The thug landed on the rain-soaked pavement, snoring, as Jack shook some feeling back into his hand.

"Well, that's just bloody brilliant." Jack muttered, turning to the rest of his crew. Most gangs on the streets nowadays were generally of two kinds. Either they were posers, dressed in ridiculous outfits that would make a rodeo clown stop and stare, or they were leering, stone-cold killers that did whatever the hell they wanted, because they were strong and others were weak.

Jack's crew didn't fit into either of these categories. There were ten in all, all dressed in browns and greys and blacks. No "swag" or "bling" to be seen, beyond a wedding ring on a few hands or a cross on a chain around someone's neck. And they weren't leering, nor did they give the impression that they were killers. They were… somber. Like men that did a hard, difficult and dangerous job for not nearly enough compensation.

Jack nodded to them. "The shit's hitting the fan, boys. Our friend right there just confirmed that the Angels are going to try to roll through tonight."

There were several sighs, and a few muttered curses. The Angels were a gang from the second category, who demanded protection money, and torched the shops that didn't pay. This neighborhood was under Jack's protection, so the shop owners wouldn't ante up. The Angels were going to try to get the point across.

"Think we'll get any help from the blues?" One of the men asked. Jack turned to look at Darson, one of the newer additions to the crew. A younger man, in his mid-twenties, Darson had joined up because he wanted to make the neighborhood a better place for the family he was hoping to start with his fiancée. He hadn't quite got that deep stain of cynicism on his soul yet.

Jack shook his head. "I doubt it. We're not in the Highlands, not even close. Hell, we're not even close enough to Downtown. They barely send patrols down here anymore. And if they did show up, they'd probably arrest a few of us too, just for looking at them."

A few of the other men nodded to this. The Highlands was the part of the city where the rich and powerful decided the fate of the people in the city. Many of the crew resented them, hated them even. Jack didn't. He knew it wasn't a class of people that was the problem, or even the government, though they both left a lot to be desired. It just seemed the world was just getting darker nowadays…

He shook the thoughts off. "Right. We don't have much time. They'll be starting in a few hours. We need to get equipped and get to Sylvan Square to intercept them, before they get to Rhine Street and start flinging firebombs." He turned to Eddie Wales, a tall, gangly kid, barely out of college. "Eddie, run to Rhine Street and warn them. Shout, get a bull horn, wake up the whole damn block if you have to. Make sure they know what's coming. Hopefully they'll be able to get the police there to defend if we can't stop them."

"Gotcha boss. I'll meet up with you in the Square-" Eddie started, but John raised a hand.

"No, Eddie. I need you to make sure that everyone on that street is safe. Several of those shopkeepers are old-timers that won't be able to get out if the street catches fire. Get them to a safe distance and make sure they stay there. If we win, we'll contact you. If we lose, you have to make sure they don't do anything stupid. It's all for nothing if they try to go down with the shops."

Eddie frowned, and looked like he wanted to say something, but John stared at him steadily, and he relented. "Okay boss... I'll keep em' safe." He ran to the edge of the alley, turned around, thumped a fist across his chest, and sped off.

Jack turned to the rest of them. "Alright, the rest of you get sorted out and get to the Square. And Ford, I know there's no time for barricades, but try to scrounge up something we can use for cover. I don't know who's supplying them nowadays, but I'll bet they'll have a few guns. And get me a stool."

Ford raised an eyebrow in question, but nodded and sped off as well. The rest of the men dispersed, heading out of the alley with solemn purpose. All except one, who walked over to Jack. Jack nodded to him, and they both turned and walked out of the alley and down the street.

"Why'd you send off the kid? We could've used him." The other man said after a while.

"So he'd be out of it. Someone has to carry on if we don't make it, and he's got the passion."

"Heh, clever. And you gave him a job that needs doing and that would give him a full view of the effects without him getting stuck in. You're a clever bastard."

Jack smiled at that. "Many would argue that picking a fight with the Angels, who are known to have viciously killed the previous gangs in their territory, would be a good deal off from 'clever', Sam."

Sam Rhodes eyeballed his old friend. "True enough… what is it, Jack?"

Jack turned to regard one of the very few people he called friend. Sam was man of middling height, now in his thirties, still handsome but looking haggard lately. His blond hair was done back in a ponytail, and his blue eyes, not the baby blue of a runway model but a deep, royal blue, had a piercing quality that Jack was still taken back by after all these years.

Jack was silent for a moment. "Nothing, old friend…"

"Bullshit. I've known you for nearly fifteen years now, bucko. I know your tells. Something's eating at you." Sam looked at Jack, concern on his face.

Jack looked back, then sighed. "Let's at least get a beer before we get into that…"

They pushed open the door to their destination, the Standing Stone, one of the city's oldest bars. It did not have class. It did not have frills. It did not serve cocktails, fruit drinks, or anything with a paper umbrella in it. It did, however, serve beer, hard liquor and a beef-and-bacon sandwich to die for.

The pair sauntered up to the bar. Albert Rhodes was the proprietor, landlord and bouncer for this establishment, which he'd inherited from his father. Where his brother Sam had charm and a piercing perception of the world, Albert had all the tact and social grace of an alligator with terminal toothache. Where his brother was average in height and build, Albert, from working the bar on his own, had developed hard muscle and a 6' 3" height, and had his blond hair shaven on his head but well-kept in a Van Dyke beard. He'd found his craft when it came to brewing late in life, but he was a quick learner. And while he was a gruff, somewhat miserly grump, he was also a good man who had been known to quietly cook up a meal for some of the worse-off people to wander into the bar.

He saw the two sit down at the bar and ambled over to them. He glared at his brother, who smiled and waved. Then he turned to Jack and his expression softened. "Haven't seen you for a while, Jack. I thought you'd gone and finally gotten yourself killed."

Jack smirked as the jukebox in the corner started playing Darby O'Gill. Albert was a diehard fan of Irish music, and the jukebox was stocked with his favorites. Anyone who suggested he vary his selection was scoffed at. Anyone who suggested he include pop or rap music was removed from the bar so fast they wouldn't even feel the bruises until they got up off the sidewalk.

"Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." Jack said. It was an old ritual between the stolid barkeep and the civic vigilante. Albert smirked back at Jack and reached under the bar as the jukebox got into swing:

"You've all got your brothers, your comrades and lovers
Your friends, your companions, your partners in crime…"

Albert pulled out two bottles of bright blue glass and set one in front of Jack. When Sam reached for the second, Albert pulled it away.

"Not until you've paid your tab, you freeloading idiot."

Sam put a hand over his heart as if wounded.

"Oh, dear brother, how you hurt me so! If old dad were here…"

Albert scoffed. "He'd slap you on the back of the head and tell you to stand your round like everyone else."

"He did too, as I recall." Jack said, grinning as he twisted open his beer.

"And the girls that you meet in the pub or the street
That'll set you to singin' or writin' in rhyme."

Sam gave Jack a withering glance. "Traitor! How am I to march into battle with you without a little liquid courage?"

"In a straight line, perhaps?"

Sam continued glaring at Jack, who raised his free hand in mock surrender and looked at Albert. "Put it on my tab. God knows we could all use one tonight."

Albert grunted and leaned back underneath the bar.

"One or two of them stay, one or two pass away
And the rest of them fade like a dream that is lost."

He came back up with another bottle and slid it across the pitted bar to Sam, who deftly caught it and flicked off the cap. Albert twisted his bottle open as well.

"To friends, both here and gone." Jack intoned.

"Gone, but not forgotten." The brothers echoed back.

They all drank in silence for a moment.

"And we watch them walk out without raisin' a shout
Without realizin' or counting the cost."

Jack looked at his bottle thoughtfully. "Changed the brew, Al? Tastes smoother than before."

Albert beamed proudly. "Yeah, I'm trying a different schedule for the casks, and adding in a few drops of honey as well."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's beer. It gets you buzzed. Hell, I don't even know why you keep these warm, why not put them in a fridge or something?"

Albert glared at him. "Philistine."

Jack chuckled and pulled at the bottle again as Albert wandered over to another customer.

"Fill me jar up with porter, me time's gettin' shorter
I'll sing about Michael, and Conor and Merv…"

"So, what is it?"

John's mood darkened instantly. "Ah… right."

Sam put an elbow on the bar. "Come on, Jack. What's eating you? Normally when the gangs roll in you're full of fire. Now you just look…"

"Tired." It wasn't a question.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. What is it?"

"But I faith need the stout for to get the words out
For to whet me oul' whistle and get up the nerve."

Jack pulled on the bottle again. When he put it down, he spoke like he'd come off a 16-hour shift.

"I feel like it's ending, Sam. I've been fighting to oust the gangs from this neighborhood for years now. Founded the crew, found people who were willing to fight for our little brownstone corner, so it could be somewhere worth living. And I'm just starting to go down under the weight of it, Sam."

Sam didn't speak, so Jack kept talking. "What have I really done? Oh, I've busted up some gangs, cracked some skulls together. May even have gotten a little reputation now. But it's just… wallpaper, Sam. Stories. What have I actually done?"

"He was all full o' passion, but when he got lashin'
He lost all his money, his wits and his luck."

"You dumbass."

Jack looked sharply at Sam, who was grinning on the stool next to him. "Tread carefully, Sam Rhodes."

Sam rolled his eyes and continued. "Is that it? Is that all? Geez, I thought you had gotten cancer or something!" Jack's face must've been priceless right now, because Sam burst into laughter.

"What the hell is so funny, Sam!?"

"You! You sit on this barstool sippin' yer piss-tasting beer-"

From down the bar came a cry of "I heard that, asshole!"

Sam ignored this and rolled on. "-and pitying yourself because 'Oh woe is me, I can't see the good I've done in this world because I'm too busy brooding and pitying my drunk-ass self and doing my Batman impression-"

"Don't even go there, man."

"Come on! You haven't done any good? Do you remember what the neighborhood was like when you came back after washing out of the police academy?"

"I didn't wash out, I was expelled."

"Only you would correct me on that."

"It means I was thrown out because I was a hothead as opposed to an incompetent-"

"LISTEN! It was chaos, man. Or at the very least, tyranny. The Demon Dogs had this area as their playground. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, and people around here didn't do a damn thing. Not the city, not the police, not even the neighbors. They'd forgotten that they could do anything! And then you, with your 'Thou shalt not be a dickweasel!' attitude come storming in and take on the gang single-handed!"

"I had help-"

"You had a few people nervously point you in the direction of the gang hideouts. Then you went in and beat the ever-loving crap outta them! And they ran! And then people realized that if one guy could make a bunch of full on gangsters run for their lives, what would happen if they actually stood up to these losers? And then, when the Devil Dogs came back around, the same people who had cowered before them a week earlier threw them out onto the street! And then you walked up to those people and asked if they would help keep other gangs out. Not as some holy crusader, but just as a guy wanting to defend his patch. You got people to stand up and face people twice their size and throw them out on their ass, and you think you've done nothing?"

"But now I've pulled a bunch of men, married men, men with kids and family and people who care about them, I've pulled them into a confrontation with a gang that could kill them, Sam!"

"We all joined up, Sam. We all wanted to keep this little patch of brownstone clean. We still do."

"I didn't ask-"

"Neither did we. We didn't ask to be stomped on by the gangs. We didn't ask for our delis and bodegas and homes to be burned. We sure as hell didn't ask for a city like this, where cops and politicians smirk and laugh when they hear about trouble down here. You showed us it didn't have to be this way, that we can get mad, that we are mad, and we sure as hell aren't going to take it anymore."

Sam took a deep breath. "So quit your whiny, self-indulgent pity party you brooding, magnificent idiot and drink the rest of your beer so we can go fuck those dickheads up for even thinking of torching our street!"

Jack nearly fell off his stool as Sam screamed in his face. The other bar patrons were staring as well.

Jack pulled himself back up on his stool and stared at Sam for a moment. Then he picked up his bottle, tipped it back, and drained the rest of the beer.

He slammed it back down on the bar and stood up. "Al!"

Albert ran over. "What's the hell's going on over here? I swear, if you scare off my customers-" he growled, pointing at Sam.

"I need the bag, Al."

Al stopped mid-rant, and his face drained of color. "Wh-what? Are you serious!?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't, Al."

Albert ran a hand through his beard, and nodded. He disappeared into a back room and came back with a duffel bag.

It was heavy. It clinked.

Sam was curious. "What the hell is in there?"

"A last resort. I'm really hoping you don't have to see me use it. Let's go."

He put a ten on the bar and walked out with Sam in tow, as the jukebox played out the last chorus.

"Fill me jar up with porter, me time's gettin' shorter,
I'll sing about Michael, and Conor and Merv…

But I faith need the stout, for to get the words out,
For to whet me oul' whistle and get up the nerve."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First chapter, first fanfic. Tell me how I did! I do not own World of Darkness, unfortunately, only these characters. The song is called "The Toast" by Darby O'Gill, and it's up on Grooveshark. Not Youtube though, for some reason, which is a crime against high art.