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+-- Forum: Moscow (https://thefirstage.org/forums/forum-1.html)
+--- Forum: Moscow Nightlife (https://thefirstage.org/forums/forum-15.html)
+--- Thread: Blood Sport (/thread-590.html)
- Oriena - 02-03-2015
He was curious, and utterly unphased by the den of iniquity to which she had brought him. Not that she had expected less, considering the blood on his hands the day she'd met him. It was half the reason he'd garnered her attention, that calm step into madness. The other half being, of course, what he was.
"A fortune lost or won,"
she answered. "It's an opportunity."
"The people who frequent this club are very rich, and very powerful. Whether in the golden sphere of Nikolai Brandon, or the recesses of the Underground, they are among the men and women who own Moscow."
Ori didn't hint at where she existed in this world, though clearly she had been able to secure them both entry; and she was not a creature of benevolence, to have cleared his entrance to this elite kingdom with no ulterior motive. He knew that, but showed no impatience with her toying. Truthfully, it was less like manipulation and more like coaxing.
A room full of powerful people, and in their midst: a god.
"Recording devices are prohibited. Whatever happens here tonight, it stays off the wider grid."
A rarity in the modern world. The devious glitter in her eyes did not abate, nor the sharpness of her smile. In one swift gesture, she stole his beer, pressed it to her lips. Her legs swept up off the floor, to perch cross-ankled on the edge of their table. The talon-like spikes of her heels glinted dangerously, not so very far away from where he sat.
"They say the main event tonight will be... interesting."
She gestured to the great steel cage with a smoky flick of her eyes. The rumours were a tightly fisted secret, spilled just enough to fever the club's regulars into a bloody frenzy. "But anyway, we have some time to kill. So indulge me, how do you imagine the night is going to end?"
- Giovanni - 02-04-2015
Giovanni smiled as Oriena took his beer, and his eyes moved to her legs as she propped them on the table. Giovanni was aware of the heels close to him, and he wondered if the motion was seductive or a threat - or maybe a bit of both. It was the thrill of danger that Oriena brought to the table that attracted the dark god that awakened that night with Armande underneath the surface of the earth.
Giovanni didn't throw away the potential of the motion being threatening, but chose to focus on the seduction angle more simply because that's what he wanted to focus on. Giovanni's eyes followed that long leg up, not caring that she saw it, until his eyes met Oriena's.
Giovanni stole his beer back and took a swig before answering her question. "We drink. Perhaps win a fortune betting on who is going to beat the shit out of another."
He couldn't keep the smirk off his face when thinking about the brutality of it. "Then we conclude the business that we began on our first meeting."
If it wasn't obvious what he meant, the next quick glance at that leg relayed his meaning perfectly.
Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Feb 4 2015, 02:32 PM.
- Oriena - 02-11-2015
She relinquished the beer with surprisingly docility. The lingering nature of his stare was accepted as worship entirely her due; he'd have been playing with fire to offer anything less. Of course, if all she'd wanted was a quick fuck, she wouldn't have bothered with the pretence of the club; she would have simply taken what she wanted without the preamble. Her intentions were more convoluted, and lust narrowed Giovanni's gaze too far. Ori meant to pull those strings, but there was more she wanted from him.
"The favour you owe me? For being complicit in your little secret?"
She was not naive, and neither was she being coy. The edge to her voice was faintly sharp, though the intensity of her interest did not abate. Languid. Considering. She knew exactly what he meant, and the tartness of her answer was not a rebuff so much as a reminder of where the power lie. Assume nothing, with Ori. "That favour will be claimed another day."
She brushed away the hint of threat with another darkly glittering smile.
"Tonight, we're going to have fun"
The odds blinked on dozens of holo-screens, as did fighter stats, wins and losses. Blood and sweat set an odious tang to the fragrant scent of the wealthy. Glasses clinked. Cheers, growls and threats punctuated the noise of the crowd. Laughter. Violence. A cacophony of emotion. A tool to be bent to will.
A graceful swing and Ori reclaimed her legs from the table, stood. "I'll get my own drink."
The quirk of her smile suggested she wasn't offended -- and she wasn't -- but the words lashed a sting nonetheless for his negligence. By now he must realise she enjoyed playing with him.
She'd told him he sat amongst the rich and powerful of Moscow, a cuckoo in a brilliantly lined nest. It was up to him if he choose to make use of the generous information, but for now he was on his own. She left him there an inordinate amount of time, seeing to her own interests before the main show. She wanted to know who exactly graced their presence at the Almaz this evening, information not easily won given the place's reputation for discretion and secrecy. But then Oriena was an expert at loosening lips.
As the fights in the pits began to wrap up, the lights overhead shifted focus. Screens projecting a clear view of the cage sprang up at various junctures, as the evening's main event was announced to the thirsty masses.
The statistics of two fighters scrolled the screens. The first: gold eyes, almost yellow. A carnal expression, thick matted hair and beard, teeth white underneath the thatch of dark. Both fighters were muscular, ropey, and still smudged with the darkness of the Underground -- like they'd quite literally been dragged up from the bowels of the earth. But the second man, if man was a word that could even describe him, was cadaverous despite the sinew. Like a starved and powerful dog. And the black void of his gaze was hungry. Blood stained his lip, which he sucked on in something near desperation. An image echoed a thousand times on the numerous screens.
Inhuman, she'd heard.
Flesh struck flesh almost the moment the two were raised from the mechanics below. For a moment silence greeted the voracious start to the fight. Then the cheers began.
Ori made her way back through the enraptured crowd. The gift flooded in like ice on a sweltering day, and she knew Giovanni would sense it one way or another, if she didn't know if he'd have any idea what she did with the sinuous threads. One hand made a caress down the side of his neck, smoothed a path down his collarbone to rest flat, just within the opening of his shirt. The other slid a fresh bottle of beer into his lap. She lounged in a position hypocritically proprietorial, considering her own internal reaction to Giovanni's arm about her shoulders.
"Serve or burn,"
she reminded him. A tickle of breath in his ear. He'd hear the wicked grin in her voice, even if he couldn't see it on her lips. He said he was a god. She'd coax him to prove it, and not just to her this time.
[[Wolfkin vs rougarou. Fight! (Mortal Kombat theme tune optional XD) Ori is fixing to set those guys loose on the crowd - it will happen the moment one or both of them slam into the bars of the door. Feel free to control them or any other NPCs, but please don't kill off the wolfkin.]]
Edited by Oriena, Feb 11 2015, 04:53 PM.
- Giovanni - 02-16-2015
Once again, Giovanni had the pleasure of walking Oriena walk away. He enjoyed the sight and sipped at his beer. He sat enjoying his beer and the night. Giovanni had realized that Ori enjoyed toying with him and despite his threat from before - he enjoyed her toying with him. No matter - they were both having a good time.
As the main event began to start, Giovanni looked at the screens. Two combatants stood in a cage. The first with golden eyes. Giovanni's eyes narrowed at that. It wasn't the first time he had seen a man with those eyes. This man couldn't be any more different from Calvin. The wild look in his eyes bespoke insanity and savagery in contrast to Calvin's, by comparison, rather calm nature. The other combatant looked almost dead, but Giovanni sensed an unknown strength in it.
Giovanni felt a chill, followed by Oriena's hand running down his neck and chest. Her words stirred Caos inside of him and he seized his power. The time had come. If only the opportunity would present itself.
The fight began and Giovanni watched, knowing Oriena was just behind him, her hand still resting just inside his shirt. He could still feel the chill from her, and wondered if she knew he was holding his power too, but that didn't matter. The chaos of the fight was enticing and brutal. The two combatants seemed hardly human.
Suddenly the two were grappling and fell towards the cage door. They hit and it opened. The door should have been able to take the pressure, and Giovanni turned slightly to Oriena, wondering if she had provided opportunity for him.
People screamed as the combatants were set free from the cage. The sound did worse for them than if they had simply remained silent. It got the attention of the combatants who looked around the room with hunger in their eyes. It was the cadaver that went first, running towards innocent people.
The people scattered and Giovanni watched, his gaze intent on the creature. The corners of his lips turned up into a smirk as the creature turned to face him. He had wanted this. The creature looked at him with an intense hunger. It saw what it thought was an easy target - a man sitting, sipping at a beer. The creature started to run towards Giovanni, and Giovanni waited.
As the creature came closer, Giovanni moved Oriena's hand from his chest reluctantly and stood. The creature close enough, Giovanni grabbed his opponent by the throat and released a surge of electrical lightning through it. The creature screamed in agony as Giovanni continued the electrical current until the creature stopped. Giovanni then dropped the creature, letting it fall to the floor in a heap.
- Hood - 02-28-2015
White's return to the preparation rooms, where fighters went through their pre-fight routines or had their injuries tended by owners or managers, was met with sour glares from the few other fighters still waiting their bouts. The night was nearly over, with only one or two rounds left before the big finale, something which had caught White's eye while he was finishing up with Arseniy. The big prize fighter had been bustled away in quick order, and White was soon tucking a hefty wad of cash into an interior pocket of his suit jacket as he emerged upwards among the club's more 'respectable' clientelle, where he was met by the handful of familiar faces that had known to bet on him.
White's professionalism was sorely tested as he caught a glimpse of the two fighters scheduled for the evening's climactic throw-down. The first could probably have been written off as just some dirty as fuck schizophrenic homeless twerp, probably all hop'd up on a variety of terrible street drugs. The second, however...
White shook hands and made small talk before finally able to excuse himself; as happy as the Pervaya costumers and investors were over their winnings on White's fight, they had little reason to actually talk to White. He was a working man, after all, not 'one of them.'
But once he was cut free of the fluttering socialites, he made his way towards the center ring where the fight would be held. It didn't seem like much of a fair fight at first glance; a Rougarou would make short work of a drugged up crazy man. The yellow eyes didn't mean much to him; contact lenses and crazy eyeball tatooing were far too common place to be a definitive marker, but the man did seem...off...in the image that was flashed on the screens.
Some part of him figured he should probably send word of what was about to happen to the Atharim. But even if he sent it that very moment, they wouldn't show up until the fight was well over. He would let them know later. Besides, it wasn't likely to get out of hand. They were in a caged ring, after all. He was somewhat curious as to just how the hell they had gotten their hands on a Rougarou though.
The two were loosed into the ring, and they set upon each other like wild animals. The golden-eyed hobo snarled and snapped like an animal, where
the Rougarou was all violent rambling and starved guttural barks of rage. They battered against each other, against the walls of the cage, biting and clawing at each other. One in an animalistic rage, the other like the starved monster it was. And then they hit the door of the cage.
Obviously, what came next was the result of some sicko's sense of humour. The cage door broke open under the sudden impact, and the crowd suddenly fell eerily silent as the pair of fighters crashed to the floor and fell apart from each other.
In the silence, White's eyebrow shot up in vague surprise. The two creatures rolled away from each other, and set off in different directions. The Rougarou surged into the crowd. The creature was fixated on one poor rich-dressed sod in the crowd, and as people began to panic and flee, there was little chance that White could have intercepted the thing on time. Besides, he still had to deal with the other one.
Golden eyes the angry dick head wasn't quite so tunnel-visioned as the half-starved Rougarou, and he laid into the first person he could get his hands on; some street-level criminal trash who, unlike the crowd of slumming rich folks, didn't just turn tail and run when the two burst out of their cage. The punk was tackled to the ground with the gold-eyed freak's hands around his neck, and blood spurted as the rage-monsters' uncut thumbnails pierced through the skin of his jugular.
White closed on the golden-eyed weirdo in short order, calmly shoving aside some suit-and-tie wearing rich kid that had blundered into his path. Goldie flashed a glare at White just as he planted a foot in the feral bastards' face, knocking him clear of the gurgling ganger. It was probably too late for the idiot, but White barked at one of the shocked bystanders to apply pressure to the man's throat and call an ambulance. Seemed like the 'proper' thing to do.
Goldie took the blow and rolled with it, coming to a squatting stance and growling at White, who was momentarily distracted by a discharge of electricity the direction the Rougarou had gone. He caught a glimpse of the thing flailing in the grip of that fine-suited individual, and silently cursed his luck. This was supposed to a pleasant night out, and now he was up to his eyeballs in Atharim bullshit.
The distraction was brief, but when he glanced back at Goldie he found the weirdo lunging at him, snarling and grappling with wickedly nailed fingers. The man needed a damn pedicure. Or at least a pair of nail clippers anyway. At least they weren't actually claws like a Rougarou.
White wasn't quite as tired as his fight with Arseniy might have led some to believe; part of giving folks a good show was making sure it didn't end too quickly, but on the other hand, the big man had had one hell of a punch. He was sore, and had a few bumps and bruises to say the least, but those were mostly forgotten as Goldie closed and his adrenaline surged.
He danced back a step, causing Goldie to over-extend to close the distance, then swept across his front with the back of his left arm, swatting Goldie's outstretched arms aside, following through with a quick open-palmed jab to Goldie's jaw. The man staggered aside more from the redirected momentum of the arm sweep then from the blow to the head, but came around far faster then White might have expected.
Goldie came in low, lunging for White's torso as if to try and topple him to the ground, but White, who had the advantage of still being well balanced, swept one foot back to soak the impact, wrapping his left arm around the man's mangy-haired head and neck, then drove his right forearm down across the man's shoulder blades, the downwards strike jerking Goldie's throat against White's grasping left hand and pinching the windpipe.
Goldie let out a strangled yelp then grabbed at White's leading leg desperately, jerking it up in a powerful two-armed grip and throwing White backwards to the ground. Gasping for breath, Goldie still leapt at White as he fell, raking at the fallen man with stiff fingers but scoring mostly against the cloth of White's suit jacket.
He quietly lamented his dress shoes, which were scuffed from the fight with Arseniy and were now surely ruined after wrestling around on the floor with Goldie. The two struggled until White was able to throw the inexperienced grappler's weight off balance and managed to roll the two over so White was on top. Goldie managed to bloody White's forehead with a shallow graze of those uncut fingernails, and he absently pondered how up-to-date his Rabies shots were as he snapped a fist into the man's bearded chin, rebounding the dirty hobo's head off the floor and knocking him soundly unconscious.
With Goldie taking a dirtnap, White slipped back to his feet and calmly adjusted his suit jacket as he glanced towards the Rougarou, which was, it seemed, indeed dead. There was of course the possibility it had been some sort of hand tazer at work, but after the sort of night White had had thus far, he somehow doubted he could be so lucky, and he spent a moment studying Giovanni, and more importantly the woman he was with. The same woman that he had once seen in the company of that troublemaker, Jaxen, some months back at a big fancy party. Neither had, as yet, caused him any trouble though, so he wasn't about to go running and tattling on them.
- Marcus DuBois - 02-28-2015
Malik sipped at the iced vodka, darkened energies seeming to swirl around him, as if the primal atmosphere charged the air. It was life, that strange and miraculous energy state that had formed so many billions of years ago; that had refused to be bound, to be caged, to be hemmed in, stemmed, or circumscribed. Its nature, to fight, to scrabble, to grown. Life was pure energy.
And Malik felt that energy permeate the air about him. People came and thought they bet on the outcomes of games only, others to rub shoulders and network. But at its core, this place was a temple to the struggle of the force of life, to kill or be killed. And the presence of women- like the one behind him- indicative of the biological imperatives that called from something beyond thought, from something deeper than consciousness, that drive and draw to power. Before him was humanity at its most elemental. All of them supplicants and worshipers and slaves of that primal instinct that still existed at the core of all living things, no matter how many layers of technology or sophistication they wore.
And Malik loved every minute of it. His nostrils flared at the heady mix of sweat and blood and sex that permeated the air. He reveled in it, gloried in his humanity, despite his own Ascendant nature. His hooded eyes watched the fight on the monitors, the massive wall of a man against the smaller. A slight smile curved his lips. The smaller man's movements and style indicated far more intelligence and skill than the larger, who no doubt merely depended on one or two crushing blows from those massive fists to bring victory. And most in the crowd would be betting on the large man. But Malik knew and nodded a salute. What followed was a nothing short of perfection, a pugilistic dance, as the smaller man's honed skill and intelligence proved once again why Homo Sapiens had ascended from the family of primates and had bested the largest and most dangerous creatures on planet and now sat at the pinnacle.
The next fight, unfortunately, seemed to dash that elevated and ennobling spirit to the ground, that emblematic tapestry of humanity's ascension now trampled into the mud. His lip curled in distaste. What appeared to be a gaunt homeless man was pitted against a bestial drugged out mass of muscle and hair. Malik flicked his eye back to the man and woman, both of whom appeared to be vying for mastery- the woman was clearly the winning there- even as their eyes were glued to the fight. Idly he wondered what sort of game she was playing with the man.
Suddenly a crash drew his attention and he saw that somehow, the doors to the cages had burst open during the fight. The two men surged into the crowd running. Screams filled the air, panic. People roiled about in great waves, decorum and propriety lost as men pulled or shoved past others and women- heels kicked off or tripped on- grabbed at or pushed at men in their struggles to flee.
The bestial man disappeared from his sight, but the gaunt man ran with a feral look in his eyes, clearly seen as he emerged from the writhing sea in their direction. Malik smiled and leaned back. He had no fear here. Indeed, what had begun as a mockery had suddenly turned into something far more interesting. The Force called to him, begged him to master it and fell this thing. But Malik soothed it as one would a child with vague future promises. He would not call on it unless he absolutely had to. He wanted a fight, wanted to draw it to him. He felt life course through his veins.
Instead the creature ran at the man at the table. It seemed the man, too, had been lounging. Suddenly he stood and put out a hand just as the creature reached him, grasping him by the throat. Even as he did, Malik felt the surge of menace in the air as if it were flowing from off the man like a billowing cloak. Malik's eyes narrowed even as he saw a surge of electricity flow into the creature, its muscles jerking and spasming like a rag doll being shaken. And then he fell to floor as if his bones had become water.
Malik felt distaste in his mouth, though he wasn't sure at what exactly. Not that the man could call on the Force. He was used to that. Between Andre, Ascendancy, Michael and now the men in the Facility, being around others like him only served to give warning of potential danger- dangers he had no doubt he could handle. No, he was disappointed. So much promise, so much potential- a fight worthy of this place- and it was snuffed out before it began. He leaned back and sipped his drink, head turning to watch the crowd.
The chaos and panic still seethed but more subdued. The bestial man must have been put down. Another drink. Still, it had been a good evening. And the night was young. He turned his attention back to the man who'd used the Force. It was curious that he allowed himself to be led by the nose when he possessed so much power. Curious, but not surprising. The woman- Did she know? How would she react?- had a tiger on a leash. She was either a fool or more dangerous that she appeared. His smile grew.
Here in this temple to the forces of life and nature there were still games to watch. And play. Malik stood and walked over to the man, adopting a casual smile. "It was fortunate you had a taser or you would have been killed."
- Giovanni - 03-17-2015
A man approached Giovanni, and although his face was familiar, Giovanni had no idea who he was. He didn't like the way the man casually smiled at him. Giovanni sat down, taking Oriena's hand and placing it back on his chest as if nothing had happened and sipped his beer again. He could feel the power racing through his veins wanting release, but he kept hold of it instead of releasing it on the target that had presented itself.
He gestured indifferently to the man to join them at the table. Giovanni cared not if he joined them. The man's casual smile shifted in the shadows. It almost looked like a smirk, now. Then his head shifted slightly to the woman and he raised an eyebrow before setting the chilled glass on the table.
Giovanni didn't return the man's smile. Caos echoed in his head. "Kill, kill, kill..."
Giovanni wouldn't kill him yet, though. Unless he ended up being a prick - he'd had enough of pricks lately.
Caos bristled with the power, the voice clearly seeing this man as a rival. It wanted him to strike out, but Giovanni held back. Giovanni also was aware that this man likely wasn't just coming to congratulate him on still being alive. Giovanni wasn't sure what his motive was.
"What do you want?"
Giovanni asked straightforwardly. He was already in Oriena's game and didn't want to play another.
- Oriena - 04-10-2015
Ori watched expressionlessly as Giovanni's fingers wrapped about the fighter's throat. Internally she pressed at the very edges of her senses, but still felt nothing of what she knew the other man was doing. Then the body crumpled, bereft of life. It was over with disappointing swiftness, considering how difficult the release of the fighters had been to accomplish. Chaos fanned the flames of her intention - and she had intended a carnage - but her sights adjusted quickly, interested simply to see where things would go now. A casual sweep to locate the other combatant instead clapped eyes on Mr White. The corners of her lips hitched a small smirk, but her gaze didn't pause.
The Sigma's question was interesting. He'd know as well as anyone here that weapons were forbidden in the club, and management went to great pains to enforce that rule. It was second only to the ban on cameras. Her eyebrow arched, that smirk still toying at the edges of her mouth, but she didn't interrupt. Giovanni's apparent possessiveness might have sparked retaliation, but instead she tolerated the gesture and only lounged, like a cat with a favoured mouse.
Security already swarmed the crowd in reaction to the unexpected violence. The conversation wouldn't remain private for long. A person could not be owned, exactly, but Giovanni had just dispatched one half of the Almaz's grand finale. The loss of earnings, the loss of spectacle, it would certainly not be appreciated. And who was Giovanni? A nobody in this elite circle, unprotected by wealth or power.
- Marcus DuBois - 04-13-2015
The man sat back down, his casual movements belying the thought behind them, adjusting the woman as one might a marionette or mannequin. This was storefront display, pure and simple.
The man's eyes were on him so he didn't see the smirk that tugged at her face or the arch of her eyebrow. Her hand might be on his chest, but those elegant fingertips were a claw with which to rip the heart out without a moment's thought.
A dangerous game the man played, for all that he seemed oblivious to it. The woman was utterly indifferent to his use of the power, neither astonishment nor fear marring that beautiful face. No, this was beyond keeping the man a pet in her thrall. Much more. Malik was reminded of Spectra, the smell of a sharply spiced cinnamon that filled his head with that heady mixture of death and sex. Appropriate, he thought, considering where he was. He looked again at the man and saw things anew. He raised his eyebrow to her and gave her a ghost of a smile. Fascinating.
He couldn't help that his smile became more genuine, that his heartbeat sped up. He could hear the Force call to him, it siren sweet song of seduction begging for him to take it and master it, to dominate it into submission. He quieted it with a flick of his mind. In the darkness, that empty bubble that seemed to surround him now, he could almost sense the dark swirling about him. It fed on this place. It found fecund soil here, subterranean vents into the bowels of hell to provide the hot and volcanic energy for its growth. Primordial life flourished here.
And he felt a kinship with it, with this place. He looked at the man, considering his question. "Want?"
He chuckled. "Why...to enjoy the game, of course."
He looked around, security already bring order to the chaos that had ensued. They would soon be here and then things would get interesting. He looked down at the man and his eyebrow rose even as he sniffed the air.
There was something off about it. The smell of electrified flesh normally brought back specific memories, stirring warmth in the pit of his stomach at the thought of visiting justice. But there was something different about this man, if he could be called that. A rankness tinged the smell, that of a fruit too long on the vine, the slight note of decay in the bouquet. He looked at the man and woman again. "This man was not normal."
- Hood - 04-14-2015
White calmly adjusted his tie as he noticed Oriena's gaze flick over him, and the room's poor lighting wasn't quite able to hide the hint of a smirk that crossed her features. Did she recognize him, or find his dispatching of Goldie to be pleasing? Women in general were dangerous, but few could really catch his attention. Spectra being the top of the list.
He rolled his shoulders, buttoned his suit jacket closed, brushed away some of the dirt, then glanced towards the group that had formed around Oriena and her mystery boy-toy of the evening. The third man in their company was familiar; no one worth their salt would fail to recognize the Sigma, Marcus DuBois.
The Almaz's security finally began to show their unremarkable faces. They had likely been delayed struggling their way through the flood of cowards racing for the exits, or some other paltry excuse to have missed the brunt of the excitement, but they still had appearances to maintain. The club's visitors loved the false feeling of danger the club offered. A few dozen bruisers in the rafters and the strict no-weapons policy enforced at the doors were a nice safety net for the city's coddled elite. They could pretend the club was dangerous and filthy and sinister, while being consciously aware that if there really was trouble, there were men in place to keep their hides safe.
The bruisers stalked forward on where Goldie and Rougarou had fallen, and while Giovanni was in the company of ones importantly placed enough to, probably, keep their boorish hands off his designer suit, White did not have that protection. Not that he needed it, of course. He was just another bruiser to their eyes, one who had overstepped his place and made them look bad.
One approached at a bold stride, closing the distance on White and raising a hand warningly, "Step back right now, sir."
The honorific wasn't exactly honestly given; the bruiser all but spat the 'sir' part, a requirement for 'polite' conversation.
White fixed the approaching man with a cold stare, brow furrowed as a few drops of blood fell from one dark eyebrow. "Are you head of security here?"
His tone was quiet, but clear, and most certainly dismissive. The bruiser clearly wasn't; it was just a line to draw the man in.
"What? No! Now know your place and get outta the way, you fu..."
the bruiser closed and swung an arm against White's chest, aiming to push White out of the way, none too politely.
White moved quickly. His left arm came up over the bruiser's extended arm, then drove down, catching his wrist in White's grip. The downward drive of his arm bent the bruiser's arm inward sharply, causing the big man to stagger forward a half-step, where White's right elbow snapped forward to connect with the man's throat gently. Gently by White's standards anyway.
The big man gurgled in surprise, beady eyes wide with shock as White grabbed a fist-full of the man's hair and released his arm, then with both hands in the guard's hair drove the man's face down into White's rising knee, which struck against the lug's forehead with a resounding crack of bone-against-bone. The guard dropped to his knees with a pitiful, concussed mewling, but White kept a grip on the man's hair, curling it in one fist to force the man to, barely, stay on his feet.
Long enough for White to lift the man's cheap tie and carefully dab the blood from his forehead from where Goldie had scratched him. He paid the other guards no mind; they had all frozen in the few seconds it had taken White to subdue the lead bruiser.
Satisfied that the drops of blood were under control, White dropped the concussed guard to the floor and into the sour puddle of urine that had dribbled from the man's pant leg, then calmly plucked a card from one pocket. He held it up between two fingers, letting the room's low light glint off the boldly embossed logo of Pervaya Iiniya Securities, then flicked it to the least dumb-struck looking bruiser, "Consider this evening an impromptu test of your club's security arrangements. The sort of clientele you cater to, you may want to bring in a consultant. Now, does anyone else want to try touching me tonight?"
The guards balked as White calmly removed himself from the immediate vicinity of Goldie, and even waved impatiently for some of the guards to deal with the unconscious property and their fallen comrade, but none seemed ready to further accost White at the moment. They were well paid, but that only went so far at times, and if he was cooperating...well, they didn't need to push him any further, did they?