Description: After a painful loss in the Saturday Night Fights, Brett couldn't think his day could get worse. However, a random act of kindness on the street of Metro City has come back to haunt him. With the rumors of Brett going vigilante reaching the ears of the great Southtown Syndicate boss Duke, the hockey fighter finds himself being made a offer that many would not refuse...
It's not been a fun while for one Brett Neuer really. He had intended to jump back on the horse as far as the fighting circuit, not because he needed it, or because he was coerced into it...but because he wanted to. He wanted the exposure that the professional fighting did not for his sake, but for his sport. Because facts were that hockey was on a downturn. Not quality wise, but popularity wise. It was definitely on the retreat in the US at the very least.
But as the hockey kid sat at the foot of his bed and lurched over, he was beginning to have severe doubts. It's been years in fact since he's been able to tally an official win, and the last fight...well, no one doubted his heart and his willingness to fight to the last, but as his wounds attested, it can only go so far. "NNNhhh...." Groaning, ribs and shoulders taped up, head taped up, just about the only thing not extra sore or wounded and bandaged over were his legs. It was times like these where Brett was left alone with his own thoughts...like if he should just head back home, try and rejoin the pro ice, or just...who knows. It wasn't pretty thoughts, as full of self-doubt as they were, but they were his own.
And as he looked around his empty room, he sighed. Maybe some background noise from the TV would help distract him before he really did convince himself past a point of no return. A twinge of pain in his shoulders suggested that a trip down the hall to the ice machine might be worth it too. Now if he could only find his keys... "Where....geh." Oh, forget it. He'll just prop the door open with the latch.
Hey, he grew up in a tight-knit, relatively safe neighborhood. Surely no one would want to sneak into his room or anything on a short trip to the ice machine, right?
It was a pity that Duke was late.
The Don had located Brett's room easily enough. Why, the Don could have even gotten in before the Hockey Star returned. Alas, he was late. As such, he waited down the hall, silently inspecting the door. He would give Brett time, that was certain. Either after he fell asleep... or if he slipped out. Fortunately for the dark-skinned ganglord, Brett had chosen to step out. While breaking and enter was rude, the Duke had standards. Waiting until Brett slipped out of sight, the Duke approaches the door, ready with his own copy of the keys. To his delight, it was already open.
Why, it was almost like BRett was letting him in.
Opening the door, he doesn't bother shutting it behind him. He was Duke, let his presence be known. Observing the hotel, he screws up his nose. It was like a hospital room in here, the stench of battle hung heavily. Walking calmly along, Duke approaches the refridgerator, inspecting the kitchenette idly. Opening the minifridge door, he gazes within, looking for any means to prepare his guest some food and drink.
After all, it was the least he could do.
Well, it would figure that the ice machine was almost empty at this time of night. It meant that Brett, took even longer that he'd hoped as he went to another floor and got a full bucket of ice from THAT floor's ice machine instead. Thankfully, that one was nowhere near as empty. Taking the elevator down (normally, he'd take the stairs, but between injuries and a non-sensical apparent stair policy that left reentry ONLY on the ground floor...yes, Brett tried earlier), the exhausted hockey kid approached his door.
Thankfully, it seems like it's just as he left it: propped open with the latch. No problem there, just how he intended. Unfortunately, as he pushes his way in, he finds that the room itself is NOT how he left it. For one thing, he's prettu sure that the tall, dark, demonic guy standing there in his room is NOT housekeeping. Or Room Service. Or any other sort of hotel staff, unless their billing department is meant to be especially intimidating. "....what's going on. WHo are you, why are you in my room...and why are you racking up my bill?" he mutters.
Hey, minibars cost money...
"Ah. Brett Neuer, of Duluth."
Duke doesn't even turn from the minifridge as Brett questions his presence, only plucking up a small bottle of wine. Rumbling in that fiercesome baritone. "It is good you returned. I had worried I would miss you yet again. No, do not worry about the minibar. You will be well-compensated, do not worry." Finally turning around, he looks at Brett with those devilish yellow eyes, a quiet smirk on his face.
Come, come, close the door. We have very important business to speak of."
Walking towards a table, he acts as if this was more his place than Brett. Pulling out a chair, he motions for Brett to sit down. His presence had an air of peace around him, as if despite the foreboding strength had no intent, for the moment, of breaking Brett in half. That glint in his eyes, however, foretold something deeper about the giant of a man.
And not to mention that deep scar on his neck.
Brett furrows his brow, still holding his bucket of ice. He watches the slightly larger man, never taking his eyes off of him even as he places the bucket atop the desk near the minibar. Even if the man wasn't exactly showing signs of aggression, just his very presence felt...off. Beside the fact of him tresspassing in his room, that is. Brett wasn't exactly spiritual, but deep down there was definitely a sense of...wrongness the more he looked at the man in red.
"Who are you and how do you know my name?" comes the immediate question. He walks closer, but he's a bit too concerned to take the offered seat. He really didn't want to feel like he was being bossed around in his own hotel room, after all, even with the foreboding presence he had.
"I have many names.
Duke's smirk turns into a scowl as Brett does not take his offer. "Some call me the Man that Hades Spat out. Other call me Hell's Executioner. You may call me... Duke." The burly man seems to be growing angry with Brett, though his tone does not raise under that deep, booming growl. "And I know who you are because I worked hard to know who you are. Brett Neuer. Ace Hockey Star of Sault Ste. Marie Greyhounds, or at least, former star. And rising amongst the fighting circuit with his unique fighting style. Why, if you keep it up, Brett, you might be part of a new International Sports Team. That is, in a way, what I wish to talk to you about. Your choice in career." The man grips the chair, his veins bulging as his patience wears thin.
"Sit down, Brett."
Brett scowls himself. That...really is not sitting well with him. He knows way too much about Brett barely knows who he is. At least, now he has a name to put to the face, freely given. Leaning against the back of the offered chair without sitting down in it yet, the third-liner narrowed his eyes. It takes a lot to get Brett to mistrust someone so quickly, but Duke has managed that rather rapidly.
"Why are you looking at me, huh?" he asks, frowning. Eventually, he does sit down. While he's usually very polite and mild-mannered, it's simple self-preservation that has him take the offered seat: as banged up as he is, he can't afford to get angry or get into a fight with someone he has little knowledge about outside of being...inordinately well-informed. "It can't exactly be because of my success," he says, a wince as he drops back into the seat, careful not to aggrivate his wounds from his SNF fight.
Trust?
Trust only served Duke as far as he would let it. Still, as Brett takes him up on his offer, the angry subsides, and he pushes Brett in, gently. In a deep voice, he rumbles back towards Brett. "Oh, your success is what brought me here Brett." Duke places the bottle on the table, walking back towards the kitchenette. Retrieving two wine glasses from the cupboards, he continues.
"It has come to my attention that you have been taking up the cowl of a vigilante, Brett.
"It wasn't wise of you to stop a pair of heartless bullies from wrecking a taco stand." Duke returns to the table, placing a glass before each of the chairs, before sitting down himself. "You are only a young boy, so I can empathize with sparks of passion. Especially on my streets. Still, a country boy like you might not realize how dangerous it is to place your hand into street fights, Brett." Duke begins to pour wine in each of the glasses. "Of course, you weren't alone then."
"Who was that stranger you were with?"
Brett continues to watch warily as Duke rises and starts to set out wine for the both of them. As he does, he listens...and stares somewhat dumbfoundedly at the bigger man. "Vigilante? What? What are you even talking about?" He then thinks back to that one night eariler in the week, the one with....ohhhh, right....that.
"Who are you?" Brett again asks Duke, this time much more pointedly, getting a rather dark, unsettling feeling in his stomach, though it's mixed with a small bit of anger toward the man. "So...I'm supposed to let a poor guy running a food stand get bullied and intimidated? I didn't even know any of them, I just know what's right and what's wrong." He makes a point to push away the offered glass of wine even as it's offered to him. "I avoid drinking," he insists. "So being a good citizen and stopping someone trying to burn a guy down with his business is being a vigiliante?"
"Yes."
Duke answers Brett full question with that one word. Scowling at the rejected wine glasses, Duke sips his own, eyeing Brett fiercely with those yellow eyes. "I think it would be best if you take a break from touring, Brett. To truly reconsider what is valuable to you in life." Placing the cup down, he clears his throat, reaching within his fine, black and crimson suit. "You seem to be growing angry with your performance in both the ring and on the rink, Brett. Young and furious is a dangerous combination, and you might make a mistake you won't live to regret. That is why I sought to prepare you a gift."
And that is when Duke draws out a single plane ticket.
"It leaves tomorrow night." The Don begins, holding it up to the light. "One way, to the closest airport near Duluth. I have already contacted a taxi service that will bring you back to your old family home, all paid for at my expense." DUke's tone suddenly gains a piercing, haunting vibe to it, bringing a chill to the hotel room.
"Don't worry, I already provided them the address to dear Martha and Allen."
A diabolical, almost sweet smile comes over the Don's face, every word dripping with the hidden implications. "They say family is very important for your health, as well as your mental wellbeing. And I know if you won't benefit from the visit, it will be very important to your parent's well being to visit them. Don't worry about coming back to Metro City, Brett. In fact, I think it would be better if you... didn't." Duke places the tickets on the table, raising up his glass again.
"Do you understand, Brett?"
Brett uncharacteristically stares right back at Duke. All the kid knows is that this man is bad news, and he can't afford to back down just on basis of principle. This is not a good man, it's becoming clear, and backing down to bad men just allows them to continue doing bad things. "As much as I enjoy the concern, I think I'm fine," he insists.
And then the plane ticket is passed toward him, the native Minnesotan looking down and staring at the ticket slid down the table. "What are you tal-" And then, it dawns in Brett's eyes. When his parents are brought up, by NAME, it becomes painfully clear to the kid.
"You.....you're threatening my FAMILY?! MY MA AND PA?!" he screams, standing up from the chair with a sudden jolt and slamming his hands down on the table. It takes a lot to actually get Brett ANGRY. Even in a fight, even on the Ice, when he's bulldogging his way into people, it's rarely out of anger. But right now? Right now He's ANGRY. Heatedly so, glaring daggers at the man. If the goal was to intimidate him, it certainly backfired.
"Get out of my room, before I throw you out the window, right now."
Intimidation was better than the alternative that he had in mind.
Duke sips the glass calmly as it begins to sink into Brett's skin. The anger that erupts was not a surprise to Duke. The Don makes his feelings clear about he saw in the boy. "I admire your passion. But I don't think you understand the scope of what you are dealing with, Brett. You need to get out of town, before something terrible happens to you... or your parents. I'm expecting you out of Metro City within 24 hours, boy."
"And I don't want to see you back."
Duke finishes his wine, before putting down the glass. Rising up, he stares at Brett, his own eyes burning, a flash of that strength surging up. "This isn't one of your rinky-dink hockey games, boy. You made your mistake when you started making trouble on my streets. You think you are tough? Damn proud of yourself? This is me giving you a chance to stay on my good side. You want to waste my offer?" The brute of the man slams down his own hands on the table, a ruthless chill filling the room as he surges back with his own fire.
"Then the devil will be collecting his dues."
All pretense of kindness was gone now, Duke now a raging demon with every word that he spits from his mouth. "I don't tolerate vigilantes, Brett. I only have my men, cops, and the sheep that obey both. If you aren't on that plane tomorrow night, Brett. You are going to regret it. Be smart, Brett. Don't be dumb. You have a rich career ahead of you. Don't waste it failing to accept the consequences for you action." Pulling back from the table, Duke crosses his arms, unleashing his ultimatum.
"So what is it going to be, Brett."
"Are you going to be proud, or are you going to be smart?"
This is something that Mr. Neuer will likely regret in the morning. But right now, passion is giving way to rationality. And while he's giving some inches and poundage to the demonic man, the hard-checking winger doesn't back down when the atmosphere changes from one of gladhanding negoation to sheer menace.
"You have my answer already. Get out of my room. Now," Brett says chillingly. And while the aura comes nowhere close to that of Duke's own, the temperature around him does manage to drop as chilly chi starts to eminate. Underdeveloped, yes, but it's definitely there.
"And if I hear anything happeed to my ma or pa...." He leaves that hang, fist clenched as he continues to try and stand eye to eye to the crime lord.
So that answer was proud.
Duke, at first, does not seem to take Brett's answer to heart. Fire clashes with Ice as the two stare each other down; frost forming on the Mafia Don's face. The Man That Hades Spit Up seemed only two steps away from tearing apart Brett, making him a true offer that he couldn't refuse.
"Then so be it."
Duke rises off the table, releasing his palms off the top. Reaching into his jacket, the air of class returns to the brute of a man. Drawing out leather wallet, he draws out several $20 bills, tossing them on the table. "We will see if you change your mind in the morning. The ticket is on the table. That should cover a taxi, as well as our wine. I am many things, Brett. Even generous." Walking towards the door, he adds one more line before turning his back to the hockey star, to exit out the door.
"It is a pity you must see the less paltable sides of me."
Continuing to stare down Duke, Brett numbed himself, enough that he couldn't feel his fingers digging into his own palm, the short cut of his nails the only thing keeping him from cutting into his own palm. He didn't even bother looking down at the bills thrown out onto the table, eyes locked directly onto Duke as the man starts walking out of the door. "GO," Brett snaps, barely able to restrain himself from shaking angrily.
When the door is closed behind Duke, however?....that's a different story. After a minute to cool down from his rage, panic sets him. Digging around the room to find where he left his phone, the hockey kid hurridly dialed home. God help him if they already were there. "...c'mon, ma, pick up. Pick up, pick u-...MA! Are you ok? Is Pa ok?...no, no, no, I'm fine, I...yes, I know you saw me, it did hurt bu-....NO, I'm not concussed, please, just listen. You and Pa need to hurry to Aunt Dori's as soon as ya can, alright? Please, do this for me, something happened and....no, no, please, just listen Ma. Please....please..."
But already, things were in motion.
Duke leaves the hotel room, closing it behind him. Walking down the hallway, he gritted his teeth. Stupid boy. He didn't want to have had to do this. That is why he came to meet the boy in person, instead of one of his goons. To give him a chance to weasel out, with his life intact. The Duke pulls out a cellphone as he reaches the ground floor of the hotel. Muttering into it, he bellows in his rich baritone. "Grigori. This is Duke. Be on standby tomorrow. If the boy doesn't arrive by 9 PM..."
"You know what you must do."
Duke closes the cellphone, approaching a limo that drives up. The chaffuer, a brown-haired man bearing a black eyepatch, emerges from the limo, and opens the door to the limo. Duke motions to his assistant. "Home, Jacque. I have had a weary meeting." Sitting within the luxarious interior, Duke mulls as Jacque mans the front, driving off. He would have to ruin a family tonight, a ruthless choice that did, very briefly, pain him to bring.
But Wagner would be his painkiller tonight.
Log created on 21:21:03 04/24/2012 by Duke, and last modified on 01:12:15 04/25/2012.