[hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/8dMMVUC.png[/img][/center] [right][b][code]Reception Room[/code] [colour=Cyan]Oh-Seven[/colour], [colour=Silver]Isabella[/colour][/b][/right] [hr][hr] Florian stumbled in a daze. The physical shock of being knocked out had long since worn off (thanks to his peerless durability, no doubt). What had him disoriented and muddled was grappling mentally with the fact that he'd [i]lost[/i]. It wasn't that cut and dry, of course. He [i]had[/i] won, his opponent, a Justice Rider no less, had merely fought without honor and snatched victory from the jaws of certain defeat. The fact he could hardly stand after the fact was proof enough of the devastation his patented Wessington style had inflicted upon him. But then, a smile. Florian was being silly! Naturally, he'd won! He just hadn't been declared the victor! He had been upset by an underdog and in the process had left the fight with much more knowledge than when he'd started. By next year he would sweep all the participants like they were… something you swept… dust? Florian was roused from his intellectual musings by the pat of a napkin bundle bouncing off the back of his brilliant cranium. He picked it up from the ground with keen interest. [Colour=Palegreen]”Incredible! Who threw this thing at me?”[/colour] He mused, head darting around like a surprised (and noble) dog. He spotted his best friend Justy's paramour (or perhaps partner? General lady friend? He would need to inquire later.) Oh-Seven, gesturing at him to join her and a rather large fellow with spiky hair. Florian recognised him after a moment - from some media scrum or another - as a fellow Justice Rider, one who hadn't quite the same level of courtesy and manners as his student, Jill. Nonetheless, Florian brushed the napkin residue out of his radiant hair and walked towards the duo. [Quote=Oh-Seven][color=cyan]"... Now where was I? Ah, yes; I have reason to believe that Oh-One is making his attempt to steal the Power Stone... I require your assistance to prevent that from occurring."[/color][/quote] Of course! It was his solemn duty as a fighter, upperclassman and author to lend his considerable talents wherever requested. [Colour=palegreen]”Of course, Miss. Auclair!”[/colour] He said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. [Colour=palegreen]”I merely have one inquiry.”[/colour] He spoke with gravitas, looking sternly into Oh-Seven's eyes. [Colour=palegreen]”[i]Who[/I] is Oh-One?”[/colour] He asked, tone shifting to one of pure confusion. [hr] [center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjcyLmJmNzUyMy5WbTk1ZENCVWFHVWdSM1Z1YzJ4cGJtZGxjZy4x/durango-western-eroded.regular.png [/img][/center] [right][b][code]Elsewhere In Brazil - Several Hours Earlier[/code][/b][/right] [hr][hr] "Still don't see how some League trash is worth all this, Sir." "Your opinion’s been noted, rookie. I'd advise you keep it to yourself. The payment is considerable, the employer's a weasel but he checks out and, if intel's correct, then this guy isn't just some thug with a gun. He's legit." Two filtered voices exchange words as they march down the halls of an empty office building. Their footsteps and speech enhanced in intimidation by their full bodies of armour. "Legit enough for our entire outfit?" The younger, more skeptical of the two Mercenaries, gestured as they walked. Sandbags, waist-high turrets and fellow mercs dressed in the same high quality gear dotted the hallways of the once bustling office. "Legit enough for the client to [i]pay[/i] for our entire outfit, yes. I don't anticipate he can stop us, rookie. But when we have an opportunity to double our company in under a day, you can rest assured I'm taking the situation with complete seriousness." They stop at an ornate door at the end of the hall. The aspiring soldier of fortune looks at his senior with a doubtful expression that could be felt even beneath his face-concealing helmet. "He wears a cowboy hat, Sir." A buzz. A light blinking rapidly from the wrist of the senior merc erased any semblance of informality, replacing it with stoic professionalism. The mercenary company begin moving into positions like a well-honed machine, silently drawing their weapons as their tech whirred to life. The two Mercenaries at the ornate door exchange a nod, the younger drawing his rifle and beginning to jog toward his post, the senior bringing his fingers against a button on his helmet. “We’re live.” He states to his team, voice shifting from affable mentor to that of a man who'd lived a life of nothing save conflict. Beneath the inch thick layer covering his face, the Mercenary squints his eyes and readies his weapon. [hr][hr] [centre][I]Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.[/I][/centre] He was running. It felt foreign and bitter, beneath the fear. Even when things had been at their worst, he'd never run. But there he was, carrying the blood of comrades and his own newly acquired wounds on his once pristine white armour. A chunk of his faceplate broken - revealing a glimpse of his thousand yard stare to the world. Behind him was that calm rhythm. The thudding of a boot followed by the clacking of a metal spur as it hit the ground. Infrequently, the clacking would stop and a gunshot would follow, illuminating the building in a flash of orange no matter where it came from. The Mercenary finally arrived at the ornate doors, barging it open with the strongest collision of his shoulder he had ever thrown in his life. Before the Mercenary sits a dishevelled man, filled with enough mortal terror to jump in fright yet resigned enough to have his hands already up in surrender. He lowers them shakily upon seeing the leader of his hired protection and gives him a hopeful look. “You need to leave.” the Mercenary flatly states, deflating the optimism of his client. The Mercenary steps forward, grit returning to his voice as he regains his nerve. “I’ll be with you all the way. We circle back around the building, give him the slip and reconvene at the nearest safehouse.” He tightens the grip on his rifle and silently beckons the man to stand up. A plan is forming within him, the quickest routes, who still owes him a favour now that he is a company of one. He is no longer a frightened soldier. He is no longer the leader of a building full of dead men. He is a warrior. He is a survivor. He is gone. A flash of orange and a jacketed hollow point arrow pierces through the Mercenary’s exposed eye in a geyser of blood. He collapses to the floor immediately. Death comes before the realisation. [centre][I]Clack. Clack. Clack.[/I][/centre] [Colour=peru]"Mr. Welles."[/colour] The murderer says calmly, stepping over the corpse and towards his frightened target. [Colour=peru]"You were told by our mutual friends that I'd be sent over here to discuss the next phase of the plan. The one you agreed to take part in. Your response is to go hire a mercenary company while sitting in your office shredding documents."[/colour] He holstered his weapons as he began to explore the office. Stopping in front of a shelf of personal effects. [Colour=peru]"Mind filling in the leap between those two events?"[/colour] [B]"I know who you are."[/b] Welles said, shakily. [B]"Voyt The Gunslinger."[/b] [Colour=peru]"Then you'd think you'd know better than to go do something like this. You got these folks killed. Not me."[/colour] Voyt picked up a picture frame and looked at it. Expression cold. [Colour=peru]"This your family?"[/colour] Silence. They both knew it wasn't really a question. Voyt dropped the picture back onto the shelf. [Colour=peru]"You were given this role because your employers and my employers wanted another foothold in the area and needed someone who’d do what they're told. You played that part because your greed made you believe the good times were gonna last forever."[/colour] Voyt placed his hands on the desk, masked visage looming over the cowering Welles. [Colour=Peru]"Now, your part's been played and you've been told to pull the plug, hand over the profits and ride off into the sunset. You wanna hold on a little longer."[/colour] Annoyance slipped into Voyt's previously matter-of-fact tone. He glared down at Welles. [Colour=peru]"First of all. Where's the money?"[/colour] [b]"I- I don't have it..."[/b] [Colour=peru]"Why?"[/colour] [b]"The company, I-I've had to do a lot of financial manoeuvring to fulfil your people's requests."[/b] [Colour=peru]"Then sell the company."[/colour] [b]"We're already in debt for more than it's worth![/b] [Colour=peru]"Then sell your family!"[/colour] Voyt growled, knocking over the last few documents from the desk. Welles offered nothing beyond a whimper. [Colour=peru]"Somethin'!"[/colour] Voyt slowly paced back and forth. Merely looking back towards Welles' caused the man to flinch. [Colour=peru]"How were you plannin’ on payin’ our friends here?”[/colour] He asked, gesturing towards the dead mercenary and the ever-growing circle of blood pooling around his temple. [b]”It was payment on completion! I- I was hoping to just by myself some time t-”[/b] [Colour=peru]”You [i]lie[/i], Welles.”[/colour] Voyt interjected. [Colour=peru]”You might have the greed for a scheme like that but you damn sure wouldn't have the spine. You've got a little something for yourself stashed away, don’t you?”[/colour] A pause. [Colour=peru]”Don't you?”[/colour] Voyt asked again, differing only by a slight raise in his delivery. Welles didn't have the heart to vocalise aloud that he was still hiding things with a man who'd cut through his one and only line of defense. He meekly nodded. [Colour=peru]”Chin up, Welles.”[/colour] Welles let out a sharp yelp of pain as Voyt, fast as a whip, reached over and slapped a small device into the side of his neck. [Colour=peru]”Now you get to make it right.”[/colour] [b]”What did you do!?”[/b] Welles sobbed, hands frantically swiping at his neck. Outside, a bird let out a cry as it flew by the window. Free. [Colour=peru]”Tracker.”[/colour] Voyt replied, bluntly. Swaying Welles fears only slightly. [Colour=peru]”You're gonna go out, drain your accounts, check under your couches and empty any stashes in your kids’ bedrooms. Whatever it takes for you to make up the difference. If, for any reason, I see that you're trying to skip town or if I even suspect you're trying to play me again. I will make sure to put a bullet in your lap first.”[/colour] [b]”M-my family…”[/b] [Colour=peru]”Will be safe an’ sound; s'long as you don't do anythin’ else stupid.”[/colour] Voyt replied, taking a scrap of paper and writing down a sequence of numbers. [Colour=peru]”These're GPS coordinates. Meet me here, preferably with the money, by sundown; ‘less you want your family to see their patriarch get his head opened up on the sidewalk.”[/colour] A pause. As customary during an awkward interaction where one party isn't sure how to end things after narrowly keeping their life. [Colour=peru]”That'll be all, Mr. Welles.”[/colour] Voyt said flatly, eyes never leaving Welles as the man shot up from his desk and sprinted out the door - doing his best to ignore the pile of corpses littering the building. [colour=LightGray]”Your orders were to eliminate him if he didn’t comply.”[/colour] A voice reverberated throughout Voyt’s mind. Like a mechanical hand holding his spine in a vice grip. Cold and clinical. Voyt pressed his middle and forefinger against his left ear. [colour=peru]”Want your money back, don’t you?”[/colour] He asked, knowing the answer. The voice did not respond. [colour=peru]”He’s out of friends and out of hiding places. If he doesn’t come through then I’ll deal with him, otherwise I’ve given you a chance to get what you’re owed.”[/colour] The gunslinger added, removing his mask and looking out the window. The hot sun filtered into the office through cracks in the blinds. [colour=LightGray]”You’re needed at the arena.”[/colour] The voice finally responded, filtering away its employee’s insubordination for a later time. [colour=peru]”Thought you had people on it.”[/colour] [colour=LightGray]”Yes. You’re to assist them. Intel suggests trouble.”[/colour] [colour=peru]”Wasn’t part of our contract.”[/colour] [colour=LightGray]”As I understand, you’ll have some time until sundown.”[/colour] Voyt’s brow furrowed. [colour=peru]”Think we oughta discuss my rates.”[/colour] Silence. [colour=peru]”Hello?”[/colour] Voyt removed his hand from his ear and walked over to the window, pressing down the blinds to see the light soaked arena glowing off in the distance. A hum travelled even here, the noise and music as the Fighting Carnival raged on. His eyes narrowed. [colour=peru]”Hrn.”[/colour]