Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

"Are you here because of them?" The old man gestured to the gangsters. "Are you some kind of law enforcer?"

John shrugged. "Not really. But let's just say I'm interested in having a chat with Andry. Can you point me in the right direction?"

The old man hesitated, glancing at the coins in his hand. Finally, he sighed. "He's usually at the Green Lizard Bar on the edge of the settlement. But I doubt the Tiger Claws will let you see him."

"Don't worry about that. I have a way with words." John winked and turned to leave, waving over his shoulder.

 "Have a nice day." The old man watched him go, his gaze drifting to the phone beneath his stall. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned back in his chair and muttered to himself, "Let them handle it."

The Green Lizard Bar stood at the edge of the settlement, its rickety fence gate squeaking loudly as John pushed it open. The place had seen better days; the door was battered, and the wood floors inside were scuffed and worn. Daylight poured through the grimy windows, highlighting a sparse crowd. A bartender polished glasses behind the counter, and a few farmers sat nursing drinks in silence.

John sauntered up to the bar, ignoring the suspicious stares from the bartender. He was used to it. Even in the same Imperium, the divide between different worlds ran deep.

"What'll you have?" the bartender asked gruffly.

John pulled out a few imperial coins and slid them across the counter. "Whatever's local. And I'm looking for someone. Andry."

The bartender's hand paused mid-polish. His expression hardened, but he turned to fetch a bottle from the shelf. "What business do you have with Andry?"

"Business," John replied smoothly. "If he's interested, I can make it worth his while."

The bartender poured a glass of liquor and slid it across the counter. Before John could take a sip, he heard the unmistakable click of guns being cocked behind him. He turned his head slowly to see several locals, each with a weapon aimed squarely at him.

"You know," a voice drawled from behind the wine rack. A man stepped out, wiping a glass ball with a cloth as he sauntered over to a nearby table. "I can't decide if you're brave or just stupid, drinking while staring down the barrel of a gun."

John chuckled, grabbed his glass, and walked over to the man. He set the liquor down in front of him and sat across the table, completely unfazed by the weapons still trained on him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Andry."

Andry leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying John with amusement. "I heard you roughed up my boys. Beat them to a pulp, from what they said."

"Ah, almost forgot about that." John reached into his coat and placed the pouch of coins on the table. "Here's the protection money they collected. Thought it should go back to its rightful owner."

Andry arched an eyebrow slightly, his gaze shifting between the money bag and John's easy grin. After a brief moment, he sneered and waved his hand, signaling his men to lower their guns. Reluctantly, the armed thugs complied, easing their weapons down.

Andry picked up his glass and took a sip of wine. "I'm a man of my word."

"John. John Constantine."

"Well, Mr. Constantine, I'll make sure the farmers get their money back. I only take what I'm owed and do what needs to be done."

John chuckled softly, raising his glass in return. "Fortunately, I share that philosophy, Mr. Andry. I only do what needs doing and ask the questions that need asking."

Andry smirked, swirling the liquor in his glass. "So, you're here to ask questions. Lucky for you, I'm a helpful man. Ask around, they'll tell you Andry loves to lend a hand—if it's mutually beneficial."

"Of course, I couldn't agree more. Let me start by saying your wine isn't half bad—much better than the swill in the hive worlds."

"Ah, so you're from the main planet?" Andry asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"No, not exactly," John replied, leaning back with a faint smile. "I'm from somewhere else entirely, but that's beside the point. What I want to know is whether you've seen a shuttle arrive recently—a military shuttle, to be specific—and where its crew might be."

Andry shrugged, his voice laced with nonchalance. "This is an agricultural world, Mr. Constantine. Shuttles come and go all the time, including yours." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "But yes, military shuttles do tend to stand out—especially if their crew hails from the space station."

John's grin took on a mysterious edge, his demeanor as unreadable as a shadowed alley. Andry studied him carefully, his mind racing with possibilities. Was John an agent of the Ministry of Justice? An emissary from the Governor's office? Or something else entirely? The thought made him pour himself another glass. With a nod of politeness, he poured one for his guest as well. "So," John said, lifting his glass, "can you help me out, Mr. Andry?"

"Perhaps," Andry replied, his tone guarded. "But you see, we don't trust outsiders easily around here. I need to know you're someone I can rely on first."

Andry gestured to the room, where wary eyes tracked John's every move. The bartender openly polished a shotgun, glancing at John with thinly veiled suspicion. A few others gripped their weapons, hands tense and ready.

John shrugged, entirely unfazed. "Fair enough. How do I earn your trust? Hopefully, it's not too complicated."

"We're not zealots from the state religion or savages from some backwater. No, it's quite simple," Andry said, leaning forward. "This planet isn't as peaceful as it seems. There's a group of real locals—natives—out in the wasteland."

"Local race? Curious. You'd think the Imperial authorities would've wiped them out by now, given the Imperium's stance on xenos," John remarked, swirling his drink.

Andry chuckled darkly. "True, but the gentlemen up on the main star are too busy sipping amasec in their gilded towers to worry about backwater problems. And our local law enforcement? Let's just say their reach doesn't extend to the wastelands."

"Sounds about right. Bureaucracy at its finest," John said with a sardonic grin. "So, what's the issue with these locals?"

"They've been raiding our transport trucks. One of their latest hauls included scarlet pigment—valuable stuff, bound for the main star." Andry leaned in, his voice lowering. "I'll be honest; it's highly effective as a hallucinogen. Popular in the hive world slums and even parts of the middle hive."

John smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Of course, I wouldn't know anything about that, Mr. Andry."

Andry ignored the jab, though he couldn't shake the nagging suspicion in his mind. Finally, he straightened up, tapping his laser pistol rhythmically. "Here's the deal: recover my stolen goods and deal with those aliens. Do that, and you'll have earned my trust. Then, I'll tell you what you want to know."

John stood, raising his glass. "Deal, Mr. Andry."

Andry clinked glasses with him, his lips curling into a sly smile. "Deal."

They drained their drinks in unison. John set his glass down, brushing dust from his coat. "See you soon, Mr. Andry."