(2019-02-24) Holdup at the Junction
Some jerks with guns try to cause trouble in the wrong coffee shop.
Players:
salem..anthony..maxon..sevin..

The lunchtime rush has dwindled into a smattering of the mid-afternoon caffeine crowd; largely university students here between classes, and at least one professor. Tall, older gentleman who doesn't look like a native of this little town. And it's not just his foreign features; outsiders have a look about them, even those who have started to assimilate amongst the local populace. He's dressed in a long coat, shirt tucked into dark pants, silver tie with some sort of pattern on it. Checking his phone, hip against the counter while he waits for his order to be prepared.

Salem shoulders through the door wearing a fitted wool coat, phone in hand. Her dark eyes trail a blonde cheerleader looking type in a pink wool coat as she stands there, shoulder still holding open the door. "I don't give a fuck," she says, just as the blonde smiles a thank you to her. That's the quickest way to turn a smile into a frown. Salem shakes her head slightly as the blonde motors on to catch up to her friends, skinny caramel latte in hand. "Get it done before I have to get it done. Stop texting me. It's fucking annoying." Her accent is faintly Mexican, though she's clearly been here long enough that it's faded to the background. Her dark eyes scan the interior as she heads for the counter, sliding her phone into her pocket and shrugging out of her coat. She queues up in line, vaguely annoyed expression fading, the frown settling out of matte red lips.

The coffee rush of a post-release crowd of college aged students didn't mean it wasn't also the rush for those not affiliated to also be getting their coffee. It did however mean that they were forced to wait the ridiculous times because of all of the particularly specific brew orders that college aged persons generally made. The entrance to Java Junction was alight with the steady influx of patrons and outgoings of those having received their drink of choice and headed off to other things.

One particular entrant was nearly as out of place as the professor who was already waiting at the counter. The tailored fabric of the navy blue suit, adorned with faint white pinstripes passed through in a gathering of approximately three persons, though set apart from them by the cut and demeanor of his stride, accented by the muffled, yet audible click of burnished leather wingtips. A long black overcoat of cashmere shifted about the mans mid calve and the bored cut of peridot green eyes put him more akin to someone who should be walking down Wallstreet than a coffee shop in bum-fuck Calaveras.

He made his way in line, which was a bit of an effort at this point, though provided an ample glance toward the wool-coat wearing super bitch with an amused uptwitch to one edge of his firm lip, engrossed by the dense growth of facial hair mottled with the salt and pepper of experience.

Fashionable guy at the counter: Check. Fashionable Cheerleader: Check. Incredibly Fashionable guy in wingtips coming through the door: Check. Fashionable guy at one of the tables: ch-Wait, no, he's face down in a pile of papers and occasionally letting out a groan of frustration. Which, considering Maxon's usual grasp of fashion would be about as close as he's ever going to get, really. His usual dark jacket is thrown over the back of his chair, there's a steaming half-empty cup next to him, a gym bag tucked under the table, and the soft repetitive tapping from the back end of a pen bouncing off of the hardwood surface as he occasionally flips it around to write something down on what looks suspiciously like forms for a current account. For some reason, those patrons not bee-lining straight back out of the joint with their loot seem to be giving him something of a wide berth and leaving him the table. No clue why.

Sevin's eyes tick up as his name's called. Mangled, predictably, by the guy reading the cup and interpreting the pronunciation as sev-in. His cautious rendition of arabic is interrupted by the professor, who mumbles his thanks and relieves him of the cup before he gives himself a hernia from the confusion. A lid is retrieved and snapped on; no cream, no sugar. And only then does he note the entry of not one, but two people he recognises. The mexican girl first, crease between his brows as he watches her wait in line with that frown on her face. Then a glance to the well-dressed Italian schlubbing it in a hipster coffee shop, of all places. And that isn't a smile, but it's pretending to be. "Afternoon, Malone." He sips, and notes the guy face down in papers, with a gym bag under his table. Watches him for a moment or two, thoughtfully.

Salem sighs softly as the phone in her back pocket promptly chimes out a text alert. She does not check her phone. A murmur under her breath begins, "Madre de dios…" and ends somewhere around, "cabron." Loosely translated: why do I even waste my breath. She likely noticed both the professor and the suit, but doesn't focus long on either until one addresses the other. Her attention is on Maxon as well, dark eyes slightly narrowed like perhaps she's trying to place that face. But then the line moves and she steps forward. When she speaks again, her voice is markedly less irritated, a little rough but pleasant enough. She orders a small black coffee, dark roast, then says, "Gentlemen." The two men nearest her happen to be Sevin and Anthony, so its likely for them both. She pays with neatly folded cash and waves off change. She looks from the professor to the suit only after a cup is handed over by the barista.

Anthony did little to conceal the amusement at Sevin embattled with the barista at the pronunciation of his name warranted a bit of a soft, inaudible laugh which he chuffed and shook his head, though the brief stream of Spanish caught a passing glance, though not much more. His eyes wandered the coffee shop, rocking idly atop his heels in a light half-bobbing motion, both hands buried into the deep confines of the overcoat's hip pockets.

The mention of his name, however, brought a curl at either side of his lips and he nodded, "Sevin stayin' energized? I hear the students really take it outta' ya's" he remarked, his words were 'hey old pal' but his eyes were 'fuck face' and delivered in a voice that was more befitting of a man who hung out on a corner store on downtown Mulberry street of New York than the professional appearance which he presented. The line moved, he moved with it, and put in his order for a tall black coffee. They were nothing if not the easiest orders of the barista's day.

The 'gentleman' comment caused him to turn his head toward Salem, nodding once in acknowledgement, "Senorita" he noted, and his eyes trailed from her toward the social no-fly zone surrounding the gym-bag holding man over paperwork in the corner. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "Hey, buddy!" he called out toward Maxon, "You'se need a refill?"

Giving the paperwork in front of him a victorious middle-finger salute right as his name is called, Maxon's head snaps up with a glimmer of the biggest shit-eating grin ever seen from someone who wasn't a lawyer. The expression flickers for an instant, this seemingly being the first time he's actually noticed how busy the place became while he was distracted. "Uh-" Was that directed at him? Seems so. The cup beside him gets a glance, shifting sideways in his seat to shake off some leg cramp on the way. "I'm good until they start offering Irish, pal." The accent throws him East Coast-ish, yet another transplant to the town, short-a splits abound in his pronunciation.

"No classes today." Sevin sips his coffee again, eyes on Anthony. "Thanks for your concern, though." The not-smile still lingers at the corners of his mouth, but doesn't quite crease his pale eyes. The man always speaks more with his silence than with his words, and it's probably safe to say that the 'fuck face' is mutual. If a little subtler on the middle eastern gentleman. "I heard about your hotel. Congratulations." And he lingers a moment more before departing for a table, conveniently (or inconveniently) next to Max's.

There's a folder of what looks like assignments under one arm that's unloaded on the tabletop once he's swept a few crumbs away, and a pen comes out of his coat pocket, and is clicked on. He watches the east coaster nearby with the shit-eating grin and his own mountain of paperwork, but seems less than inclined to address him.

Something about the suit's delivery has Salem's dark eyes turning his way. She regards Anthony for a long moment, a smile playing at her lips. She glances once more between the tall Italian and the green-eyed Egytpian. It seems her day has taken a turn for the better. Even when her ass pocket chimes out another incoming text. "Would the two of you care to join me for conversation? You are most welcome." This offer is laid at the feet of the two men before she regards them both for a moment, and then says, "Mucho gusto," to Anthony, and to Sevin, "Como siempre." She turns toward Maxon's table, and makes her way in that direction. When Sevin locates himself conveniently nearby the wall of muscle that is Max, she pauses just beside, and gestures with the hand of the arm where her wool coat is draped. "Would you mind company?" Perhaps it's a cultural thing. The woman steps into the area others are avoiding and asks after a seat near or at Maxon's table.

Anthony canted his head a bit at the mention of 'until they serve Irish' and laughed, a flash of handsome white teeth amidst a sea of coal black whiskers, it warranted no response, and got none. He turned about to pick up his coffee and clamped a lid on tight while listening to the words over his shoulder which he turned to return to, green eyes opposite green, he nodded at Sevin once, "Thanks. You should come by sometime, I'll have them leave a guest pass for the Cigar Bar for you." he replied.

The words of Salem however, catch him only slightly off kilter and he blinks once, then toward Sevin, then back toward Salem, "Suuuuurre" he drew out, "Why the fuck not" he added and took a sip of his coffe with tentative pace as to its temperature. His strides fell behind Salem on the way toward the table, and as Salem asked of Maxon, he instaed busied himself with eyeing the paperwork atop the table itself.

Haphazardly scooping the scattering of papers to clear up some more space across the surface of table for the convenience of any who dare intrude on what was claimed as sovereign territory from a bunch of teenagers earlier. Brief flashes of the writing on top would lead one to conclude that yes, this guy is simply trying to open up a new, local bank account and had a pig of a time of it for whatever reason.

The polite offer of company combined with the table next to him suddenly being occupied just results in a brief nod and a half shrug as he reaches for his cup, his free hand waving over the now cleared space. "Y'know, a detective told me this place was uncannily nice." he mutters, mostly to himself, beofre continuing on in an even lower volume: "Ah, shit. I think I gotta punch her this weekend."

…Sip.

Certainly the two tables could be nudged together to make things more conversational. Not that Sevin seems like the conversational type. But he does gesture vaguely when Salem makes her request of him, as if to say, feel free. His coat, meanwhile, is shrugged out of and the sleeves of his shirt turned up to his elbows. Fingertip hooked in the knot of his tie, and he gives it an absent little tug like it's irritating him. Which it probably is. When he said 'no classes', he probably meant no classes this afternoon, because he's certainly dressed for something. And it probably isn't mediocre coffee.

"The cigar bar," he repeats, eyes roving from his contemplation of Salem, back to Tony. "That sounds promising. It's been some time since I've smoked a parejo. Do you stock hoyo de monterey?" His spanish accent is actually passable, though he'd never be mistaken for a native speaker. Maxon's casually remarked-upon violence gains a curious glance, but no comment.

Salem glances over her shoulder to Anthony, making note, no doubt of his mention of the cigar bar, Sevin's invitation from Anthony. She drops a hand to the back of a chair at Sevin's table, glances over at the professor, taps it once and makes a questioning noise. She pulls it out, turning it in such a way that it puts her between the two tables, effectively blocking the tiny aisle between them. No one's been using it, so it shouldn't be a problem. She folds her coat neatly over the back of another chair at the table, then drops into her own seat. "Don't believe the detectives in this jurisdiction. They drink too much." She crosses her legs, her black slacks clinging low on her hips. "Which will make the punching go easier." She glances over at the mention of hoyo de monterey. She seems intrigued by the answer to this question. "New York?" This question could be for Anthony or Maxon, given the accents.

Anthony shot a sideward glance toward Sevin, and looked for a passing beat as if he wanted to say 'huh' but his composure got the better of him and he smiled what was perhaps the most genuine expression of that act this afternoon, "Yeah, actually. The big shipment is still en route, but they're on the stocking list" he admitted and once the polite agreements for seating arrangements were made, he set his cup down with a hollow thunk and shrugged out of the long cashmere coat, folding it over the back of a nearby chair.

The suit jacket followed soon after, which he hung on the back of the chair which he seemed to intend to actually sit in, leaving him in a length of crisp white sleeve and polished steel cufflinks which sported death's head moths. Unlike the professor, he made no inclination as to the fact that the neatly knotted maroon necktie bothered him in the slightest and he rose one hand to wrap around his coffee cup.

The mention of punching detectives and over-nice people brought an eyebrow raise and he nodded at Maxon, "Nah, that's fuckin' accurate. People here are way fuckin' nice" he commented, and turned his eyes back toward Salem, "Lower New York, Sout' Manhattan. I'd make an assumption about you'se, but honestly… that accent is everywhere" he noted and took a sip of his coffee, lowering it to his lap, he wrapped both hands about it lazily, the callouses of his fingerts scraping together, he surveyed both Maxon and Salem, "So!" he declared, a tight lipped smile, "Who's you'se?"

Intermittently sipping from his cup as the conversation goes hither and yon between three absolute strangers to him, Maxon only seems to snap back into focus when the two comments about detectives and town opinions come forth, placing his drink softly back to the table with almost a gentle reverence. "'Xactly." he nods in agreement towards Anthony, a weird glimmer of recollection flashing across his face when he spots the man's cufflinks. "Which proves that you ever find a detective that doesn't drink too much, you found a shitty detective."

As a foot pulls his gym bag to a position under his chair as opposed to the table, he introduces himself with quick glances to all three over the sound of a bag sliding across carpet. "Max Lentz. Queens."

Sevin catches that smile from Anthony, and there's an infintessimal tilt of his head, though it isn't quite reciprocated. Elbow up while he finishes turning up his shirtsleeve, and some sort of ink scrawled along his forearm and disappearing under his clothing. Arabic, naturally, goodness knows what it says. "Looking forward to it, then," he offers after a pause, eyes flicking to those cufflinks.

Back to Tony, then across to Maxon as he waits for an introduction. His own stack of paperwork sits untouched for the time being; it looks like homework that needs to be graded. Papers stapled together, the top one is titled carrier concentration doping and band gaps under thermal equilibrium. Pen in hand, he's already scrawled some nonsense in the margin in correction of a flubbed calculation.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Lentz." The gym bag is watched for a beat. Then the man again. He offers after a quick slurp of coffee, "Sevin Khan." That's suh-veen to the uninitiated. "And this is Tony Malone." A nod to the big Italian. "And Salem Kind." Friends of his? Who knows. His tone of voice gives away almost nothing.

Salem glances over her shoulder at Sevin, studying his profile for a moment, and then she glances down at his paperwork, then away before she even gets past concentration doping and band gaps. Fuck that. She, being nosy, also looked at Maxon's a moment before. She has but an infernally active text inbox. Ping. Ping. She glances over to watch Anthony remove his long coat, his suit jacket, and fold and drape them variously. Of course her eyes skim his body now that he's down a few layers. A practiced eye could easily recognize a weapons check, but it could also be mistaken for something more leading. She smiles when Anthony says her accent is everywhere. Because, yes, it is. Not that most people notice. Sevin introduces her with that unusual surname. She appends, "Most recently of Tejas." Texas. Her accent swings slightly more SoCal mixed with Mexico.

Her head swivels slightly and she looks at Max when he speaks, briefly down to the bag when he tucks it under his chair. Salem swaps her coffee to her other hand, and finally takes a sip. Her fingers are tattooed at each joint, small sigils, lettering, a little pink heart on one, and an eye curled in ribbon on the back of her hand, blue-black ink. She doesn't seem to particularly enjoy the coffee, but she sips again. Her gaze tracks a couple of persons moving along the window outside the coffee shop. Absently, almost. A few seconds after Max introduces himself, her gaze flicks back to him.

Anthony raised his cup of coffee toward Sevin in reply to 'looking forward to it' and raised a single finger from the edge of his coffee cup as Sevin delivered the names of the people around the table as if to signal a sort of 'that's me' gesture that was entirely unnecessary. A smirk crept against one side of his lips at Max's mention of a detective without a drinking problem isn't a good detective, and he took another sip of coffee.

Unlike the others, he showed little to no interest in Max's duffle bag, instead he turned his attention toward Salem and her appraising eye, to which he returned both openly and candidly before smiling and flashing a wink of a single green eye. "So what brings you two's ta' Calaveras? I mean, clearly it's a long way from home for everyone here…" queue sip of coffee, "But, y'know, Sevin and I has been here for a minute by now, so in the spirit of now bein' the semi-locals, it's your turn to go first"

A minute. Is that a New York minute? Sevin, to his credit, keeps his mouth shut on that one. He sometimes seems to have a difficult time with the precision - or lack thereof - of the English language. Eased back in his chair, he sips his coffee and scribbles something on the assignment he's marking. Flips to the next page, which is crammed cheek by jowl with handwritten formulae. His tongue skims his lower lip while he considers what's been written. Then flicks his gaze to the coffee shop window. Two people passing by. A glance to the lineup at the counter, then the back door that leads to the washrooms. Paranoid? Always.

Jerking his head up sharply in the traditional chin-raising reverse nod that plenty of guys do during introductions, Maxon adds a raised cup of his own to the three as the names are brought out. He's not the smartest looking guy, but he does at least manage to figure out who 'Salem' and 'Tony' belong to in the right order. "Pleasure."

And then there's a whole bunch of looking. Salem looking at Anthony. Maxon looking at Salem. It's an Ouroboros of sizing-up, with an expression on his brows that could be taken as anything but lecherous. "Uh-" Thank the lord for Tony's question to divert his attention from suddenly being glanced at once more. "Needed a change of scenery. And friends. Weirdly, this was the cheapest greyhound ticket going." It might just be the crook in his nose, but his smile seems a touch hollow. Or shaken. Maybe both.

Salem's tipped back position in her no-man's-land chair is relaxed. Her black button down shirt is open at top and bottom a few buttons. A large cross rests around her neck. A few lines of tattoos peek out here and there, roses at her throat, a finely lined wing across her belly, which probably only shows when she moves and the fabric gaps. Perhaps a bit belatedly, she turns back to look at Anthony to say, "It is my pleasure, Tony, to meet you. Your accent is a treat for me. As are most distinctive voices." She glances to Sevin, and then turns her eyes back to Maxon. She then continues with, "Would you believe antiques?" Those brown-black eyes find the man in the crisp white shirt once more. "My clients are particularly interested in vintage weapons. And hand-beaded 20s fashions, but the former is more likely in the collections of the citizenry here. I have a six-month sublet and nothing but time to investigate new avenues of business, leads in the darker corners of the city."

Salem says to Maxon, "I'm sure you'll find gainful employment soon. I would not worry about that." It's like she's tweaking him on purpose the way she watches him while she says that. Level, dark eyes, squirrely Max. No weapons immediately obvious on Salem, but that means very little. She has the heavy coat on the chair next to her. "What business are you in?" She looks both to Max and Anthony. Double-duty question. "Hotelier, did I hear?" Perhaps she doesn't read the newspaper in a timely fashion.

A soft 'm'hmm' escaped Anthony's lips at the mention of 'pleasure' from both Salem and Maxon. When Max imparted just why on earth he was in Calaveras, Tony smirked wide, "Somehow I'm not fuckin' surprised at that bit aboutt'a greyhound" he admitted and took a deep breath through his nostrils, puffing his chest naturally and leaning straightbacked against the back of his chair with a slow exhale, resettling comfortably into his seat. One glance toward Maxon anew, "I wouldn't, by the way. The credit. They'll fuck ya's" he added.

Peridot eyes shifted back toward Salem and he arched a thick coal-black brow a bit a the mention of 'Antiques' and he visibly squinted his eyes just a bit. He chose not to respond to that bit and instead shook his head when she mentioned 'Hotelier' - "Jesus Christ, fuck no. I mean, technically yes, but that's just an investment in the town. I'm a financial investment advisor" he commented, smiling. "People around here just dumb it down to 'Investor' though, it helps lump me in wit' the big bad idea of the corporate man tryin' to take over there fuckin' town"

Kept at bay by his long-sleeved knock off brand under-armor shirt, Maxon's own tattoos get to go unseen for another day. It's about the only thing he is concealing, really, given that under the scrutiny of Salem's gaze and words his eyes are all of a sudden intently focused on his coffee until enough of a moment has passed that some semblance of easy-going composure returns. Just. "I figure I throw enough rowdy guys out of a bar eventually people'll start paying me for it." he offers her way, the grin almost over-beatific.

Giving a little purse at the corner of his mouth and a 'whatcanyado' shrug in Anthony's direction when he once again provides a perfect distraction, there's a little glance to where the papers ended up at the mention of the credit, and there's a little spreading of his hands before they seek out his cup. "Well, they can get in line with everyone else, then." A little sip. "A Hotelier, an antiquities expert, and a-" A quick glance to Sevin. "Professoooor?" It raises in pitch. "I'm feeling pretty out of my depth right now, gotta say."

Sevin watches the interplay between Salem and Max, and there's a twinge of amusement in his pale gaze that's only subtly demarcated by a curve of his lips. There and gone again, though his scruffy beard does a good job of hiding it. He clearly is familiar with the mexican girl with the tattooed hands and throat and goodness knows what else, though he rarely watches her directly. The conversation is absorbed in relative silence from the professor, pen scratching paper with a scrawl bordering on illegible. Which might be forgiven, perhaps, for someone whose native language is written right to left. To Anthony, without looking up, he murmurs, "Well. You certainly dress the part."

"That's funny, you only look a little bit like the big bad wolf, Tony." Salem regards the man for a sip of her coffee before she asks of Sevin, "Is that not making your eyes bleed?" She reaches for a paper off the untouched stack to tip it her way and skim. She skims this one for a while. Ping. "Do you handle private, more modest clients or only multi-million dollar corporations?" It seems like the tattooed latina can smell mad stacks of cash when it sits at her table. "I like you two. I hope you both invite me to this cigarillo fest if women are allowed in to watch or smoke." She's hiding a smile behind her cup. "Yes, Max, I'm very, very good at acquiring things." Sounds like that includes people, but she's probably just zapping the overcaffeinated for fun now.

Salem reaches up to brush her hair back from her eyes, a bruise visible briefly at her temple before her glossy black hair falls back in place. Her gaze is once again out the window tracking a familiar pair of scrawny, jittery looking men who are passing for the second time. This time, they turn into the coffee shop just as a larger gaggle of students are leaving for what must be late afternoon classes. She taps her fingertips on the stack of papers Sevin's papers three times, pointedly, and slides the chair with her coat closer. She sits up, a slow curl of her abs.

A silent glance toward Sevin, but not noticeable adjustment in his posture of facial expression, though the words of Salem bring his attention back toward her. "Everyone looks like a big bad wolf when they're a bunch'a cerditos" he replied with a smile and took a slow sip of his coffee, swirling it about in his hand to feel for the level of which he'd drank from its contents to this point.

Dark eyebrows rose at Salem's question and he shrugged, "I handle personal accounts and investments for direct clients. The company I work with arranges many corporate accounts, though the closest thing to a corporate portfolio I touch would be the personal finances of a CEO or somethin' of the equivalent" he smiled and looked toward Maxon as he spoke, "Nah, just means you'se deal wit' a lot less bullshit. You're really the lucky one here" he commented and glanced toward the thrice tap of Salem's fingertips, arching a brow.

Letting any more unsettling feelings he's getting from Salem wash over him, Maxon just offers a quick little "You're in the right line of work, then." It could be to either Tony or the woman, really, and then he's focusing back entirely on his drink, taking a good, solid swig from his chair that just so conveniently happens to be giving him a perfect eyeline to the door.

Of course, our Maxie is a newcomer to town, and one that treats the finger-tapping on a sheaf of papers as just another idiosyncratic tendency from one of it's inhabitants. It doesn't help him that thanks to a certain someone all the hairs on the back of his neck have been up since they sat down, so he doesn't notice any particular change in atmosphere.

Sevin finally looks up when Anthony gives him that little look. And returns it evenly, no words. His gaze shifts askance to Salem when she takes liberties with his grading. That paper she slid out details 'carrier concentrations' of electrons in semiconductors, and the student in question has erased their work multiple times before settling on a circuit drawing with an accompanying equation. Which the professor was about to mark, when those inked fingers tugged it away.

He watches her with a bit of a crease between his brows, and is likely about to drop a choice f-bomb when he spots that triple tap atop his stack of paperwork. And something in him shifts, like a switch that's flipped. He considers the men that have walked in, and considers his options. Which are, at present, a very angry looking red pen. It's collected against his palm, hand dropping to his lap, shoulders relaxed as his pale gaze tracks the interlopers. His calm, almost certainly, is a lie; for a teacher, he's got an odd bearing about him. "Door," he murmurs, low voiced.

"I'll keep that in mind if we don't have a problem with these boys." Salem chin-ups to the door in a not that may perhaps be too subtle for some, but if she's wrong, she really doesn't want to freak out the civilians. Bad enough she rolled in here like a storm cloud earlier and disturbed the calm of a Betty headed to class. She pulls something mostly matte black from her coat and passes it under the table to Sevin. A weather eye would recognize the small gun as a S&W MP Shield. 9mm, 7+1 capacity. Small but powerful enough to make an impression. It fits her hand, but will be a little small for Sevin. No pinkie support. Absently, she says, "Very good pronunciation, Tony." Cerditos. She squints a bit and puts her coffee down. She slips her right hand around to the back of her shirt and slips out a little steel knuckle set for her left hand, and a knife for her right. She has an assortment of toys, it seems.

Two tall, lanky fellows hustle in, nervous energy and craving written all over them. The tallest (Thug3) wears a green army coat, clearly grabbed from a lost and found bin, or sadly from another life a long time ago. He's dark haired, hollow-eyed, and at least 6 feet of bony trouble. His hand goes to his pocket. The second tallest (Thug2) is a strawberry blonde with dark eyes and shitty tribal tattoos down his neck that look like they were done with a guitar string. He brings up his buddy's flank, his hand already coming out of his pocket with a cheap gun he probably couldn't name, and found under a parked car somewhere. Belatedly, bringing up the rear is a short, boxy dude with black hair and nervous eyes. He already has a knife out and a girl screams, drops her dirty chai, and peels out the door. This sets the three to arguing, one of them (Thug3) already waving gun around.

"We want your cash!" Thug 3 says.

"Why did you bring a knife, you moron." Thug2 says to Thug1, pulling his gun out but aiming it at the floor with his finger on the trigger already. When the yelling and screaming starts, 2/3 of the henchmen look startled. Not the brightest show around, but also clearly untrained and thus dangerous to bystanders everywhere.

Anthony's eyes squinted when Sevin returned his glance, though the change of posture and pronounced lack of wit on the tail end of 'Door' caused him to forget about it. While Salem made movement to her lower back and produced what was a familiar sight of a firearm, as well as her own form of weaponry, he audibly, albeit softly, sighed. "Whatta' fuck is happenin' to this fuckin' town…" he muttered and withdrew his outer most wrapped hand from about his coffee. That same hand pressed its fingertips against the center most button of his vest which was easily brushed past by way of a concealed snap fastening, through the fabric of his buttondown shirt, which although unseen, was subtly fastened by magnetic buttons, rather than actual fasteners, and to the skin-tight concealed holster shirt worn much like one does a standard undershirt.

Produced next was the small, compact visiage of a black Glock 26 right about the words 'We want your cash!' exited Thug3's lips. Furrow to Anthony's dark brows, he didn't bother standing, instead, he silently turned from his position in the chair, tucking the barrel of his pistol between the gap of his left arm and his torso, turned his head over his shoulder, and squeezed a loud 'Pop!' of a single round.

The round traversed the short gap in an instant and struck Thug3 low and on the outside of the stomach, far from a fatal, or even critical wounding, but enough that it was certainly bound to get his attention.

Maxon ain't the fastest crayon in the toolbox, but even he'd be hard-pressed to miss the goings on. Especially once folks start screaming. Sure, he was absolutely bending down to quote-unquote 'tie his bootlace' when the yelling from the thugs came, but that was entirely by coincidence. So was slipping out of the chair. As was barrelling down a few of the fleeing customers to the floor, having broken into a dead-sprint by the time there's the soft report of a gun.

The sound that comes from somewhere in his diaphragm and sounds like someone just pepper-sprayed a bear? That's probably intentional. Maxon's shoulder slams into the leader's gut as he roars, smearing both of their shirts with the red stains brought on by a surprise bullet wound. They match heights, but Maxon hasn't had years of habitual heroin use, which is all the more obvious when the thug's feet leave the ground for an instant before he's brought back down.

Onto a table that does not give way.

Sevin seems content to sit back and wait, and observe the scrawny ne'er do wells who slip in through the door and immediately seem intent on causing trouble. One of them is waving a gun around, and the other two look roughly about as bumbling and incapable of figuring out their assholes from their elbows. Which doesn't preclude them getting people killed, unfortunately.

The firearm that's slipped to him under the table is palmed, pen dropped into his pocket, flick of his eyes to Salem in silent acknowledgement. Have they done this a time or two before? He racks the slide on the weapon with his right hand and grips it with his left. The strawberry blonde with the shitty tribal tattoos is his mark, though he keeps tabs on the other two as the gun waving begins. Then someone fires - Anthony, of course - and Max is taking off at a dead run, and he mutters an expletive under his breath.

Thug3, meanwhile, barely has time to get his gun out and start making vague threats, when he's punched in the stomach by a shot from a trigger-happy Italian, and then smoked into a tabletop by Max. He goes down like a sack of potatoes, bleeding and stunned. But with enough wherewithall to attempt to put a round into Max's shoulder, after a brief scramble amidst shrieking patrons and a barista who's hiding under the counter calling 911.

The one-two punch of Anthony's 'not even getting up for this' marksmanship and Maxon's meat-masonry bum rush (and hulk smash) are noted out of the corner of her eye, though Salem's throwing her coffee cup in the vicinity of the bickering muggers, and throwing herself at top speed at the one with the knife. It's all more or less one smooth motion, and unlikely the other one with a gun is going to have his up and ready before she closes the relatively short distance to his tubby friend. She's on her way past the rotund ne-er-do-well, but checks him with her knife. The blade is wide and short, but long enough to leave a lasting impression. And he's definitely going to need some stitches for that exceptionally long gash across his chest. It probably scores down to the bone. Salem's kinda of mean. She's sure to keep her black-clad ass out of the line of fire. She seems to trust that at least one of the two men with firearms aren't going to accidentally go wide and shoot her. Now that she has her toy, she'll continue to play with him until he drops his knife willingly or not.

The erstwhile second thug, the one who had an issue with his buddy bringing a knife to this stickup, really isn't pleased. But he shrieks when his leader goes down like a crunchy party favor, and his other friend shills a scream fresh out of a slaughterhouse. His weapon does come up, somehow he doesn't squeeze off a round in utter panic, and he struggles for a moment to find a target. He's an idiot, so he aims at Salem, because she's closest and he saw the knife. Nevermind his buddy as body shield.

The shot that started the series of (un)fortunate events rang out and everyone went alight with the fire under their ass that they had apparently all thinly been veiling moments before. Anthony rose from his seat a moment after the train that was Maxon slammed into Thug3 and despite conducting himself in a manor of way that suggested the Italian had practiced with his firearm a time or two hundred, he walked with it at his side, only slightly raised and prepped to engage a potential target.

He circled out from the table and around the side of the coffee shop, skirting around few patrons who were ducking and hiding under tables to better align himself to the side of Thug3 and Maxon who were not entrenched in a hand-versus-gun battle atop a table. He approached closer, and raised his firearm for Thug3, "Watch ya'self" he said in a tone loud enough that Maxon could hear in the struggle, slipping the tip of his finger in a steady pull against the trigger of his firearm.

Sevin checks the door, just in case the goons have brought more friends, then does a quick sweep of the shop to gauge the relative positions of the civilians that have scattered to the four winds in light of what's happening. A few are hiding under tables, one girl is sobbing softly in the beanbag corner, and that barista is still cowering under the bar with emergency responders on the line and - presumably - enroute. No sirens yet, though.

Spotting the guy with a gun leveled at Salem, and the one with the muzzle of his lodged against Maxon, he makes a quick determination; no line of sight on what looks like the leader. So he pivots slightly in his chair, weapon cradled in both hands, and pops off a shot on the blonde. The intent is to injure, clearly, rather than kill.

Not really caring about the blood that now sits smeared across his neck and shoulder, Maxon lets out another deep bark that might pass for a 'HEY' as Thug3 bounces off of the table. It comes right as there's two flashes of movement in his peripheral, that being the bundle of black-clad stabbing known to him now as Salem, and the raising of a second pistol in a direction that isn't at him. So he doesn't see Sevin pick a target, nor does he see Thug3 raising their gun as he turns away.

The carnage is real and immediate, though the battle itself is over quickly, likely before dispatch is even finished making the call to units in the area. The remaining students and patrons either scatter immediately or are sheltering in place. No doubt the bathroom is two deep with huddlers.

The tubbiest of assailants (T1) has dropped his knife and is bleeding profusely from his chest awakener and, after Salem took a round in the arm and lost her grip on his knife hand, a leg wound. After taking a bullet, she stabs the nearest target right in the upper thigh (petty, table for one). His panic-flail catches her across the chest, and the resulting wound is bloody, not terribly serious. He falls to the floor in a heap of wailing which transitions to panic panting, as he watches his lifeblood pool slowly around him. Salem may or may not break his fucking wrist taking his knife away.

The tallest of the trio (T3), the leader who ate all the rounds and the most bone-rattling of table slams, is down for the count. Alive or dead, it's hard to say at this point, but he's bleeding from several places and the piss has gone out of him. Quite literally. Sorry, Java Junction.

The bickering one (T2) seems to have a problem with his arms. His gun is definitely on the floor and he's not really sure how it got there. He's not really sure what today is, really, but the pain is intruding on whatever was left of his brain under the need for a fix.

Screaming continues outside as the co-eds raise the alarm, and barista behind the counter pants terrified into the phone, still on the line with 911.

Sevin's shot is precise and clean, like someone who's maybe done this a few times before. His intent to cripple rather than kill seems to have been achieved; the scruffy strawberry blonde who was flailing at a target, and eventually settled on putting a round into Salem, goes down under the combined fire of the unassuming looking egyptian and Maxon. Then the loaned S&W is shoved into the waistband of his pants, another quick assessment of the situation made as he eases to his feet and begins a brisk prowl toward Salem - coat in hand. If Anthony is still in his way, Anthony is getting shoved. He may not weigh as much as the Italian, but he is in a Mood.

The blonde thug's gun is kicked away, and skids under a table, but it's the mexican girl he settles beside. The guy can bleed to death for all he seems to care. Or not; paramedics should be enroute shortly, and he might get lucky. "Hey. Hey, are you going to be all right? Hablame, Salem." He'll try to use his coat to apply pressure to whichever wound looks worse, but this isn't his forte.

Salem's mood has, oddly, not shifted all that much. She slides her knuckles away, wipes her knife off on the kid who's lost his will to verbalize, puts that away, and then tosses his knife up onto a nearby table but out of his immediate reach. Her face is very carefully composed, but anyone looking would notice her jaw is locked. "Does anyone have a cigarette?" These words are a little tight, not terribly so. She's been shot before, and she's probably been slashed before. Her attention shifts to the bony kid who actually shot her. She surmises, but isn't sure. Still, it's a good thing Sevin has his hands on her, because she's clearly having some thoughts of an uncharitable nature toward the young man. "I will be fine." She hasn't looked at her arm wound, and to be fair, that's probably true. She takes a deep breath, and moves to get to her feet, then sit somewhere a little less potential-corpse heavy. For when the cops finally show up and want to draw on someone.

Salem glances between Sevin, Maxon, and Anthony. And then she mutters something under her breath. She grabs Sevin's wrist, but doesn't shove him off. She's likely holding on to prevent herself doing something ill advised. Her knuckles blanch. Stabbing them when they're incapacitated is murder, Salem. Be cool.

The long and short of Maxon's actions in the final moments of the carnage would be swinging a rapid hook towards the blonde's head, having it come too late to stop them from shooting Salem in the arm, hitting their shoulder instead with what was at least a satisfying crunch that's followed by dropping them to the floor with a shove before immediately pivoting to check the state of the rest of the motley crew. So, y'know, you win some, you lose some. He's back over by his gym bag by the time Sevin is doing his utmost best to ruin a coat, scooping it out from under the chair and having the zip open and a green case in his hand before he's back.

"Hey." Not a bear noise no more. "Hey. Sevin." Suh-veen. Perfect. "Lemme get a look at that arm." And he shall brook no argument (seriously, there are stern eyebrows and everything.) With minimal movement to limit any further damage, Salem's arm is very, very rapidly washed out, gauzed, and lightly bandaged.

Not rapidly enough for the man, however, because as soon as he's finished, he checks his watch, does a little mental calculation, exhales, and the mutters a very soft "Ah, fuck."

The slow encircling motion of Anthony was like a predator stalking prey, and when Thug3 raised his gun for Maxon - Pop! Another round from Anthony ripped through the lower arm of Thug3 splayed out on the table and likely into the same guts that he'd been shot in earlier. Glock 26 in hand, draped at his side, the suited Italian man strode past the few stragglers hiding and running and cowering and approached the table, glancing over the increasingly bloodied situation, light green eyes darted toward Thug3 on the table.

Anthony turned his attention back toward the defenders of the Java Junction, placed the metallic barrel of his pistol a few inches from the face of Thug3 and pulled the trigger. POP! A round exploded through the visceral mass of his skull and exploded into a misty, chunky spray against the table and floor. He took a few steps forward and looked toward the doorway, the pistol in his hand bobbing slightly, it tapped against the outside of his thigh and despite the deep furrow of his brow, his still seemed remarkably calm. "Jus' a couple'a fuckin' tweakers tryina' get they fix" he commented, squinting his eyes, he took a few steps toward the counter, "Everyone gonna' be good?" he asked, dropping the magazine from his pistol and setting them both atop the bar, he withdrew a soft pack of cigarettes from his slacks pocket and jerked a blood-stained cufflinked wrist upward, dislodging a smoke or two, "Cigarette" he affirmed, and plucked it out for Salem.

Sevin jerks his head toward Max at the invocation of his name, and just looks at him for a moment when the younger man starts muscling him out of the way. He looks for a moment like he might protest, but when it appears the other guy has some idea of what he's doing, the professor reluctantly backs off a little to give him room to work. He'll let Salem keep hold of his wrist though, and lean in to murmur something softly to her. Right as Tony's gun goes off with a dull crack, spraying his arm and a good portion of the wall with blood and brain matter. "That wasn't fucking necessary," he opines quietly, trying to catch the Italian's gaze and hold it. Sirens from up the street, and a girl is screaming as she sees someone's head explode from not twenty feet away.

Moments later, sirens in the distance. The cops and the ambulances, no doubt, though Fire generally responds only once the scene is clear. It'll still be a few moments before they're on scene, well after the carnage is over. It's not like anyone present is gonna Hannibal Lector the bodies. (Right?)

Salem watches Anthony end the threat permanently, amid a quaint little spray of blood, bone, and brain matter. Her eyes heavy-lid for a moment, and she watches the Italian wander over with his smokes. When Tony taps one out, she asks, "Mine if I impose upon you to light that for me, socio?" She still has a grip on Sevin's wrist with her other hand. Looks like a tight one. Blood drops down her injured arm, soaking into her black long sleeve until it's neatly dealt with.

"It was a little bit necessary," grits the Mexican, of Anthony's punctuation on you fucked with the wrong coffee shop sentence. She eyeballs Max as he comes in to touch her. The only thing that keeps her in place is knowing exactly who he is. She watches him with those dark, steady eyes. Staring. The whole time he washes and takes care of her arm.

For the second time this evening, Salem's stare gets no reaction from the man as he finishes up, leaving a few bits of bloody gauze and fabric to rest where they fall on the floor. There's not even a hint of eye contact, come to think of it. Shitty bedside manner, that guy.

Out of the approaching sirens, the sudden crack of gunfire, Salem's staring and Sevin's opinion from off to his right, Maxon seems to only really register the first. There are some more soft and measured breaths as the man slowly lowers the bag, first-aid kit seated back inside, to the ground. It's given a soft kick away, and then he finds himself a relatively clear spot of floor to take a seat. He's got blood on his neck and down his shirt, and of course thanks to the little bit of wound treatment, he is literally red-handed. Those are things that always, always go so well for folks like him. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Could have just left, there'd be no problem, but nope-" before he trails off.

Cool eyes glanced at Sevin, and he allowed the man to hold his gaze, unwaveringly. "Sure it was…" he added, placing a cigarette between his own lips, he withdrew a silver metallic lighter and flicked it to life to ignite both Salem and his own's cigarette. Anthony glanced toward Thug3 with an upnod, "You'se didn' see him tryin' put on in Max's back just then? Pity' t'ing that, didn' learn his lesson. It's a'right, I took care of it. Don' worry." he smiled, glanced toward Max and cleared his throat a bit, depositing the cigarette pack back into the silk-lining of his pants pocket. He turned around, re-loaded the magazine of his firearm, and tucked it into the small of his back, not where it traditionally belonged, though covered it neatly with the silk backing of his vest. "Max, Amico, don' worry about it. Everythin' gonna me a'right. We're pretty much hero's here. You got my word…" he raised his right hand, tapping against his chest, the thickness of his New-York Italian slur, "You seem like a stand up guy, I'll go ta' bat for ya's, no worries" he smiled and took a few steps over, careful not to step in the pooling bit of crimson along the floor.

Leaning over and picking up his cup of coffee, his eyes danced over the scene, taking a sip, he smacked his lips softly and walked back to the counter where he draped one hand, cigarette smouldering between his hands fingertips, "Well…" he glanced at the two men who were both living, or perhaps not, "Who wants a refill?" he asked, arching both brows and making his way behind the counter.

Crouched beside Salem's chair, his hand on her knee while she grips his wrist, Sevin drags his gaze from Tony, to the door as he spots a couple of cops approaching to secure the scene. Could be that there's a little twitch of his jaw at the sight of the uniformed officers, but maybe all the blood and shooting's just made the poor professor tetchy. He doesn't argue any further with Anthony's rationale, but does push slowly to his feet as the police shoulder their way in amidst a crackle of radio chatter.

Both hands come up, palms forward, so they can see he's unarmed. Because the inconvenient reality is, a middle eastern man in the aftermath of a coffee shop shootout is going to be the first one plugged by the cops. "One down, three need medical attention. The rest of us are fine." The sitrep is given tersely, and his accent certainly gives them pause, but perhaps he looks respectable enough not to garner any additional suspicion. For now.

Salem seems to have settled in with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, her hands very clearly empty of weaponry. Her hair falls across her eye, jaw tense. She glances up as the cops finally show, and she makes no sudden movement, keeping her hands well in sight. She smokes quietly, and the officers spread out to first secure the scene before engaging in questioning.

Outside, another pair are herding the students, trying to figure out which of the hysterical kids are witnesses and which are just contact-unsettled. A perimeter goes up quickly, as every top in the area makes their way to the campus, including campus security.

On scene interviews will not doubt begin shortly, with everyone separated, though the medics are allowed in as other uniforms take vitals on the dead/unconscious. Somebody tourniquets the leg of the more well nourished of the gang. Eventually a firefighter with PARAMEDIC across his tee makes his way to Salem and assessment begins.

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