Description: Brian enters the ranks of "R" Organization, throwing away one stage of his life in exchange for a new one. Meanwhile, Rugal becomes aware of the final nail in the coffin of Shadaloo's regime in Thailand.
As promised by Alan, the helicopter came by his ranch at noon sharp the following day. Sleek, black, and far more quiet than one might normally expect from a chopper. It touched down for a landing in the street, graciously sparing any vehicles the ex football player might've had out front from a second dust storm. There's a time to antagonize and there's a time to patronize. Unless it's Alan. Then it's always time to antagonize.
The helicopter flight from the ranch would only take about an hour before touching down at a private airport near the Gulf of Mexico. There's no indication of who owns the airport, and it won't be found on any maps. But the heavily armed men patrolling the fenced in area suggest that it's not a place for amateur pilots to get their wings.
From there, Brian would be escorted aboard a luxurous black Learjet with all of the creature comforts one could hope for. Expensive alcohols, comfortable seats that recline into beds, plenty of floor space to walk around, and a full, three course meal around dinner time as the aircraft travels over miles and miles of ocean expanse.
And then finally what starts out as a distant spec on the surface of the sea slowly grows in size until it is a massive aircraft carrier, a leviathan among ships, larger than anything the United States has in its navy. Flying over the top of the command and control structure is a dark red flag emblazoned by a single black 'R' atop a white circle in the center.
After landing, Brian would be escorted to an elevator that seems to have only one destination. This room here. The technological brain of "R". And it is here that Rugal waits, watching readouts and charts on various terminals, taking in at a glance dozons of important world events at once.
As he was expected to be, Brian Battler was on that helicopter. He'd brought a duffel with some clothing, expecting that he'd probably need a few changes of clothing, and he wasn't going to wear the same thing every day. He knows he can get pretty rank sometimes, and if this is intended to be a job interview, he figures he should have some degree of class.
He'd enjoyed the ride in the private jet, eating food that he's not exactly used to eating but was delicious nonetheless. Food always tastes better when someone else is paying. Universal fact. The beer was good stuff, too. It was genuine German lager, and it was almost good enough to make the man think that American beer sucked. Almost.
He'd changed on the plane when he'd heard their destination was coming close. The boots he wore in the first place were new, the black snakeskin still glistening. He'd put on a pair of black slacks, a crisp, well pressed black dress shirt and had even put on a silk tie of solid crimson, which hung from his oversized neck like a worm trying to swallow an antelope. It looked good, but also quite humorous at the same time.
Escorted onto the bridge of this huge aircraft carrier, Brian looks around at the various panels, eyebrows furrowed slightly. This was an interesting place to be taken... Standing at ease, his hands clasped behind his back, the former NFL linebacker looked straight ahead and waited to be acknowledged. Anyone with the money this man makes deserves to be respected, and Brian at least has class enough to not interrupt this once.
Rugal's back is to Brian at first, his powerful hands clasped behind his own back as his human eye studies a monitor showing the buildings of Bangkok aflame with the destruction incurred by the final assualts of the Thai resistance army in trying to retake their capital. It's all playing out as he expected. And that brings a smile to tye tyrant's lips. And then there's the other matter that seems like it might be going his way today.
"Mister Battler," Rugal states, turning around to face the new arrival. The two black-suited women that brought the recruit this far turn and step back into the elevator. This time is for Rugal and Brian alone. The doors hiss close, leaving the two men. The sounds of hardware fans blowing, panels beeping, an occaisional print out churning are the only other noises to be heard for a long moment. "Welcome to the Black Noah. I am Rugal Bernstein and this is my ship." His voice is deep, his English flawless, though a hint of a German accent still lingers even after all of the decades that have passed since he left his homeland.
"It pleases me that you have decided to investigate what the "R" Organization might offer a man such as yourself. It wasn't by accident that we approached you. We have been watching you for some time. We happen to have a lot of work for men such as yourself. Strong, ruthless, competative. Not afraid to break a few bones..." He brings his hands forward, one hand slipping into the pocket of his suit pants. "And I think you'll find what we can offer you in return to be worth your while."
Brian stands perfectly still, allowing only his head to move, following the German's movements with deliberate attention. Being in a military family has instilled some sense of how to behave around powerful men of military stature, and a man whom owns an aircraft carrier is obviously a man with some rank somewhere.
"It's a pleasure to be here, Mr. Bernstein," the mountain of a man replies, his English more heavily tainted by his accent than Rugal's, even as he tries to force it away for the time being. There's also a deep rasp to the man's tone, an underlying roughness that underscores the Texan's entire being. "I have to thank you for the hospitality you've shown me thus far."
After a moment, the former linebacker smirks. "I think you've summed me up in a nutshell, sir. Though I'd change 'not afraid' to 'enjoys the chance', and you'd hit the nail on the head perfectly." Shifting a bit in his stance, Brian nods quietly. "I'm looking forward to discussing your offer, but before we do, I have one little thing to say..." Slowly moving his hands, he extracts his wallet, cracking the square leather billfold open and pulling a wrinkled, ragged piece of folded paper from inside. Thick fingers unfurl the paper before holding it aloft. It's an invitation... to the King of Fighters tournament that Rugal once hosted. "I wanted to thank you personally for this, but since my team slackassed around, I wasn't able to meet you then." Folding the paper back up, he reinserts it into his wallet and slips it once again into his back pocket. "Anyway, now that I've taken care of that, we can get to business."
Rugal likes what he hears. It shows on his face. The faint touch a smile at his lips. The slightest nod of his head. The glimmer in his one human left eye. His right eye is emotionless, black, dead. A pool of technology that moves as if it were alive. A permanent reminder of the one time he reached out and touched divinity entombed.
His eye focuses on the piece of paper - a keepsake from a tournament he hosted six years ago now. "Heh," comes the reply. It's not an expression of derision but rather one of amusement. He nods again as Brian puts the paper away. "Yes, so they did. But now that you're here, you will have the chance to exceed far beyond what they will ever hope to see."
He turns then, walking over to the holographic globe of the earth hovering over a circular display in the middle of the bridge. "From here you can see our operations, all around the world. Camps, airports, labratories, stores through which money is laundered. We have accounts, hold stocks, and from time to time even engage in legitimate business... But the truth, Mister Battler, is that most of our work crosses the bounds of what is considered legal in just about every country."
He pauses then, looking over his shoulder. There's no need to engage in pretense now. "R" is far from being above the law, after all. "However, in most nations we mind our business and are left alone by the officials. We have arrangements with many, understandings with even more. In general, it is unnecessary to strong arm public servants. They know that in dealing with us, they can see their political careers advance, their opportunities open. We can grease the way for them with our connections and all they need to do is not interfer."
The man walks over to the back wall of the bridge and presses a couple of buttons on a control panel. With a hydrolic hiss, a compartment opens in the wall and a table slides out. A bottle of an incredibly expensive whiskey from a collection dating from the 1920's and and two crystaline cups are the only adornments on the table's surface. The bottle is opened with the same indifference as if it was cheap brandy and Rugal pours some of it into each of the two glasses. One glass he lifts and holds out toward Brian. "No... our conflicts tend to be against other men in our line of business. Other cartels, other syndicates. More often than not, those are the types your services would be needed. I think you would find in general, those against whom you would be sent probably have it coming in more ways than one. Everyone has their darker side, after all." he chuckles.
Brian Battler is a simple man, of simple tastes. Good booze. Good barbecue. Fast cars. Loose women. Money. Power. And punching people in the face. Being able to get all but one of those things in one place is an excellent opportunity. The barbecue he can go back to Texas for.
There is the slightest glimmer of concern on the Texan's face as Rugal outlines the various illegalities of the organization that bears the other man's initial. Luckily, Brian is a cynic, and happens to think that every politician is corrupt, from the most insignificant county commissioner to the heads of state. What Rugal says validates this, and the former linebacker is not beyond using someone as a means to an end.
Turning and following Rugal as he walks towards the wall, watching with interest as it opens to reveal... whiskey. A man after his own heart, this Bernstein. Reaching out to take the glass, the cowboy smirks as the German attempts to appeal to some kind of justice within Battler's soul. "Indeed," he says, lifting the whiskey glass to his lips and taking a sip, feeling that all too familiar burn accompanied by a flavor and aroma that just screams it's pedigree. "Woo," he says, looking down at the glass. "You have some good taste in whiskey, Mr. Bernstein." His eyes raise up to Rugal's, apparently not giving heed to the blackness of the mechanical eye. "Your business intrigues me, sir," he says, his accent slowly working further into his speech, "and I rather fancy the way I could be worked into it. Not that it wasn't a position I wasn't expecting... I know my place in life, after all. And it's pretty safe to assume that I came on board knowing that I'd most likely be picking up my paychecks from you for now on. The only question I have left is about that, though. Aside from the cries of my foes and the lamentations of their women, what would be my compensation for joining your organization?"
"Yes, this..." Rugal chuckles, lifting the glass he poured for himself. "Vintage 1926, Hartman and Grant. Each bottle costs over thirty thousand dollars. In the hull of this ship is a cellar full of bottles not unlike this one." He drinks from the glass thoughtfully before lowering it.
"There is of course the money. A weekly generous retainer as well as bonuses for jobs well done. I think you will find it to be satisfactory. You will have access to the vehicles that can take you to and from this carrier, as well as locations we own all around the world. No one within the organization will question your need to requisition resources. You will have quarters aboard this ship. You are not obligated to use it, but it is yours for whenever you are aboard the Black Noah. You may use our vehicles for any other side interests you may have... it really isn't a problem."
"There's more, much more. Access to information on anyone you ever care to know about. Access to passports, forged documents, whatever you need to gain whatever you need. All the privileges of "R" are yours. All we require is that you be available for the missions ahead." Rugal pauses then, walking back over to the spinning holigraphic globe. "We will be stirring up things, Mister Battler. We will be antagonizing forces that have things that we want. There are uneasy truces that have existed for years that are about to be broken. The fall of Thailand, in more ways than one, has been the catalyst for a great number of changes to come down the line."
He pauses then, turning back around to face the ex Football player. One hand in his pocket, one hand loosely holding the crystaline chalice. "And as part of "R", you will be on the side that will control and direct it all. Which brings us to the final benefit. Power. More than you have ever tasted. Wherever you go, you bring the weight of "R" with you. This means something. This intangible change will be felt over time. You will see. And you will enjoy it."
Slowly, as Rugal's words spill out and fills his ears with the fruits to be gained from his labours, a smile grows on the Texan's face. Oily like a used car salesman dealing with an elderly grandmother, vicious like a pit viper about to strike, the smile is a firm testament to the fact that Brian Battler is a man without conscience and very little soul.
It's a visceral joy he feels at this, the idea of shaking the world to it's knees and it not being able to do anything about it. His drunken lout of a father would be disgusted, and that knowledge cements the path before him.
State of the art transportation, a generous stipend, no questions asked... and power. Rugal didn't even need to suggest that he would enjoy it, just hearing about it was enough for the former linebacker to know that he would revel in it. The taste was as delicious as the whiskey in his hand.
"Well, then," the taller man says, raising said glass towards his host. "Mister Bernstein, I do believe my services are at your disposal." And with that, he pulls the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the amber liquid, the burn like a period at the end of the story of his past.
There is that chuckle again. Deep in his lungs, his mouth not even opening lest it break the smirk in his expression. He raises the glass in turn and finishes the contents with his next draught. "Excellent, Mister Battler. I understand you brought some belongings along. I would be-"
At that point there is a soft beep from somewhere within his suit. Pausing mid-sentence, the man reaches into an inner pocket and withdraws a small cell phone that he flips open. A couple of button presses later and his eyes scan the colored LCD screen for a moment. With a snap, the phone is flipped closed and returned to his pocket.
His expression has changed. He appears even more pleased than he had been a moment ago. Something in the world has changed. A block has fallen into place - another piece of the foundation Rugal Bernstein is laying oh so carefully and patiently. "You'll have to excuse me, Mister Battler. Matters have come up that require my immediate attention. I will have someone up in a moment to show you where your room is. You're free to stay for a while or leave back to Texas as you see fit. One of my secretaries will be able to provide you with the information you will need. Passwords, phone numbers, keys, secrets. All of it. It will be good doing business with you," he states with the polite, courteous smile of a madman who is having all of his ambitions slowly come together flawlessly.
And then Rugal walks off to the wall opposite the elevator that brought Brian to this floor. His hand reaches out, pressing a button hidden in the surface, and a moment later a section slides open, revealing a dark hallway behind. Into that darkness the suited man vanishes and the door closes behind him, fitting flawlessly back into the wall, leaving not even so much as a crease to indicate its existence. There is a ding at the elevator and its doors slide open. A woman in a black suit steps out, smiling at the newest powerful recruit. "This way, if you please Mister Battler." she states with a subdued voice.
Nodding to his new boss, the Texan finished off his drink while Rugal is on the phone, savoring the flavor for a long moment before setting the crystal down on that same table that Rugal took it from. He watches the cahnge of expression on the German's face, and he, too, smiles. He may not know what has just occurred, but he know it's good, and that it, in turn, means good things for him.
When the boss is happy, everyone underneath can be happy as well.
As Rugal excuses himself, Brian nods thoughtfully. "Of course, sir. Thank you very much, and it'll be a pleasure working with you as well." With that, he takes a step back and clasps his hands at his waist, like a bouncer or a bodyguard might, watching the German walk out for a moment before the dark suited woman comes to retrieve him. Nodding to the woman, his eyes quietly flicker downward before pulling back up to accpetable height. Nice rack on that one.
This is gonna be sweet.
Log created on 01:58:41 07/07/2007 by Rugal, and last modified on 05:42:03 07/07/2007.