Time is money. Time is money. Those were the words Alan repeated over in his head, like a mantra. He was fresh back from his 'trip', and had a fresh mark upon his cheek, a thin, white line, reaching up to his cheekbone. His face was set in stone. A lot had changed since he'd been gone. His family was gone. He'd found a new one, but that meant starting from the bottom. Again, he reminded himself. He groaned inwardly, clenching his fist, as he shoved his hands into the leather jacket he was wearing. Filthy fucking rags, he spat in his mind, though his face was set in stone. Back in his prime, he'd been used to wearing the most sophisticated of fashion... Now, he was penniless. Time was money, and now he had a lot of the former, and none of the latter. He was back to sticking up liquor joints and mugging old women, not robbing banks and blackmail, the real money-makers. He'd get there, though. No matter what it takes.

Alan looked around the café in bemusement, scowling inwardly at the other patrons. As if any of them had one fucking clue about what he'd been through. Those fat fucks, they just ate at this stupid little café, the café where he'd conducted so much of his business, and they had no clue. No clue that a dead man was in their midst. Thankfully, there seemed to have been a complete overhaul in leadership. No-one had any clue of who he was. Slumped over a cup of bad coffee, Alan looked at the fat, old waitress behind the counter. Rosie was so much nicer, he recalled with a small smile. He remembered the plump, old woman who used to own the place. She'd been kind, friendly and knew when to keep her mouth shut and her ears closed. The one there now seemed to be a proper gossiper, just from the look of her. When he'd asked about Rosie, the waitress had simply looked at him, shrugged and told him, more casually than Alan would have liked, that Rosie was dead. Alan shook his head and sighed, turning to look out of the window. He saw the businessmen rushing past, and Alan rolled his eyes at them. The rat race, he thought, smiling, how endearing. Alan chuckled maliciously, and put his hand on his hip in habit. He had a start, before remembering... He had no gun. He needed to find one. That was his first mission. A gun, and then more serious work. With this in mind, he gulped down the last of his coffee, and set out for a new life's work.

Declan flexed his hand, rubbing it with a wince as he made his way out of a business. At twenty three he was by no stretch of the imagination old but his hand, injured after a failed pick pocketing attempt, always acted up when the weather changed. He was trying to get used to Detroit after the move but the rain that had been plaguing the area for the last few days was doing nothing for his hand. The last few days had been spent simply moving people, files, furniture, and everything else to the new HQ as they fixed it up. So engrossed in his own thoughts and endeavours, he didn't notice the door of the coffee shop open until it was too late and he met it head on. 

Stunned and a little shaken he stood there for a moment, simply staring at the door with a bewildered but oddly blank stare. He could hear around him sniggering of the patrons and people on the street, highly amused by the new comedy act on the street. "A regular Laurel and Hardy!" "Wow I didn't even have to go to the picture show to get a good laugh!" These were the words he could hear as he attempted in vain to shake off the daze of the blow. With a bit more force than was necessary he shoved the door which swung shut and muffled the guffaws inside the cafe, the patrons poised for him to do something equally hilarious such as chastise the damn thing or tell it to watch where it was going as if it could. 

He finally managed a loot around and saw the face of someone he vaguely remembered seeing before. Someone at HQ, though he couldn't place the name, and pointed to the door. "Was that you?" He asked shifting his gaze between the door and Alan.

Alan immediately paused. He could sense the familiarity in the voice. "Yeah, it was. Sorry." It was obvious from the tone that the man was of some importance. "I wasn't looking where I was going." He avoided mentioning the fact that the voice was familiar, because he didn't know where from. For all he knew, this could be the guy who'd tried to kill him the last go around. Again, Alan's hand felt at his hip, though stopped once again at the realisation of the absence of a gun. His fist clenched, and he stared the man in the eyes, his own rich brown reflected there. Alan had always attracted attention for his looks, though he supposed that was over now, thanks to the rather conspicuous scar on his cheek. "It won't happen again." He said, glancing at the people on the street. The few who had been making comments stopped at his malicious stare. 

Declan squinted at Alan, noting how tense the other man was and speaking to him as if he were anything more than the unimportant goomba he was. He wasn't used to that and if gave him an instant case of the heebie jeebies. He tried to lighten the mood a bit, hoping that terseness wouldn't turn into a full blown confrontation in the streets of Detroit. "Hey, at least it gave them am good laugh right?" The men in the coffee shop had since lost their interest, realizing that there wouldn't be any more silliness from the two that stood outside the door. 

"I'm Declan what's your name?" He stuck out his hand as a further attempt to diffuse the situation, breathing a sigh of relief as he realized the other one didn't have a gun on him, even though he had reached for one. Last thing he wanted on his third day in town was to end up in the church with a lady in a veil sobbing over his cold dead body. Sure he had fast reflexes, a bit of training he'd picked up from Jack, but he couldn't outrun a bullet. 

"I'm Alan." He shook the other man's hand, relaxing a bit. "Yeah... A laugh." He chuckled softly. "Tell you what. I'll buy you a coffee to make up for it." He studied the other man's features, and smiled softly, not able to detect any malicious intent.  He looked around, at the gloomy looking city. "Ain't the nicest of days, is it?" He shrugged. In truth, he hadn't had a conversation in months. He didn't really know what to do. Hiding in a shack in the middle of rural England really wasn't the most social of things.

"Christ if it got any wetter I'd have to turn me car into a canoe." Declan said with a jovial chuckle. "Can't say I'm used to it at all, might have grown up in Ireland but at least we saw the fucking sun once in a while. This is non stop rain and it's made moving things a pain in the ass, pardon the language." His face flushed a deep shade of crimson instantly as he realized he'd cursed in the middle of the street. Dee always told him to keep a watch on his mouth around folks that weren't her, which was amusing because she could out curse him any day. He scratched the back of his head in chagrin and gave a ridiculous laugh.

"A cuppa sounds nice right now, although I think we'd be laughed out the door in there." He pointed with his head towards the coffee shop Alan had just left, an amused smirk forming on his lips. "Why don't we head uptown a bit and find a coffee shop there?"

Alan smiled softly. "Ireland, huh? I grew up in England." He shrugged softly, thinking back to those times. God, I'm glad to be in a city, he thinks, shaking his head. He looked up the street. "It's a horrible downpour, yeah..." He said casually. "I think coffee sounds good to me." He nodded, though he'd only just had some.  He didn't yet feel fully awake, and he supposed one more couldn't hurt. He began to walk up the slightly worn-down street, with his new associate beside him.

"Aye, we left when I was a kid still, moved to New York, bought a farm, mum had a few more kids. I couldn't stand it so I ran off and made a damn fool of myself and if it weren't for me sister I wouldn't have lived long enough to be here." He shrugged as they started walking together, taking care to stay under the awnings as much as possible. Sure they both had umbrellas but the extra protection afforded them by the awnings and building overhangs was nice. 

As they walked Declan tried to overcome his usual quietness, hoping maybe to learn a bit more about the fellow he was walking with. "So what made you move from England to Detroit?" He asked, shifting his umbrella to the other hand so he could look at Alan without the handle in his face. 

Alan nodded, smirking softly. "Hmm. Life in Ireland no good for you?" He asked, looking around the drab, dark streets. "I moved here because my father did. Mother died when I was younger, and we moved here so he could start a business. Then, things got bad and he got hit. A family took me in, nothing more than a thug and made me a man." He sighed. "My dad didn't deserve what happened. I never found out who did it, though they're more than likely dead now." He chuckled softly. "But I guess I'll never know." 

"Ah no it wasn't that, it was me mum and da. They wanted to go to America, chase down all that this country was supposed to hold. They're not unhappy, have a nice farm, still have the little ones growing up into paragons of virtue and all that, Deirdre and I were the black sheep of the family. I was a runaway, she's into a bit of black magic which goes against our Catholic upbringing." 

He chortled, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw as they approached a well lit cafe and coffee shop. "I'm lucky to have found a place here in Detroit, I thought after what happened to me in New Orlean's it was all over for me, wasn't even sure how I survived. Turns out my sister had this weird idea that I was in danger, flew into the city just in time. I'm grateful to her for saving my life but I couldn't stay on the farm, the quiet country life just isn't for me."

Alan nodded in understanding. "Ah. That I can understand." He chuckles softly. "This country was meant to be the big win... But nowadays, it's infested with all sorts of filth. Filth that's below our sort of... 'business'." He rolled his eyes. "Filth I'm attempting to get rid of." He mentioned, almost in passing. "Petty thugs can be rewarding... But too many's asking for trouble. We need to cut down on the problem, we have to kill some, injure some, scare some and make an example of some." He shrugged. "It shouldn't be too much to ask."