10:55 a.m. Seattle - Chester's
It was raining hard enough to drive all but the most determined off the streets. Traffic had slowed to a crawl as wipers fought valiantly to keep windshields clear. It wasn't a day to be out and about unless you needed to be and there were always a few of those.
I'm cutting this close. I didn't leave quite enough time. Good thing I have an ace up my sleeve...
A purple Chrysler LeBeouf pulled in to the curb in front of a small sports bar. The sign proclaimed in loud neon that the bar was called CHESTER'S. There was actually a Chester and he was standing behind the bar cleaning a glass. He nodded, and looked towards a door at the back of the bar. If he had any concerns about his newest customer's attire, he kept it to himself.
Nodding, the driver didn't hesitate in heading back in to the meeting room. The clock above the door had both hands in the eleven.
Only five minutes to prepare. Not much time. I'll have to wing most of this. If all else fails, I can always brain lock them into thinking this was the most professional meet they've ever attended.
"Rocky, you're the doorman. Once they're all in, you make sure nobody else enters. Or leaves until I say so, for that matter. Ariel, you stay by me. You're my bodyguard for this." Anyone in the room might have thought he was talking over a radio but that wasn't the case. There was a shimmer in air around him, one that was only visible if you knew what to look for or were astrally perceiving. Those who could perform that feat of magical voyeurism would have seen that the young man was in actuality a street mage of considerable power.
He didn't look like it.
He couldn't have been much past twenty. He had Hispanic blood, that much was evident from his thick wavy hair and full lips. Brown eyes like liquid pools seemed to see everything. He presented an air of utter confidence. He was boldly wearing his gang colours, a black leather jacket dripping with shuriken. There was a large straight razor logo embroidered on the back of the jacket that declared in white letters for all to see that he was one of the Razors.
Truth be told, he was the Razor. Bloodsong ruled the gang. He even had sway over a second gang, headed by someone who's loyalty was without question. The Ice Picks they were called, named because they were hand picked by Ice, another mage but one as different from Bloodsong as it was possible to get. Ice earned her name from her icy cool, a frozen nature that would allow her to kill you without ever letting you know her intentions. With Bloodsong, you knew exactly where you stood but that didn't mean you would be any less dead.
Bloodsong didn't try to hide who he was. His shuriken festooned jacket was as much of a trademark as his car. He was well known as the man to go to if you needed something special when it came to cars or getting your hands on less than legal customization. Making yourself hard to find hurt business. It had its downsides but he was more than capable of handling any complications that arose.
He was also known as a man who had an inside track with certain members of the Yakuza. How he knew them or where his connections led weren't entirely clear but he was known to many honourable men of business as a reliable asset and one not to be expended lightly.
