The First Age

Ryker bowed his head. "I appreciate the offer, madam."
The accompanying smile leered momentarily before the flicker of emotion faded from sight. "I appreciate the gesture, though. In thanks, allow me."
He pulled a wallet from his pocket. It was an older model bought straight off the shelf. Nothing special. He slipped his own name and contact to the woman across from him and waited patiently for a similar exchange from her. Meanwhile, he glanced across the room.

If Amengual stood out in the bar, the Japanese were just as obvious. While Moscow was hardly a city without foreigners, Ryker included if he was being technical, they were the only Asians in sight. Yet for the most part, they drew little attention other than from the boys at the pool table. They all knew one another. That was obvious, though Ryker was unsure of the connection.

He went to his feet. "Thank you for the conversation, madam. I look forward to future arrangements. If you would excuse me, I have business to attend."
He waited a moment longer for any farewells and made his way to the pool table.

He very clearly interrupted the flow of conversation. One of the Russians looked up from mid-shot, and pulled his cue close to his body defensively. Ryker blinked flatly, curious what the boy thought he would do with his distaste at being interrupted. The second russia didn't notice his presence yet. Not until one of the Japanese men turned to regard him. Ryker bowed his head.

The Yakuza adhered to a code of ethics that Ryker found archaic and obsolete. Yet, as he had with Yun, he understood that people were more amenable to his bidding when they felt respected. It made getting what he wanted all the easier for everyone involved. His pride did not pay the price forever. In the end, they always complied. Even Ascendancy deferred to his wishes in the end.

The Yakuza, however, were particularly sensitive. For a gang of criminals, they were surprisingly strict with their code. They wrote their own justice. Their pride was wounded by the slightest offense. Treachery was met with swift retribution. For these reasons, Ryker forced the words from his lips and addressed the Waka gashira formally.

He did not offer a hand to shake, aware the Waka gashira likely preferred distance to be kept. Ryker had no objections to this habit. He would not bow, however customary. He did lower his head a mark, however.

Edited by Ryker, Feb 20 2018, 08:57 PM.

Yun exchanged her contact information with Ryker. This might prove to be an interesting encounter. But as quickly as he'd come to her table he left.

Yun sat back at watched the exchange. It was probably best if she left before things got out of hand. It didn't look like it was going to go down well. But Yun sat and watched none-the less. At least for now.

[[ sorry not much for me to post here, want to see where it all goes ]]

The man they had intended to meet left his companion and came toward them. A ghost of a smile touched Eiji Sato's mouth. The man at least showed a measure of respect.

The bald man's eyes had lowered in anger at the man's approach. The one called Stanislav had perhaps thought to have them to himself. Clearly, he was a fool. He seemed oblivious to the lack of respect Eiji had shown the man. There had been no introductions, no formal drinks to open the meeting.

The Kolomov dogs had set the tone. Now they were seeing the result. Had this been the actual meeting, the scar faced man would have been stopped. Any attempt to press forward would have been met with death by Koji and his other men.

As it stood, though, they were willing to speak to this man. Eiji had nearly made up his mind even before agreeing to this meeting. It had been mere idle curiosity he'd made his decision..

Eiji nodded slightly to Koji, who then spoke. "Eiji Sato is pleased to meet you, Mr. Petrović." This was not a formal meeting, not an alliance, at least. Not here. He glanced at the man Stanislav. He could not help the slight smile at the potential for violence here. Petrović looked a hard man and the Kolomovs were drunk and angry.

All of which tended to put people off balance.

The Russian propped the cue against the wall and rounded on him. Ryker was the taller, but the differences in their physicality did not phase the drunkard. "I suggest you step back."
Ryker said coolly. He had little intention of making an additional scene. If anyone was going to be punched, it would have been that kid at the bar.

Though now that he thought about it, interacting the Yakuza was going to try his patience all the more. Being spoken at by the younger of the two Japanese on behalf of the elder was demeaning.

This wasn't the first time he had to swallow his pride. First hour of recruit training taught him the only way to survive was to swallow the pride and deal with imbeciles. Soon enough, the skin thickened; the hide took the lashes. Metaphorically, anyway. Let someone try to raise a hand to him and no amount of patience would protect from him.

His gaze slid past the younger of the two Russians and promptly dropped below those of the Waka gashira, albeit only momentarily.

"Sato san, the honor is mine."
The words were forced, but the tribute was paid. It was then that movement caught the edges of his vision. The elder of the two Russians sniffed. "`Suka,"
he mumbled with a twist of disgust on his lips.

Ryker slowly swivelled, patience wearing thin. He took a deep breath. "Join me at a table?"
He turned to guide the pair away, aware of dark eyes jabbing into the back of his head as he did.

Eiji did not expect people to understand jingi or even honor. One did not expect children to behave as adults. It was enough that they tried. This man tried, however it obviously pained him. And for that, he would be accorded the proper respect.

His eye flicked to the Kolomovs. Up until now, Koji had been speaking for him. It was a simple technique. His words, given beforehand, sometimes brought anger. With Koji speaking, people often forgot who they came from. Eiji was free to observe and find the necessary weaknesses.

His own oyobun Hoshi had plans for the ninkyō dantai in the DI. His clan in Moscow would be the most powerful in the region. Much of Kolomov's territories had been claimed by the other families in the area. But with this new connection brokered by Ryker Petrović. they would begin widen their holdings.

He looked at the large bald Kolomov and allowed a small smile.
His contempt bled through in his voice. For the first time, his own voice spoke. "I am afraid, gentlemen, the ninkyō dantai is not interested in propping up a dying house run by fools."


He turned, dismissing them in his mind, but not before he failed to notice the flaring of their eyes and nostrils. He couldn't help but smile to himself at that. Lessons were often painful- and usually deadly. Koji and Akira would handle any problems they cause.

He nodded to Petrović to lead the way and seated himself at the table, his two men sitting on either side of him. He nodded to Koji, who immediately got the server's attention and ordered vodka in small cups.

When they arrived, he lifted it and regarded the man, nodded slightly, and took a sip. It was ceremony, nothing more "Mr. Petrović, we thank you for acting as intermediary between us and the Amengual cartel."
Likely, the man did not know of the privilege that he had undertaken to speak himself. "We have been most impressed with the product. It is far better than we have seen anywhere else."


Not strictly true. He had occasion to try the blue pill that the Perov family sold. It had cost him $10,000 CCD bills for a single pill and had been worth every bit of it. There were only a few in existence, though rumor said the Mordvinovs had a source that would soon start producing again. If that happened...well, the Mordvinovs might find themselves envying the Kolomov's fate.

Until then, though, this would do.

Their conversation continued for the better part of an hour. For most of it, Ryker maintained the composure he knew to be required. When the business with the Yakuda was concluded, he paid the bill in full and passed Yun a nod before departing. His purposes for the bar were done, and all in all was in a half-decent mood when he left to find his vehicle. It was parked some blocks away, but the cool evening air was a welcome sensation on the ridges dug deep into his face.

Mik's eyes swept the bar as if looking for someone. Kat was doing her thing, visiting tables, supposedly just another waitress, though in a bar where the men- at least the regulars- knew better than to let their hands wander. Innocent and all, but soon enough she was taking the left-over glasses and remnants of whatever bar food had been eaten there from the table next to Scarface and the Spider.

Most people ignored servers. Really, they ignored anyone that they didn’t consider important. A useful cover, that. It was the one Mik used the most.

In the meantime, he watched whatever else was going on. Stone face here was just sipping at his drink all super dangerous like. It was the small sips. The calculation. Mik wanted to laugh at it all. The Dangerous Sipper. Oriena was still outside. She’d come back. Or not. Either way, no biggie. When one thing fell through, there was usually another.

Like over at the pool table. God, Stanislav was so fucking stupid. I mean, yeah, he had depended on it, tonight, for the fun he had in mind. Had expected it. But even so, watching it was something else. It was like, seriously? With everything on the line, and a Yakuza boss there in person – the older ones, mind, who rose through the ranks by being willing to be incredibly brutal- including cutting off their own fucking fingers if dishonored. Not to mention his younger guard dogs just looking like they were itching to cut his head off with great relish, eyes shooting daggers.

He could not have planned this any better.

And then he almost laughed out loud. The Yakuza just dismissed them as if they were nothing. Walked away just like that, as if they were homeless beggars who smelled like shit and piss and sweat and dirt. He did laugh softly, but said nothing to Dangerous Sipper there. They made their way to Scarface’s now empty table. Yun had left. Just a meeting then. He wondered what was going on. He’d have to see about talking to one of the lower level Syndicate functionaries. A little probing might give him something useful.

Kat came back to drop off a bowl of snacks- nuts or something- and quietly told him about the Spider and the Scar. Which was not much. Both were had been pretty guarded. Still, he did mentally file away the little sliver that Kat thought that Scarface was into Yun. She was hot, after all. Somehow, the scars even made it more so. He wouldn’t mind a run at her- if it didn’t blow up his carefully constructed place or put him in the Syndicate’s crosshairs.

Stanislav and his moron friend left- stormed off really, the door slamming so hard against the frame a lot of people looked up. Trouble. This was it for Kolomov.

And yet for some reason, in the pit of his stomach, he felt a stirring of anticipation. He felt a humming inside him, the buzz of adrenaline. Something was up. He could almost sense a storm building. It was like those times he’d be outside and even though he could feel the sun on him, the clouds high above churned, dark patches seeming to swirl. He could smell moisture and could feel electricity in the air, that sharp tang in the back of his nose.

He fingered his lighter and couldn’t help a smile as he took a long pull of his vodka.

[[Post to follow]]


Edited by Mikhail, Apr 13 2018, 06:52 PM.

Stanislav's head carried that comforting warmth that made the world so much more vivid. Normally about now he'd finish up his game, maybe get into a fight and then head out to favorite house. Natalia would be there, curly reddish brown hair that seemed cascade around her head like a crown, framing gorgeous blue eyes and the cutist half smile. And she'd smile especially when he flashed his bills. He was always her special guy, the real one. Not like the others, those losers who only thought she liked them. Nope. He would be the man.

But not tonight. Not ever. Not if the Kolomovs went down. Impossibly, over the last few months it seemed as if all his ability and skill were finally noticed. So many assholes jumped ship.and only then does Anatoly Kolomov see who is true and loyal and real. Just like Natalia does. At last it goes his way.

But the fucking Yakuza. Oooo....so scary. Yakuza!!! Booo!! Bullshit. It's just a fucking name. They aren't one solid group. They are like everyone else. They fight among themselves, angle for power and position. Like all of them. One group is not the other.

So yeah, this old wrinkly dick disrespects him? Blows him off? Like he is nothing? Like a bitch? Like he's gonna stand there and just take it? Fucking assholes. Stab all them in the eye is what he should do. Well, it was just the two of them. For now.

But there was a reason Anatoly put him in charge of this. Trust. He saw so clearly. Get this old fuck's help. If so, good. If not....thin the heard. Strike fear of Kolomov into the hearts of everyone. He was willing to bet Anatoly already had calls out to the other Yakuza groups. Maybe even Triads. Hell, this might have been SUPPOSED to fall out like this. A demo of what Kolomovs were really about.

It was time to take an old bitch out. Him and his pets. And that fucker with the scars. Strike some fear into people's hearts. The call went out, available Kolomovs. After a moment, he smiled widely, expanding the call to a few gopnik gangs in their territory. A good show.

He waited outside and soon was grinning. The burn of the alcohol was awesome against the cold. He could smell everything about this shithole street so clearly and it was like home. His territory. He wasn't going anywhere.

Two then five then eight Kolomovs showed. He wasn't disappointed. And then....shit shit shit. He was grinning ear to ear. God bless these fucking gopniks. Greatest tools ever. He got up to fifteen and stopped counting.

Fuck yeah!!! Kolomovs weren't going anywhere. No fucking way. The Yakuza had just come out and they could do the math. And so had the scar prick.

Yeah. It's called respect bitch. Shoulda learned it when you were kids.

The dim glow of Ryker's wallet lit his way through the dark streets. His car was only a few blocks away and he was rather focused on the message to be sent to the Amenguals.

The Yakuza are willing to proceed. You supply and they will distribute. I will require the information we agreed to before the final deal is brokered.

Senses pricked, he paused, slowly lowered the wallet, and peered into the darkness. The noise of a gathering assembled nearby. As it was unlikely to concern him, Ryker continued. Let gangs fight gangs. He had zero interest in being drawn into petty drama.

He rounded into the parking lot safe-guarding his car. Such places were few and far between within the city. Garages were more common, but often locked down to renters only. The remaining options were street-parking. Otherwise, the rare gem of a lot was a last resort. It had been luck that Ryker found one at all. Unfortunately, i had been full when he first arrived. It only took a few words to get the one that arrived moments before to vacate a space.

Now, however, the lot otherwise wedged between the walls of two adjacent buildings was brimming with bodies. They spilled from the entrance out into the street. What little light there was shone upon the shoulders of almost two-dozen men.

Blunt weapons. Guns. Knives. Some legal, some illegal. He hummed to himself and strode to stand before the group. One hand slipped into his pocket, closing around the handle of the pocketknife. The sting of cutting his arm from earlier long ago faded.

On the opposite sidewalk, he stared straight into the heart of the group. His voice rose above the gang's chatter, they'd already noticed him. "Get out of my way,"
he called, voice guttural and deep.

The Yakuza rounded into view on his periphery, coming to a stop some fifteen paces at his left.

When the head of this little gang pushed forward, Ryker finally recognized him. The player at the bar. The one that offended the ninkyō dantai.

Now he understood. The Yakuza would not run from the fight. They would stand, and likely cut their bloody way through the russians without breaking a sweat. Ryker was tempted to leave completely and avoid getting blood on his clothes. He liked this leather jacket and the dry cleaning was absurdly expensive.

But he needed those fool japanese. Wasting the work invested into brokering this deal between them and the Amenguals would royally piss him off. Therefore, it seemed that the impending confrontation was his fight after all.

A low growl of acceptance rumbled in his throat. Fine.

He gripped the pocket knife, retrieving it from his pocket. Before he could flick it open and inflict his own pain, the shot of a gun erupted. Ryker jerked aside as dust sprayed the back of his head. The bullet sunk into the cinder-block. The pocket knife fell from his grasp. But there was no time to retrieve it. The russians sprang forward and Ryker rushed to greet the nearest.

Four were on him in seconds. He ducked a blow. Grabbed an arm and twisted the body attached around with a loud pop and scream of pain. Knee to the guy's jaw sent him down with a broken face. Some blunt weapon rushed by his head. Quick hands snatched it in mid-strike, followed the momentum forward and twisted it from the grip of its owner. Confiscated, Ryker turned the bat against its owner. Ramming it into a temple. A fist rammed into his ribs, and heat flared. He snarled and spun. The russian with the fist was a big guy. Almost six inches taller than himself and built like a tank. Two of the four were down, even if one of them was stirring. The remaining two rushed him. The tank swung those trunks of arms, but Ryker deflected. The other rounded from behind and moments blurred as he fought off the two.

The war cries of grunts and blows carried them across the street. He had to get them side-by-side. At the first window, he ducked and spun, running away to open up space and draw them into position. There. His car. The lure worked. The car sensed his presence. The smaller of the two guys chased him down first. Ryker yanked on the driver door, throwing the metal frame into the guy's knees. The surprise of it stumbled him backward. It was enough time for him to slide over the trunk, round on the bigger one, and slam the bat. The big one was a tough son of a bitch, though. It took four hard blows to send him stumbling. The first recovered just as Ryker knocked the big one to the ground and sent the bat to his skull. Boot to the face knocked his jaw off the hinge. Then boot to the chest caved in his lungs. Ryker fell on him with all his weight and bashed the man's skull a new hole. Blood tinged his own lips. But not his own. Disgusting. He snarled. So much for one tough son of a bitch.

In the blood lust, the smaller one snuck up with his own weapon in hand again. The slice of a knife slashed his coat irreparable. Goddammit. Ryker plummeted to his back only to kick his attacker's knees. The bastard lunged forward before Ryker could regain his feet. The asphalt dug into the back of his head. The leering Russian loomed close. Their grips locked. Muscle and sinew bulging on both sides of the contest. Ryker yelled and slammed his forehead upward. The knock threw the russian off balance, and Ryker had his chance. He followed him up, this time kicking the russian to his back. He followed and bashed in his second skull of the night. More blood on his coat. Dammit.

The two of the four originals were back in the street. Two additional beatings put the tally at four smashed skulls, brain spilling from their bony cages. His fists were fire, but the pain was distant, not the white-hot sharpness that he needed to end the fight right then and there. His pocket knife was lost on the street.

Besides, there were sixteen russians on the Yakuza three yet to die, even as the bodies began to fall victim to japanese steel.

He rushed forward.

Edited by Ryker, Apr 14 2018, 10:47 AM.

Mik tilted his head back slightly, eyes shut, allowing the room to wash over him, sensing the currents and eddys of the storm. After a moment, he seized the power, felt it rush into him.

It was as if he could see the entire room using just his senses, the old scents of the wooden stools and bar top and smoke and food and alcohol weaving through the sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of glasses on tables, the constant sound of washing and cleaning from the bar keep.

And in the distance the sound of a gunshot. Clear. Golden. His call.

His eyes flicked open, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He could almost see the goddess behind the face of reality, dark raven hair, sharp green eyes, holding back the curtain, inviting him to join in the fun. For some reason he had never seen a face before in his imaginations.

Without a word to Dangerous Sipper he slipped out of his chair, slipped by Kat to peck her cheek and headed out. He could hear the melee from here, the power making it sound like the roar of battle.

He pulled as much power as he could hold, felt it buck and kick and fight him, as he turned the corner. There he saw a shitload of Kolos and gopniks. Scattered among them were the three Yakuza, the two guard dogs trying to keep the old guy safe against a large SUV. Not that his knife didn't flash from time to time too.

He was surprised not to see more guns. But close quarters was bad for guns. You could hit the wrong person. And despite the original shot, no one wanted the police around.

Another knot of gopniks, silver red and blue Addidas tracksuits marking them out as much as their black boots and shaved heads, encircled someone else. Scarface.

Bodies littered the ground but numbers were numbers. They were going to lose.

And that made the choice for him. He didn't care about the Yakuza and he sure as hell didn't give two fucks for Scarface. But in the fight of many to few, he always chose few. It was more fun that way.

The power writhing in his grasp, Mik began hurling small fireballs that exploded into the backs of the group around the Yakuza, casting sprays of sparks and smoke into the night sky. He couldn't help but laugh maniacally as he kept them coming.

Despite everything, they weren't morons. Five or ten detached from the group and came at him, guns pulled. Another weave of fire like a whip swung out, tearing at hands and arms and legs and nicks, leaving deep burning slashes and smoking clothes.

He spared a glance for Scarface, holding his own for now. After a moment, he sent a few balls in that direction. He wouldn't save the guy, exactly, but he'd even the odds at least. Games were more fun when the teams were close.

Screams and the flashing lights of flames and smoke filled the air, the scent of meat and burned polyester filling his nostrils.

Mostly, now he felt like a spectator. Or perhaps a referree. He just kept things from getting out of hand.

Games that lasted the longest were also more fun.