"MAKING AN IMPACT"
PITTSBURGH - "AUTEUR" NIGHTCLUB, DOWNTOWN
Ronald "Fat Ronnie" LeBlanc was not a particularly cautious fellow.
Khasman assumed this was owed to the fact that there was a consolidation of power in Pittsburgh, as of late, and he believed that his contacts afforded him some sort of protection. He was an associate of a gunrunning clan within the city-- a fixer of sorts that arranged deals and was the charismatic sort, despite not having any charisma to speak of; the sort of man who used money in the absence of charm. Khasman did not like this man. That often made it easier.
In the end, though, it was all the same, and relatively simple. He was given a photo, a description of where regular haunts, and a single word-- Convince, or Retire. LeBlanc was set to retire, tonight.
The club was a nice place, but he still preferred New York; there was less going on in Pittsburgh, which was as much of a blessing as it was a curse. There didn't seem to be any established capes in the city; heroes, sure, vigilantes, but not your spandex-wielding cocksuckers that'd save a train or bust a bank robbery. Things were still developing, slowly but surely, and the Pittsburgh branch of the Chechen mob found that they could not compete; not a single person in their ranks was powered, here. Ivan "Bloody Ninefingers" Dudayev had a reputation about him, sure, but it didn't quite matter to metahumans. They thought themselves above the rabble. They had disrespected the Kuyranash clan, and would understand the consequences now that he was here.
The lights were low. The dance floor was crowded. Khasman shouldered past the groups of patrons, underdressed and out of place; he found LeBlanc in a corner booth, lounging next to a woman at his side and another man across from him. He did not appear to notice Khasman, at first, but gave a skeptical glance over to the man as he approached.
"Can I help you?"
"You are Fat Ronnie, yes? Love name-- I am friend of, ah... Gregori's. You know?"
The skeptical look hardened. "Yeah? What's this about? The fuck are you coming here for--"
"I have message from him. For you." Khasman stepped closer. Ronnie's hand disappeared under the table-- likely to reach for a gun. A hand wrapped around his throat before he could pull a pistol out from the belt under his gut; Khasman drew even closer.
"Goodbye."
SHLLRRRKCK.
In an instant, LeBlanc's body spasmed; a faint choking sound fell from his jaw, blood trickling down the darkened luster of Khasman's arm and staining the purple collar of the body's suitcoat. He went limp a moment later; even in the darker ambience of Auteur's booths, overhead ambient light danced off of the spike's apex that'd cracked through the top of the man's skull. Khasman's gaze lingered on the man's shocked, vacant expression, his arm refined to a singular point that had effortlessly pierced through bone, flesh, and brain.
"RONNIE! FUCK-- MOTHERFUCKER-- !"
There was the familiar click and rattled metal of a raised gun; in an instant, Khasman's body reacted, flesh rippling with a faint glimmer into darkened, reflective mineral up the neck and along the side of his head. Two gunshots caught him in his shoulder and upper chest before he'd fully turned, spike ripping free from LeBlanc's skull with a wet tear before the point morphed into a long cutting edge. It swept down, catching the man in both hands at the wrist-- the gun falling to the table with a clatter alongside a severed hand. The other hung from tendon and cracked bone, blood jettisoned out onto the black table in a staccato rhythm as the poor bastard stared in shock at the sight of his own injury.
"F-FUCK-- HNNH-- GHH-HAHNHH!"
Khasman grabbed the man by the collar with his unmorphed hand and threw him onto the floor, head slamming against the railing that lined the second-floor catwalk above the dance floor; with a push and throw over the edge, the gunman's body plummeted a story or so onto the ground level of the club, landing with a grisly KRAK that bent his body like a discarded marionnette. Between the gunshots and the falling body, the patrons seemed to get the message; clamor ensued, and Khasman regarded the screams and fleeing innocents with a perturbed sense of calm. The diamond on his body rippled as the layer spread, covering his body fully in the event Ronnie had any friends; his work here was done, though, and it was time to leave. He made his way for the stairs, neck crackling as he rolled his shoulders.
Whoever LeBlanc worked for would get the message, he assumed.
Khasman assumed this was owed to the fact that there was a consolidation of power in Pittsburgh, as of late, and he believed that his contacts afforded him some sort of protection. He was an associate of a gunrunning clan within the city-- a fixer of sorts that arranged deals and was the charismatic sort, despite not having any charisma to speak of; the sort of man who used money in the absence of charm. Khasman did not like this man. That often made it easier.
In the end, though, it was all the same, and relatively simple. He was given a photo, a description of where regular haunts, and a single word-- Convince, or Retire. LeBlanc was set to retire, tonight.
The club was a nice place, but he still preferred New York; there was less going on in Pittsburgh, which was as much of a blessing as it was a curse. There didn't seem to be any established capes in the city; heroes, sure, vigilantes, but not your spandex-wielding cocksuckers that'd save a train or bust a bank robbery. Things were still developing, slowly but surely, and the Pittsburgh branch of the Chechen mob found that they could not compete; not a single person in their ranks was powered, here. Ivan "Bloody Ninefingers" Dudayev had a reputation about him, sure, but it didn't quite matter to metahumans. They thought themselves above the rabble. They had disrespected the Kuyranash clan, and would understand the consequences now that he was here.
The lights were low. The dance floor was crowded. Khasman shouldered past the groups of patrons, underdressed and out of place; he found LeBlanc in a corner booth, lounging next to a woman at his side and another man across from him. He did not appear to notice Khasman, at first, but gave a skeptical glance over to the man as he approached.
"Can I help you?"
"You are Fat Ronnie, yes? Love name-- I am friend of, ah... Gregori's. You know?"
The skeptical look hardened. "Yeah? What's this about? The fuck are you coming here for--"
"I have message from him. For you." Khasman stepped closer. Ronnie's hand disappeared under the table-- likely to reach for a gun. A hand wrapped around his throat before he could pull a pistol out from the belt under his gut; Khasman drew even closer.
"Goodbye."
SHLLRRRKCK.
In an instant, LeBlanc's body spasmed; a faint choking sound fell from his jaw, blood trickling down the darkened luster of Khasman's arm and staining the purple collar of the body's suitcoat. He went limp a moment later; even in the darker ambience of Auteur's booths, overhead ambient light danced off of the spike's apex that'd cracked through the top of the man's skull. Khasman's gaze lingered on the man's shocked, vacant expression, his arm refined to a singular point that had effortlessly pierced through bone, flesh, and brain.
"RONNIE! FUCK-- MOTHERFUCKER-- !"
There was the familiar click and rattled metal of a raised gun; in an instant, Khasman's body reacted, flesh rippling with a faint glimmer into darkened, reflective mineral up the neck and along the side of his head. Two gunshots caught him in his shoulder and upper chest before he'd fully turned, spike ripping free from LeBlanc's skull with a wet tear before the point morphed into a long cutting edge. It swept down, catching the man in both hands at the wrist-- the gun falling to the table with a clatter alongside a severed hand. The other hung from tendon and cracked bone, blood jettisoned out onto the black table in a staccato rhythm as the poor bastard stared in shock at the sight of his own injury.
"F-FUCK-- HNNH-- GHH-HAHNHH!"
Khasman grabbed the man by the collar with his unmorphed hand and threw him onto the floor, head slamming against the railing that lined the second-floor catwalk above the dance floor; with a push and throw over the edge, the gunman's body plummeted a story or so onto the ground level of the club, landing with a grisly KRAK that bent his body like a discarded marionnette. Between the gunshots and the falling body, the patrons seemed to get the message; clamor ensued, and Khasman regarded the screams and fleeing innocents with a perturbed sense of calm. The diamond on his body rippled as the layer spread, covering his body fully in the event Ronnie had any friends; his work here was done, though, and it was time to leave. He made his way for the stairs, neck crackling as he rolled his shoulders.
Whoever LeBlanc worked for would get the message, he assumed.
