You Are Bounty Hunters
Dylan Purcelli was his real name, but he hated it. He much prefered the name Dynamo, it had so much more kick to it. His dad was a hero, and he needed a powerful name if he was ever going to escape his fathers shadow. He was always an insecure child, and at 17 he joined the militia to channel his resentment, safe to say it didnt really work. He couldnt follow orders and would go on personal conquests, killing and kidnapping criminal bounties for the sport, and as soon has he found a way to make money from it, his fate was sealed, he became a bounty hunter. The thing is, killing for a living is taxing, physically and mentally, and because of his vicious nature he was given more work than he could handle, so he figured starting a guild and sharing his work among emplyees was safer and he could still take the lions share, as he was the 'comissioner' after all, and this is his story, taking on 8 new bounty hunters.....
Dynamo, was on a big brown leather chair on the second floor of a building that only had 3 floors, it used to have 6 but the place had seen enough warfare to level the top floors into dust. He chomped on a fat mexican cigar and blew smoke rings at the cracked ceilling, the room he was in probably used to be an office space, as there was remains of furniture littered around the place, the pages in his folder fluttered as the dossiers on the 8 people standing in front of him hit his desk.
He observed them, a stragly looking bunch, but definatley dangerous, just based on what he read.
So...you guys want some cash right? eager to kill some bounties? you look nasty and unfriendly to end a life of any number of peice of shit criminals that I sick you on , but how do I know you aint just gonna kill each other?
Dynamo took a long drag of his cigar and looked up at his new 'employees' as he put his feet up as his desk.
Revolver Wolf stepped forward
"A true warrior never kills his comrades! Especially if pay is involved!" His voice was low and husky.
"If a wolf breaks from the pack it would die within a day! I'm sure myself and the others have enough sense to know that if they betray one of us then the others will kill them!" He unholstered one of his revolvers before spinning it once around his finger and catching its handle.
"I just hope i'm the one to deliver the finishing blow" he said pointing it at the rest before laughing a bit. He let the gun hang loose around his finger before he flipped it around and holstered it. He stepped back into the group.
"I agree with him.Plus, if we wack one of the members off it might make it that much harder to complete a job" Kia Smith said,not really knowing what to call him.Shifting her weight to her right side a bit more,she sighed and crossed her arms."Considering that we are all here means we need to work together right?Or are we also doing solo missions" she asked,blowing a bit of hair out of her face.Usually she had it tied back,but she was a little late waking up this morning.Glancing at the group,she sized all of them up for diffrent ways they could be useful.She noted that they were all various ages.Most of them were of average height.Later,she intended to find out ways they could be useful.It was a habit she developed over time.
Micheal scoffed at the naivety of his new co-workers. The Russian clung to such an outdated definitions of a "true warrior" that he'd forgotten what kind of underhanded scum bounty hunters were. No man or woman present could be called honorable; one gives up such a privilege when he or she opts to hunt man for money. On a practical level, at least, the old man understood that no benefit would come of turning on his co-workers -- not yet, at least. The lady had some sense about her. A quick bit of eye contact had revealed her to be one Kia Smith, an operative of the United States government. An interesting piece of information, and one that might be useful later. Barella turned to his employer. For an underground manhunting organization, these people were generally careless about disguising their identities. With no mask to speak of, Dylan Purcelli was unveiled easily. Not a particularly interesting character -- just a dude with some daddy issues. Micheal spoke.
"Don't ask stupid questions."
He leaned against the back wall of the decrepit room and lit a cigarette.
"You're talking to a bunch of killers-for-hire. I won't shoot my partners because that doesn't do any good for me right now, but if that changes -- if any of you get enough zeroes on your head, I'll cash in on your life in a snap. I expect the same from you."
Vergil stood at the farthest end of the group, close to the wall but where he was professional enough not to lean on it. He wore his cloak like he always did, the hood up and the goggles off. He stood relaxed, his arms dropped at his sides and his shoulders a bit hunched forward. He listened as the conversation went on and took turns between those in the room. He simply made a 'hmph' sound and rolled his neck to pop it, "I keep my distances," he stepped away to the side to example that, along with tying it in on how he does his job, sniping.
Derrick merely shrugged, his hat shading his eyes- though his grin was clear enough.
"Why would I bother to kill my new comrades when not one of us here has a number over us bigger then what's in my wallet?"
Despite his light tone and seeming indifference to those there, his eyes darted about beneath his hat. He wasn't deep enough in to know anyone here on more than a vague level, but he was sharp minded. And sharp tongued. He could see the skill in all of his new companions in the way they stood, spoke, and carried themselves in general. That air of un-flaunted superiority, despite the odd flashy move here and there. It was the same kind of quiet self assurance he had himself- the knowledge that they could kill, and that they could do it well. It brought him to grin a bit wider- he wasn't surrounded by fools or amateurs here.
Ruskie was the first into the office, being already admitted into the Guild but put mostly behind the scenes, where he liked it. It was a quiet job, pull some teeth, literally, beat some people, pretty much anything he had to for anyone in the Guild and he was paid good commission for the things he did. He was good at it, from his time in the Russian Navy, to his time with Spetsnaz Alfa Group, and finally FSB. It turned out that Russia was a cesspool, the men there were likely enough to stab you in the back as to hand you a medal, the Federal Agencies were a bit corrupt and if you did anything they didn't like to someone they did like they would either kill you or stuff you into a prison for life. Ruskie experienced the latter. No one in prison touched him, the ones who did found the guards inattentive as they were dragged away to a dark place only to return with any number of body parts missing and a change of opinion about Nikolai. This is what made him able to escape so easily. A few years of getting in good with the guards- and the Russian mob, and he slipped out of prison without a hitch, following a prison riot that he was apparently killed in. If he was dead, then the reaper must have forgotten to tell Nikolai because he was knee deep in the Mongolian plains and making his way into China by the time the Guild managed to track him down.
So here he was, standing in line with some fresh faces, all spouting phrases with varying levels of sentimental bullshit. They could kill, though. That's what mattered. When the question came around of why Ruskie wouldn't rip the throats out of anyone in the line, he didn't step forward, simply held his chin up and told the truth, the whole truth.
"I'd be kicked out and stuck working for some greasy Russian mob boss. I was promised to be raised to a better pay-grade and I aim to do just that. As long as I do my job and they do their's, then we will have no quarrels."
"It's all about the thrill of the hunt right? We're all here with different motives but I'm sure no one would lay a finger on little old me." I say with a laugh as I retract the blades from my knuckle dusters and hold them up to view menacingly, before retracting them and adding: "Besides, I wouldn't mind a little company." I finish off with a wink.
Dynamo took a very long drag of his cigar, he was a young man at 27 but thought himself extremely wise, he wasnt completley delousional, Dynamo and his family had seen a LOT of combat for a long time, his experience had kept him alive long enough to start his own guild, more than his entire district could say. Dynamo had a short attention span, he could only stare at the tits of the brunette and blonde hunters so long before being irratated by the cockyyoung upstart who didnt wear a shirt underneath his jacket. Dynamo flicked through his dossiers, Barella,Michael huh?, straight out of a fuckin shonen anime aint ya? he got up of his chair and took a few relaxed steps towards him before blowing some cigar smoke in his direction You think those psychic abilites will save your ass in the field if you havent got a team at your back? bitch please!, this HQ was built! on a grave yard filled with cocky ass pretty boys with nothing to lose Dynamo's head snapped towards the heavily cloaked sniper Hey, Scopes, theres an extra 10% to your wages if you can put a well placed round in the skull of ANYONE who decides to go all cowboy in the middle of a mission.
Dynamo was on a roll now, he loved ranting, and this group were like fish in a barrel for verbal assaults, And speakin of cowboys, what the fuck is a commie doing dressed like john marston?, you ol' gunslining,whisky drinking, snake wrassling motherfucker, there aint no honur or code of ethics to what we do here,... Dynamo slammed the dossiers on the table, and pulled out a fresh looking folder with a red wax seal, We kill, maim and kidnap for money, if any of you gung ho knight templars feel like that breaks your delicate samurai code then you can find the door next to rubblle pile on the ground floor, right where the water cooler used to be.
Dynamo walked up to derrick lee and shoved the new fresh folder in his hands, Malik Jones, Age 38, Rapist, Murderer, Criminal Leader of the 4th district mob.
He pulled up his chair and sat down again, lighting up a new cigar. This peice of shit isnt going to be hard to kill at all, he is just a human, but he has A LOT of fucking cronies defending him, you people ever seen The Raid?, No? dont like classic cinema? , Well Mr Jones lives up top of an apartment complex about 3 miles west of here, they are somewhat of a budget mob and they only have a few decent firearms, mainly wielding bats and knives and all that other good shit. So use your super karate skills, fight your way to the top, kill the cocksucker, and find his cigar box, its made of solid platinum, and its contents belong to me
Dynamo took a long drag of the new cigar he lit,Any Questions?
Derrick lofted a brow under his hat, flipping the folder he was given open and peering at its contents. He chuckled, pulling a cigarette from the box in his belt, clamping it in his teeth, and lighting it. After tucking the lighter away he touched a finger to the brim of his hat, lifting it enough so Dynamo could see his eyes.
"Just how quickly you want his head and cigar box on your desk."
The file seemed simple enough- it was as Dynamo said. A wimp of a man, surrounded by lots and lots of cronies. The usual kind of blow by job he'd been doing for years- just with some extra help. Smoke trailed up from his cigarette, the dim glow lighting his face just briefly, making his grin clearer. Ready to go, it seemed.