The Most Dangerous Game: Circus Maximus

Posted on Mon May 28th, 2018 @ 9:59pm by Captain Charybdis MacGregor & Commander Fiona McCray
Edited on on Mon May 28th, 2018 @ 9:59pm

0 words; about a 1 minute read

Mission: Operation: Risa!
Location: Risa, Rome arcology, Palazzia Caesar
Timeline: 2265

Nikolai "Brutus" Ivanovitch sat with his back to the room staring out the window at the panoramic view of Rome. His mind at present was not particularly focused on the stunning view. He felt no joy in his position as the right hand man of one of the most powerful crime bosses in the quadrant. Right now he was stinging from an ignominious defeat. "I've been made to look like a fool in front of my boss, my men have been captured, my agent is in captivity and there are law enforcement agents sniffing around my interests. In short, I am not happy, gentlemen. I am not happy at all."

He spun his chair to face the assembled men and adjusted the dilithium-encrusted cuffs of his impeccably tailored suit jacket.

"And when I am unhappy, someone needs to pay for that."

He was a large man- the impeccable tailoring of his suit of fine clothing accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and took the focus away from his thickening mid section. Risa had been good to him... a little too good. Perhaps he had been sitting behind a desk and growing soft for too long. Nikolai stood up from his polished marble desk and began slowly pacing. The rich paneled office was quite spacious, which was a positive feature because there were two dozen men currently standing about it it, each listening quite intently to the large fellow.

"They don't call the boss 'Caesar' because of his habit for incurring debts, gentlemen. He has earned that reputation by insuring that every one who crosses or fails him knows the price and penalty for such an action, even when they just blunder in like a herd of geese." He spread a set of photos on his desk and pointed to them with a large stubby index finger. "These four broads made one hell of a mess on my turf... right here in Rome. And I don't care who they work for, nobody messes with Caesar in Rome. Capice?"

There was murmured assent from the men.

"I want 'em dead. I want them VERY dead, and I want it to send a message out to anybody who messes around in Syndicate business that you stick your nose in where it don't belong, it gets cut off. You stick your finger into a pie that's ours, you lose a hand. And if you mess with Caesar in Rome..." He drew a rather sturdy shortsword from inside the tailored jacket, flipped it expertly and stabbed it through the stack of photos.

"You end up dead. Any questions?"

"Yeah, Brutus... where can we find dese broads so dat I may kill dem for youse?" Jimmie the Weasel asked.

"Two places... split up and take care of 'em. The little redhead rented a mountain cabin in Ohma. The big one with the tits rented a private lagoon in Braalso. They seem to hang together so you'll probably find Spots and Fuzz with them... or if not... I'm sure you can find out from Fancy Tits and Red wherever their little playmates are. Be persuasive..." His laugh was an unpleasant invitation for them to get as creative as they wanted to in acquiring the information.

"The reservations started today- so I want 'em all dead by morning. No witnesses, neither. Bring jammers- these broads got communicators, and they're liable to have phasers too. I don't give a fig about property damage- the more the better, so long as it gets my point across. Remember, the bodies need to be recognizable though. Grenades are fine, disruptors, whatever it takes- just no disintegrations. They're not a good object lesson if nobody knows who they are. Any other questions?"

"Do you want it done quickly or can we have some fun" a well-built and almost dapperly dressed miscreant asked from the group on the left.

"Whatever! What do I care as long as you make this a message that will be understood. You want to have fun... have fun. I feel a man should always take time to indulge his... enthusiasms," Brutus relied with a smile that could curdle milk.

An unpleasant ripple of laughter ran through the assembled mercs, thugs and sociopaths. A couple of them didn't join in the laughter or the round of rude suggestions that followed. They simply slipped from the room.

After all, they were professionals. And in order for their wealth to grow, that meant that someone had to die.

And someone would. They would make quite certain of that.

 

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