Angry voices echoed across the dark interior as I made my way in, careful in minimising the sound of my footfalls. A heated brawl? If so then it's not unnatural at such a time or place.

  The entrance was left unguarded, doors swinging loosely by the sides. A small room succeeded the entrance, extending into a hall way. dim lights flickered from the hallway's other end.

  The dancing lights, although faint were the only visionary guide against the dark backdrop.

  Clinking of glassware, smashing of china and the revolting smell of virility permeated the air. At the center of it all, stood a tall man with a jagged beard. His hand outstretched, pointing accusingly at the room's tenants. His frustration directed at every each one of the merry makers who didnot adjudge him important enough to be spared a second glance.

  I soundlessly slipped towards the bar counter all the while watching the scene unfold.

  'And what would you like to have young lady' asked the barman, his eyes glued to the mop he was using to clean the counter, yet they never missed a beat of what–or who–went about in the room. The barman's role was special ofcourse, he was the one and only line of security for the hunkers' hideout.

  'Friulano' I answered, my tone consistent.

  Years of braving the winds have sharpened my senses to the echelons of perfection otherwise I definitely wouldn't have been able to catch the slight twitch in his eyebrow.

  'The grape, good choice' he slid off to the back, before retreating he gestured to his apprentice. The young fellow had his hair tied back in a man bun, and donned the same brown apron as his mentor. A silent understanding passed between them and he set about collecting Bordeaux from the top shelf.

  The 'grape', rather like the fruit that produces wine itself, was one of the most probable codes reserved for the founding members of gangs or cliques. The bar keeps a note of those entering and leaving, not based on their personal identities but on codes, which are akin to symbols of rank.

  This set up was hardly created for convenience its purpose primarily serves to conceal identities incase the list falls into unwanted hands.

  Different codes are assigned for every meeting. As one's rank increases their codes become specific, for instance; lower rank gang members make up the majority in most meetings so all members of a specific gang rank ten or below might have a single code, ranks two or above are rare thus a code might be issued for a single person so there might be only one person with that code in a meet up while tens of others with the same code. Higher rank warrants better service(better wine and a seat of honour) for the rank holder and an overview of the type of meeting for the meeting supervisor. A meeting with too many high rankers often have a supervisor hiding in secret.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The bartenders have obligations to not associate with any other gangs, they have a select few guards under their command who off with any unwarranted guests as the bartenders may see fit. They are a lot who can never gain any real influence but their salaries are high. The arrangement might seem too elaborate for a bunch of city thugs but it is to be noted that hunker's alley is an indirect branch of the Axis.

  Hiding right under their nose did infact grant me more benefits than disadvantages.

  Back to the scene upfront, the brown bearded man kept hurling abuses in several directions, stopping only to catch his breath. His leather jacket showed signs of decay and his denims were poorly patched up. This was a man much haggard, a man whose face my reminiscence recognised.

  Galliard Trunsman, right wing advisor of Mayville information society or atleast that used to be his . The 'right wing' part of his designation had nothing to do with the information society though, that represents his views on the hunker's alliance with the Axis. And like all other right wing advocates, he too was a staunch libertarian.

  'Pieces of filth, do any of you understand the implications of your actions' blue veins bulged against his tanned forehead as he paused to draw a hoarse breath before continuing. 'Letting them mingle in such close quarters, soon it'll be the innocent folks' heads lolling on the gravel'

  'Give it a rest ol'Gall, times have changed. Moreover, can you actually hold your own against them' remarked a nameless someone from amidst the crowd, but this offhand comment was enough to inspire a wave of scrutiny from the rest of the onlookers. They exhausted all their vile vocabulary in hurling curses and abuses at the rebellious libertarian.

  As the scene progressed, the barman spoke from behind the counter in a low voice 'the entrance is that way, we won't be seeing you out' his tone was still cordial and I didn't have to glance back to figure who he was addressing. It was within my cognizance that it wouldn't take them long to see through my obvious fake.

  I was not delighted at having to make my move so soon, but adaptability comes naturally to (former) assasins.

  'Wait up' I'm sure my voice wasn't exceptionally loud but it was likely due to the shrillness of the feminine voice which distinguishes it from its graver counterpart, and how none of the room's rogue tenants anticipated the presence of the fairer sex, that the room fell silent.

  Giving the barman the cold shoulder I walked towards the center of the room, hands in pockets, as if I hadn't heard him.

  The cacophony of rogue voices threatened to dominate again as accusing whispers rose amidst the crowd. Yet they stopped upon seeing Galliard Trunsman's expression. It was as if he had seen a ghost, a ghost which was nonetheless his only hope in the face of God's abandonment.

  'Help me reclaim what i left behind, and I'll guarantee that you have your way' I stared straight at the stupefied man, a sinister smile tugging at my lips 'how's that for a deal?'

  'You.... are you serious?' He asked, recovering some of his voice.

  'Yes, i want to revive the society. Believe me–that is if the words of Black frost still carry some weight'

  At the utterance of that name all stood still, all but a cloaked man with a twead notebook who quietly exited under my peripheral vision. The barman had a hand stretched at his side restricting the guards, his expression stony. His situation was probably more dire than mine, afterall it is his responsibility to prevent trespassing. And I had just gone as far as to declare war with the administrators under his very turf. This was sure to give him a nasty headache.