[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/240828/688ac5d3d40c75e034e218d1778edf8d.png[/img][/center]
[center]LOC: Mafia Town, 17:55 hrs [/center]
[center]LVL: 1 [/center]
[center]WC: 900 [/center]
[center]EXP: 2/10 [/center]
[center]Interactions: OPEN [/center]
[center] Mentions: [@Double] (Captain Falcon) [/center]


	Exhaling another puff from his cigar, the man decided that was enough. No sense in smoking himself into a haze if trouble could arrive at a moment's notice. Flipping the tube around to watch the red-hot ignition light slowly fade away, the man fanned the device before placing it back into his suit pouch. As the sunset horizon slowly began to reveal a vantablack ocean of glittering stars hiding among the fading hues, he looked back toward the port and resumed his expressionless people-watching. That was, until he heard the rattling, whirring and clanging of a standard bicycle being pushed to its absolute limit. He didn't have to look far; angling his gaze down at the port below and observing a suspiciously muscle-bound man clad in a Crazy Eats pizza uniform as they zipped across destinations. Even with security having died down at the port, he was sure that the local Mafia wouldn't take too kindly to the rubber skids on the pavement and various stretches of scuffed metal from the bike grinding along stairway rails. Regardless, it wasn't his problem to deal with. If anything, the eatery responsible for employing the guy would have to explain away their local space cadet. As ridiculous as it was, however, it was also entertaining to watch.

	A few more zips, dips, twists and turns, then the man on the bike careened near a dockyard storefront. Just as the man completed his turn on approach, the store doors burst open in a cacophony of noise- led by the flung body of a man who sprawled across the boards seconds later as he struggled to re-orient himself to his feet. The horned man said nothing as he watched from the overlook; only making out the harsh deterring barks of the filing-out employees toward the deliveryman who had unintentionally skirted too close to their perimeter. Finally, stepping out of the entryway was a man in a pearled suit. Though slightly on the heavier side, the head honcho himself made no mistake in ensuring the underling on the ground knew exactly who was in charge- and it was evident to even other storefronts and commuters who, upon observing the rapidly evolving scene, altered their course to circumvent or avoid the area entirely. The boss was red in the face, and almost surely spitting in the air from his displeasure. Yet further analysis had stopped, as the mercenary had left his position on the overlook and began moving down the stairs toward the dock. This had taken his attention entirely.

	Around halfway down the stairs leading into the port, the suit-clad man vaulted over the side railing as he landed to the ground below with a muted thud. The port gave way to the docks with sixty yards of separation, and a whole lot of active and scattered street lights illuminating the way as they began to cycle on. The docks and the storehouse were normally public access from mariners to commercial and corporate boats, but with the situation he may as well be heading into a restricted area. All the more reason to avoid using any weapons if the situation got ugly. The man slinked and snaked his way from pallet stack to forklift in a bounding pattern- momentarily pausing to peak, analyze, then move as he gradually encroached toward the situation at the docks. His movements so far had been calculated, precise- almost becoming some uncanny synchronization between instinct, intuition, and muscle-memory. Positioning himself against a blue heavy cargo container, the man sidestepped over to the far left of the giant metal rectangle- careful not to overexpose himself from the lip. [i]Now[/i] he could hear the angry spitting of the man, still scolding the utterly terrified employee who didn't say a word in his defense- not like he could at this rate. Snippets of the boss's rant now reached his ears- it seems like that kid ran his mouth to the wrong people, but the 'operation' to eliminate the Mafia- along with everyone 'else', made him scowl. He could care less about the Mafia, but with civilians caught in the crossfire? That potentiality was something he would not allow.
	
With an estimated twelve feet between them, his mind had run through scenarios. Get them to leave the kid alone? Confrontation was probable if he just showed up and said so. His usual method of non-lethal elimination meant that he would have to wait until the group dispersed to pick them off one by one, and when they did, the kid probably wouldn't make it before then. Killing them was out of the question- a waste of ammo and his time. He just had to- 

"Boss! It's coming!"

The man arched his brow as the group of men had dispersed to prepare for the arrival of something. Peeking over the lip of the container, the man watched as one of the store employees held a bladed polearm out to give to the commandeering figure. Dipping back into the shadow of the container wall, his crimson arm reached over and withdrew his tactical .45 from its holster. He'd lost sight of the bike-riding pizzaman, but as far as he knew the guy had probably gotten the message.