Thread: The Price of Freedom (TheMysic & Revenant)

The Price of Freedom Writers TheMystic Revenant Shit! His curse ripped through the quiet night, a deafening disturbance that disappeared as quickly as it came. The notebook in his hand was discarded and sent flying into a corner in a flutter of pages separating from their loose binding as his calloused hand rubbed his face in violent agitation. The bearer of bad news immediately stepped back, hands held to his chest as he maintained some version of submissive, mousy behavior he hoped he would not be the victim of Vincent's rage. The son of Haruto Chikara, he was a powerhouse, a leader in the crime world with a lot of weight to throw around... And a lot of avenues to vent his frustrations. He tried not to spill it over onto the people around him, but sometimes he was too weak. It was a great source of disappointment for himself and his father. The Chikara clan dealt in smuggled arms. Supply and trade reap the rewards. They armed the weak and sometimes the rich and wicked. They did not boast strong morals, but they did often pretend they had them. In the eyes of their people and the city blocks around them in the west, they were the ruling power. The police could do little with a Chik Cheek involved and they typically avoided encounters with them all together. Their biggest nuisance, though, was a white gang named the Ceepers. Keepers but with a C. Why they decided on that was unknown, though Vincent believed it was to mock the Chik. On the street, they were just referred to as the Ceez. They dominated the eastern side of the city. Run-ins were purposefully infrequent, but when it happened it was bloody and it was bad. The police always tried to get involved when the whites and the reds were fighting, desperate for the glory of detaining a member from either side, but they backed out when officer lives were lost. Get the fuck out of here, he snapped at his orderly who quickly scurried out of the room and shut the door behind him. Vincent paced, his fitted shirt showing its age not by a stain at the collar or with a fray at the cuffs, but by how poorly the man fit into it. He was large, tall and broad-shouldered with an athletic physique that proved his physical self-discipline where he sometimes lacked in emotional control. Under that pressed shirt was an equally maintained and well fitting pair of black slacks held up by a tanned leather belt and matching shoes underneath. He wore no tie, the collar unbuttoned and opened to reveal a hairless chest decorated with intricate black lines that disappeared under the fabric. His pacing seemed purposeful but those long strides took him nowhere as he repeatedly doubled back. Among the pages of his notebook, now scattered all over his office floor, was an apologetic letter informing him that his planned shipment of weapons was intercepted. A white handkerchief was left at the scene... Which meant it was a Ceez attack. An expensive loss of three men and their entire crate. Hours later, Vincent was in his father's office with a tie on and his notebook reassembled. His father looked over the note with a disappointed frown that was permanently etched into the wrinkles of his face. His voice was practically a whisper when his old brown eyes lifted to see his son. And what do you plan to do about this? Without hesitation, a picture was placed before the man and turned to face him. It showed Ceez's leader and his girlfriend having dinner together. He'd been having people follow them for weeks. We show him what happens when he kills our own, he said, pointing at the female in the picture. All he received in response was a single nod. Permission enough.