Chapter 8: Ch9: Civilization
[ John Wick POV ]
"Hey, John, where are we headed?" Ricketts' voice reached my right ear as we pushed through the bustling market on the east side of Saint Denis. Ignoring him, I wove my way through the throngs of people.
"And why did you bring those saddlebags?" Ricketts asked, struggling to keep up with my pace. "And these... clothes..." he added, looking at his own attire.
"Are you feeling alright? Should I take you to see a doctor?"
I slowed down and turned to face him. "Quiet, Ricketts," I replied with a slight sigh. "Just follow my lead."
Ricketts shot me a quizzical look, but he didn't press the issue. He knew better than to question me when I had something in mind. Together, we weaved through the crowds, my saddlebags bumping against my back as we moved.
[ thirty minutes ago ]
"Here we are, at the heart of civilization," Ricketts said, pulling the reins of his horse to a stop.
It had been several hours since we left Pleasance, but the sense of unease that had been gnawing at me since that dream lingered on.
Pushing the feeling aside, I looked ahead.
A newly built bridge stretched out before us, and at the other end, I caught sight of a building with a solid stone foundation, a welcome sight after the rough wooden structures I had seen so far.
'So, this is Saint Denis,' I thought to myself, taking a deep breath before urging Nyx forward. I left Ricketts behind, ignoring his grumbles as I rode toward the city.
"Of course, no way you could be amazed," whispered Ricketts, following me behind.
As we drew closer, the sights and sounds of the bustling mini-metropolis enveloped us. The clinking of horse hooves against the stone road filled my ears, mingling with the pungent scent of urine and other unidentifiable odors.
'They still haven't implemented irrigation, I see,' I mused, wrinkling my nose slightly in distaste.
Despite the less-than-pleasant odor, I can still feel the vibrant energy of the city. A few street vendors hawked their wares to passersby, their voices competing for attention. Carriages and carts jostled for space on the narrow streets, their drivers shouting curses and insults at each other.
Amidst the chaos of the busy streets, Ricketts finally caught up to me, his voice strained and muffled by the throngs of people surrounding us. "John, what brings you to Saint Denis?" he asked.
"I'm looking for some saloon," earing a quiet disbelieving look from him,
"You come here-" fastening his pace a little, "-Just so you can get a better whiskey?" his voice borderline shouting. Sighing a bit, I just choose to ignore him.
As we reached the heart of the town, my eyes caught sight of a coach hitched to the side of the road, with people milling around it. And then, I saw it – a large building with ornate decorations, accompanied by piano music from it.
'Found it,' I thought as I rode closer to the establishment, followed by Ricketts's disapproving stare.
A cracking sound echoed as we stepped inside, at the same time all the gaze of the people immediately focused on us, especially Ricketts behind me,
"I already hate this place," I can hear him mutter under his breath. Still ignoring him, I walk closer to the bar table,
On my way, my eyes were immediately drawn to the grandeur of the space. The establishment was spread across two floors, with an ornate staircase leading up to a second floor.
In the corner of the room, a man sat at a grand piano, his fingers dancing across the keys, filling the room with a beautiful melody. The soft sounds of the piano provided a background for the lively chatter of patrons and the occasional clink of glasses.
To my right, a group of well-dressed men gathered around a poker table, their chips clattering as they made their bets.
The entire space was adorned with opulent decorations, from the sparkling chandeliers hanging from the ceiling to the intricate patterns etched into the walls. Everything seemed to scream luxury and refinement.
Behind the bar, rows of expensive-looking wine, whiskey, and beer bottles lined the shelves, each one more enticing than the last.
As I took in the scene, I couldn't help but notice that the patrons were all dressed in tailored suits.
The bartenders themselves were dressed in immaculately white and black clothes, like a butler, adding to the upscale atmosphere of the establishment.
Reaching the bartender, I knock my fingers on the table, trying to catch his attention, that I am sure he already see us the first time we come in.
Even some of the patrons still have their eyes on us, especially Ricketts, chattering in whispers.
'Money corrupts people,' I thought, putting $5 on the table.
Immediately afterward, the bartender who chattering with some patrons excused himself and walked in my direction.
"Good morning, sir. what can I help you with," Showing a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he said. pocketing the $5 from the table.
Glancing at the menu for a second, I replied, "Two prime ribs, and a couple of whiskeys." putting another $13 on the table. I added, "Serve me some wine, please" which earned a slight nod from him.
"Absolutely,"
As I took a sip of my wine, my sense picked up a hushed conversation between two men standing less than a couple of meters from me.
"You can buy him in here," whispered one of them, handing over a small piece of paper to the other. My curiosity piqued, I leaned in closer, trying to catch a glimpse of it.
When two of the began to leave, suddenly, my elbow bumped into their glass, spilling whiskey all over the two men and the paper they were holding.
"Bollocks!" Yell one of them,
"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologized, fumbling for a handkerchief to wipe up the mess.
As they frantically tried to salvage the soaked suit, I quickly grabbed the paper right under their noses and deftly slipped it into the gap between my wrist and my suit.
The people looked at me suspiciously, but I acted like it was just an honest mistake.
I could feel the tension in the air as the other patrons in the saloon noticed the commotion. Some of them glared at me, while others looked away, pretending not to see.
The smell of whiskey and tobacco lingered in the air, mixed with a hint of disdain and annoyance.
I can hear the rustle of the paper in my hand and the murmurs of the people around me, some curious and some amused.
Ricketts raises an eyebrow at my clumsiness but doesn't say anything, while the piano player stops playing and looks over at the commotion.
"I'll buy you another drink to make up for it," I offered, hoping to distract them from the fact that I had just stolen their note.
The bartender lets out a sigh and reaches for a rag to clean up the mess while bringing us our order.
As I slip away from the scene with the paper and food in hand, I take in the scent of the whiskey, cigars, and sweat that permeates the air, and the lingering tannin taste of the wine in my mouth.
A few moments after we reach our table, Ricketts looks at me, "Get what you need?" he asked, noticing my sudden shift in demeanor.
"Kind of," I replied with a slight nod, folding the paper again, I slip it into my coat,
"Let's just enjoy our meal."
***
'Claude Jarreau, a building in the northeast of the market district, Saint Denis' I thought.
The information written in the paper repeated in my mind while Ricketts' footsteps echoed behind me as we made our way to the east side of Saint Denis.
As I made my way to the market, I realized that blending in with the crowd would be impossible without some kind of disguise.
I quickly scanned the area for a secluded spot and spotted two men leaning against a nearby wall.
"Hey, who's there? get lost! this place is off lim-"
With a swift and calculated movement, I swung my saddlebag in a blur, obscuring their line of sight. In one fluid motion, I delivered a strike to each of their throats, causing them to gasp and choke for air.
Not waiting for them to look up, I aimed a precise blow at their carotid sinuses, rendering them unconscious, filling the air with silence. The only sounds were the faint whimpers of the two men and the rustling of their clothing as I hastily stripped them of their garments.
I quickly take off my coat, tie, and my vest. Changed my upper attire into theirs, while putting my own attire in the saddlebag.
Statifed with the disguise, I turn toward Ricketts who is still dumbfounded at his place. I signaled him to do the same, even though he looked clueless and bewildered by what I was doing.
"Trust me, Ricketts," I whispered to him, trying to keep my voice low. I only got a long sigh from him, who reluctantly did what I was doing.
***
[ Landon Ricketts POV ]
'From famous gunslinger to a garments robber' I chuckle in my mind, 'At least he didn't kill those poor folks' sigh for a bit I followed John toward the market district
As we made our way through the busy market, the vibrant energy of the place was palpable. The colorful stalls and booths were piled high with goods of all kinds, from fresh fruits and vegetables to handcrafted goods and trinkets.
The aroma of sizzling meats and pungent spices wafted through the air, tantalizing my senses.
"Hey, John, where are we headed?" I asked him. My voice was muffled by the crowded place as we wove our way through the throngs of people.
"And why did you bring those saddlebags?" Curious, I asked while trying to keep up with his pace.
"And these... clothes..." my eyes switched back and forth between me and his attire, thinking about what these stolen clothes were for.
'Did he unwell? he more silent than usual ever since we left Pleasance.' I thought to myself.
"Are you feeling alright? Should I take you to see a doctor?" I was genuinely concerned. A few steps later he slowed down, looking at me. he replied with a slight sigh.
"Just follow my lead."
I shot him a quizzical look before shrugging it out. I didn't want to press the issue. As I knew he had something in mind. Besides, I already have some idea of what he wants to do.
A moment later, we arrived at a discreet building, its location hidden from those who didn't know where to look. The entrance was a sturdy wooden door, separating us from whatever business John had in mind.
"Wear this before we go in," he instructed, handing me a black cloth to conceal our faces. A deep sigh escaped my mouth as I wrapped the cloth around my mouth.
"From now on, you are Berlin," he added, "I will do all the talking."
As the door creaked open, we were met with the sight of a dimly lit room filled with a wide array of goods. The room was permeated with the musty smell of old books and the stale scent of tobacco smoke.
The owner, sat behind a large oak desk, his eyes peering up at us as we entered.
As he looked at us, I noticed his hand move furtively below the desk. "I don't need someone who hides their face in here. Leave," he growled in a gruff voice.
"Claude Jarreau..." John's deep voice penetrates the whole room. leveling his gun, precisely at the man's face, his next words shocked and disappointed me to the core.
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