A sigh fell from your co-workers lips, eyes trained on one of the tables in the corner of the Outback. You’d been swamped today, table after table of elders with thirty complaints and crying children, you’d bumped into someone and dropped everything on a tray. It had not been a good day.

“Hey, you know how you owe me for covering that shift for you?”

Of course, great. Part of you simply wanted to scream at your co-worker, tell them to fuck off you know you can’t. It’s not their fault it’s been an awful day or that you’re on edge; so you simply nod and ask what they need.

“Can you cover that table for me?”

You follow their pointing, gaze falling on a group of older men. There’s a lot of them, beers already around the table and the majority of them can’t sit still in the booth, only one of them seems relatively mature, an older man and the only one not wearing a matching outfit. You recognize them, the local private military group known as the Shadows - and every Saturday they came in. Just your luck.