"Time to greet our guests." I tell my long time human friend as my paw circles the door handle. A dozen scenarios run through my experienced head. A baker's dozen compared to what's in Hrurim's.
"What a mess we're getting into," he complains, and I huff, brandishing my firearm. The door clicks and swings wide open, and I give Hrurim the moment he needs. We head to the front of the car, my free hand gesturing a prayer. Not for me and not for my friend, but for my daughter's aim to be truer than ever before.
Whoever it is that is meeting us, he's certainly not one with patience. I'm more than willing to bet I can gamble a comfortable retirement's fortune on his ego. This lack of humility he nothing but exudes. This insufferable contempt. Ah, I never missed dealing with this.
The entitled princelings and princesses sitting on a trove of blood money. All the grasp of its ichorous depths as they do about responsibility. He's no heir, even if he presents himself as such. Nothing to worry but the concern is still there if I offend Don Vyacvan. He might be worth as much a pig iron painted gold, but he's family.
Mobs get family.
"So, where is he?" this donling demands to know, and he smacks his cane a few times. I guess he thinks a grand reputation means a grander sense of style? Hilarious.
"Who?" Hrurim asks back, his head finding no rest as he takes in the sights. Some gangsters with their fingers on triggers, some not. A mess that will easily flex its way to a line of alive guns. No worries, no worries indeed.
The family man chortles his contempt and wobbles the cane, "Eugh. A human."
"Indeed." Hrurim clicks, his hands no doubt patting around for one of his sticks. I'd take him up on the offer, really, if he offers. The metal of his lighter jingles in one pocket.
"Not even with the honour of having his emerald heritage show," the annoyance lets out, moving closer to us with either his most well-paid or trusted thugs. I meet the eyes of one of them. A scar-bound man whose fur can barely hide his muscles. He breaks the stare, a slight shift to his jaw telling me all I need to.
"Haven't had a drop of mountain blood in me for a while, Hog." Hrurim says, drawing a twitch of ire from the Don's pathetic boy. I knock my friend on the gut, hinting for his silence, and I step forward.
"You are here to prove we have the goods?" I ask, focusing on the young man as he looks me over. An unmovable sneer of entitlement always on his face. A smile grows inside of my head and I recall the time I was allowed to discipline a lad just like him. Gamtambo's, even. That is the kind of trust our relationship created and then... Well. Certainly no one is earning my trust again, no one in a gangster's hat and style.
The boy rolls his eyes, cane swinging up in an almost boastful manner, "They are. I'm just here to see the legendary Terror in the Dark. Ivahstar. Well, if you are him... My imagination got the better of me."
My eyes shift to the gangsters, and one of them shuffles back. Another handful shuffle as I give a few idle taps to my source of ammo. The blood wasps within rattle the container, making it dance a vicious tune. I've got my confidence that I can smash this right open and the contents will go for them all first. No marksman among them will be putting down flies.
"Well, here I am!" I let out loudly, making sure my voice carries out across the abandoned site. Many of the gangsters stop and get their look of me as their immediate boss put it... The legendary hitman. Who knows how many stories they've had of me go through their ears? How many bosses they got who are only where they are because of me?
The oldest here probably even saw my handiwork before, too.
The boy's tongue clicks, "Very well. Let's be done with this disappointment. Maybe we'll have one curiosity for once."
"Stay here." I tell Hrurim as I start my walk alongside the Don's son. His guards step back a safe distance, that show and tell of respect that deals like this need. Nice to hear the familiar click of a submachine gun to the back of my head. Makes me feel alive.
I smash a fist on the back of the lorry and heave it open without much care. Not wanting too much to benefit the mafia child, I step back and let him frown at the contents. Whatever he's muttering, I cannot be asked to hear it clearly. I've got a clear enough idea of it.
"Whatever animal you have in here, I'm not impressed-"
"BOO!" Nin lets out, smashing on his cage. I snort and I know full well some of the gangsters did too. The boy picks himself up, dusting himself off as he burns off his hairs with all that embarrassed anger. His sneer meets my smirk, watering my expression as I breathe air into his.
"No threatening the merchandise." I warn the boy as I step forward, putting my paw on the top of his excessive piece. He looks my way, an irk of disgust going across his features. He backs up and whips out a cloth, wiping the spot I touched. Mutters break open his mouth, something about this weapon being worth more than I have ever been. I snort again.
"What you have here is what I told you at the start. An osibindah with the soul of a human. The thoughts and feelings of one. The capabilities of one. All in the abominable body of a bug." I explain, drilling the details in as need be and whatever business lessons the boy has had work their way through his head. A thoughtful noise escapes him and he smacks his cane down.
"Bring him out," the boy demands and I nod, not much else to do here. Though, I'm not breaking my back hauling the cage out. Hrurim fitted in a well enough door for us to use. I hop into the lorry and get to work.
"Come. Out." I tell Nin in the speech of the wind-people and he groans with excitement. He knows better to try anything and my once-captor comes on out. The crowd is not unfamiliar with osibindah, no one involved with smugglers is. Too much overlap in those quiet tunnels with no one else in them.
Still, those who are close enough can see where the real difference lies. Right in the eyes. Not the yellow, hexagonal things of the usual bugs. No... Proper eyes. Mortal eyes. Human eyes. The blood of claymen!
"Odd scars..." the boy lets out, his eyes looking Nin's body over. I do the same, noting the pale line on Nin's body. A domineering streak across his chest, from shoulder to hip. A painted kneecap and all around. Even a hidden one on a closed up palm.
"He's got quite the story to tell. Should you know the speech of the Wind?" I say, gesturing slightly at those strips of emerald he has so out of place among all the black and gold and white and more. The boy comes closer, the gangster guns shifting from me to Nin. He's no threat, but who's going to let down their guard around osibindah?
I smile, thinking far ahead. One day they will. One day, when I am far away out of Nin's line of sight and knowledge... He'll get his powers back, and he'll break free. This giant killer right at my side. He's too big for whatever display his buyer will have.