Description: Having finally beaten all of her opponents, Leandra "Layla" Burnier earns the priviledge of meeting the tournament's host to receive her prize money. And the Duke provides generously. Yet the Man Hell Spat Out has far more to offer the street-wise thug than prize money, and he tempts her with a deal all too fitting for his namesake...
Winners.
Those were the only people that were tolerated here. An office building. Many stories. But like his guest, there was only one story that was her concern. A private office, a direct office; no hallways, just an atrium. It would be a long elevator ride up. It would be a quiet one. There would be an escort to the elevator. There wouldn't need to be one within it. It would be just the winner.
His champion, so to speak.
The Atrium was rented. A great, open interior, lined with bronze scaffoldings, great expanses of art work over oak bookcases. Ladders line the bookshelves, as the a long red carpet rolled over the floorboard, leading up to a raised floor, one step above. A mighty oak desk sits before a comfortable, plush leather chair. The desk was sparsely outlined, except for a manilla folder.
And there was the Duke, in his full regalia
Across the great desk, the Duke sits in his suit of Black and Red, clutching a fat stogie. Releasing a thick, choking cloud, he adds to the smoky haze that filled the room. He was waiting. Behind him, a window opens to the expanse over the rest of Metro City, the night lights glowing dimly from so high up. The crime boss strokes his beard, as he takes another puff of his cigar.
Where was his winner.
It was a damned cold night too, but damned if Layla could feel it. The alchohol she had in her blood seemed to warm her well enough, or perhaps just numbed her to the frigid air. She wasn't shitfaced tonight though, she had an inkling about just how important tonight was. And you don't show up in front of a big shot anybody shitfaced.
In fact, the bronze-skinned woman with long, flowing, chestnut brown hair braided tight was dressed better tonight too than she usually did. There were no tattered and torn denims here. The woman with fierce, earthen, gaze walks into the high-rise office building's first floor wearing a pair of body-hugging black denim jeans that showed off her curves, a brand new pair of black leather boots, a plain red T tucked tight into her jeans - tight enough to make the swell of her generous bust apparent, and a new blue denim jacket to boot. She probably spent what was left of her money buying this shit, but she had an impression to make after all.
Her footfalls echo softly off of the polished floors of the lobby, the woman herself making no noise whatsoever beyond that. She's just walking across the lobby with her hands tucked in her pockets, brown eyes locked with the escort across the way. He was one of the few people on this floor tonight, save maybe some desk jockeys she couldn't be bothered to pay attention to. Layla may or may not be a few minutes late, but hells if she knew. She wasn't in the habit of carrying a watch, time didn't mean a thing to her usually. But maybe... that was about to change.
The escort shoots her a silent glance as she approaches, and she growls at him as though his very gaze were an offense to her, "...What?". The average looking man in black suit responds by waving his hands before himself in an attempt to dispel her aggression. "N-nothing... please, follow me..."
...And for the duration of the ride up the elevator, the native Brazillian woman does absolutely nothing. She just stands there, slouching just slightly in that stereotypically 'tough' way she was accustomed to... and staring into her own distorted reflection off the elevator doors. When the elevator comes to a sudden stop, mechanical doors rolling open with a ringing sound, she walks out into the atrium proper... not saying a word. She wouldn't speak unless spoken to. It was proper respect, after all, this isn't Layla's first time being called on for a 'job'. But she cast her gaze toward the mountain of a man across the desk, a healthy dose of anxiousness was weighing on her mind but damned if she'd show it.
She really hopes she isn't late.
She would've been late, even if she was early.
As the elevator doors open, Duke leaves the cigar sitting in his mouth. Puffing away, the crime boss stares down the way, across the crimson carpet. Yellow eyes focused dead on the woman, he doesn't inspect the woman's body. He just looks into her eyes, a sneer coming over his face as he puffs, puffs away. Finally he pulls out the cigar, tapping it out in an ash tray upon the desk.
"Layla Burnier, I presume."
Placing the cigar in the ash tray to cool, he leans back in his chair, continuing to focus on her. Steepling his hands, he seems to not know what to do with this woman yet. The sneer has not gone away. His expression is contempt. "You're late." The man thunders, the voicing carrying through the atrium. And yet, he does not strike out. He simply looks towards the chair opposite to his desk, and he makes a brief motion with his hand.
"Have a seat. "
Eh, it figures. She's rather surprised at his lack of any real explosive disappointment, but she doesn't show it. She doesn't even really flinch as his voice thunders throughout the atrium, merely stopping in her advancement. She waits there, hands still in her pockets with a slouch... eyes following his gesture to the nearby chair as it comes.
...And she wastes absolutely no time heeding, boots clicking across the carpeted, wooden, atrium floor. She rises onto the raised platform with a single step, hands never coming out of her pockets, and then maneuvers to sit in the chair before him.
She doesn't cross her legs, like a proper lady might, instead adopting the wide-legged posture of man. Her hands come out of her pockets at this point, bare, calloused, bronze skin with visible scarring. She isn't wearing her usual gloves. The hands plant firmly on the chair's arm rests, and the earthen eyed woman stares in silence at the man hell spat out. The right corner of her mouth turned a bit with her anticipation, a scar nearest that corner of her mouth seems to wrinkle a bit with it. Her face itself had several visible scars upon it that would be easily visible from this distance. It was a sharp contrast with her otherwise girlish features.
She still wasn't speaking unless asked to apparently.
Duke stares grimly as Layla takes her seat.
Pulling up the cigar from the tray, Duke grips it, leaning back in his chair as he turns it to the side. Staring off to the right, he rocks back once, before speaking in that gravelly baritone. "Let me be the last to congratulate on your victory. I am a bit surprised that you were the greatest fighter that tore through the ranks. But not disappointed." Duke puffs on the cigar in silence, before heaving out a cloud of smoke towards the side.
"You are the greatest."
Leaning forward a bit, Duke dips low, reaching for somewhere behind the desk. Rising back up, he grips a rather small, leather briefcase. Placing it on the desk facing Layla, he clicks the latches. Chomping down on the cigar, he opens the briefcase, revealing that it is filled with neatly organized wads of dollars. "And you have earned your prize money. $100,000 dollars, a tidy sum indeed." Duke pauses for a moment, considering something solemnly. "But is that good enough for you?"
"You may answer now."
"...I'm not shy to the fighting circuits. Been around the block a few times, in this city. ... Even won a few.", she admits somewhat reservedly as Duke states his surprise at her victory. Layla wasn't a big time international hot-shot for sure, but in this city she'd bathed in the blood of many men and women and come out on top more than a few times. Still, she doesn't seem to be bragging. If anything, her relaxed posture and devil may care tone might seem to suggest it didn't mean much to her. And it didn't, it was a living.
...
Is that good enough for you, he asks, while plopping down a case full of green fatter than the woman's earthen eyes have ever touched in her life. It's visible, her surprise, as the case opens and her eyes go wide. For Duke, this amount was a pittance. For Layla, it was pay dirt.
"...I'm not gonna lie.", she replies, as her right hand reaches back to gently stroke her braided hair colored like earth and fire. "...I ain't never seen that much money in my life." She shifts, somewhat in her chair, and leans forward to look at it... as if to confirm it were real.
Then she casts a sidelong glance at Duke, earthen eyes watching his expression as he puffs on that cigar across from her. Despite the fact that she was close enough to potentially inhale the smoke being emitted, she doesn't even so much as cough. ... And then she sits back again, slowly. "...That's... that's fine, honestly." Though, she was still expecting that wasn't quite the end of it. Rarely did a shady tournament like this one have no other purpose than to amuse the host. "...I suspect, though..." And her right arm comes back around, elbow planting firmly on the arm rest of the chair as she strokes that scar on the right side of her mouth, a touch of anxiety is still there. But it's going away, slowly... "...There's more to the story?"
Obedient as one of his dogs.
Duke was taking his time explaining things. As he leaves the money there, he looks across, criss-crossing his fingers as he sits back in his chair. He needed it to sit and simmer, to soak within her head. For a hoodlum, this was a lot of money, especially for a tournament. The pot was naturally much smaller, only about $10,000, discounted for expenses. But she said that was fine. Duke pauses, ceasing his puffing as if Layla insulted. Grimly, he lets loose a low roar back.
"Fine enough?"
Duke snarls, teeth gritted as he leans forward, looming over Layla with burning eyes. "No, no. Nothing is ever fine enough. You think that's good enough? Just a briefcase? You just cut your way to the top of my tournaments. Losers take good enough. But winners.... winners take more." Duke eases back on his aggressive posturing, softening his voice by a margin. "Maybe you just don't have any imagination. Let me show you something you can't even think of. How will you react, I wonder, when I show you...."
"Another briefcase of money?"
Duke leans down again, reaching down. True to his words, another briefcase comes up. Placing it on the desk, he pops it open, revealing another briefcase full of money. "Or maybe that is small change for your ambitions. Maybe you want more." Duke stands up from his chair, bending down, and bringing up a monstrous duffle bag, big enough for Layla to fit in... and already leaking in dollars. Placing it behind the two briefcases, he turns its opening towards Layla, unhooking to let the money pour out. "A million dollars? Or maybe that isn't enough." He rumbles, standing tall behind his desk. And then, looking into her eyes, he asks a question aimed to pierce her very soul.
"What if I told you that it can go as high as you can let it, Layla."
She was ill-prepared for his 'enthusiasm', and it shows. Her head rolls back a bit, as he leans forward, earthen eyes daring to lock with the burning yellow eyes across from her that seemed to pierce through her soul. She even leans back into her chair a bit, both hands now brought to rest on the arms. But it's not an aggressive posture, it is as though she were bracing herself. She's fought a lot of big men in her life, some even bigger than the Duke himself. Yet everything about his nature suggested he was a man more powerful than she had ever faced before, and it's this idea which keeps her reserved, quiet, in the face of his sudden upsurge of barely restrained rage. She isn't shrinking away, crawling off like a disgraceful bug. But she certainly isn't about to interrupt him either.
When his tone softens a touch, massive frame retreating, the bronze-skinned woman seems to ease up again. Her hands then move to the collar of her denim jacket, gripping it and pulling it forward as her body shifts a bit in her chair. She was working out a bit of tension brought on by the momentary aggression of the don. She was a bit accustomed to crime lords and their intimidating demeanors, she'd had other 'employers' in the past. But none of them had ever provoked even a bit of apprehension from her. That was different.
Then the second brefcase goes down, popping open with a clicking of a metal latch. It draws her eyes, and she stares at it long and hard from behind a hideous scar that trails from her left eyebrow nearly to her jawline. It's the kind of scar that was doubtlessly caused by some manner of bladed weapon. Her lips knit, eyes darting from the briefcase to the massive duffle bag he plops own next. A bit of money spills out of it and lands near her foot, causing her eyes to jump from the bag to the floor. ... And then the rumble comes, and her eyes are back on Duke... and this time it is him who initiates the locking of eyes.
...His last words confirm her suspicions. This guy wanted a job done, and he was willing to pay well for it. What's a girl to say, except, "...I'd say what do you need me to do? Whose head do I have to crack open?", there isn't even a touch of shyness with the suggestion of violence. Hell, she's killed a man... once... she told herself she'd never do that again. But for this kind of money...? "...I may not be very imaginative...", she shifts in her chair again... this time sitting up straight again before stuffing her hands back into her pockets. She takes a breathe, before continuing, "...but I get jobs done. And I do 'em right. I'd say... if you're that eager...", she motions toward the buffet of green he laid out earlier, "...I'll carry the moon over texas for you."
Money talked.
Looming over the desk, Duke begins to circle around it, coming to Layla's side. Now, he inspects the woman fully. Robust. Experienced. Scarred. And judging by her response? Violent. Duke looms over Layla's chair, gripping the top of the Chair as he leans over her. The devil will collect what was due, tempting a mere street mortal into a life of vice, of crime. "What do I need, Layla? Oh, I am offering more than just money."
"I'm offering to make you my personal lieutenant."
Duke lets it sink in for a moment, before explaining. "Lieutenant might not be a clear enough title. I am offering you to be my right-hand man, my second in command. All the money, the power, the status. I am giving you the chance to be the second most powerful criminal lord in all. But." As the but comes, the hands dig into the chair, causing it to tremble. "If you are my lieutenant, I will expect the highest standards from you. Feh, the moon?" Duke furrows his brow into Layla.
"You would need to provide me with a lot more than the moon."
Her eyes followed the massive man, as he circled about the desk... inspecting her. To the eyes, she was certainly not an ideal beauty. That jacket, presently, masked the strength of her arms... tightly woven from thick musculature with the consistency of marble. Those tight, black, jeans she were wearing however did absolutely nothing to hide how physically sturdy she was. Her thighs themselves were bigger than some men's heads. Her dark, mocha-colored, skin was exceedingly calloused - she bore the body of someone who's taken an almost constant pounding her entire life. It would be easy to tell, she were a woman molded by circumstances into a fighter even some men would envy. Even her face bears the signs of being battle-worn, there's scars in many places... marring otherwise very feminine features. In fact, aside from her facial features, pretty much the only blatant signs she bore of -not- being a man were those rather sizeable breasts filling her red T pulled just a little too tight.
Layla didn't enjoy it when men trained their eyes on her, and it showed in the way she shifts again... eyes drifting from him to the desk as he passes behind the chair. She could feel him grip it, but she doesn't look back. His words do fall on attentive ears, though. ... Lieutenant, huh? Her eyes shift from the desk back to over her shoulder again. She still hasn't turn to face him, but that got her attention. She purses her lips in quiet thought. She'd been close to the criminal element a long time, but it was never a constant thing. She weaved in and out of various gangs, she'd even mixed up with Mad Gear on a few occasions. She had some boys she could call on for a 'good time', but she generally didn't make it a pass time. Her criminal record were pretty long as it is...
..Her earthen eyes fix on the money again, and she leans back a bit into the chair as her momentary deliberations finish. Despite him clutching at it. His standing over the back didn't seem to bother her to much, until it starts to tremble a bit and he drags her back out of the comfort zone she was sinking into. This was still a potentially angry Duke. Or he would be, if she didn't give him the right answer...
...And she responds by turning on her seat, to stare up at him again. It's an even expression she wears, no particular feeling to it... "...Mad Gear, right?" It was just guess. A guess from a simple, yet street-wise thug, "...If so, I've mixed up with your boys quite a few times. They seem to like me..." This last bit is said with a touch of sarcasm, they howled and drooled like dogs at her usually. "...I can accept a position like that. Why not, I already kick their asses enough for it...", this may or not have been a dumb thing to say here. But, she isn't exactly Miss Intellectual... "And..."
She stands from the chair this time, turning to face him. Her attitude still communicates submissiveness, even if she'd dared to stand in his presence. "...If the moon doesn't please you, I'll give you the heavens too...", she shrugs, eyes closing briefly with it... before gazing at him again, "I do what I am told, when I am told, how I am told... and I do it with gusto. I ain't always the brightest bulb in the box, but if you need something done... I'll find a way to do it. Even I have to destroy some people...", then she emits a chuckle, "...or a whole lot of them."
"This is so much bigger than just Mad Gear."
Duke walks towards the window overlooking Metro City, walking in great strides. "If it was Mad Gear, well, that would be beneath you. You see, Metro City is small potatoes now. I rule this city. But you see... I want bigger things. I want to return back to my home, to control two cities. To be a TRUE CRIME LORD!" The man spreads his arms open, glaring down into the depths of the city. Lowering his arms, he growls deeply.
"But there is a man in my way."
The man's body begins to tense up, as it ignites with energy. "We were kicked out by this man, under the threat of death. But I am Duke. I am immortal , I cannot die, and I will not be stopped." Duke turns back towards Layla, body tense, as streams of hot chi energy begins to roll off him like smoke. "Kain Heinlein. He controls the city. He forbids any other gangsters to operate within -my- city."
"So we are going to remove that man."
"I am returning with an army. And army of gangster, Mad Gear is just a piece of it! I am going to take this army, tear into his gangland empire, and dethrone him! We will take back Southtown, we will rule over it as the proper Syndicate...." Duke approaches Layla with long steps, reaching the desk. With a short shove, he pushes the desk aside, removing it between himself and Layla. Staring straight at her, he crosses his arms, the energy flowing over his body.
"And your job is to lead that army."
So, she had him pegged right. Layla crosses her arms, slowly, weaving them together as she almost instinctively leans against the desk. There was a small bit of self-satisfaction written in her hardened, yet feminine, features. Nobody could ever accuse Layla of being an intellectual, but nobody could ever accuse her of being truly dumb. You don't survive twenty something years on the mean streets by being dumb. That's how you get killed.
Duke makes it apparent, almost immediately, that the whole scheme is much bigger than she'd imagined. Well, she thinks to herself, as her earthen eyes fall on the open briefcase nearest her elbow... that explained the 'generousity'. ... The moment that seething chi is felt, seemingly setting the air around the Duke to an almost suffocating temperature, Layla eases off of the desk and stands to her full height again. Her eyes opened a bit wider, as the weight of his power hits her. She has absolutely no ability to sense chi, normally, being a latent psion. But the effects were impossible not to notice...
..His turning and walking back toward the bronze-skinned brunette is met with a simple, unmoving, stance. By now, the surprise has left her eyes... and all that is left is a determined look in the face of a raging inferno. Even when the desk is shoved aside, she continues to watch his face intently. It isn't as though she didn't fear him, or even thought she stood a chance. It had far more to do with not being a coward. You don't show cowardice to a man you're going to be working under soon, especially not a man like this. You do show them proper respect, however... "...Undermine the squatter, and take back the roost, huh?" She knew how to play that game, she'd seen it done a few times in this city already. "...Yeah. I know how it works. Destroy the sitting don's support structure and it all caves in. Best place to start is from the ground."
She uncrosses her arms, then, and an arrogant smirk creeps into her features... the girl was displaying a bit of the swagger she normally displayed before a good fight. Reaching back around with a calloused hand, she grips at her tighty woven braid of earth and fire and smoothes it. "...I can do that. I have no problems leading some boys and girls to destroy this guy's playground." She's actually lead gangs before, but it's been small scale until now. There was no doubt in her mind she could do it though. "...You give me the steering wheel and I'll drive the car right through his god damned living room." Having said this, she resumes her prior stance... arms crossing again. Her eyes had never left his face though. "...Whatever you want, I'll get it done.", she repeats her prior statement, "That's how I work."
"Good."
She had done work like this before. Duke could tell. She had that flicker in her eye, someone who was experienced with the way of the streets; a hint of resentment, but a show of deference. She was holding herself like a proper thug, an admirable trait to a ground guy like Duke.
Why, maybe some day she would even try to overthrow him.
Duke turns away from her, focusing on the desk he had slid over. "If you can do that, then here is your first job." Duke grabs the manilla folder from the desk. Thumbing through it, the crime boss continues. "Start forming your crack team. These were your opponents in the tournament. You may recognize some of them. " Duke hands the folder towards Layla, his yellow eyes focused dead on Layla's own. "And you may want to start...
".... Now."
The Brazilian woman eyes shift from Duke to the folder as he turns his attention from her momentary. Her muscles, subtly tense just moments prior, relax a bit. When he came forward a while ago, shoving that desk, she half-expected him to demand a fight. Likely to prove she weren't a gutless worm. Fortunately, things get right back to business after the little stand-off...
...She eyes the folder momentarily, as the folder is pointed in her direction. But she wastes no more than a second taking it, her right hand reaching out to grasp the bottom edge of the folder. She nods, softly, taking it before tucking it beneath her arm. She wasn't about to thumb through it now, he gave her a mandate after all. "...Consider it already done. I'll get the best of these guys on board, one way or another." This is said with a tone suggestive of violence. After all, she beat them once already. Press-ganging the ones who refused to comply shouldn't be too hard. "...If that's everything boss... I'll excuse myself then and get to work."
"I will not consider it done."
Duke's stern glower does not fall away to doting mentor. He was not Layla's mentor. He was her boss. He had to hold her to standards. And he intends to enforce those standards. "This is not a fast food stand, Layla. This is real business, real crime. I don't assume anything until you can prove to me that your words meet your action. And if you fail me, you fail my whole organization, my ambitions?" The crime boss slowly turns around, keeping his back to Layla. And there, he utters his epitaph
"I'll have to kill you."
He is not joking.
The young woman doesn't shrink when he counters her statement with a dour rhetoric. The smirk lowly fades, giving way to an even visage. She simply stands there, returning his gaze... weathering it. And when he turns his back, uttering an epitaph, and she merely blinks once... staring into the back of his head. There is a moment of silence, and then she replies, "...I expect nothing less." This wasn't news to her. He was a crimelord, and crimelords do not tolerate failure. These kinds of men always get their dues, even if they have to take payment in blood. Layla hadn't been alive this long by being ignorant of these facts. "If you'll excuse me then, boss."
And, if he lets her go, she will take whatever portion of the money she's allowed to and depart for the elevator again. Neither of them would gain anything further by standing around bantering. That was a good way to waste his time, and that could have lethal consequences...
Once outside the building, she cracks the folder open and stares at the first page in momentary thought before closing it again and sighing into the cold night air. "...The things I do for money..."
Log created on 19:15:34 06/12/2013 by Layla, and last modified on 02:27:22 06/16/2013.