Lag 6.17 (Un-Betaed Draft) (Patreon)

Lag 6.17

                                    – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“One-sixty…”

It was interesting just how many properties the former head of the ABB and, by extension, the former ABB itself, had held on to. Granted, the overwhelming majority of those weren’t strictly owned by either of the two, at least not in any official, legal way.

“One-sixty one…”

But legality never really mattered to criminals all that much.

“One-sixty two…”

Or giant fire breathing rage dragons, for that matter.

Still…

“One-sixty three…”

It was honestly surprising just how convenient having access to empty warehouses at the far fringes of the Docks could be.

Especially when those warehouses had soundproofed back rooms in their basements.

In a basement backroom, nested deep beneath a warehouse that bore a deceptive façade of abandonment, Greg Veder raised himself into the air for the one-hundred and seventy-eighth time. His body balanced perfectly atop only his index fingers, both digits managing to keep his body in a gravity-defying handstand.

He was in the middle of another set of pushups, two hundred at a time, one finger from each hand being the only points of contact with the cold, recently power-washed concrete beneath him. This wasn't the typical setting for a workout, but then again, nothing about his life was typical anymore.

STR 224 → 225

Wow, a Strength gain after thirty minutes. Wondered when that would show up. His body remained taut, as he pushed off the floor for the one-hundred and eighty-secondth instance, legs straight up and facing the ceiling. Each repetition was performed smoothly and carefully, the teenager’s attention focused on training his dexterity and agility more than his strength. His voice echoed softly around the room, bouncing off the cold, hard walls, the repetition numbers inching closer to two hundred. (Acrobatics 47→ 48)

It had been getting harder and harder to train a lot of his stats, at least not without attracting undue attention. Sure, he could go to the Boat Graveyard in costume and try to drag a trawler across the water with a rope but that would just get the Protectorate on his ass, no matter what persona he chose for that workout.  Sooner or later, he’d have to see about maybe ordering Tinker workout gear from…

Greg’s mouth turned down into a frown. Where do you order Tinker tech?

From somewhere, he’d figure it out.

Shirtless but not sweating, he wore an expression of detached focus underneath his red polycarbonate helmet, his mind elsewhere as he continued his workout. Sparky, Greg's thoughts wandered to his friend. Did he tell his folks about last night? They haven't reached out to me or mom, so maybe he didn't...

With the thought of his friend, he pushed once again, hoisting his body upward, fingers holding steady as he kept them extended. Funny enough, despite the fact that the rest of the building was as empty as church on Super Bowl Sunday, Greg was far from alone in the room. Three men, each one unique in their manner and appearance, occupied the other end of the room, bodies bathed in the sterile glow of emergency lamps scattered around the room. They sat in silent observance, each of them with varied expressions; one of detached interest, another of silent appraisal, and the last held a subtle trace of amusement.

The first, a lean Japanese man, held a lit cigarette loosely between his fingers. The crisp white silk of his dress shirt clung loosely to his angular body, the rings of smoke curling from his pursed lips drawing attention away from the growing bruise underneath his right eye. Next to him sat a buff Chinese man, dragon tattoos spiraling up his crossed arms and disappearing beneath the tight-fitting red muscle shirt. His hair, gelled to a sharp faux-hawk, glinted under the harsh light, while a gold chain necklace laid heavy around his thick neck. The last of the trio was a young-looking Korean man, as handsome as he was reserved. His slim figure was encased in a black suit, sans tie, with an unbuttoned collar that seemed to go against his professional appearance. A smile played on his lips, the man seemingly more amused than anything else.

In between both Greg and the three others, another man stood center stage. Standing tall and imposing with six feet of height and a good bit of solid muscle, he was a well-built Japanese man without a single bit of hair on his head.

“Ugh-ugh-ugh!”

A white-and-red motorcycle vest left his arms and chest bare, showing off a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm as thick as they were intricate. A dual pair of katana were attached to the back of his jacket, secured by an attached circular holster that bore an image of a red dragon. A strip of red fabric tied around his wrists matched the dark-red pants he wore, but the red on his clothes didn’t really compare to the red on his hands.

“Ah… Ah!”

Or where it came from.

“Ngh!Ngh!Ngh!Ngh!”

In front of him was a man sitting in a chair; younger, smaller, scrawnier. His clothing mirrored that of the bigger man, a pale imitation, but the similarities ended there. Where one sat vulnerable, hands tied behind him and legs bound to the chair, the other was free to stand and rain down blows on him. Each strike from the larger man left the younger one gasping, bruises blooming across his body from repeated blows. His body bore the brutal imprint of fists, blood flowing freely from split lips and opened wounds, every single hit drawing wince-inducing sounds from the smaller man.

“Nghh-nghhhhhhhh!”

"Two hundred," Greg's clear voice broke the rhythm of punches and pained grunts as he held the final hand-stand. That makes five sets of two hundred. New record. Nice.

With a final push, he launched from his handstand and flipped to his feet, landing upright in one fluid motion. The seated men offered him polite applause, Greg raising an unseen eyebrow and giving the men only an audible snort. Man, Lung had these guys trained like dogs.

Shaking his head, Greg turned the white lenses of his helmet over to the two men in the center of the room, raising his hand in a clear signal. “Alright, Joey,” he announced, authority clear in his tone. “Enough. It’s time for Yuri to talk.”

The muscular Japanese man nodded silently and offered his boss a respectful deep bow, Greg returning the respect with a simple nod. Before turning to take his own seat alongside Seo, Greg’s second-in-command and advisor, and the two other lieutenants, he pulled a harsh face and spat on the young man he had spent the last thirty minutes beating.

The teenager raised an eyebrow at the action but, after a moment, he found that he couldn’t really fault the bad blood, considering the circumstances.

The room seemed to grow colder as Greg moved. His steps were measured as they rang against the hard floor, filling the room with an intimidating rhythm. Each and every one echoed in the silence, each breath Yuri took harsher, raspier and more desperate as Greg closed in on him.

Finally, he stopped, standing just a few feet away from Yuri, his body towering over the pitiful man strapped to the chair. His gaze was cold, expression as unreadable as the featureless mask he wore.

Instead of speaking, Greg simply stared, taking a few seconds to sift through the mountain of information Seo had gathered and handed to him about four days ago, his mind piecing together the fragmented life of the man in front of him. Yuri Utsuro, not even a full decade older than Greg himself, had been steeped in the ABB culture from birth. His father, a former boss in the pre-Lung era—back when the ABB's roots were still firmly planted in Boston—had managed to survive Lung's original power play in the early 2000s by almost immediately joining the cape’s side. He had even retained a semblance of his power, managing a section of the ABB and securing a middling leadership role for his son, Yuri, before the geezer had kicked it of a heart attack.

Yuri… Yuri wasn’t much to write about. He wasn't particularly smart, or particularly strong. Hell, he didn't even seem to have any real skills in particular. Truthfully, there was nothing extraordinary about him, really, but that might have been all he needed. Yuri was sly enough to stay out of notice and keep his head down. The ABB legacy had a knack for survival, a trait that had undoubtedly been his luck.

Or it had been, up until now.

He had navigated the treacherous waters under Lung's rule, maintaining his position in the lower middle of the shitheap that was the former ABB hierarchy and did his best not to rock the boat. Apparently, that had changed when the new leadership came in.

Greg had given Seo specific criteria for selecting the heads of the three main factions and his second had narrowed that down to; a) being young, b) having experience, and c) not having done that much fucked up shit.

Utsuro’s name had floated to the surface and he was picked as the Head Lieutenant of the Whites, his second-in-command one Jonouchi Takata.

As it would turn out, he was a shit choice.

Not Joey, though.

Joey was good people.

Greg's arms crossed over his chest, an imposing figure against the harsh halogen lighting that struck him from behind. He finally broke the silence. "Utsuro Yuri," his voice cut through the tension in the room, chilling and detached, "Do you know why you're here?"

His question hung in the air as several long seconds stretched into an agonizing half minute. The room was filled with Yuri's labored breaths and pitiful whines, Greg growing more irritated as the man refused to speak.

"That's not a rhetorical question, by the way. I want to know that you at least get why you're here," he spoke again, hand slicing through the air as he urged Yuri to respond.

A moan was Yuri's initial response, the sounds that followed barely more than a mumble. Greg's response was to raise a hand mockingly to where his ear would be under his helmet. "I didn't quite catch that," the teenager lied. "One more time for the whole class, Yuri. Come on."

A shudder of a gasp wracked Yuri's body, a clear sign of the pain he was in. Then, finally, the admission spilled from his lips. "I...I sold...I sold information."

"To. Who. Yuri?" Greg was relentless, his voice a hammer against the cold silence, his body leaning in, crowding Yuri's space.

With a gasp, Yuri confessed. He had sold the information to the Dragons and the Triad. His words, laced with fear and pain, tumbled out in a hurry, almost tripping over each other in their haste. "I didn’t think it was a big deal," he added weakly, a blatant lie that rang hollow in the echoing room. "I didn’t tell them anything they could use, I swear."

Greg, closing the distance between them, now stood barely a foot away from Yuri.

"Yuri," he began, his voice low, his tone almost soothing. His words rolled off his tongue, a whisper in the cold air. "I knew that."

"W-what?" Yuri's response was shaky, filled with surprise and confusion. He flinched, a reaction to the sudden jerking of Greg's thumb towards the three men who sat behind him.

"Well, Seo knew it," Greg corrected, the man in question raising a lazy hand as he was mentioned. His eyes glared at Yuri as he took a pull from his cigarette. "He told me you were snitching to them last week."

"Y-you…" Yuri stuttered, his words hanging in the air.

"Yeah, I knew. I told him not to kill you too," Greg continued, a carefree tone to his words as he announced the man’s stay of execution. Beneath the nonchalance, though, there was an odd heat to his words as he continued. "Figured…well, I figured it was better we knew where the leak was coming from. That way, we’d feed you wrong info, taking care of that issue, and if anyone else joins up with you, we could easily take care of all of you… at once."

"B-boss…"

The eruption that followed rattled the room.

"YOU DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!" Greg's roar was a physical force, a shockwave of anger and disappointment that rippled through the stuffy, poorly-ventilated room with a wave of pressurized air. The energy in the room transformed instantly, the heavy stillness replaced by a pulsating vitality.

The outburst was nearly enough to send the four men behind him jumping out of their seats, clear panic in their eyes for a moment. Still, though, they managed to keep their cool, limiting their reactions to a subtle shift of posture, a tensing of muscles, and a visible edge of wariness in their stances.

“ オーマイゴッド なんてこった おお、くそ！1” Yuri on the other hand was nearly screaming his head off in Japanese, the man suddenly animated with fear despite his wounds and the pain he was in. Adrenaline seemed to override everything else as a string of stuttered words left his mouth in a sudden rush. “O-okay, fuck, fuck! Fuck! I’m sorry! I w-won’t!”

Intimidation Lv 18 → 20

“You don’t get to call me that,” Greg reiterated, his voice dipping back to a calm murmur. His head shook subtly in denial, a soft growl echoing deep in his throat. “You don’t… fuck.” A clipped sound of irritation bounced off his tongue as he raised his hands to his temples, deft fingers easing his helmet off his head.

A stark silence hit the room, a palpable quietness, the result of four men collectively holding their breaths. Every sound, every whisper of movement seemed amplified in the oppressive silence. Swiveling on his heels, eyes closed against the world, Greg casually tossed his helmet-mask in the direction of his second-in-command, his warning no more than a deep, growled utterance of “Seo.”

Yet, the man in question made a deft catch, not a hint of fumble in his action. Tucking the helmet under his arm, Seo let his spent cigarette fall to the floor, his attention fully on the capricious young man he called “Boss”. His gaze, filled with a curious blend of caution and respect, was glued to Greg. All the while, the young man stood there, eyes closed, seemingly absorbed in his thoughts. Seo kept his gaze forward, pointedly ignoring the pleading stares from the three lieutenants, their wide eyes begging him to calm down the irritated cape.

Seo cleared his throat, the dry cough echoing in the silence. He was acutely aware of his precarious standing, the knowledge that his life hung by a thread never something he didn’t think about. Hell, he knew damn well the only reason he was still six feet above ground was because the kid in front of him had laughed off his attempt at murder and allowed him to trade his life in exchange for a shitty pawn shop sword. “B-boss…”

“Yeah, sorry,” Greg broke his silence, his head lifting and his eyes blinking open. The sight that greeted the four men sparked quiet surprise. A pair of slitted blue eyes, reminiscent of a predator, stared back at them, cold aggression and pure hunger visible at a glance. Beneath those piercing eyes, a row of teeth sharp like tiny daggers framed by a smirk that could almost pass for friendly. “Hey, hey, there, boys. Don’t worry, I’m fine. You’re fine. It’s all good.”

It was bizarre, he knew that, trying to calm down four hardened gang members and killers like this. Yet, he knew he had to. He was different like this… rougher.

Greg's words, while lighthearted, were undercut by the intensity of his gaze, the primal look in his eyes taking the air out of his forced nonchalance The energy in the room shifted once more, the silence taking on a new edge, the tension ratcheting up another notch.

“Yeaaaahhhhhh,” Greg drawled, head cocking to the side as if contemplating something profound. The word stretched out in his mouth, an elastic band of sound.“I was trying to see if I could get my anger under control, but I guess it just can’t be helped.”

“Boss…” Seo murmured, anxiousness seeping into his voice as the weight of Greg's words sunk in. This was unprecedented. Seeing the boy's face without even the cover of a domino mask was disturbing. It wasn't what capes did.

“Relax, Seo,” Greg began once more, fixing his focus on the men seated before him. Their wary postures reflected the tension buzzing in the air. “I’m letting you all see my face.” A moment passed, and then he pulled a face, quickly correcting himself, “Well, not exactly my real face, 90-95%, I guess. Can’t exactly fix that right now, can I?”

“B-boss,” Seo attempted again, his chest knotting with tension as he realized the only exit was behind the monologuing blond. Nothing good ever came after a cape's monologue. That was just a law of nature.

“Don’t interrupt me, Seo,” Greg shot back calmly, his second shutting his jaw with an audible click. “Seo Asada, Wesley Yang, Joon Lee, Jonouchi Takata.” At the sound of their names tumbling from his lips in that deep gravelly voice, each man stiffened, their backs straighter. “As your boss, I’m making the executive decision that you should receive my trust. Trust is very important to me. If you betray that trust, well…” His words trailed off into a scoff, quickly morphing into a laugh that held just a hint of manic energy. “Well, I don’t know what I would do.”

The quiet sound of two men swallowing echoed in the room. Seo and Jonouchi, on the other hand, simply nodded as if expecting as much.

“Anyway,” Greg pivoted on his heels, his attention swiveling back to Yuri. The man, bound and beaten, flinched visibly at the shift in focus. “Back to the guest of honor.”

Yuri let out a soft groan, the only protest he could muster.

“You’re here not because of the Triad or the Dragons, Yuri,” Greg resumed, leaning in towards the pitiful figure tied to the chair. “You’re here because of the Empire.”

Yuri froze in his place, his response choked off by shock and fear. If not for the dark bruises and drying blood marring his face, Greg would have seen the blood drain from his face. “You didn’t just sell basic info to the Empire. You gave them addresses. You gave them names. You betrayed your brothers. You got their families hurt. Some of them… killed.”

A stunned silence hovered over the room. The revelation hit like a punch, sucking the air from the room.

“...f-fuck,” Yuri finally managed to gasp out, the lone word falling flat in the heavy silence.

“And then you tried to run,” Greg’s voice dipped, becoming a low rumble that reverberated around the room. Leaning over Yuri, his hands resting on the back of the chair, his fingers flexed, wood shattering under the force of his grip. “You tried to pack and leave like a fucking coward. Joey, a great fucking guy by the way, your new replacement, loyal to a fucking fault, had to take you down and bring you in. Isn’t that just fucking sad?”

Yuri didn't respond this time, only offering silence in response. Not even a gasp of pain or a whimper of fear, he just stared back quietly.

“I said, isn’t that just fucking sad?” Greg repeated, an added edge to his voice.

“...f-fuck you,” came the garbled response, more a wheeze than actual words.

“What.”

Fueled by some indescribable blend of frustration, resentment, and desperation, Yuri focused his single functioning eye on Greg, the other swollen shut from earlier punishment. The glare he shot the gang boss was filled with pure hatred. “I s-said, fuck you!”

“Alright,” Greg responded, straightening up, a strange kind of fascination lighting up his eyes. “I’ll humor you. Go ahead, say your piece. This might be fun.”

“Nnnngghhh! お前には腹が立つ！2 See, right there,” Yuri forced out, his words punctuated by the spit of blood from his lips as he strained against his restraints. “We’re just a fucking joke. There’s no more fucking ABB. You fucked Lee, you fucked Lung, you fucked Bakuda, you fucking fuck!”

“Classy,” Greg interjected, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

“Sh-shut up! For fucking once!” Yuri retorted, his voice a venomous hiss. “You’re not funny, you’re just another white boy with too much fuckin’ power! We, the ABB, we were something. Brockton Bay was our fucking kingdom. We had more power here than even back in the old days in Boston! We had respect, people watched their fucking tone, they bowed when they saw us. Even the Nazis had to watch their shit! The Docks, The Trainyard District, the fuckin’ Downtown Coast? We were at the top there. Even the kids, fuckin’ newbies got treated like kings!”

The man was panting now, his breathing ragged and harsh, painting a vivid picture of his struggle. Another mouthful of blood was spat out before he continued again. “A-a-and now, even our own people can’t fucking stand us. I gotta get cursed out by some fucking baasan3 in front of her grandkids because our names got dragged through the mud by some kid looking for cape credit!”

Greg watched him, the lopsided grin on his face not faltering for a moment. He listened to Yuri’s disjointed rant, his stammered words painting a picture in his head.

“Now every fuckin’ body smells blood in the water, from h-ere to fucking Virginia! Fuckers on the street don’t show respect and we got bottom feeders from Boston and New York thinking we’re easy prey cus we don’t got capes in charge no more!” Yuri's words spilled out in a slurred mess, his rage evident in every muttered sentence and desperate gasp for breath.

The corner of Greg's mouth quirked upwards, a clear note of amusement twinkling in his eyes as he smirked at the man’s words. “I’m literally right here.”

“F-fuck off! You’re fuckin’ nothin. You got no cred. You ain’t even the fuckin’ one that took Lung down!” Yuri spat, his voice raspy from his previous tirade. “You didn’t even go out and let the people know we at least have a fucking cape! All you do is fuckin’ run around and clean up after the Nazis decide to pull shit! We got no real leader, fuckin hell!”

Yuri spat once again, literally this time, a fresh mouthful of blood falling just short of Greg’s boots. “No capes, no cred, no leader! We might as well be fuckin’ ronin!”

“...You’re right.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ f…” Yuri's words stumbled to a halt, anger giving way to surprise as he shot Greg a puzzled look. “What?”

“You’re right,” Greg repeated, a nod emphasizing his words. His grin softened into a simple, amused smile. “I have not been public enough, I have not made it clear enough that we are not to be fucked with. I have not been effective and firm enough with my leadership.” He nodded once more. “That’s all on me. My fault, Yuri.”

“Uhhh…”

“It’s not even your fault that those kids got hurt or killed. It’s mine. I should have confronted you when Seo told me to,” Greg mused aloud, his hand coming up to cup his chin as if contemplating a chess move. “I was too smart for my own good there. My fault again.”

Yuri simply blinked in response, confusion etched on his battered face. “Uh-huh.”

Greg's acknowledgment, his acceptance of blame, was disarming. It was meant to be.

It pulled the rug out from under Yuri, turning his expectations on their head. It was a form of control, a demonstration of power. But it was also genuine. It was true that he had not been visible enough, not been decisive enough.

That's gotta change.

He had to change. He needed to assert his presence, to make it clear to all who doubted that he was in control, that he was the leader. He needed to demonstrate that he, Greg, was the one they should fear and respect. And this moment, this confrontation with Yuri, was the perfect opportunity to begin making that change. After all, admitting your mistakes is the first step towards correcting them.

And correction was something Greg was very good at.

“I guess…” Greg's voice trailed off as he let out a drawn-out sigh, his hand absentmindedly running through his blond hair. “I guess I’ve been trying to be more of a relaxed, chill leader, you know." He made a small self-deprecating smile at the bloody man tied up in front of him. "When I see a situation, I always think to myself, ‘What Would Lung Do?’ and then, I sorta do the opposite.”

He shook his head, a sigh slipping past his lips as he cast a vaguely apologetic glance at the traitor. “Like, look at right now, you know what Lung would have done to you?”

Yuri visibly grimaced, the gruesome mental image evidently off-putting as he squirmed in his seat. “He… he probably would have burned me alive, roasted right on the fuckin’ spot, that’s classic Lung.”

“Yeah…” Greg nodded in agreement, his gaze falling back to the terrified man before him. “And you see, I’m not Lung.”

“Yeah,” Yuri parroted back, his voice wavering with what seemed to be relief, appearing in his one good eye.

In a single motion, Greg raised a single finger to his face. With a flick of his will, a tiny tongue of flame burst to life atop his index, dancing and flickering in the dim room. His blue slitted eyes were fixed on Yuri, a predatory smile slowly spreading across his face. “But if it ain’t broke…”

“Wha-”

Greg's cheeks expanded slightly, a rush of air held captive within his mouth. He watched the spark of realization flicker in the traitor's eyes, sudden understanding hitting him in the worst way.

Yuri's lips parted, ready to scream, to protest, to beg for mercy. But before the first syllable could escape, Greg let loose his breath.

With a powerful exhalation that reverberated through the room like the roar of a dragon, the small tongue of fire burst.

A searing jet of flame exploded forth, illuminating the room with a harsh, blinding light that put the emergency lights to shame. The temperature spiked dramatically as a furnace-like heat engulfed Yuri, choking his would-be scream before it could fully form. The once whole man was subsumed by a fiery hellstorm, wild, roaring flame scraping hungrily at his flesh.

Seconds passed and Greg extinguished the remnants of the inferno with a swift closing of his fist. The sudden absence of light and heat was jarring, leaving behind only the ashen remnants of the burnt wooden chair and the charred remains of Yuri. The teenager stared impassively at the blackened scorch mark on the concrete floor and the grisly remains of the traitor, his mind already drifting to other thoughts.

"Ronin, huh..." he mused out loud to the eerily quiet room, his voice barely more than a whisper. The word echoed in his mind, its implications intriguing him. "I kinda like that."

With a casual spin on his heels, Greg turned to face his remaining men, a smile stretched across his face. “"What do you say we get something to eat?” A mouth full of white daggers glittered eerily in the light as he grinned at each one of them. “I'm feeling... teriyaki pork?"

Intimidation Lv 20 → 21

1:  Oh my God. Holy shit! Oh, shit!

2: You piss me off!

3: Old woman