#these guys started out as black lagoon ocs- hence it being set in roanapur but eventually they took a life of their own

[bitchdafuqyousay]

Hans Fauste

An awful, metallic scent filled the hot air. Made worse by the heavy humidity that hung over their island so stubbornly, hanging around as stubborn as the beady eyed, cold, cruel people who’d made their homes here.

The closer he got the smell of cigarettes began to make itself known. The smoke from the little white and orange sticks twining and dancing with smoke from a gun. Or two. Depending on if the bastard he was marching to meet felt like drawing both this evening. Cigarette smoke, gun smoke, the salty air gently wafting up from the beach- and blood. Lots of it.

Blood, piss, tears, and vomit. 

“This place fucking reeks.” It always did.

Bronco stopped firmly before entering the pathetic excuse of an open air courtyard the complex boasted. Used to boast. It doesn’t anymore. Being a meet up for all the lowlifes on this side of the island culled any and all bragging rights. Not like there were any tenants here to brag anyways. Even the homeless avoided this place. The people who hung around here or crept over occasionally didn’t live in any of the buildings.

Roanapur’s “finest” used this place. He wasn’t one of them. And he’d never claim to be, the way others might. Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. That was a sure fire way to get a bullet to the front of your face and find your final resting place in a back alley dumpster. But he did know some, and he’d “work” with them on behalf of other people, if they paid him good enough. His eyes scanned the yard, glancing briefly over the two bodies across the way from him, heaped together. They’d either been dragged there or killed there. Bronco couldn’t tell; he didn’t really care either as he wrinkled his nose at the sight.

One of the poor bastards had pissed himself pre-mortem. Shame. That’s embarrassing, and unfortunate- but quite understandable.

And even more unfortunate than that was that they had to meet and see the man who’d put them in that heap. The one he was looking for right now. Absolute monstrous brute. He could smell the fucker’s cigarettes, but couldnt see him.

“Fauste!” 

He waited a second before inhaling deeply to yell again, “Hans-” and was treated to a face full of smoke. Cue disgusting, dramatic hacking to the backing tune of a dark, low chuckle.

“You dick-” he coughed again “-that went in my fucking mouth you fu-” 

“Loud.”

He cut himself off at the single word from the other man. It wasn’t a threat, just an observation, but better safe than sorry. And one would end up real sorry if they didn’t stop while they were ahead out here. 

“Whatever. I don’t need to ask you if you’ve done your due diligence. I can see it. Smell it, too.”

The other man smelled like blood, and that alongside the state of his knuckles screamed that shooting wasn’t all he did to those men. Fauste chuckled meanly and flicked his cigarette butt to the ground, stamping the cherry with the heel of his boot. The sides and toes of his boots also spoke of how much else he did.

“Somebody will ride by to pick those up, then hand ‘em off to Dr. Smiles to break up-” he gestured at the corpses, “Lord knows I don’t deal with that stuff and while you and yours are real good at leaving bodies you don’t do shit to pick em’ up.” 

He turned away from the courtyard to leave the damn thing’s entrance, and his nose brushed Hans Fauste’s chest. He wasn’t sure when the man had gotten behind him, last he’d looked the pale blonde was to his left. His new directional orientation aside, when’d he get so close- why’d he get so close?

“Fauste- '' he put a hand up on the man’s abdomen and shoved a bit. No give. “Fuck are you doing?” He pushed again, same result. The big bitch didn’t budge, just stared down at him with an odd look that made him sweat. His mouth twitched as Fauste’s brown eyes narrowed to slits so sharp he thought the gaze alone might slit his throat. 

“Bronco.”

The sweat turned cold, his name falling out from that man’s mouth made his stomach tighten. He wanted to get out of here. Get into his car and call the person he was third partying for and tell them to run the Maroon Company their goddamn check. Cut this interaction short as he could, he always tried to cut these things short as possible. He hated these types; people who’d been steeped in blood since they were kids and didn’t know anything else but it. Learned how to hold a knife when other kids were learning how to hold a pen. Brats from war sunk places- official and gang- who don’t know shit but kill or be killed. Sympathetic figures, honestly. But he hated them. They were barely people, they didn’t flinch at causing or receiving pain of some kind or another, devoid of empathy and had a real lack of concern for the sanctity of human life. 

Loyal though, if you could train them right. 

Hans was trained, followed around his boss like a big dog. A real big, real mean, violent, aggressive, and reactive dog. He was good to his team, though. Alex and Sam hadn’t a thing to worry about from him. Especially Alex, it seemed like he was a bit sweet on her. Hans would sink his teeth into anyone who had a pulse and said yes, hell, he’d even tried to fit his teeth into Bronco once or twice, but everyone knew he held a special place in whatever was left of his heart for the lady. And he was decent enough to Bronco cause they met every now and then. He’d mediated between people who wanted Hans and the company the blonde was with to do something for them. He’d done this several times so he was a familiar face.

Even nasty dogs are less likely to bite if they recognize you.

But that flies out the window if you cross one the dog’s lines; step on a paw or the tail. And Bronco was straining to remember if he’d done just that. 

Hans tilted his head to the left, then leaned forwards some. It looked odd, him stooping like that while his head was at an angle. And damn did it highlight the height difference between the two men. He was a big guy, and Bronco knew he was intentionally playing on that by leaning forwards to meet his eyes. 

You’re small. So much smaller than me- look how far I’ve gotta bend. Ya see? How much I’ve lowered to meet you in the middle? 

It was an intimidation tactic, and sure, he’d been on the receiving end before, but it was different right now cause it was just the two of them. Prior to this, Hans’ boss was usually here, someone who’d tug his leash and tell him to sit. But now. Now it’s just Bronco, Hans Fauste, and two dead guys at the other side of the courtyard in the center of an abandoned apartment complex. A place where undertakers lurked in the basement and unlucky bastards got their shit rocked in the rooms where people used to sleep. A breeze pushed the smell of blood from the bodies into the small space between the men. 

If I wanted to hurt you, I could. I would. What could you even do about it? I’m armed, and even if I weren’t, I’m so much bigger than you. You can’t fight me off.

“Up it.”

“Pardon?”

Hans reached out and placed a heavy hand on Bronco’s shoulder, putting the other in front of his face and rubbed his pointer, middle finger and thumb together. Money. Then he pointed at the entryway ceiling above them. 

Ah, up it. The price, the cost has risen. Their employers were gonna have to lay out a bigger amount than had been agreed on prior. Bronco, to his credit, didn’t give a shit. Sure fucking thing you big bastard, fuck em’! Make em’ pay a million US dollars for it for all he cared. But they were paying him too. They were shilling him a handful to act as a representative. So he had to represent.

“But a price was already agreed on-”

Hans shrugged dismissively, that big pale hand not leaving his shoulder even as he straightened his posture. 

“I can’t just tell them to write a bigger check without telling them why, I’m gonna have to call Bast and ask her if she’s got you asking for more or if you want a tip for your good work.”

Hans rolled his eyes like some damn teenager before meeting the older man's gaze again, “I’m just doing what I’ve been told.”

His voice was a low, gritty whisper. He didn’t talk much, whether that was a choice or a result of the jagged, pale pink tear across the front of his neck he didn’t know, but regardless he half wished it’d affect him more and make the shithead totally mute. He didn’t like it when Hans spoke, nothing good happened. Plus, he didn’t like his voice. Sounded… wrong… in some way.

“Wow, I’m one lucky bastard, getting to hear a whole sentence from you. What a treat, you’ve used me to meet your word quota for the month.” 

Bronco huffed, turning his face away from Hans and planting his hands on his hips, then looking down at his shoes. They were all dusty now. Hans’ hand squeezed a bit before leaving his shoulder. Bast had evidently approved this, he trusted that Hans was in fact doing what he was told. 

“Ugh. Right. Well, I’ll call our beloved customers and tell ‘em terms have changed and that they gotta get in touch with Maroon Company now. Fuckin’ hell. Now I’ve gotta mediate a meeting. Phone or face?”

Hans screwed up his nose and snorted. 

Yeah, pointless asking him. He wouldn’t know, didn’t care either. That was between the clients and Bast. He just did what he was told. 

Sit, stay, bark, bite. 

Another long sigh left the shorter man’s lips, and he ignored the way Hans’ eyes focused on his mouth for a brief second before they drifted over his head. Probably to admire his handy work in the courtyard. The pale man snorted again, turning away and pulling out another cigarette. Horrible habit, chain smoking. It was rare to see the guy without one of the little cancer sticks hanging out his mouth. But, in turning away, he moved, and Bronco could scoot past him and start pacing towards his car. The man snorted when he went by.

Run, rabbit, run. So, so eager to get away. Rabbit running from the hound.

“I’ll see you around, Fauste. Try not to get fatally shot between now and then.”