Isn't "SMOSH" A Dumb Name For A Criminal Syndicate?

Eras, Beginning, Ending, Parallel, and Converging (Ian & Anthony)

"So," the hulking man on the left leans forward conspiratorially, and a deep, well-practiced instinct within Ian compels him to reach for his gun. He stamps it down in enough time, but doesn't miss when the eyes of the bespeckled man on the right snap to the twitch of Ian's right hand. The man on the left smiles like he's telling a cheeky secret. "How can we get your old buddy to come back?"

"I—" Ian starts dumbly, unable to control his expression. "What?"

***

Ian enjoys a good drink in the morning. Coffee, juice, tea—he's quite impartial to matcha—anything really. Today, however, his coffee sits in front of him, black and untouched. He can't bring himself to do much other than watch ripples disturb his own reflection as the door of the café he idles at opens and closes as people come and go.

***

A loud snort comes from the bespeckled man, followed by a poorly restrained laugh and a humored slap on the shoulder for the large man sitting next to him. Ian wonders for a second if the older men at the desk in front of him are fucking with his head. Their reputation preceded everything else, including their names—which Ian still has yet to know. Yet, they're laughing like children at a joke no one else is in on. Are these the men the county feared?

The bespeckled man eventually calms himself down, a North Carolina drawl betraying itself in his voice. "You—you can't just say that, Rhett. Are you tryin' to scare him off?"

"I scare people off just standin' in a room, Link. Our guest here hasn't scuttled away yet, so I think I'm doin' just fine."

***

The drink, Ian realizes, is little more than a courtesy for taking up space in the local store. Rhett and Link were kind enough to lend their storefront as a control for the business Ian intends to carry out today. Only one of Mythical's people, Josh, is on watch as a contingency, donning the boho-hot barista look with a naturalness that compels Ian to remind himself of the deadly streak the man is capable of. Amanda, Angela, Chanse, and Arasha, are posted outside, further away by Ian's specific instruction. They're unfamiliar faces; much better for keeping things bolstered, but inconspicuous. Things shouldn't go wrong, not if they go the way Ian lets himself hope they will. But better safe than sorry. Ian could not convince himself to bring his own gun.

***

"I'm sorry." Ian shakes his head to snap himself out of his stupor. He straightens his posture, trying to look like something significant to the men—Rhett and Link, apparently. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

Rhett and Link share a look that could be in lieu of a full conversation. Ian's mind scrambles in a way it's genuinely not used to. He's used to being the big man in the room; the defacto and dejure upperhand in any interaction. He's had to for some years now. Ian no longer desires the position he's in now, watching decisions being made in silence and knowing the respectful thing to do is to wait for the thinking to conclude.

Ian makes a mental note to check in on his subordinates during their evening debrief.

Link shakes his head—part reassurance, part exasperation. "Don't you worry about that. It's just a thought we've been throwin' around since we became aware of your situation. We thought, ya' know, it's been some time since Padilla defected and we figured we should test the water on how y'all are doin'."

"I..." Ian hadn't given that kind of thing much thought in a long time. He presses his lips into a thin line. "We haven't talked since he left. But, uh, the business was doing fine before now without him." He lets his gaze flicker down to his twiddling fingers. "It's not like I have a grudge against Anthony, but if we ever speak again, I can't say it'll be easy."