More of Sousuke's diplomatic relations of Wind Country have had some troubles since arriving. The first interaction he had with them was helping the odd twins rebuild their house as to be able to suit their living needs and to be able to have guests over. The challenge of having both needs needing to be met had been an interesting challenge, but not an impossible one. This time around, the mysterious shadow priest had an artifact taken from him and it had ended up in the hands of the those less savory. The black market in Suna had many lucrative dealings going on with it, some of which Uri had already investigated and stopped. Kidnapping before, now theft. The channels of these thieves were doing a lot of work as of late and it was alarming they could operate so well without any interference from the village other than the occasional agent like Uri sticking their nose into things.
However, this particular mission had him working with the dealers, funding their businesses by outright buying back the staff. The mission brief did state that using a little finesse was not out of the question, and Uri fully intended to do so. This time around, instead of appearing as a thug he went dressed as a wealthy business owner. Uri was sporting an all-white suit with black trim, a black cane, and a hard-cover briefcase in which his money was stowed. Walking alongside him were four bodyguards; clay clones with morphed appearances to look like mercenaries.
Many eyes were on them, but none dare make a move on them.
It wasn't before long when Uri arrived at the designated club they were suppose to meet in. As they entered, a young hostess greeted them and offered to lead Uri to his private room. As agreed, the guards would remain outside. Uri went deeper into the bowels of the establishment, watching the entertainers as they danced on stage and men with amber liquids filling their glasses threw bills at them. Left alone in a private room, he sat down and nibbled on some of the fruit, amongst other things, left on the table for him. After a few minutes, someone arrived, wearing a crushed velvet suit that was such a bright purple it hurt Uri's eyes. The man reeked of cheap cologne and cigars. His smile was wide and welcoming, but in a sense that he would go behind your back in the instant it would benefit him.
The best title Uri had come to mind when looking at him was: slime ball.
As they started their talks about the staff, he waited for them to get into pricing. The briefcase was stocked for him by the Sunan government, but Uri had other plans for this man. Once the price was agreed upon, nearly three times the amount as their intelligence had suggested (What intelligence was ever accurate anyway?), Uri waited to see the staff before reaching for his money. As it was brought in by two burly guards, there was a brief moment when blurs of white appeared behind guardsman. His clones had arrived and shoved them inside. As the loud music played, people couldn't hear the sounds that went on in the private room.
Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak
On the floor was the owner of the club, be bludgeoned by Uri with the suitcase as the blunt object. However, Uri had seen to outfitting it with a more harmless casing. One made of soft rubber and had a squeaker in it often seen in most dog toys. Eventually he begged for them to leave and to take the staff with them. Satisfied, they left, Uri twirling the staff as if it was his cane and headed home. A mission well-done.
Word Count: 637
However, this particular mission had him working with the dealers, funding their businesses by outright buying back the staff. The mission brief did state that using a little finesse was not out of the question, and Uri fully intended to do so. This time around, instead of appearing as a thug he went dressed as a wealthy business owner. Uri was sporting an all-white suit with black trim, a black cane, and a hard-cover briefcase in which his money was stowed. Walking alongside him were four bodyguards; clay clones with morphed appearances to look like mercenaries.
Many eyes were on them, but none dare make a move on them.
It wasn't before long when Uri arrived at the designated club they were suppose to meet in. As they entered, a young hostess greeted them and offered to lead Uri to his private room. As agreed, the guards would remain outside. Uri went deeper into the bowels of the establishment, watching the entertainers as they danced on stage and men with amber liquids filling their glasses threw bills at them. Left alone in a private room, he sat down and nibbled on some of the fruit, amongst other things, left on the table for him. After a few minutes, someone arrived, wearing a crushed velvet suit that was such a bright purple it hurt Uri's eyes. The man reeked of cheap cologne and cigars. His smile was wide and welcoming, but in a sense that he would go behind your back in the instant it would benefit him.
The best title Uri had come to mind when looking at him was: slime ball.
As they started their talks about the staff, he waited for them to get into pricing. The briefcase was stocked for him by the Sunan government, but Uri had other plans for this man. Once the price was agreed upon, nearly three times the amount as their intelligence had suggested (What intelligence was ever accurate anyway?), Uri waited to see the staff before reaching for his money. As it was brought in by two burly guards, there was a brief moment when blurs of white appeared behind guardsman. His clones had arrived and shoved them inside. As the loud music played, people couldn't hear the sounds that went on in the private room.
Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak Squeak
On the floor was the owner of the club, be bludgeoned by Uri with the suitcase as the blunt object. However, Uri had seen to outfitting it with a more harmless casing. One made of soft rubber and had a squeaker in it often seen in most dog toys. Eventually he begged for them to leave and to take the staff with them. Satisfied, they left, Uri twirling the staff as if it was his cane and headed home. A mission well-done.
Word Count: 637