Blood and Booze

April 1st, 2015: Deathstroke hits a Yakuza kid and meets Phobos who was there gettin' on his drank.

Hidden Airport



  • Lots of Yakuza

Mood Music:

The funny thing about fear is that some people's mere presence calls it like rain
from the heavens. The room is dark and quiet, and there is a distinct lack of
movement from inside. Deathstroke stands amid the shattered remains of the skylight,
the flourecents that are part of the hanger's make up glinting off of his armor. He
reaches up casually to flick a few bits of glass from his shoulder, it tinkles and
skitters across the concrete. "I'm sorry, you /do/ speak English, yes?" he asks the
room at large, "Because I could do Japanese if it would be simpler for you."
silence, stillness, dimly lit, one would thing with all of the katana's hovering in
the air in various grips that it would be the one big man alone in the center of the
ring of them that should be afraid. He is not the source. One of the men, younger,
his hair spiked up in crazy fashion with blue tips, speaks up, "Who-" he says with a
tilt of his shoulders and stabbing a finger in the assassin's direction, "the fuck
are /you/?" one of the sword weilder's eye twitches slightly, the Japanese soldier
equivilent of a full on wince.

Such a wild cavalcade of sound, such a crazed blur of activity. Glass is
shattered, blades are drawn. The soldiers rise from their seats and all seem ready
to set upon the lone man in the middle of the room.
All save for one, the lone gaijin who is settled casually at the bar in the
lounge near the far wall. Cradling a sake bottle in one hand and a small cup in the
other, he looks over at all the commotion. It's a touch distracting, but then that
lone figure is interesting. A sip of sake is taken as that blonde young man smiles
to himself then shakes his head. This is probably going to end up poorly. For the
Yakuza. When one man leaps into a room looking for a fight amongst many others, take
the odds and bet on the one man.

Deathstroke is not just one man. If ever a man had the stink of Ares upon him, it is
this man. He looks around the room once, one of his feet turning outward slightly at
the toe, adjusting his balance with a subtle motion. His armor is lithe and nearly
skin tight, a sort of scale and kevlar mix that clings without offering up any
visible weakness. It's rather finely made. He moves his hands slowly to his hips
where a pair of metal poles rest, some form of escrima weapon apparently. "Some of
you know who the fuck I am," he says carefully, his Japanese is /excellent/ though
still clearly American, "and if you wish to leave now and not spend your lives in
service to a fool, you made. Quickly." the young man shakes his head and raises a
hand, flicking his fingers Deathstroke's direction, "Someone kill this
motherfucker." Slade's eye narrows behind the mask and he grins slightly as everyone
pauses for a full three count. "Too late." he says and his hands move in a blur.
Where there were two sticks there is now a long staff, snapping out into an extended
bo. One of the Yakuza is on the ground, the wet crunching soudn of his hyoid brone
pulverizing beneath the staff's end echos in the room even as the staff whistles
into a circular guard position. The sound seems to jump start the room to motion.

Even as the myriad of men in black and white launch themselves into motion.
Even as the room begins to echo with that powerful reverberation of combat, those
mixed screams, and strikes, and howls. The young man in the lounge watches. This
would be a spectacle his father would enjoy, but to be fair if his father was here
to witness it he'd jump in and spoil the whole thing.
Alexander, for his part, takes up the bottle of sake and the single cup. He
walks over towards the door that seperates the lounge from the hangar itself and
shoulders it open, causing a faint squeak that's lost amongst the kiyais and the
shouts and the clangs of weaponry.
When a Yak draws a set of automatic pistols and gets set to fire upon
Deathstroke, the young man casually reaches over and smacks the man on the back of
the head in admonishment. A furrowed brow is enough to advise the man against that
course of action, for now at least.
An old aluminum bench is pulled over partially to allow Alex to take a seat
upon the edge of it. He pours himself another cup of sake, downs it.

By the time the second cup of sake is poured, before Alexander's backside finds a
seat on his bench, the fight is over. Thirty men, hard men, well trained men, men of
violence, are dead or in no condition to oppose Deathstroke. He walks over to the
young man who's currently kneeling amid a puddle of blood nearly six feet across,
amid the broken bent bodies of his one time friends. His fingers clutch at the stump
of his wrist where he once had a hand, before Deathstroke's deft perfectly timed
deflection drove one of his own bodyguard's blades through the arm severing it
cleanly. "M-My father will hear of t-this!" the man says, his skin a few shades
paler then it ought to be, hsi eyes wide with panic and faked anger. Deathstroke
stands over the boy, "The fact that you would utter those words dishonors him."
Slade informs the boy, his voice metalic behind the mask, "Who do you think sent
me?" he says pointedly. The staff is barely a glint but the impact of it's whirling
end splits the Yakuza's skull like a melon, splattering it's contents all about.
Deathstroke twists his wrist and with a squealch the staff's end comes out of the
boy's mouth with the short swing sent it. He turns to eye Alex for a moment, saying
nothing. With the exception of the occasional moan or the wet scrabbling of some
dying man pawing at the fluids that fill the hanger, there is silence again.

The bottle is set down with a resonant clink that echoes throughout the
hangar. Looking up across the way at Deathstroke, Alexander offers a small smile
that's easily granted and offers no insight into the mind behind those particularly
red eyes. He opens a hand towards the masked man, as if asking for him to take the
very words from him as he says levelly, "I trust you've seen to emergency response,
that there shall not be one?"
As he says this he gains his feet and moves amongst the detritus and residue
of so much failed potential. He hefts a bloodied katana and casually gauges the
balance with one hand, swirling it through a clean arc with a calm precision.

Deathstroke nods once to the pilot in the jet, "He and you are the only witnesses,"
he points out plainly, "and no one sounded an alarm. I have no need to take care of
emergency responce." in short, no one in this hanger is calling the cops. Clearly.
He watches the blond man pick up a sword, "Put it back," he says simply, "you're not
on the contract and my job is done. No need to make a thing of this."

"Well I was more concerned that if the police or medicos were on their way,
then you'd have to depart quickly." Alexander seems to consider the blade in his
hand and frowns marginally, then kneels to take up a second. Scrunching up one eye
he looks down the length of the blade as if gauging its edge, then straightens back
up to full height.
"If none are on the way then you can perhaps take a moment and indulge me?"
Two blades in hand, he grimaces faintly as he swings one through another arc of
motion. He at least seems reasonably well-practiced enough to brandish it. "Though I
should apologize at first for the inferiority in the materials. These people seem to
get their armaments from Museum Replicas."
With that said he brings the weapons up and open, beckoning. "If you would.
However, if your time is not your own then do not let me detain you."

Deathstroke stares at the blond man as if he were something to be studied, "I am not
a pet to be pranced about for entertainment. If you want me to kill you then you pay
for the privelege. I don't work for free." the staff is slick with blood and gore
and bits of it plop down into the mess at their feet, it would be unsetteling to
lesser men.

The blades are lowered somewhat, the tips touching light upon the floor
before him though crossed. Alexander does seem terribly curious about the other man,
and yet the gore around him and the staggering sheer amount of death doesn't seem to

perturb him. In fact he seems almost at home standing there.
His jaw tenses, extends subtly, then those faintly glowing eyes meet
Deathstroke's. "I would enjoy crossing blades, however to pay for such…" He lifts
one of the katanas to waggle it back and forth slightly. "That would seem to cheapen
the experience somehow. You leave me with few options. I would not attack you for
most likely the matter would escalate poorly and I would not see harm come to a
pearl beyond price as an individual such as yourself."
That having been said he takes a step back, symbolic most likely and then
reverses the blades to hold them in one hand. "You have done good work here, please
enjoy your success."

Deathstroke's lips thin behind the mask, "Oh I assure you it would be anything but
cheap." he quips before his staff snaps apart in the middle, the two ends held with
ease in his hands. He flicks them, one to each side to clean the goop from them
before sliding them into the custom holsters on his thighs, "And this was hardly
work." he shoots a look at the mess, "They'll let just anyone carry a sword these

A small nod is given as Alexander looks around the room. Some of these men
he had been laughing with only an hour or two ago, some of them might have
considered themselves his friend. But at this moment, they're vague memories that
will most likely be forgotten before the sun comes up. At least to Phobos.
"The right tool for the job. A blade that shines is suitable to intimidate
those who do not wield." He lifts his free hand and gestures absently to the side as
if sweeping away so much detritus. "I should tell you that I most likely will tell
some members of the Tatsu clan. Simply because it will be an anecdote of a sort."

Deathstroke nods his head, "As will the pilot." he says simply, his gaze setteling
on Phobos once more, "Why do you think the pair of you still live?" he asks
curiously. "What good is my work if no one knows who did it?" like the warriors of
old he would have his tale told to all who would listen. 'He is the biggest man I
have ever seen, I wouldn't want to fight him.' the boy said to Achilles, 'That is
why no one will remember your name.' the Myrmidon replied.

Turning for the moment to move towards one of the side doors, Alexander
glances back and asks, "What name would you have me use for you?" He pauses there
besides the exit, setting the katanas down with a faint click of metal upon
concrete. He rests a hand on the door and casually shoulders it open. "I was going
to simply call you the one-eyed bladesman. I imagined they will know enough from
that and what has passed to discern what is needed."

Deathstroke turns to back through the bodies towards the exit, one eyed or not, he
seems to have no issue placing his feet in cleared spots without having to glance at
them, "Deathstroke." he says, the name is said with an almost proud reverence, as if
it alone was a pronouncement of some sort. "And point of fact," his finger tips
dance along the ends of the disassembled staff, "I didn't use a blad. They weren't
worthy." he used a blunt weapon, a stick essentially. As he steps outside of the
hanger, beyond the pools of light cast by the lamps overhead he vanishes. Not just
the sort of disappearing that comes from stepping into the dark, but the kidn that
comes from a true understanding of stealth.

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