NationStates Jolt Archive

A dull grey Aston Martin sat in an alleyway in the south of Hydria. The south was a rough area. Every day someone was murdered or seriously assaulted down there. The two occupants of the Aston Martin sat, waiting for the small time gang who'd tried to muscle in on their Arms business. They both had cups of takeaway coffee sitting on the dashboard.

The passenger turned to the driver

"Eddie, why are we here again?" he asked, showing the fact that he was still pretty new to the gang

The driver looked impatiently at him, as if he'd been telling him this for some time

"Because Steven, the Boss doesn't like little punks trying to get a piece of his pie without asking" Eddie said to him "So we're here to teach them a lesson"

"Right" replied Steven "But is it neccessary for us to use these?" he asked, pulling a sawn-off shotgun from under the jacket he was wearing

"Could you be careful!" Eddie said, pushing the gun back under his jacket "We don't want to advertise what we're doing here". He looked out of the window, and saw a group of men walking out of the building just ahead

"Come on" he said to Steven, opening the car door "Just do what I do"

He got out and stepped forward, calling to the group

"Excuse me Gentlemen, I hear you've been selling guns?" he asked

The group turned to them

"Yeah, who'd you hear that from?" asked the frontman

"That is of no concern" Eddie said "I have a message for you"

"Oh yeah?" shouted the frontman

There was a loud bang as the shotgun tore through him, and another as Steven pumped both barrels into them. As they lay dying in a pool of blood, Eddie & Steven returned to the car. As they passed the bloody bodies, Eddie threw a small card out of the window, and then drove off.

Elsewhere, in a back alley that no one who wasn't drunk enough to hallucinate would dare enter simply because of the smell, a meeting was going on. Those involved with the meeting were, as usual for meetings of this particular group, more than a little intoxicated. And, as usual, they had started heavy drinking before even half of the group had arrived, thus guaranteeing that many of the issues brought up would be of the most interesting sort, even if most of those there would not remember them in a few hours.

Unlike most meetings of this particular group, this was a historic meeting. Why it was a historic meeting was unknown to those attending it; it felt important and they were using the good booze, so it must be a truly historic meeting. Why else would they bring out the expensive alcohol?

Ray the Banshee had suggested that it was because of the number of people she saw at the meeting, but she regularly preferred medication of the most unusual sort and was not unknown for seeing the same person in three different places, including people who did not actually exist, and her personal record was three times the size of the actual group. One-toe Joe, who strangely has all of his toes, suggested it was an announcement they would go to war with Mars, though all in the group naturally knew that the gang was at peace with Mars ever since the Banana War of Last Thursday. Smelly Bob, the group's leader as long as everyone could remember, settled the issue by saying he'd decide why it's historic later.

"Attention Drunken Hobo Alliance!" Smelly Bob announced, followed by a random mixture of applause, cheers, and calls for more beer. "Today is a truly historic day! The snufflerats of Pelgas Three have announced they won't go to war with us for the half-rotten sandwich we found in the barber shop dumpster!"

Naturally, everyone cheered this grand news, even if half of them had never heard of a snufflerat before this moment and a few thought Pelgas Three was inhabitted by pink and purple moss pomeranians. But, who were they to argue with Smelly Bob, the prophet of Jack Daniels? It was his words of wisdom that ended the Banana War of Last Thursday with a peace treaty, got the Other Bum Alliance to give up and move out, and chased off the Sneering Pod People. It was because of his constant wisdom and guidance that they tithed him the extremely expensive alcohol and the least diseased prostitutes. He also had the best dwelling, in that an entire bridge overpass was his to live in.

"And, as a special part of the announcement, the snufflerats said we... we..." Smelly Bob began, only to falter and look puzzled at the object he was holding in his hand. "Hey! I've got beer!"

The crowd applauded even more as Smelly Bob quickly drained the bottle, amazed once again at the wisdom and special grace that had been granted to him by the divine power that was Jack Daniels.

"To victory! Let'sh conquer thish town!" Smelly Bob announced, prior to passing out.

A man in a dark suit, with greying black hair and piercing blue eyes stood in the line waiting to pass through customs. This was the part of flying he always hated – the waiting. Would today be the day he screwed up, and got caught? As he walked to the counter he smiled at the girl behind, passing over his passport.

“Good afternoon mister, Reynolds. Could I ask the reason for your trip to Ustio North?”
“I am here on business, and perhaps for a brief holiday afterwards.”
“Sounds wonderful. Everything seems to be in order sir. Enjoy your stay.”

And with that he was through customs. There were still guards, but none of them gave him a second glance. He wandered out to the car park, and looked around for his cousin, spotting him. Before he could speak Josef started talking.

“Willkommen zu Ustio Nord mein Vetter”
“Hier zu sein ist gut. Wir müssen sprechen…”
“Nicht hier. Warten Sie, bis wir zum Lager kommen.”

And with that they walked to a car and got in. And Michael Reynolds seized to exist.

Inside the Gianpiero's attached hotel, "Mercy" silently shifted from her position curled up at a relative stranger's side. Moving more lightly than one would think possible, she got out of bed without disturbing him. Dressing was a quick, quiet affair, as she replaced her dress to its position hanging off her shoulders. Her shoes were short heels, something that accentuated her feminine graces but didn't remove her ability to run like the lightning should something go wrong.

And in her line of business, when things went wrong, people got seriously hurt. After what happened to "Angel" last week, she wasn't going to waste time with complicated clothing or stiletto heels. Poor Angel, shot in the back as she tried to make it out the door. She survived, but she never was the most healthy or fit of the girls, so there was no telling if she could or would ever come back into the fold. Oh, Mario was livid when he heard -- the way the girls were telling it, he actually took three days to finish with the guy. Served him right, Mercy supposed.

She certainly wasn't going to get caught in the same situation. She rifled through the stranger's pants and took out his wallet -- his big, loaded wallet. Taking $1200 from it, she also noted his ID, a couple of credit cards, and his bank card. That photographic memory of hers was what Mario liked the most about her.

When the stranger stirred, she got up and hurried out the door. Her face wouldn't be remembered, she'd change her clothing and her hair -- maybe she'd even wear a wig for the next few nights. The man wouldn't see her again. She was, after all, just another hook-up at a casino.

Prostitute, thief ... sometimes both.

Mario would probably have some of the bosses deal with him later. It wouldn't do to have men hire prostitutes at this elite institution. The management won't stand for it! They would think it best if the stranger leave before they had to call the police. The nerve, some of these people, thinking the law didn't apply to them.

In a moderately well-kept townhouse, five teenagers, mostly around the age of fifteen, lounged in a livingroom. There was some garbage on the floor, mostly the kind of debris one would expect in a house run by youths. The boys were chatting amiably, two fiddling with the radio, the others sleeping, or else eating. One boy was playing a twelve string guitar with moderate skill. It seemed like a group of juveniles sitting around in their parents house, doing nothing at all. Then the door opened, and several older boys walked in. They all wore black shirts and camoflauge pants, some with bulky messenger bags, and as soon as they made their, the younger kids went silent, looking up expectantly. The one with the guitar asked, "So, what'd ya make?" One of the other boys threw a empty paper cup at him. He caught it, tossing it into a trash can.

"About a hundred," answered the obvious leader. "That ring Kale found had real diamonds on it. The jade necklace was good, too. How long have you been home?"

"About an hour. We were going through the junk outside a computer place, found some good stuff too, when one of those urchin gangs got us. We took care of 'em pretty good, stepped on some toes, twisted some arms. One of 'em got a pretty good hold an Jacob and bit 'im, but he did that throw ya showed us and tossed her off. They all ran after that. Sorry lot." The other boys snickered.

"Anyway, we found a computer that wasn't too beat up, a couple of ethernet cables to hook up to your computer. Bobby found us some clean blankets. Anythin' else, boys?" The other shook their heads.

"Oh, and that couch was a no-go. Someone else came and got it last night, so..." They continued speaking, and the older gang members mixed in with the younger ones, flopping down on blankets, or getting something to eat or drink.

Bellisic sat inside his home in a small urban part of a neighborhood in in the rough southern Hydria. The area was considerably poorer than some surrounding parts, and his particular hood was inhabited by slavic immigrants. Bellisic was a moderately wealthy man, not affraid to conduct illegal activities to further his own goals. On the streets walls are marks with graffiti artwork of the North-Side Slavs.

Bellesic peered outside of his window, holding a cigarrete in his hand. He watched a youth spray paint the word "Sjever (Croatian for 'North')" on the support of an overpass, Bellisic grinned and tapped his cigarette over an ash tray. His gang empire was secure in the predominatly Slavic neighborhood, gun running and trafficing persons in the city.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Bellisic ordered a subordinate to answer it. The man looked and opened the door to another Slavic gangster.

"Voditelj! (Leader!)" said the man, "Mi imamo vijesti o ubojstvu na jugu. (We have news of a killing south of here)."

"Što se dogodilo? (What happened)," replied Bellisic.

"Očigledno su neki top trkača oborila drugi banda, njegov na televiziju ako želite vidjeti (Apparently some gun runners were shot down by another gang, its on the television if you wish to see it)." said the messenger.

"Pa onda, mislim da to ne zabrinjava nas. Ako je bilo stranaca pokušati doći u naše područje kako bi krijumčar oružja, njih pucati (Well then, I guess it doesn't concern us. If any foreigners try to come into our area to smuggle arms, shoot them)." ordered Bellisic. He dismissed the man and proceeded to smoke his cigarette.

Boris went down to the docks, a beat up ship was there with an old man standing there

"Hey old man, do you have the AK's the boss ordered, if you forgot them this time you know he doesn't like more then one mistake" Boris pointed his AK at the old man

The old man smiled, "I got you more then AK's, to show my loyalty I also got you some RPG's and some Dragonov's I hope the come in handy"

Crates were unloaded into a truck and Boris and his men left for the warehouse as the old man took his ship back to the Soviet System

In a moderately well-kept townhouse, five teenagers, mostly around the age of fifteen, lounged in a livingroom. There was some garbage on the floor, mostly the kind of debris one would expect in a house run by youths. The boys were chatting amiably, two fiddling with the radio, the others sleeping, or else eating. One boy was playing a twelve string guitar with moderate skill. It seemed like a group of juveniles sitting around in their parents house, doing nothing at all. Then the door opened, and several older boys walked in. They all wore black shirts and camoflauge pants, some with bulky messenger bags, and as soon as they made their, the younger kids went silent, looking up expectantly. The one with the guitar asked, "So, what'd ya make?" One of the other boys threw a empty paper cup at him. He caught it, tossing it into a trash can.

"About a hundred," answered the obvious leader. "That ring Kale found had real diamonds on it. The jade necklace was good, too. How long have you been home?"

"About an hour. We were going through the junk outside a computer place, found some good stuff too, when one of those urchin gangs got us. We took care of 'em pretty good, stepped on some toes, twisted some arms. One of 'em got a pretty good hold an Jacob and bit 'im, but he did that throw ya showed us and tossed her off. They all ran after that. Sorry lot." The other boys snickered.

"Anyway, we found a computer that wasn't too beat up, a couple of ethernet cables to hook up to your computer. Bobby found us some clean blankets. Anythin' else, boys?" The other shook their heads.

"Oh, and that couch was a no-go. Someone else came and got it last night, so..." They continued speaking, and the older gang members mixed in with the younger ones, flopping down on blankets, or getting something to eat or drink.


The sound near the house was sound of twelve Harley's and five black Honda dirtbikes. The men aboard the Harley's wore black leather jackets, also representing the group with there colors. The dirtbikes hummed, some with a girl or guy on the back of them, packing folded stock SPAS-12 shotguns. They rode down the street as if on parade, some of the member purposling reving there engines.

Kale fiddled with the bent hanger until the trucks lock clicked, hissing at the smaller boy next to him, "Fifteen seconds." He boosted the youth through the opening, whereupon the kid went to work on the ignition. It started, and Kale jumped into the drivers seat as soon as the hot wiring juvenile moved out of it. He cleared the window of glass, and drove off with nonchalance.

"Good work, Anty. You're getting good at this." Anthony grinned a gaptooth grin of satisfaction. They pulled up to the garage of their home, and Anty got out to pull the door up. Kale drove through, and the boy closed the heavy sheet of metal. They went to work, first clearing all the glass from it, then removing all trash, cleaning the carpet, scrubbing the exterior, then removing all identifying marks. An hour and a half later, they went into the kitchen, where a few of the older boys were eating. They called out to them, saying things like, "Hey, Kale, good job getting that ring," or, "Nice truck, didn't know we could afford one that good." They all laughed at that.

The sound near the house was sound of twelve Harley's and five black Honda dirtbikes. The men aboard the Harley's wore black leather jackets, also representing the group with there colors. The dirtbikes hummed, some with a girl or guy on the back of them, packing folded stock SPAS-12 shotguns. They rode down the street as if on parade, some of the member purposely revving their engines.

Baelian rose from his upstairs bed. "What the feth is this?" Seeing the bikers went heavily armed, he ran to the stairs and shouted at the boys milling below,

"Shotties! Clear the windows, pick up the mattresses!" As he bellowed orders, he went into his room,
getting his Mossberg 590 from where it leaned against his bed. He proceeded downstairs, where, to his satisfaction, the windows had been covered by heavy mattresses, attached through rings in the roof, so that they could be pulled up from across the room, which they had. All the older boys held firearms, mostly shotguns like his, some with pistols or revolvers. Ready for anything.

They roamed. It wasn't with the grace of a pack of wolves, the stealth of ninjas, or even the speed of their hallucinations. It was more like a pack of redneck zombies, shambling along with holding their weapons clumsily and drinking what last dregs of beer they could from what bottles had not yet been drained. Given the smell, some people would willingly believe that some members actually were zombies. They were usually not arrested because most police officers could not stand to be within nose range of them.

What they were after was, to them, mostly unknown. Usually, they just robbed some random people until they had enough money for booze and food. Today, though, they felt like doing something special. After wandering around aimlessly, they found themselves at a set of docks, seeing some people talk with an old man who appeared to have a ship. Then, grinning, the shambling mass of five bums started moving slowly towards it, their intoxicated swaying and extreme stench making their attempt at stealth ultimately futile.

"Boss-sama. News for you." The well-dressed Japanese man stood at the side of the table, shades obscuring his eyes. He leaned in closer, to whisper something into his ear.

Toyoma Hosokawa looked up from his meal at the messenger, listening intently to whatever his man had to say. He was busy eating lunch in a somewhat famous Japanese restaurant situated in uptown Hydria. Across the table from him sat two bodyguards, clad in dark suits and eye-concealing shades, also busy eating lunch. They were speaking to each other in Angenterian, and Hosokawa did not understand them. He didn't need to, however. These men were loyal enough, and they understood Japanese just as well as their native language.

Yes, he had made the right choice to allow the induction of Angenterians into the Hosokawa Clan. While the Angenterian Arbitrators usually came down like a hammer on any illegal activities ranging from parking violations to assassination, Angenterians were well-rounded individuals, most of them having served in their Imperial Guard at some point or another. Apply that to the needs of the Hosokawa Clan, and you have the ideal man. Plus, they were still Asian enough to look like Japanese members if they needed to. Such men were positioned all around inside the resturant, eating at different tables, or loitering outside, of both Japanese and Angenterian ancestry. There was no way they'd let their boss eat with such a small security detail.

The messenger whispered something into Hosokawa's, who nodded, and thanked the man for bringing it up to him.

-------------------------------------------------------
South Side
As darkness crept throughout the city, Teru found himself busier then ever. It was his turn to collect the bets for the street race that would be coming up tonight. The street race was a time for all the people to show off their driving skill, and their cars. The cars were the main attraction. Gathered from all over the country, and modified and souped-up by the best of the trade, they came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Betting was also extremely popular among the spectators. The chance to get rich quick was always a good prospect.

Teru sat down, and began to flip through the money. There was going to be a big turnout tonight.

Trastak Estate, Outer Hydrian Suburbs

Don Trastak puffed the cuban cigar in his mouth, once, twice, thrice. Then he gave a long nod. These Ustian's sure did know how to live, compared to the cold place that was the Southern Mountain Provinces in Red Tide. He spun around and glanced through one of the windows. The mansion may have been bought (and taxed) in his name, but he did not actually own it. Oh sure, he got the best bedroom and got all the 'dibs' on amenities: the cook, the butler, etc etc. But it was not his, it was the Red Tide Mafia's.

One could not see them, but the place was crawling with Red Tide Mafia men, some of them Capo's, most of them thugs. He glanced at the city map on the wall, red denoted the RTM's 'territory' as most other gangs would call it, he considered it his gangs 'real estate'. He stared at the map and pondered his next move.

A basement somewhere in a apartment district, Uptown Hydria.

"You know..." The Red Tidean Capo said to the owner of a bar around the block. "This place is nice, I mean, real nice. You want to know what happens in a Commissariat Garrison HQ? When they interrogate you, I mean."

The man did not reply. The Capo nodded and the thug next to the man slammed his fist into the bar owners face. The owner stumbled back with a cry, blood running down his nose.

"They have this chemical they call 'Hycid', its a combination of that stuff that makes you talk, potassium-something-or-another, and a neural enhancer drug. It makes your nervous system real sensitive. They wait for the Hycid to take effect, then they peel your skin away... with a knife. So, are you going to accept our protection and pay?"

The man spat blood onto the Capo's nice shoes. The Capo merely smiled, then switched to Russian, "Alright, let's dunk him."

Thus began the waterboarding...

As the motorcyclists roared past, the Sons peered out from behind their mattresses, aiming shotguns and pistols surreptitiously at the biker gang, willing them onward. If they stopped, it would mean either encroachment onto their territory, or a deliberate siege on their home. Both would result in the same thing. Thankfully, at this point, the bikers seemed to be passing through, but they could stop at any time. "Fething leathers filled up the street," someone said quietly.

The Intruders road past them, there motors dying down into the night. The Intruder implied there name, they didn't care who's turf they were on, they went where they saw fit. If others didn't like it, they needed to be ready to spill blood to stay where they were, this gang was all about violence.

An relieved sigh rang out through the front room of the townhouse, as the snarling motors faded into the distance. Cautiously, the mattresses were lowered back onto the floor. After an hour, weapons were returned to their places under beds, leaned against cupboards, or laid out in the basement. When that was done, they formed up in a ring around Baelian. He was the leader, and they took their orders from him.

"Kale, that was good work with the ring, and the truck. You too, Tony. Jacob I saw you take charge of the Unders while I was upstairs, good work, maybe one day you'll lead the Sons. Sam, I want you on watch in the widows peek, take a pair of binoculars, but don't take a gun out of the case unless you see someone coming for us. Pretend your birdwatching or peeping through some girls curtains, but don't really, or you might get shot." The other boys chuckled. Sam turned red.

"Uppers, I want you out tonight. Kale, see if you and Anthony can get another truck, maybe a SUV this time. I'll be taking some of you to check out a gun deal a few blocks away. Remember, it isn't all stealing and breaking shit here. We got a job to do." The other boys yelled affirmatives, and went into a flurry of activity, getting their gear ready to go.

South Side

Of course, no race would be complete without the occasional oddball. Jenkan was this race's oddball. A member of the Drunken Hobo Alliance, he was unusual in that he was actually interested in mechanics. This made him the group's mechanic by default, even though he wasn't exactly the most competent at it. Still, this race would be the perfect opportunity to show off his mechanical skills.

Thus, the race participants were greeted by the oddity of a shopping cart rolling up to join in. The motor itself was beneath the basket, with the basket serving as the seat and a complicated series of levers serving for brake and gas pedals. He even had a little steering wheel in the basket with him.

"Ya'll are having a race?" Jenkan asked.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?"

Even downstairs, the shout could be heard clear as if you were stood in the room. "Sawn-Off" McTavish was not someone you wanted to piss off, as he didn't get his nickname from smuggling shotguns. Oh no, it was far worse than that.

Eddie & Steven squirmed uncomfortably under Mickey's stare

"I thought you said teach 'em a lesson Boss?" Eddie asked, the confidence in his voice waining

"I meant rough 'em up a little, not massacre them!" Mickey shouted "Now get out of my sight, you pair of complete idiots!" The phone on Mickey's desk began ringing, he grabbed it as the pair left the room

"Bonjour" he said "Ah, Detective Inspector Wilson, how nice of - Well, why do you think i've been paying you that little bit extra?"

There was a pause

"Well, I could always give those pictures to the Chief Justice and take my highly profitable business elsewhere, no?"

There was another pause

"Okay, you do that" he finished, slamming the phone down. He pulled a small silver hip flask from his jacket, took a swig, and then put it away. He looked down into the warehouse his office was located in. Gang members scuttled about, fixing cars & such. The guns weren't here. They were kept safe in another part of the city.

Several men were riding in the back of a stolen blue 1962 Ford F250, their driver alone in the pickup truck while the others conversed in the back of the vehicle. The passengers in the back were armed with various weaponry, two AK-47's, an Uzi, and a Zastava LP M80 shotgun. The driver had a Zastava M57 handgun, and he drove his men towards a small internet cafe.

Upon arrival, the man with the Uzi disembarked and entered the establishment. He walked up to the counter at the entrance and approached a young lady, who appeared English, and purposely spoke to her in his native tongue.

"Trebam razgovarati s vlasnikom (I need to speak to the owner)," began the gangster.

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand you," replied the girl nervously.

"Let mee... speek to, you-urr boss," said the man in broken English, with a heavy Slavic accent.

Overhearing the conversation, the owner of the cafe stepped out, and held an envelope in hand.

"Take it," he said, "your cut is in there."

The Slav took the envelope, opened it up, checked inside and was content with the money. He turned around and walked outside and went back into the truck. The owner and the girl watched as the truck drove away...

Downtown Hydria

Fedor made sure to breath very slowly as he adjusted the scope on his Dragunov Sniper Rifle. He was an Assassin for the RTM, someone whose job it was to silence those who may cause trouble for his organisations 'business'. Today, he was going to silence a witness who was going to testify against a Capo who was being tried in absentia. The fact that this witness was also a member of the Hosokawa Clan ment nothing to Fedor.

He peered through the scope, first scanning the windows of the police station. Good, the police were stupid enough to not put counter-sniper teams up there. Then he brought his rifle down and focused on the Hosokawa Clan Member.

A car door opened for him...

"Click." Fedor said as he pulled the trigger and watched the brains of the Member spray over the sidewalk. He made sure to grab the shell casing that had been ejected onto the floor when he pulled the trigger then he made his getaway.

The police would find little to nothing to use against the RTM.

Bojan and his friend were both members of the North-Side Slavs, who were busy eating lunch near a police station in Hydria. Bojan had a taste for American fast food, and against his friend's request he still went to a fast food store to buy a cheese burger. He raised the sandwich and took a bite, and just as his friend was about to speak a loud bang made them jump. Looking around to ascertain the situation, it seemed that a man was shot in front of the police station. They both got up and got into their car, and drove away. While Bojan entered the car he said, "Kakvo ludo svijet je to (Such a crazy world)..."

His friend made no comment, only looked back at the bloody scene that they were leaving.

South Side

Teru looked up from the table, noticing the racers beginning to take their place. Already, a small crowd had begun to gather along the sidewalk, and Teru could hear loud rap music being blasted from one of the car's speakers.

There was always plenty of cars to gather for these races, all sorts of formula-1 cars gathering to join in in the action.

Then, suddenly, the background noise of people chattering stopped, leaving only the rap music from the speakers. Teru looked towards the window, to see what the unnerving silence was about.

The crowd seemed to be staring at an unusual looking vehicle, being piloted by a rather raggedy-dressed man, who would've looked more in place sleeping on the sidewalk or begging for change.

Looking at the "vehicle" more closely, Teru noticed that it was nothing more then a shopping cart, with something resembling an engine strapped to the bottom.

Teru tried not to laugh as he approached the guy driving it.

"Ya'll are having a race?"

Teru nearly gagged at the breath of the driver, it resembling something of a combination of sour milk, cheap whiskey, and smoke. Whatever it was, it was bad.

Recovering from his near-death experience, Teru walked up to the cart, trying not to notice the body odor of the driver, which was the general stench of regular old vomit. He gave it a kick with his right foot.

"This is yours?" He said, with heavily accented english.
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Downtown Hydria

Akira peered out of the window of his hotel room into the commotion below. He had been sent by Toyoma Hosokawa himself (OOC: Remember the little whispering in my first post?) to end the life of a certain Isao Fukushima, a low-level clan member who had betrayed the blood oath sworn when he had been inducted. He was about to testify in the Ustio North legal system, naming a ranking member of a rival orginization, along with several members of the Hosokawa Clan itself in the process. If this was to happen, the security of the clan in Ustio North would be compromised, which could have dire consequences for all involved.

But it seems someone had beat him to the punch.

Peering out his window, he noticed that the brains of his target had already been splattered across the sidewalk, and pedestrians nearby were running for their lives. Already, he could see police emerging from the station, and forming a perimeter around the body. It wouldn't go well for them to have their witness shot to death right in front of them.

Akira briefly took a moment to wonder who had shot him. In all possibility, the killer was probably a member of the same rival organization, after poor Fukushima for the same reasons Akira was. He gripped his sheathed katana sword as he turned away from the window, closing a large metal briefcase, which contained the parts for a sniper rifle. He placed the katana in the briefcase, picked it up, and headed for the door, producing a cell phone in the process. Hosokawa-sama would have to know of this.

He would probably launch his own, private investigation into who the killers were.

Near North Side

Two men walked into a Chinese Restaurant. "You got our money, Wan?" one asked. The old man behind the counter was silent. "You know, this is a pretty dangerous neighborhood," the man continued. Still silence, "Tony, show Mr. Wan here just how dangerous this neighborhood can be."
"Sure Dack," Tony said. Dack pulled out a cigar, and a match. Tony took a crowbar out, that he had been hiding under his suit, and used it to knock over a line of vases. Mr. Wan shouted, "Get out, both of you, out of my restaurant." The Mr. Wan pulled a 12 gauge out from under the counter. "Fine, we'll go, but it's a bad neighborhood, lets go Tony," Dack said, and the both walked outside. Tony went over to the BMW parked nearby, and removed a gas can from the trunk. They then walked right back into the restaurant. Mr. Wan had replaced the shotgun under the counter, and before he could reach it, Dack pulled a pistol out of his jacked, and hit Mr. Wan in the head with it. Then Tony went about spreading gasoline around the lobby, while Dack pulled Mr. Wan out from behind the counter, and tied him to a chair. Tony finished just as Mr. Wan was coming too. Dack noticed and said, "Mr. Wan, I'm glad to see your okay," as he placed his cigar in his mouth, and lit the match. He then lit the cigar, and as the two men walked out, he said, "I told you it was a bad neighborhood," and tossed the match towards Mr. Wan. The gasoline ignited immediately, and the fire quickly engulfed the storefront, and Mr. Wan.

As the young men walked along the street, one of them caught up to Baelian.

"Sir, checked the account while you were out. We need to find some work fast if we want to stay afloat when the others get here. Also, if those bikers come back, we're gonna want better weapons than what we have, which means even more money."

"Well, we're gonna need jobs. Maybe some Mafioso needs work done for 'im."

Jenkan merely watched the others, noting how they reacted. So his car wasn't up to their fancy-shmancy cars. So it didn't look the greatest in the world. It would do the job, he figured. Plus, unlike them, his car was more easily replaced if it was wrecked. And, of course, the man who he figured to be the race organizer showed up.

"This is yours?" He said, with heavily accented english.

"Yep. Built 'er meself. Lotta love put inta 'er. She'll hold up," came Jenkan's reply, including even more of the horrid breath.

Julio was a Hispanic immigrant living in Hydria, and like most other immigrants he has a very low status and is tight on money. Dressed like a stereotypical latino gangster, Julio walked down an avenue to walk to his girlfriend's apartment.

Cuarenta cinco, cuarenta seis, cuarenta siete... he thought quietly in his mind, arriving at his girlfriend's apartment. Julio knocked on door 047, called his girlfriend's name Maria, and waited until she opened the door.

"Julio?" came a query.

"Amor," replied Julio. Maria opened her door and greeted her lover. It was dark outside, so she had checked before she opened the door to greet Julio outside.

"Hey babe," said Julio in English. Maria smiled, but soon both of their attentions were called by the sound of footsteps approaching. Around the corner came Niko Dranovič, a North-Side Slav, carrying a briefcase.

"Hey whitey!" called Julio, mockingly. Maria frowned at the statement, not wanting to see a fight.

"Julio, no," she said softly.

"Hold on, you know we're tight on money and this could be big," replied Julio to her.

"Hey, you white boy!" called out Julio, approaching Niko. "What's in your briefcase, gringo!"

Niko looked at Julio, and gave him a hard look, but remained silent. Julio was angered, and drew a switchblade at the man.

"Uzmi to vam komad smeća, prije nego što umremo (Put that away, you piece of garbage)," replied Niko sternly, in his own language.

"I ain't playin' whitey," scolded Julio, closing the distance between himself and his victim. He noticed that Niko was not looking at him, but seemed to be looking at something else. Maria cried out to Julio, "Babe look out!" Julio turned around but it was too late; another North-Side Slav slammed the butt of his AK-47 into Julio's face and knocked him unconscious. Julio fell to the floor, bleeding profusely and Maria cried out to him again and ran out to hold him. Niko drew a Makarov PM and shot her once, she fell to the floor while Julio woke up and moved his tired arm to wipe some blood off his face. Niko and his friend walked towards Julio and stood above him. He tried to mutter something in Spanish, but nothing came out of his mouth. He wanted to try to move away from the two men but he couldn't feel his limbs and couldn't get his muscles to move again. He heard Niko, the one he tried to rob, say something in a foreign language and his comrade aiming his AK-47. Next thing Julio knew he was staring into the barrel of the assault rifle, and Maria watched his, but clenching her stomach in pain. The Slav fired a single round into Julio's forehead, and Maria screamed loudly in grief. Niko shut her up shooting her in the head with his pistol. The two men continued to walk onwards to deliver a good sum of extortion money to their boss.

"Yep. Built 'er meself. Lotta love put inta 'er. She'll hold up."

Battling the oncoming wave of halitosis, Teru stood firm. Goddamn, the least he could to was wash his mouth out with water. Coming back to the present, he still had a job to do, even if it was crazy.

"Place yer bets for, uhh, that guy."

Unsurprisingly, the crowd stared blankly, still taken back by the seriousness of the bum.

Well, it WAS an open race, after all. Even crazy bums that prattle on about the end of the world could join.

"Take your place."

In the honeymoon suite at the Gianpiero, a large number of businessmen of various nationalities had met to watch some racing. The shots weren't good, they were provided by some web cameras operated by people in the area who were in the employ of the Saints.

They were watching, or rather gambling on -- these races themselves were not terribly exciting, especially with the low-resolution -- the street races. Both illegal, but one was decidedly more intelligent. Of course, the gambling wouldn't exist without the racing, but no one would be caught for the bets. After all, they were in casino, not a gambling den, and who would ever think "hey, maybe there's illegal activity in the honeymoon suite, let's go check it out." Well, perhaps that was untrue; Mario's upper-crust prostitutes sometimes talked their clients into renting this suite. The more money the Gianpiero made, however it was made, the better.

An attendant bent down to listen to his boss. He stood and announced to no one in particular, "Mr. Honda places five on the homeless man."

Murmers and laughs followed, along with, "Insane motherfucker."

Of course, to "Mr. Honda," five hundred was toilet paper. If he wanted to throw it away, who was to argue?

Another voice piped up, "Oh, would they just do it already?"

Casino
As soon as Mr. Takeda walked through the doors of the casino, he knew where he was. A blast of noise from wayward patrons wasting their money on the slot machines, or shooting craps. He adjusted his suit jacket, and his sunglasses. As he entered the door, he motioned to his men, who were dressed in a similiar fashion. They flanked him as he approached the counter, one of them clutching a large briefcase.

"I would like to speak to owner."

Poke's Place

In a little-known bar on a main thoroughfare. Four young men entered the establishment, sat at a table for eight, a good way from the bar and it's tender, and waited. A pretty waitress bounced up to the booth they had chosen, asking for their order. To a man, they asked for a pint of Guinness, and all took deep drinks when they arrived. After several minutes, four big men in black coats sat on the other side of the table without a word. The leader waved the waitress away before saying, "Where are the weapons stored?" He said this in clear English. Baelian leaned across the table, looking directly at the bigger man. "Where is my money?" The man laughed, and held out a hand. His subordinate handed him a duffel, which he placed on the table between them. Baelian unzipped it, looked inside, then leaned back, satisfied.

"The weapons are in a warehouse in the industrial district, and I will give you the address when we're done here. When you get there, tell the sentry that Valker sent you, and he will unbolt the door. Be aware that he will be neither alone or unarmed, nor will he be slack. I expect you will be fair about this, considering the amount of arms we are supplying to your friend." The big man nodded with a serious expression.

"All business, my employer respects that. However, he wants to know exactly what it is he is purchasing."

Baelian spoke in a low tone, watching the man carefully. After a pause, he said, "Five thousand Vrykolakas Assault Rifles, copies, of course, but all fully functional. You could use an original and one of ours and you wouldn't feel the difference. The design came from the Vrykolakas Modular Assault Weapon, but the military decided it wasn't efficient to copy the whole thing, so that's what I have. This is the statistics sheet, here." The youth pulled a large white sheet of paper from his coat and handed it to his buyer, who gave it a cursory glance, then looked back at the younger man. "We brought one mil. How much will it cost?"

"USD? Another mil, I'll cut off the half for you being so good as to meet with us, if you'll give the word to your employer that we did so. Give the money to the sentry." Baelian finished his Guinness, the last of his group to do so, and stood. "Gentlemen, pleasure doing business."

"Likewise, young man. Our employer will be very pleased with your prices, and we hope to do business in the future."

They parted ways, the black garbed men getting into a black SUV, the younger men walking slowly down the street in the opposite direction of home.

Casino
As soon as Mr. Takeda walked through the doors of the casino, he knew where he was. A blast of noise from wayward patrons wasting their money on the slot machines, or shooting craps. He adjusted his suit jacket, and his sunglasses. As he entered the door, he motioned to his men, who were dressed in a similiar fashion. They flanked him as he approached the counter, one of them clutching a large briefcase.

"I would like to speak to owner."

The woman working at the service counter smiled, showing off bright, perfectly-straight teeth. "And may I ask who you are?"

This man was blunt, and had similarly dress companions, and looked exactly like the kind of people, were this a film, who would be taking part in back room dealings. That, of course, made it rather suspicious to the patrons of the casino, and to any potential undercover police.

One of the men at the counter, a security guard, discreetly tapped his glasses, hoping the men would notice and remove their sunglasses. If they had done this kind of thing before, they'd understand. If they hadn't then, well, they weren't anything to worry about, anyway, in theory.

"Take your place."

Which the bum did, by bringing his cart in line with the other cars. He just couldn't wait for the race to start.

The Casino

After beating the old man and those talking with him senseless and raiding the boat for any booze, food, weapons, and money it had, the group was feeling good. In fact, they were feeling good enough that they decided to gamble. It was thus that they found a Casino and decided to go in.

Of course, the stench of one of them was bad, but the stench of seven? Those near the front door of the casino would be able to smell the bums long before they even reached the door, let alone how bad the combined assault on the senses they would be once they were inside. The bums, naturally, were used to being thrown out of places like this, though they hoped that their vast fortune of two hundred dollars and seven cents would be enough to let them stay.

Casino

Mr. Takeda smiled, removing his sunglasses and placing them neatly in his pocket. Mr. Hosokawa was very well aware of the Saints', and that this establishment was nothing more then a front for their operations in the area, as well as a secure spot to throw money around for not being noticed. Truth be told, Mr. Hosokawa wanted in on the action.

"Of course, forgive my manners." He said. "My name is Mr. Shinji Okada, and I am interested in engaging in a business venture with the owners of this establishment." He smiled. Of course he wouldn't use his real name. It would make him easy to track.

---------------------------------------------------------
South Side
Teru opened his mouth to speak again, but found that no words would come out. Closing them again, he walked over to the sidelines, were he conversed with a his fellows in Angenterian.

"Do you really think that's okay? Just letting him in like that?"

[I]"Probably not, but what the fuck? It'll be funny."[I]

A scantily clad young woman walked out in front of the starting line, and looked over the racers. She brought her hands up, hushing the crowd instantly. Then, as quickly as she brought them up, she brought them down to her waist, as the racers gunned their engines. All sorts of vehicle noises were made, and the race had begun.

The Casino

Salvador "Sal" Smith, son of the mysterious Mr. Smith, and his associate Gregory Peck, arrived at the casino, in a black BMW. They entered the casino, looking from Mr. Carver, who owed Sal quite a bit of money. From what they knew, he was in one of the rooms gambling, though they didn't know which one, though they were going to find out.

Which the bum did, by bringing his cart in line with the other cars. He just couldn't wait for the race to start.

The Casino

After beating the old man and those talking with him senseless and raiding the boat for any booze, food, weapons, and money it had, the group was feeling good. In fact, they were feeling good enough that they decided to gamble. It was thus that they found a Casino and decided to go in.

Of course, the stench of one of them was bad, but the stench of seven? Those near the front door of the casino would be able to smell the bums long before they even reached the door, let alone how bad the combined assault on the senses they would be once they were inside. The bums, naturally, were used to being thrown out of places like this, though they hoped that their vast fortune of two hundred dollars and seven cents would be enough to let them stay.

The security at the doorway gagged a little as they approached the bums before they could get too close to the door, and certainly before they soiled the red carpet.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but you're going to have to go around back." The Santherese were never ones to shun an opportunity to make a little more money from people who volunteered it. They just had to keep the tired, hungry, huddled masses away from the moneyed people, the ones who really mattered in both life and business (of course, those were mostly the same thing) and the ones capable of being offended. Or at least, the ones who mattered when they were offended.

To show they were serious, all three of them pushed their coats aside ever so slightly to show their weapons, and the large clips inside them.


Casino

Mr. Takeda smiled, removing his sunglasses and placing them neatly in his pocket. Mr. Hosokawa was very well aware of the Saints', and that this establishment was nothing more then a front for their operations in the area, as well as a secure spot to throw money around for not being noticed. Truth be told, Mr. Hosokawa wanted in on the action.

"Of course, forgive my manners." He said. "My name is Mr. Shinji Okada, and I am interested in engaging in a business venture with the owners of this establishment." He smiled. Of course he wouldn't use his real name. It would make him easy to track.

The receptionist smiled again, "Welcome to the Gianpiero, Mr. Okada. Mr. Ciaramitaro is in a meeting currently, but it may finish soon. Would you like to be escorted to his office? We can provide beverages free of charge for all of you for your wait. Security will take care of you."

The security stepped around to escort them, as no matter where they wanted to go, the guards would have to go as well. The receptionist slid her chair over to another window and called out in a pleasant tone...

The Casino

Salvador "Sal" Smith, son of the mysterious Mr. Smith, and his associate Gregory Peck, arrived at the casino, in a black BMW. They entered the casino, looking from Mr. Carver, who owed Sal quite a bit of money. From what they knew, he was in one of the rooms gambling, though they didn't know which one, though they were going to find out.

... "May I help you, sirs?" They did look a little lost, and fairly determined. She was a little worried about the latter, as determined men were usually the kind of men who threatened the neutrality of the casino amongst the powerful gangs and mafia in the area. Still, she smiled that wide, bright smile of hers. She was here to help, after all, and people didn't hurt girls like her.

Besides, security was always present, even if they didn't stand out in the crowd.

The receptionist smiled again, "Welcome to the Gianpiero, Mr. Okada. Mr. Ciaramitaro is in a meeting currently, but it may finish soon. Would you like to be escorted to his office? We can provide beverages free of charge for all of you for your wait. Security will take care of you."

The security stepped around to escort them, as no matter where they wanted to go, the guards would have to go as well. The receptionist slid her chair over to another window and called out in a pleasant tone...

Mr. Takeda smiled. Perhaps he'd have to report good news after all. "That would be most acceptable."

Mickey McTavish stepped into the Casino, swivelling his key fob around his finger. He walked up to the receptionist

"I'm looking for a Mr. Ciaramitaro" he said, a thick east end accent to his voice "I'm told this is his casino"

OOC: Sorry to interrupt but where do i sign up?

OOC: The SignUp Thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?threadid=567120). I did close signups, but since some people seem to be missing I could make an exception.

Two teenage boys walk down the street slightly ahead of a larger group of like individuals.

"It's got good structure, eh," said one, "but for a safe house? A tavern?"

"He owns the building above, too." That was the others reply, "Second story flat, bottom floor is the bar, then a basement. Good enough for us, and we'll get a good income."

"How much does he want for it?"

"Fifteen hundred, USD."

"Fething Hel. Still, what with the money we're gonna make on this deal..."

"Yeah. I still dunno how we're gonna get the word out about the guns we're selling, though. If we get really fragging lucky, those guys will tell their boss, and he'll tell someone else."

The security at the doorway gagged a little as they approached the bums before they could get too close to the door, and certainly before they soiled the red carpet.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but you're going to have to go around back." The Santherese were never ones to shun an opportunity to make a little more money from people who volunteered it. They just had to keep the tired, hungry, huddled masses away from the moneyed people, the ones who really mattered in both life and business (of course, those were mostly the same thing) and the ones capable of being offended. Or at least, the ones who mattered when they were offended.

To show they were serious, all three of them pushed their coats aside ever so slightly to show their weapons, and the large clips inside them.

Unfortunately, one of the bums misunderstood. Upon hearing that part about going around back, he clutched his rear and ran off screaming, something about "noo!" and "not again!" The other bums just watched as their comrade ran off, before turning back to the security guards. They then nodded and began to shuffle around towards the back, though the smell would linger for close to an hour after they left if nothing was done about it.

After a few minutes of silence, the boy with all the questions asked, "So, why don't we use the guns we're selling out here?"

"'Cause we need the money more than we need guns. Plus, these are big, clunky guns with a lot of parts, high profile types. We need pistols and shotguns more than we need machine guns and assault rifles. We have been keeping some of the guns, but I want weapons we can take to the street." They continued on a ways before speaking again. "So, we need to find someone who wants military weapons in return for smaller weapons. Come on, let's get home before talking more. Fragging cold out."