a smile in this particular kind of business. From his expensive if not all-together lavish seat he looks evenly, respectfully at the grimly professional men cross from him. "So it's all understood then."
"Yes" he is answered in Russian accented English "Upon delivery of the supplies by your manufacturers our contacts will see to safe transport and distribution." Vladimir is getting old but his mind is as sharp as ever. The better part of his life has been given to the Russian mafia and in this moment he is every bit the businessman Michael is. The two men flanking him, while brutish, serve much the purpose of headcount in any meeting. They say that they follow someone who is important and powerful. They are not lying.
The two executives stand and shake hands, and in doing this like happens a million times every day every day of the week the world is changed.
Time passes as is it's way.
The Lounge shooting range is two levels below ground. This insulation both contains the noise and adds the air of sobriety anyone who handles a gun for a living requires. This is where Staff goes to hone himself on what he does best
In a rare feat of good design the range shares this floor with the armory. The quartermaster, Henry, has an odd genius about him where he believes this is exactly his lot in life. The quality of his work is undeniable. All of the vast and specialized armaments kept in the Regulars cache, even the things Pro invents that never come down with a cleaning manual, are eternally pristine.
Despite loving toys as much as the next man, unless the next man is Pro, Staff simply signs off on boxes of .44 magnum and the needed range appeal .Henry gives him the approving wave off one gives to another as they go about their business. Building a support staff that was not only qualified but willing to work in an English speaking facility had been nearly a miracle but the aging yet solid man was actually glad of his duty. That's a lesson Staff would do well to take with him as the years go by.
As he lays out his gear and sends off the target Staff cannot help but ruminate. "Years, it's already been five years." As he lays his Rugers beside the first, now opened, box of bullets, the topic expands. " For five years my life has been about these guns." It's not that they're inferior weapons, far from. They could be the stars of any shooter's collection, as opposed to a collector's collection. Solid, American made revolvers were what he had sought. Though to be honest the fact they looked like cowboy guns was a notable draw as well. Along with some alterations by the local armament wizard for weight and accuracy they became worthy of the gunslingers and cowboys of old. They're double action of course, for the cowboy of today
"Cowboy. That's what they called me for choosing these." But it's so much more than that. His trainer, with all the patience and reverence of a martial art sensei had helped me to understand what revolvers meant. He remembers this as, forgoing speed loaders, he weighs and places each heavy round into it's chamber.
Patience is something vastly needed right now. It's been almost a week without any word from Penguin. But these things cannot be helped. Penguin is a professional. He takes his time to do things right. Patience was the first lesson of the revolver, as the second was prudence. "The first thing you do with only six shots" the trainer had said "is learn to make every one of them count. The last thing you do with six shots is take on seven guys."
Right now there's only one target and it's resting several yards, not meters, down the range. Learning to lift kilograms had been hard enough so this he was never bending on. Taking a firm stance and lifting his right hand gun with two hands he starts to shoot. This is how it always is, two handing the right gun before switching the stance for the left. Readiness under all circumstances is the goal. Now front then profile right and front and profile left. It's an awkward substitute for the true nature but these narrow booths just weren't made for practical duel wielding. A violently warm grin comes to his face. Even the Savate, where he eventually did get his name, came from these guns. "If your two hands are going to be full" the master savateur had said. "Then one must learn to use your legs." And learn he did. He learned every aspect of the style even extending to the armed form of Baton Français, originally adapted from a system for gentlemen with walking sticks with which they could defend themselves from criminals. While he was never a gentlemen he was a tool for violent defense, and from that he became known forevermore as Stafffighter.
Shot after shot goes where it's supposed to, load after load, all the time the pure discipline in mind. When the ammunition is exhausted only then is it time for fun. One and then the other, perfectly balanced guns spin on the axis of his pointer fingers before going home to their holsters. The right hand gun is in it's home and the left hand gun, in turn, is in it's own. It's an arbitrary difference but it matters. Pure gunslinger theatrics some would call it, that along with the trick shots and the quick draw. More wrong they could not be. After all "Shooting straight will make your bullets count, but only once you get the gun in your hand." A more innocent smile greets and then as suddenly leaves Staff's face. It's time to let the old masters rest now and rejoin the world they readied him for.
The ride up is short as is the peace of mind. On the office level it's usually quite this time of day, early night, but now people are running. Staff hooks Wizard by the arm and demands to know what's going on.
"They just called. Someone's in R.G's house." Without bothering with a grimace Staff joins Wizard in the race for the door.
"You're driving."