Sorry about the late update, readers~ Been having much fun filling stuff for the kink meme. xD
Six : Boomerang
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Phoenix drew out the cigarette and blew a small tendril of smoke out. It coils, twisting onto itself, before floating out of the window to pester the moonlight or some other small bird still awake. The rest of the smoke he swallows – not exactly swallow, because smoke is a substance that isn't solid – but the close enough equivalent anyway. It warms him from the inside, and it's like drinking a whole cup of hot, albeit murderous, cocoa.
They had moved from the hall to the second floor parlor at a flick of Kristoph Gavinne's arrogant hand. The other gangs had all dispersed, though none can mask that curious expression on their face. If Gramarye and Gavinne is doing 'business', it might well lead to something disastrous for them, like one swallowing the other. If that happened, the balance of L.A's turf would turn right to the victorious gang...And that would be the end of them.
Still they left. You don't argue with Kristoph Gavinne after all, when he's pinning you with that eerily cold glance of his. When Phoenix sees Kristoph, he's always had this urge. The urge to walk up to the man, and peer into those eyes – maybe even shout down it, and see if his voice echoes in the empty space inside.
The window's open, so the light plays a little onto the marble chessboard between them. Kristoph lifts one groomed hand and move his white knight forward, and from the way it glistens – it looks like he made the move more to let his knight reflect light than for any obvious purpose.
"So tell me, Wright. How does it feel to get something you've been wanting for so long?"
Phoenix tucked his cigarette into his next finger, and lifted his black knight to mimic Kristoph's. "It was a long time in coming anyway."
"How so?"
"You mean you forgot to spy on that one?" He sneered. Kristoph's eyes are everywhere. He's the press of the underworld. The eye in their sky. 'The Gentleman' is not above gentlemanly activities, like voyeurism.
"Not really, but enlighten me anyway."
"They've been disgruntled, is all. The gang's been nothing but stagnant ever since Zak left for Sicily. No growth, no nothing."
"Ah, the Wall Street isn't looking good then." Kristoph joked.
The black knight moved again, glowering down at Kristoph's white pawn. "Well," Phoenix allowed generously. "He's been the boss for a long long time now."
"A long and fruitful life then. I must wipe at my eye."
"Six years," He forged on with a small smirk. "That's a long long time, don't you think? Considering that most of us either last a month or forever."
"Seven years, Phoenix. I think I can count quite well, considering that was when I was excised from the group." Kristoph stated flatly.
"Left."
'Excised."
They don't bother bringing it up. It's a long long story anyway, enough to fill a tome-thick biography of their lives.
"Excised," Kristoph repeated stubbornly. "He made a choice, I believe, when he received the gang from Magnifi. Who the underboss would be was his decision to make – and he chose you."
The barely concealed anger, as always, is there. There's something creepy about talking with people who don't show emotions on their faces. Just like Kristoph Gavin. His face is a complete mask – when he speaks, no matter how violent or cruel those words are, his face never changes. A slight teasing smile, a calm, paternal sort of demeanor that simply confirms the inner you that believes he is, and will always be, beyond you in everything – that's all.
You can't conceal yourself completely though – no one's as good as that. When he speaks, you can hear the venom lashing about, rolling around like poison in a glass you're swirling.
"Ah, but then now that he's gone, you're on the run for one of the longest one around, aren't you?" Phoenix asked him, cocking one eyebrow. "Kitaki announced that he wanted to go straight – and I still think that's hilarious – which means that once he's gone, five will be down to three."
"Gavinne, Gramarye, Rivales. Three." Kristoph scratched the wood lightly, and Phoenix is struck by how...Bland their banter is. Like dancing. Throw it back, throw it forth. Not going anywhere – has it always been like this with him? Yes.
Phoenix sat back from where he had been leaning forward, pondering the chessboard with one hand tucked under his stubbly chin.
"I think that's enough meandering, don't you think? Let's talk business."
"Let's." He announced graciously, sitting back himself. "I never did quite like house calls."
Phoenix extracted his ever-present notebook and a pen. Somewhere in the house, he hears giggling – it's just so quiet that you can hear mice padding – and Armando must be working his magic with the ladies again. Even one-eyed, he's got more luck than Phoenix ever did with ladies. Phoenix scrawled down a figure on a page, ripped it out, and slid it across the table.
Kristoph slid it off and inspected it, arching one blonde eyebrow. "My, what's this? Your identification number? I'm touched, Wright."
Phoenix grinned. "You wish, Gavinne. No, that's my price."
"Ah." He snorted delicately. "Wouldn't it make more sense to tell me in the first place what you are selling? For such a sum, I hope it's a little more than sticks and stones, Wright."
"Well, it's a little more than sticks and stones, that's for sure."
"And that's...?"
At this, Phoenix's face dissolved into a visible scowl. Meandering again, that's what Kristoph does best. Always beating around the bush and never to the point. "Won't you cut the bullshit out? You know as well as I do what I'm selling you. You can't not know – after all, that was your men sneaking around the place to see if the shipment's been completely taken, wasn't it?"
"Ah, you're the one who had taken it then.'
"As if you don't know," He growled. "Why do you insist on this...Act of yours, Gavinne? We all know what you are like. You'll strike a man between the shoulder blades with an axe if you think it'll get you what you want."
Kristoph righted his glasses and chuckled merrily. "Ah, but that's the fun part about it, isn't it? Life's a big game of make-pretend, Wright. We never did grow up from the times when a sandbox is the world. All it did was replace that sandbox with a bigger sandbox, with more mud."
Phoenix smiled thinly. "Glad to see you consider yourself part of the world then, Kristoph."
The man chuckled again, and raised his wineglass to his lips. There's a merriment in his eyes that Phoenix doesn't like. It reeks of expectancy – like he had expected this all along, and had planned something appropriate for the occasion. That sip of wine looks too much like a farewell drink.
"So we've established that you were the one who had raided amidst the fire. What then, do you plan to do with the shipment?"
"Sell it," Phoenix shot back.
"To me? Why not the masses then? You'll make more profit processing the thing into billable goods for the general drug scene."
But that's the thing – and it hangs in the middle of the air like one of Diego's smelly blends. They can't. The Gramarye gang had suffered so much losses thanks to Zak and his hypocritical ways that they might as well be flat broke where their bank account is concerned. Zak and his high-handed ways had seen to that. This? Unsatisfactory. We're gangs, Wright – but that doesn't mean we have to abandon honour. And Phoenix would gnash his teeth every time he hears that.
Yes, Phoenix has honour too – but there's a fine difference between being honourable, and being a downright coward. Some days he can't tell which Zak Gramarye is – probably the latter.
Anyway, where was he before he rambled off in the wrong direction? Oh yes, they're broke. Newsflash. Phoenix Wright is broke – or rather, the gang he's heading is. Now why doesn't that surprise anyone? But then the fact remains – processing crack doesn't come cheap. You need the manpower, and then you need the hideout for it. With CA the way CA is and the new chief being a general pain in everyone's ass, it'll take a lot to run the whole operation. Money that the gang doesn't have, obviously.
Kristoph picked up on it like a bitch smelling a new bone.
"Ah, but then. Could it be because...The gang doesn't wish to get into the drug business?" His smiled turned patronizing, and no one in the world will tell you otherwise – Kristoph Gavinne knows. "That must be it, mm, Phoenix? There couldn't be any other reason now, would there?"
Phoenix flashed him a flat smile to mirror his own.
"Yeah, that's right."
Stripped of his chance to gloat, Kristoph only settled back into his armchair and fold his arms, looking smug. "Ah, such honourable people. But then what makes you so sure that I would want to get into the drug scene?"
At this, Phoenix snorted. Oh, you mean, you killed this guy, risk a war in your hands, because you don't want the drug shipment floating around and up for grabs? Why else would you kill Zak Gramarye if it isn't to prevent him from stopping you when the time comes to snatch the shipment away from the Cadaverinnis? Phoenix twirled the black pawn around in his fingers.
"Oh I don't know. Call it a hunch. I had another reason to want Zak gone – you don't seem to have any other than to get him out of the way."
"Yes, and it seems I miscalculated there, hmm? You turn out to be more trouble than Zak could ever have been."
"If you cut off it's head, two will sprout in it's place," He quipped utterly deadpanned. Kristoph said nothing, only swirling his wine some more.
"Indeed."
"Now." Phoenix leaned forward, not even caring if it let his eagerness showed anymore. He wanted the drug shipment out of his hands, and the money in the bank. With it, he'll restore the thing back into shape, back into the way it had been back in Magnifi's days – you could say he promised himself he'll get that done for someone. If Gavinne is going to make a ton of profit from their little deal, fine – he couldn't care less. It could have easily been zero cents for them. If Kristoph had gotten to the shipment before them, they would be leaving empty handed.
"Let's not procrastinate. The price. Do you agree to it?"
Kristoph swirled it some more and replaced the glass beside the chessboard. He sat back and glanced up dreamily at the roof, the picture of a daydreaming gentleman right out of some gushy woman's magazine. It's not fooling Phoenix though. The man must be running calculations like a train. Chug-a-lug-lug. Profit? Probably worth it, because he sat back up and met Phoenix's eyes.
"Very well then."
Phoenix raised a suspicious eyebrow. That was too easy. He had expected Kristoph to haggle to the bitter end – after all, he really is the one holding all the cards. The shipment does nothing for Phoenix other than to pepper himself with more crimes if the police caught up to them. Instead, Kristoph gave him a lazy, almost pleasant smile.
"Yes, Phoenix, very well. I'll pay that price of yours."
"You will?" He returned, frowning in suspicion. "No strings attached?"
"No, no strings attached....Well, for now."
Phoenix nodded. That was much better. The world just isn't right when Kristoph isn't being sneaky and all manners of bastardity. "You're not getting a liver of mine though," He joked – a tiny smile breaking in his own face. With the drug shipment gone, the next step will then be able to progress, preferably without crossing this man's path again.
Kristoph merely rolled his eyes at him and said scornfully. "You can keep your liver to yourself – I prefer healthier organs."
"It can't be worse than your wino liver – at least I only do grape juice."
"Wine has antioxidants," Kristoph shot right back. The white knight went forwards for one last move, and then the chessboard is abandoned as the both of them stood, signifying the end of the conversation. "Very well then Wright. I think that about sums up our little 'business' deal? The pier in three days, I believe – I'll contact you when I decide."
Phoenix nodded. "The pier in three it is then."
Then they shook, and the deal is done.
"Argh, Jesus Christ!"
"Hold still."
"Hold still!? Hold my still ass still you mean – what are you trying to do, kill me?"
"I said." The hands on Zee's elbow clamped around it like a hard vice. "Hold still."
"And if I don't?" He retorted, snapping back at him.
"Then you can walk around with a broken arm and explain to the officers why you look like a survivor of Zombieland."
Oh. Good point.
Zee bit down on his lower lip as the arm got moved into place. It sure isn't the neatest job on Earth, and he's not even sure if it's going to reattach at all. But like Klavier said – they're not going to Meraktis until his brother gives them an a-okay for it. The city's just witness three whole cars smoking and crushed in the middle of the highway. Including the truck and Zee's own baby, that would be five – and some ratass politician is going to have to make a speech on it for the general public.
I'm sorry folks, but that was just drunken driving. Here, have five campaigns to prevent alcohol. What's that you say? They're not going to work? Have five more anyway – they're paid with your tax money anyway, so I don't really care.
Things are bound to get dug up by the journalists. They're kinda like hounds, and between the whole band thing and the whole mob thing, Zee doesn't know which kind of paparazzi he hates more. Rock Band Paparazzis are tenacious, and they like to run after your cars with pickaxes. On the other hand, they're not awfully concerned with getting information – because what they don't have, they'll just make up anyway. Fill in the holes of the explanation with their own explanations.
On the other hand, the Politic Journalist likes their facts. They like it so much that they never ever leave your doorsteps. They're scarier than a whole herd of on the double bloodhounds, sticking their mics up your nose like they wanna dig your nose clean of all that booger you been hiding up it. Those don't make up so much stuff, and at least things they report are only about fifty percent twisted out of context. Doesn't make do for the--
"OW!"
"I thought I told you to hold still."
"I can''t hold still when you're twisting my arm around," Zee snapped back. "And I was daydreaming right until you decided to crack my elbow backwards."
"Hmm." Enrich examined his elbow like it was a unattached limb, which concerned Zee greatly, to the great expense which he could be concern with anyway. The thing doesn't look too good. It's all...Dunno. Purple. Kind of like Klavier's coat? Yeah. Except a little more bloodstained. Zee's ain't no biology expert, but he can tell his arm don't look too good – and he probably shoulda thought a little harder before cracking the boot apart with calcium carbonate.
"Alright...If that's all there is..." Enrich wanders off and return with a huge roll of bandages. He twisted Zee's arm into a satisfactory position (Which just looks all the more broken to Zee, but ah, what the hell does he know.) and started looping the white stuff around it until his arm looks like the return of the great mummy. (And he don't mean that one with the apron.)
"What, no cast?" He dragged his arm upwards, winced at the dulled pain. It still feels unattached.
"I'm a coroner," Richie stated flatly. "The only people I treat are dead people – and those, as you obviously know – do not actually need casts."
"Yeah, yeah. So what do you do if they broke something?"
"I cut them apart."
Oh. Yeah. Coroner, right.
"Damn, I wish Nail knows. He's gotta be a million times better than you when it comes to first aid." He commented, attempting to move the arm. Nail's the last member of their little band – at least until Klavy-davy-boy finds them a second guitar. Nail's the nice guy though, can't stomach blood – so they neglected telling him about the whole gee-Klavier's-brother-is-a-gang-leader-and-so-are-we-all thing. Enrich's kinda a given. They need him to erase records of ah...'Things' left behind in dead people's body.
Enrich just looked at him. "You'll rethink that when you die. I'm better than him at cutting up the dead," He stated, completely deadpan. Zee chuckled. His band mates are really the only ones Enrich have the guts to talk to like that. Anyone else, and he wilts on the spot. An algae of conversation, if at all.
"Thanks, but no thanks. What's the chances of this arm going back to normal?"
"No really, Zylinder. I think you should consider your mortality rate a priority – seeing as it's quite high. Have you consulted your insurance?"
"Christ in a can," He swore. "You sure are naggy, you know that, Rich?"
Enrich flashed him a look – a hurt one, or at least as hurt as the guy's face can get. "I'm only concerned about your financial straits. You can't have that much left over, considering how you spend your money. At last count, your debt rate, including the newest addition of the car seems to be--"
"Okay, okay, I get it. Insurance policy." He said quickly. He doesn't want to hear the magical D word, especially since he isn't even technically in it. He might spend lotsa money – but hey, he's got it to spend right? Between the band raking in and his day job and Gavinne's generous paycheck, he's got plenty to spend and worked hard for every single cent. "You're selling policies or something? Why the sudden interest?"
Enrich shot him a sarcastic look. "Hi, I'm here to sell you insurance. I'm also the guy who holds the scalpel. Would you buy?"
"Uh, probably not."
"Then rethink the solution before submitting your answer."
"Right, right," Zee sighed. No one to put you in place like Richie. Not Zee's favourite person in the world, but hey, he comes in handy sometimes. He swung his arm again. "You still haven't answer me – how likely is this thing gonna bounce?"
"If by bounce you mean recover, here are the facts. That arm's broken. I just fixed it back into place, which you've just dislodged by swinging it back and forth. There's an 80% chance that the thing is going to reattach, but reattach poorly. 20% says that it'll get infected, and I get to operate on you at last."
Zee blinked. "Where's the 'fully recover' percentage?"
"What's 80 + 20?"
"Uh..." Damn. He can't remember anymore. When's the last time he gotta count? That would be in college, right before they stuff schematics in his face and he got so high he forgot everything he learned in high school. "Hundred."
"You have your answer."
"Gee." Zee sighed and poke the arm vaguely. It looks like a eggplant extending out of his shoulder, but who's he to complain? At least he didn't get shot or anything. "But thanks though – you're one in a billion, Richie. Don't know how I'll survive shoot ups without you."
"You can start by rewarding me with your absence." Enrich announced, moving over to his pristine sink. There's not a single trace of blood in the place, not after Richie wipes up every single spot he happens to lean on. Zee has no doubt that once he leaves this place, the man's gonna spray the place down with disinfectant and scrub every corner like a pesticide-ducky commercial.
Zee climbed up from where he had been sitting on the metal thingy they use to cut dead people up on, and despite the fact that dead bodies aren't new to him, it still kinda gross him out to be sitting on it. He waited until Richie's done washing his hands obsessively before pouncing on him with the real reason he came here instead of to some obscure abortion clinic to get his arm fixed up.
He grinned a hopefully convincingly friendly grin. "Hey Richie?"
The man deposited his gloves into the waste bin, before turning around to look at him. "Yes?"
"Uh, chances are you know, this time tomorrow – you might get a bunch of guys sent in..." Enrich nodded. The hair that they bleached for him (As If Richie will allow his hair to be bleached without force. He's probably worried about a brain tumour or something) bobbed with it.
"And what of it?"
"Can you check if there's a body amongst them for me?"
Enrich looked at him expressionlessly. "Which one?"
"Yeah, it's a man by the name of Furio Tigre..."
His expression hardened. "The person who runs Tender Lender?"
Zee nodded enthusiastically. Furio Tigre, the guy with the weird red skin. He's the main reason he took up the job for Gavinne, blowing down the alliance and all. He wasn't too keen on the whole thing, since it's the biggest job he ever had to do – and the more bombs you plant, the easier it's gonna be traced. Except...Furio was there. How can he pass up a chance to get back one on that guy? Score one for Zee, zero for da tiger.
"Why do you want me to check on him?"
Zee smirked at this one. He's got a ready made answer for this, and it's a plausible and honest one too. "He's the guy who's after me and Klavier, yeah? We kinda had a hand in taking down his lady love...So he's after us at the moment. If he's dead with the sandwich men, then our troubles will be over, yeah?"
"Why didn't I hear about this from Gavinne?" Enrich frowned, looking suspiciously at him. He extracted his ever present notebook out and started skimming down it, examining some sort of list. Zee's seen it before – Richie keeps every single conversation he has with people neatly jotted down in shorthand. Apparently, it organizes his life, whatever shit that means.
He snapped it shut. "And how did Tigre even knew in the first place that you guys were the one who blew the place down?"
"He probably have spies or something," Zee retorted defensively. This guy can sure be a pain sometimes. Talking to him is like talking to a cop, even though he's one himself. Did you, or did you not do it? Where were you on the 20th of July? Were you eating? Were you sleeping? What did you see? What did you hear? Were you breathing at the time? "Those aren't that uncommon, you know? Happens all the time."
"I was under the impression that your double-life was suppose to be a secret," He answered coldly. "Secrets, by definition of Oxford, is --"
"Look!" Zee cut him off with a shout, earning him a startled look from the Guy with No Spine. "What the hell is your problem? I ask you to check if one guy is KO'd or not, why do you have to gimme all that shit? If you're not gonna do it, just say so already, you irritating bitch."
"I just think there's more to your association with this man than meets the eye, that's all." He shot back defiantly.
"Yeah? Really? Awesome – 'cuz I care what you think, I really do."
The two glared at each other. Zee just kept glowering until his eyes started to water from staring at the shorter guy. In the end, as usual – Enrich gave up first. He's always the first to give up in any sort of confrontation. Hates arguments more than anything on Earth, even though his every nagging word is just platform to goad more arguments.
"Look. Fine, I'll tell you if the guy shows up, alright?" He sighed out in a resigned tone.
Zee broke into a grin, walked over, and looped an arm around the shorter man. "That's a good Richie."
'Come. Sit. Roll over."
He grinned and ruffled his hair, even though he knows the guy hates it. "Seriously, thanks a million. Just drop me a line if he's dead, okay? I'll trade you my best beer the next time you drop around."
"Which you will immediately take away because I don't drink of course," He commented dryly, but it's with a small smile. "Now then, you've gotten what your objective is, right? Shouldn't you be going to the racing track? I thought there was a round there today."
"Yeah, yeah, on my way. And this time, I'm so going to turn my luck around." Zee announced it with a grin, unlooping the arm around Enrich and saluting him. It's a prank thing – left over from the band's mucking around days. Enrich never sees the humour in this sort of situation though, and only commented.
"Good luck wasting all your money."
"Don't jinx it." Then with a pat of Richie's shoulder, he's off. There sure is a race today, and boy, is he going to bet. He'll win the money right back to get a newer, flashier car in fact – and not a single word on probabilities from Enrich's side is going to change his mind. It's really just a game anyway, right? Right.
Before he left though, Enrich stopped him.
"Wait," He ordered in that quiet, no-nonsense tone of his. "Wash your hands before you leave."
"Huh?"
"It's a dirty world out there," He said mysteriously.
Zee gave him an odd look. Weirdo. With a capital W. He washes his hands though, and then he's off for real this time.
Viola Cadaverinni is stewing in the cellar, but at least she's simmering well. If she's a stew, there's no doubt that someone will open the lid up and exclaim : Such a well boiled stew! This is one bowl of anger that's been simmering for a long long time indeed. She's heard everything she wants to hear from the people who guard her doors. Kristoph might be a man of many discretion, but his men are men of just as many indiscretion.
They've been at the door all day long, talking and talking and talking. First she hears someone stomping upstairs. It's the kind of mansion where if someone screams down the hall, you can hear it on the other side of the floor. Someone had been stampeding up earlier, and judging from the tiny slice of light from the cellar grooves – it's very early in the morning. Give or take seven in the morning and nothing more, nothing less.
The voice had started shouting in a foreign language. Following that, a new pair of rednecks had exchanged shifts with the guard on duty. These two proceeded to talk, and goodness knew how loud they talk – because Viola can hear them all the way inside where she had been trying to fall asleep and not think about how long she's still got in this prison of hers. The moment they started talking though, all thoughts of sleep were dispel from her mental faculties.
"...I heard...Tigre..."
"Is that....Road?"
"Yeah...Gavinne...."
"Spitting mad, eh?"
It wasn't enough to make sense, especially not with her slightly impaired hearing. That accident from years ago had hit hard, loosening a couple of screws and impairing her hearing. She never did caught who did it to her, nor did her grandfather – but at least there's something to be thankful over it. She did met Don Tigre after all, and from what she seems to be hearing, her Don Tigre not only survived the shot. He's bounced back, and now her beloved is retaliating on her behalf.
Viola is not Rapunzel, simply waiting for a chance to let down her hair, some anti-feminist heroine just waiting for her knight in shining armor – but she can't help just the slightest surge of pride for her husband. He's such a useful and accomplished man, and she's proud of him. Soon, he'll find some way to rescue her – she just knows it. That is, if she doesn't find a handy bottle of poison and dispose of her captors first.
Viola Cadaverinni is still stewing in her cell.
No one's come except to hand her food and hand her drinks. They've somehow managed to maneuver a toilet into the cellar – just another proof of how remarkably hospitable Gavinne can be when he wants to be of course. He had visited her earlier to 'inquire' to her sensibilities, but you can see from the look of his face that he's not paying attention. That gleam in his eye unnerved her – more so because it's not directed at her. It's directed at a spot just beyond Viola's shoulder, and there's a look there that she doesn't like. Kristoph Gavinne isn't a master at hiding his expression, whatever he thinks. He had come in, chat a little, and left. It still left Viola worried though.
Especially since the news he brought was worse than ever. He mentioned meeting The Tin Man, more to gloat than anything else. This greatly worried Viola, and even more so because...If the Cadaverinni gang is in one piece, shouldn't Furio be the one he's meeting?
The guards had nothing new to add to her archive of knowledge of the outside world, save that they're curious how Tigre found the person who caught Viola. Nothing new. Nothing new at all.
So Viola Cadaverinni stews.
Viola Cadaverinni is still stewing.
It's the third day since she heard about Don Tigre from the guards. Things had been quiet since. She's still worried.
Viola had pressed her ear to the door this morning, so hard it hurts. Her ear had rebelled against it, and when she pulled it off, it had been red and raw and painful. What she had heard was worth all the pain in the world though. Viola hadn't heard much, couldn't if she wanted to, but she heard made her insides turn : A drug shipment.
Viola knew what the state of the state is like. Ever since the new senate had voted in the 'no drugs, no crime' policy, CA's been working like bees for their queen. Equally hardworking, and equally unappreciated. Buzzing here and there, they had made drugs harder than ever to cross the city borders – and for there to be more than one shipment in the city at the same time is just well...Unlikely, and that's if you're an extremely cynical person who likes to doubt everything from the sky to the moon.
There's only one drug shipment she knows of and she knows it well. About a month ago, was it? They had been tipped off about a movement of drugs inside the city. It had been from the underworld network – those untraceable, faceless kind that most often than not, is more trustworthy than so-called 'trusted' sources.
The Tin Man had related it to her, and she had acted on behalf of her grandfather : She had The Tin Man intercept the shipment, and they had taken it. For some reason, all the men guarding that thing had been well...Strange. They didn't look like gang members. In fact, they had surrendered the drugs without so much as a flicker of protest, and they had actually looked puzzled as to why Viola could possibly want what they had. The little boxes had contained everything they wanted, and perhaps even more than they had dared to hope for.
Pure drugs. Very very pure drugs, almost 90%, if their local old man is to be trusted.
And now that Viola is safely put away, suddenly talk of the drug shipment resurfaces? Is that really such a coincidence? Or is another engineered thing? Come to think of it, her grandfather too...
No, she's thinking too much. Even if Kristoph Gavinne somehow lays hands on it, so be it. It'll be found eventually, and then she can get it back when she leaves here. In the mean time, who did he hope to fool? His men will be torn apart the moment they lay hands on the shipment by the holding gang. Kristoph might rule his little tribe with a iron hand, but even the iron hand cannot claw at everything. Like water, his underlings will slip away from him if he sends to pointless suicide missions like this.
It did left Viola wondering though. Exactly who had been the one who had moved the drugs in in the first place? How had it been moved into the city? And for the matter...Was it a good idea for them to take it in the first place?
The Tin Man is what everyone calls him, and the Tin Man is what he calls himself. No one really knows how the man came to be known as the Tin Man, but he's been that for a long time, as long back as in the 00's. He was Arkansas by birth and Arkansas growing up, but some time around puberty he showed his manliness by bashing a guy's head in in a barfight over his right to be there. The Tin Man had enough sense to make a run for it, but was picked up fifty-two miles northeast of the town, dehydrated and just glad someone found him.
He got a couple of million years, and he can't tell you if you ask 'cuz he never did figure out the numbers. Confused his damned cereal number with the dates. They sent him down to Nebraska to do time, and prison did his head in too. By the time he came out, he could count just far enough to tell you he's on the uglier side of the thirties, but that's about it.
The Tin Man is invaluable to the offices of the good Cadaverinnis, has been since the days when Bruno Cadaverinni was still well enough to hit the streets sometimes to 'straighten' people out. He's fearless, and that's really all there is that made him so special. He's not amazing by ways of muscles – they have the donkeys for that. He's definitely no Einstein either – that's Daryan for the mob, for now anyway. So what makes him so special?
One thing – fear. And his lack of it. Maybe it was just that his brain isn't adequately equipped to generate the feeling of fear, or maybe it's just that he's those strange and unnatural individuals who just...Doesn't compute fear. Either way, if you want a guy who goes in there first, who stands up like a real slim shady, who shoots the glass of the bank – then baby? Tin Man's your man. He's thick as tin and as fearless as it goes.
Thinking is not what he's made for though. The Tin Man falters when it comes to thinking, and when he's talking to people who twist their words – like now - he gets confused.
"Can you say that again?" He rumbled at Kristoph Gavinne. A flicker of annoyance passes through the man's face, too quick for Tin to register, and then it's gone. A fleeting shadow that's gone a-galloping into the sunset.
"I said, are you sure there are enough people here to do the job?" He repeated. He's smiling a hard smile down with Tin at his men, who are busy loading just about everything from axes to guns into the trucks. There's still plenty of space in there though – every man's been warned not to bring too much or too many, 'cuz they're planning to take some stuff home.
"I think it's enough. The Gramarye...I've heard. They ain't no big piece these days."
"Perhaps not, but this is rather a small force," Kristoph observed, turning an eye around the place. Some might call the look on his face 'baleful', but then Tin's neva understood hard words like 'baleful'. Baleful? You mean yarn, right? He understood insults when he hear 'em though, and he growled in answer.
"Maybe, but they're good boys. They know what to do in a situation – those Gramarye kids are just that, kids. They've never been in a good fight before, they're not gonna survive long against us."
What Tin heard is that they got 'em a new lieutenant, a new general for the ranks to ride them out to the Blitzkriegs around here. Tin hasn't heard how good he is, but he heard he's pretty good. Still, the kid's new around the block and Tin? Tin's been around for a good many years, maybe before the kid could even spell T-I-N properly. He's seen it all, done it all, and because of it, he's grown a head that's gotten it all too : A little big sometimes. Not magnificently, idiotically prideful, but still prideful nonetheless.
"We'll see," Kristoph commented airily.
Tin turned around to frown at Kristoph. There's something he don't get, and he don't think it's only 'cuz he's no Einstein. "That's another thing, Gavinne – why did you come to us about the drug thing? We thought it was gone for good when they came and took it away, we did."
"Mmm?" He raised an eyebrow, kinda like he's dismissing the thing. It's an expression that Tin doesn't like. It reeks of a man stalling for time, and it reeks of dishonest men. "Why not? Shouldn't that be the correct question?"
"Why not what?"
"Why not—No, never mind me."
"If you've got something to say, you say it," Tin snapped. Can't stand these folks.
Gavinne shrugged nonchalantly, and continued smiling down at Tin's men the way a general inspects his troops before they go a-marching off to their dooms.
"It's just that you can't not know about how Phoenix Wright tattled on me. I worked with him to remove Zak Gramarye...And how does he repay me? He calls the police on me. I don't like backstabbers, Tin," He sighed dramatically. "I don't like being backstabbed at all."
"Ain't what you doing the same thing?" Tin asked him, frowning his thick brows together. The question seems to genuinely have Kristoph flummoxed though, and he chose not to answer. There's nothing but classic blunt to put the plastic in the right box.
Instead, he said, "And the drug, it's yours, is it not? Your Lady...She doesn't drive so hard a price, I believe."
"Ah." Tin gets it now. It's just business. Lady V's known to be less harsh than the Firebird is when it comes to sales and markets. He knows now – he gets it. Kristoph probably just wants the drugs back to Viola. That way, he saves a buncha fresh green bills, and he saves the men needed to take it away from the Firebird forcefully. After all, it wasn't like Gavinne's men are good when it comes to fighting. Most of them – like Kristoph – are as sneaky as peas.
And don't forget he doesn't get the bad blood too.
"It looks to me like you got yourself the better part of the deal, Gavinne."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah, it's so."
"It's your imagination, Tin Man – trust me on this one. Those drugs belonged to you in the first place, did it not? Yes, they're absolutely rightfully yours. What I'm doing here is helping you get them back, what's wrong with that?"
There's nothing wrong with that, which is precisely what pisses Tin off. In their world no one does things for no reason, and somehow...Is it really as simple as that? All Kristoph wants is a discount? Tin can't tell – and all this thinking is hurting his brain like nothing else in the world is. Sighing, he massaged his brow.
"Right. Well, I'll just take your word for it Gavinne. But I swear on the black book, if you double cross us, I'll hang you – I will."
Kristoph raised his head slightly in a condescending smirk. "Feel free to try."
And with that, Tin growls and is off. He stomps out of the balcony – which doesn't belong to him anyway, being Lady V's – and down the stairs to where a few of them were standing at the hallway in a single line. They're not used to being in here, since it's usually off limits for grunts to be in the House when Lady V's around. They shuffle uncomfortably back and forth, and visibly brighten when Tin walked into center stage and down those ridiculous stairs.
"There you are. You boys ready?"
"Yes, Tin Man," They announced in unison – like schoolchildren. Tin don't like those fancy pants reply, see? And neither does Lady V. So their men, they've got straight tongues – not like those snakes in Gavinne.
"Good," He growled. "That's good. Real good. Now you all don't need me to tell you what you gotta bring, right?"
"Of course not," One of them voiced out. "We've got all we need to take down those Gramarye girls." Laughter all around, and Tin cracks a grin.
"There shouldn't be that many there – so we gotta fair just fine. But I don't want anybody letting their guard down, you hear me?" They nod – exactly like schoolchildren. "Good, now git."
They git, and boy, do they git well – Tin felt a surge of pride as his boys marched out like well-trained ducks or potty-trained chicken. They got into the trucks, piling in like sushi. Tin got himself into a truck too – the second one in line. Not first, being that the first is usually the first to blow and what are they gonna do without Tin? Not any further back either, because he's replaced Viola on this job. Usually, when they have a big fight going on, Lady V will come along, giving out orders. It's either her or her grandfather – but this once, both of them aren't around, so it's up to Tin to take control.
A more complex man might revel in this sort of power, but Tin, he's just worried. Worried about Viola and if Kristoph Gavinne had really been as straightforward as he made himself out to be.
All these thoughts dispel though, as they near the pier and the scenery becomes more and more urban. From houses, it turns into tiny industrial sections where they attempt to replicate food fast enough for L.A's population. Containers and seemingly useless barrels replace the gray brick of houses, metal and wood replace the tar of common road, ringed by crisscrossed iron wire gates. At the end of the road is the large warehouse where Kristoph had told them The Gramarye had stashed the deal.
It was supposed to be a storage area for a museum's exhibit, except that the museum's exhibit had been 'switched' off with the products. On paper at least, it remains so. Tin had expected there to be lots of guards around to area – hell, if it was him, half his men would have gone around the place too. If Tin had organized his men earlier, the moment they knew of Viola's disappearance, they would have managed to keep the drug theirs.
Only they hadn't. But he strays.
Tin had expected guards, as he was saying – but what he hadn't expected was...This many.
"Jesus." He swore. "These aren't guards."
No, indeed, these weren't normal guards. At least, not in the normal sense of the word. At least a quarter of the gang is milling about, and it's obvious that they're preparing for something big. There's a barely concealed hostility in the air, one that pierces all the way into the steel of their vehicles. These isn't the normal amount of guards allocated to guarding the place – no one in their right mind would empty out the place like that to guard something, no matter how valuable. These people are here for some other reason.
You can see it from the way some of them wander about, throwing darkly suspicious glances over their shoulder. You can see it from the way they hunch slightly, wondering how long it'll take before whoever they're waiting for arrives. People were stomping up and down the pier, with trucks after trucks lined up on one side of it. The drug shipment is being moved – and it's being moved soon. The question is, why is it moving in the first? Why risk moving something unless –
"Gavinne." He hissed. One word.
"Boss?" The driver looked over at him worriedly. "This doesn't look good. Loads of them, and I think that's Armando."
One of the younger boys climbed a little to the front to get a better look at the pier. He spotted the tangle of wild black hair, standing beside another man with spikes. "Woah, that's a lot of them. And isn't that Wright? I heard he's got a real spiky head of hair."
Tin doesn't know so much about hairstyles, but he's seen the Firebird before, and his bones be damned if that wasn't him, world-famous cigarette tucked under one lip. They hadn't been noticed yet, concealed around the bend of an adjoining warehouse – but if they don't git soon, they'll be noticed – and then it's either Mafia Wars or running like some kind of shameful kicked dog. Tin had no idea which is the better option.
"What do we do, boss?"
Tin growled. Where's someone with brains when you need one? Tin operates so much easier when there's someone telling him what to do. But someone in charge can't show signs of weaknesses, or they'll tumble like dominoes. He turned around to pin them with his hard stare instead.
"It's up to you boys. Do you boys want to press on? 'Cuz it's gonna hurt like bitches with that many of them."
They exchanged glances. No one really wants to go in there with such a small force. It's like banging on Death's door and asking for doom – except they knew they're gonna have to do it eventually. Some kinda bad medicine – they'll have to take it away from the Gramaryes, if not now, then when it reaches it's next destination. And...
"They don't look too tough, Tin," One of them voiced. His voice frays a little, but it's as confident as it could get. "I think we can take them. They're about one and a half us, but we've got more experience."
"I wouldn't say that," Another frowned. "They look kinda tough actually."
"Ah...Don't be a pussy."
Tin growled.
'Sorry boss."
"Right," He snapped. "Ask the other boys in the other trucks. See how many of them wanna go in and how many wanna scamper. If there's enough who's going in – we all are."
"'kay, Tin – you said it."
The word was spread from truck to truck by cell, and at the end of it, the decision was almost unanimous. Go in. This decision might have came around because the rest of the trucks were further behind, and therefore cannot see exactly how many Gramaryes there are. But who is Tin to say no to that sort of honest jubilation? They're his boys, but they're not his babies. He doesn't need to mollycoddle them. It's every man for his own hide here, and if they all offer their hide, he ain't gonna say no to them, right?
"Alright. You guys said it. Let's go then."
They nod. The next truck nods. The next truck over nods. Then quietly, they slipped out of the truck and snuck closer to the warehouse.
Phoenix sighed.
Zak's men were milling back and forth the place, though he supposed he should be calling them his men by now. They were making him nervous, because they were loading the things into the trucks and it's making a truckload of noises. This is to make it easier for when they need to hand everything up to Gavinne. The trucks are obviously, Kristoph's – for Phoenix's men to load up before he arrives with the cash. It's making his heart beat faster, the way the boxes kept knocking about and making these strange boof-biff-boof sounds, like someone is giving a punchbag a bored punch-out. Punch, swing, punch.
Phoenix sighed.
The men are all waiting for Kristoph to show up. At least half of these weren't needed, but as Diego had pointed out earlier, when dealing with snakes, it's best to look at the sunrise. Phoenix had absolutely zero idea what the hell he meant, but he gathered it probably meant something like...Be prepared. Maybe. He's outwardly composed, but at the rate he's going through Pall Malls, he's not gonna live for much longer. He's not really smoking though, more like biting the cigarette and chewing on it, so maybe that will extend his life a little longer?
Phoenix sighed again.
He felt an ache in his bones, like something bad is going to happen. Any moment now, and something horrible and terrifyingly catastrophic is going to happen to his plans, and then it'll be doomsday to all his well-laid plans. He's wide awake, but it feels surreal. Like he's walking through a dream, where everything hinges on Kristoph Gavinne holding up his part of the deal, and that, as we know, is hardly ever for the man. And why were the men wandering about like little lost girls? Are those muscles for show? Some flashy buns of steels to show off to the aliens, who will any moment now descend through a hole in the sky and-- What the hell is he talking about? Ah, dammit, he needs some of Armando's coffee to wipe away this nervous feeling.
Oh, but wait. If he drinks his coffee, he'll be dead, so maybe not.
Phoenix sighed.
"Will you stop that!?" Diego roared. Phoenix blinked. For a moment there he thought Diego had been talking about someone else – but when he looked up, the tanned man is staring at him and growling like a rabid dachshund. Oh wait, those are the sausage ones. No no, something bad ass. What's badass?
"Why the hell are you sighing up and down, Trite? You sound like a bloody lovesick kitten."
"I do not," Phoenix protested weakly. Diego just glowered all the more.
"You sound like a college girl writing over-fantasized poetry and self-insert fanfiction, Trite – and I'll appreciate it if you cut it out."
"Why? Making you nervous?" He retorted. If Diego's literally a dog, the upper lip would definitely go up in a rabid growl.
"No – it's just that you're the leader of the group now. How can you lead men when you're acting like a woman?"
"Excuse me for being susceptible to normal human emotion then," Phoenix retorted. He stopped sighing though, instead looking out at the pier worriedly. It's almost the appointed time, sent by Kristoph Gavinne in one of those famous over-the-top cards of his. Those that either look like a gaudy circus pin-up or elegant, depending on your taste in life – and it clearly mentioned this place, at this time, being the pier, at three in the afternoon. Phoenix would know, there's a hole in the calender where he circled the spot repeatedly with a pen.
He knows he's not suppose to be like this. He's usually just that little bit more stoic and composed – just that it IS an important deal after all. And who does he choose to make it with? Kristoph Gavinne. Yeah, shucks. That's enough to make anyone nervous, and though outwardly, he looked like a shapely rock, his insides are twirling around. He's not worried about anything, just one tiny thing. If Kristoph Gavinne is going to hold up the end of the deal.
Somehow, Phoenix had a strange suspicion he already knew the answer – Kristoph had agreed too quickly, and too casually for there to be no hidden agenda. Either he desperately needed those drugs or he's up to something. Nothing to do about it he supposed, but to hold his nose and dive into the deep end of the pool, hoping for the best.
"Boss!"
Phoenix looked up, almost expecting to see Zak standing by the pier with his hands on his waist and looking out to the sea. He shook his head though – not a time to daydream – and one of the boys who had been standing around the corner was running towards him.
"I think he's here, boss!" The man called out excitedly. "I think they're here – I see a couple of trucks around the corner!"
"Trucks?" Diego turned around to frown at Phoenix. "But hadn't he provided us with the trucks? Why is he...?"
"I don't know..." Phoenix frowned back out. Had Gavinne decided to bring men of his own? That seems plausible, but not very likely. The man fancied himself some sort of modern day drama king, and if he shows up at all, it'll be with only a few men, dressed in impeccable blue.
"B-Boss!" Another man called out again, looking like an excitable child. "They're here!"
Phoenix waited for the the stately sound of Kristoph's limo door going clickity-click, followed by one pair of high-class shoes that you can recognize because it's so expensive it probably comes with a recording function that sings hallelujah to hail it's owner.
Instead, what came was completely different :
There's a sound down the pier of a door slamming shut, and what's unmistakeably the sound that van doors make when they're slid apart. Phoenix's heard the sound a million times before, and he turned pale the moment he heard it, along with Armando. What follows is a dozen or so stampeding footsteps, also horrifyingly familiar. It's the sounds that play prelude to everything from horrible burnings to mass slaughter, and it's also the sound that they're hearing right now.
The people were stomping down the wooden docks of the pier, clawed and ravaged with time, about the only place in the state where they still use wood anymore. Phoenix only had time to register that the man that had called out earlier had been blown aside before Armando drew back his fist and punched Phoenix in the face.
Caught off guard, Phoenix fell backwards, blinking watering eyes at the other man as a shiv someone threw whizzed over his face, where his head had been a moment earlier. He falls like a sack of potatoes, ungracefully, and looked up at Diego.
'What the hell was that for? You couldn't have shoved like a normal person?"
"Sorry, Trite – been wanting to do that for years."
"What!?"
Armando flashed a dark grin at him, but that was when conversation had to halt. Halt, because all at once it seems the hell Diego likes to talk about so much had exploded all at once around them in technicolour glory. People they never knew existed appeared one by one around the area, peppering it. They weren't exuberantly large, but there were enough of them to make sure that for every two Wright guys, there's at least one wrong guy taking them down.
Shivs and knives and bats and whatnots clashed at each other, bashing up skulls and making a cacophony not unlike a massive drum fight. Phoenix's men, caught off guard, were caught between not knowing what happened and fighting back for all they're worth, which resulted in some of them attacking their own members. Even as Phoenix watched in horror, his own brain paralyzed like a million tons worth of taser beams had just gone through it, he could see the fight breaking down into man vs man, instead of gang vs assailant. People were just lashing out blindly.
"Goddammit, get your heads around you!" Armando roared. He charged into the thick of the fight, coming from the end of the pier that leads to the road. There, Phoenix sees a recognizable bald head poking amidst the crowd, at least seven feet if he's one. He'll recognize that misshapen potato any day – the Tin Man.
"Armando, it's Tin!" He shouted back, bracing himself in case some UDO - Unidentifiable Dangerous Object – flies across and stabs him where he doesn't want to be stab. He can barely be heard above the sound though. Phoenix's voice isn't soft – it was just that between the men roaring, whether in pain or in fury, and the occasional gunshot going like a Chinese New Year celebration down in Chinatown, you'll have to be one really loud person to be heard.
Armando doesn't need him to tell him who it was though, because barely a second after he shouted it out, Tin pulled back one heavy arm and let swung against his head, knocking Armando aside. Diego went down with a shout, before scrambling up a few feet away, head obviously disorientated from the way he swerved left and right like a drunken man.
The moment he recovered, he grabbed at a nearby man while Tin was busy with the others, snatching a long knife out of his hands and neatly slitting his throat. Diego turned back to Tin just in time for him to duck as Tin swung out again at him with one of those heavy sabers that Phoenix thought had gone extinct before Christ. It curves in a sharp arc above Diego's head, smashing into a crate next to him. It smashed the crate apart like a knife would a tofu, but the blade's heavy, and it takes him a longer moment to--
Phoenix threw himself aside as one Tin's snipers aimed and shot at him. He hadn't seen where he was going, so he smashed right into a mountain of boxes. That killed at least a third of his brain cells, but at least it kept him alive. The sniper aimed a rifle at him again, obviously having singled him out for being the boss – before another one of Phoenix's men charged at him and stabbed him repeatedly with another one of those famed shivs.
At this point, if someone is looking at the whole situation with a detached eye that overcomes all limits and boundaries of physicality, they will note that Gramarye's men are a lot less well trained than Tin's. It isn't exactly Zak's regime's fault – at least not this one. It was just that most of Tin's boys had been trained like little pooches. They know how to lift their legs and shoot where it hurts the most, and they know enough at least, to keep their heads about them. Phoenix's on the other hand had been nervous and exuberant, waiting for Kristoph's men – and was subsequently rewarded with an ambush out of nowhere.
When lights and gunfire and sound explodes all at once around you, you have got oh, all of two choices. One? Drop dead. Never be heard of again. Two? Just lash out at anything that's moving.
It's a man eat man world after all, and in such a cannibalistic environment - nice guys finish last. To survive, just stab anything that moves to death. If you have a knife, slit someone's throat. If you have a gun, shoot someone. If you don't have nothing, just throw yourself onto the guy and bite him to death.
It's a law that all humans fall back to the moment signs of adversity rises up like smoking geysers. It doesn't matter if you're a white collar CEO – or like them now, lowlife thugs. Principle of humanity? Save your own skin. Skin others. Live.
That's it. Live.
"BOSS!"
One of Phoenix's men screeched out – and if this is a calmer environment, Phoenix would probably comment that it sounded like a pig. He doesn't though, because the man that's screaming out is narrowly avoiding being hacked to bits by an adjacent man and belatedly, Phoenix realized he had the solution to the problem.
Pulling his revolver out his coat, he raised a shaking hand and blew Tin's man's head off miraculously. Miraculously, because his hand is shaking so hard it's hard to wrap it around the revolver in the first place and GODDAMIT – he wasn't a newbie at this sort of thing. How long has he been around? Years? What is he doing here, shaking like a leaf or a post-drug junkie? Diego's fighting for his life – as well as other lives – Phoenix can see his bright red shirt weaving in and out the crowd like a prizefighter. So what's he doing here, being a figurehead of the most despicable kind?
Steeling himself, Phoenix started picking his way through the fight. He shrinks himself and hunches over, because that way he becomes less conspicuous and less likely to be attacked by some random man or worse – his own men. He kept his revolver out though, always on the ready, and if someone from his own camp had hit him, he won't promise you that he wouldn't have had blew the man's head off in reaction. He picked his way towards the crowd like that, evading the center of the attention, until he got to the man who had been shot at him earlier.
He picked the man's rifle out of the sticky blood and cringed at how fishy the whole thing smelled. Would it even blow, submerged in it's owner like that? No matter – Phoenix isn't a scientist, he wouldn't be able to tell you.
Phoenix turned up a nearby broken crate as a semi-shield of sorts. He knelt down behind it, allowing the wooden board to lean up against one knee while his hands fidgeted with the rifle. He's forced his hands to stop shaking from the buzz in his head and aligned the thing with his eyesight, aiming at any and every man who doesn't look like he belonged to the Gramarye troop.
Now, Phoenix isn't the world's best marksmen, or even within the top million or so. Certainly there are many people who can shoot better than him – or at least Armando does. But then Armando claims he can do everything better than Phoenix can. The man in question though, was struggling with Tin, locked in some sort of one to one combat that only manly men will ever understand. Phoenix had no such compunctions to be manly – he just wants to get out of here alive with at least half of everyone intact, and with that in mind, he picked up the rifle and started snipping.
First he worked out those that had been ambushed, scattered around the sides of the pier edge. He snips one or two of those out. More often than not, the bullets misses and hit something else – mostly because his hands are shaking like bananas in a storm. It distracted the men he shot against though, and this usually end up in two ways : Either Tin's men are distracted, and get carved a new butter slot, or Phoenix's men are distracted, in which case they get carved a new peanut butter place.
If it's the latter, Phoenix merely raised the rifle again, and take another shot. The survivor falls, the survivor dies. He moves on to the next guy. He did this repeatedly, until the act itself seems as common as hand washing, or maybe bird watching. Randomly pick a target, shoot, kill. Miss? Swear on someone's innocent mother, and try again. He had been worried earlier, when he saw the rifle soaked – but it shoots as well as it does dry.
When the rifle ran out of ammo, he threw it aside. The man who had owned it would have had spares, but Phoenix hasn't gone so low as to search a dead man for bullets. Instead, he pulled out his revolver and stepped hesitantly forward into the fight. He doesn't get shot, because by now most of the fight had died down. His own men, if he had bothered counting – were at least half down. Those that survive aren't in any shape to get up and fight anytime soon, and the only ones still at it were centered around Tin and Diego.
The man in question lunged at Tin, now equipped on both hands. One is wrapped around a long long knife – different from the one Phoenix had last seen him with - the kind you see in butchering shops that seem too long to be useful and about three inches short of a Japanese katana. The other is wrapped around an iron pipe someone had brought into the fray. Tin, for a man of his size, seems to be more agile than should be possible. He swung the saber to block off the iron pipe that had came flying around, but – and this is where the small always win – the saber is too slow and too heavy and too solid to spring back quickly, and Diego took the chance to slip his own knife in, exactly like knife into butter.
Tin goes down in a roar, and apparently he went down with suicidal tendencies too. He threw himself forwards, determined to drag Diego down with him. Phoenix reacted instinctively, holding up his revolver and firing as many rounds as he could, until the click of doom announces that he's out of little bits of death to shoot out. More than half the rounds missed because Phoenix hadn't been looking when he shot – just thinking, oh dear, Armando is in trouble and just letting his trigger finger go into joint-jerk reaction.
He knew at least three of it hits though, because he's pretty sure he saw three of them going into Tin. One in the muscle slightly below his neck and the other two into his bicep and forearm. He knows too, because Diego stepped backward and hissed as two other of Tin's men shot forth like torpedoes towards him and another one drags Tin backwards to where their trucks were.
Around this point, it'll be safe for a bystander to jump out and shout 'Phoenix, you moron, get him!' Get a knife or something sharp, like one of the many scattered around the ground and finish Tin off. He doesn't though – instead, he reached down, grabbed an axe, and approached Diego's assailants from behind. Drawing the axe back, he let loose, sinking it into one of the men's back even as Diego finishes off the other with a slash.
They paused to take a breath or ten to calm themselves, but it prove one breath too many, because when they returned to real world again, Tin was gone, dragged away by two of his men. They were getting into a van, heaving the heavy man in, and by the time Armando and Phoenix get to their side, it would have been too late – the door would have slammed shut in their faces and the van would just run over them like yesterday's garbage.
It didn't stop Diego sending the pipe flying into their windshield where it falls short it's mark though. "Run like mice, rats! If you're men you'll get back here and go one round with me!"
The van is not impressed by Diego's manliness.
It backs out of the pier before breaking into full speed away, leaving a smooth cloud of carbon monoxide to hint that it was ever there before. Diego swore at it's leaving rear end, before letting his weapon fall to the ground with a nasty clunk. Phoenix clapped him on the shoulder, and Diego followed the knife and leaned heavily onto a nearby barrel.
"That was...Nasty." He said in a half groan. " It's like blend #67, bitter, sharp, and stings like a bee where it hurts the most."
"For once, you make sense," Phoenix joked, except no one felt like laughing. He felt like dropping down himself, or tasting the God awful blend #67 for himself.
Slowly, those that had survived the onslaught, which numbered around a dozen or so from the original thirty men, they slowly climbed up. They look around, examining the carnage, or maybe they look up to thank the sky, their mother, their grandfather, and the God of Coffee. Stun is the word to describe the men, but stun is not the word they would describe themselves with, being that they're too stunned to describe a circle.
Phoenix stayed beside Armando, enjoying the thing call oxygen and just thanking his lucky stars and that Tin had been warded off. That's one good thing at least. He takes a pause to just be grateful for being alive, staring at that spot over the horizon where nothing meets nothing. Gradually though, the gears and cogs in his brain started spinning again.
"Wait." He said, scowling. Something isn't right – something that had bugged him the moment Tin appeared and he went 'Oh Gee, how did they know we were the one who took their drugs'? He had assumed Tin just wanted his stuff back, which he probably did, except - "How did they know?"
"How did they know what? Speak sense, man."
"How did they know the shipment is here?" Phoenix bit out angrily, looking in the direction they had disappeared into. "We've moved them here, and how did they know unless--"
He closed his mouth to allow his brain to work after fifteen minutes worth of lagging and hand-eye coordination. The facts, quite obviously, points to only one thing – except his brain is too overworked to figure anything out. The moment they unclogged themselves like a blocked pipe though, the resulting siphoning was –
"Kristoph. That bastard." Phoenix hissed. One word, one name, and it was enough for Armando to spring back to his feet.
'Goddamned – that little snake--"
Phoenix whipped around, and without waiting for Armando, stomped back towards the warehouse where they had left all the drugs and the trucks. They hadn't looked around even once during the battle, or if they had, they would be dead by now and wouldn't be in any shape to talk. The fight had moved them around, and when they stomped back to where they had left everything – it was as Phoenix guessed. There were no traces of the trucks.
All of them were gone – having rolled off from the adjacent roads, off to the great unknown. Stolen by a bastard they never should have trusted in the first place.
Phoenix's roar that day, would rival just about any wounded beast you care to name.
I'm tire myself with my car chases. Will get around to that klavipollo, swear.
