04-14-2018, 10:47 AM
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.
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.