the butcher's bill must always be paid.

[nightmarist]

WHO: Ronan Lynch & YOU
WHERE: The Black Box Fight Club
WHEN: Before Ronan's inevitable capture
WHAT: Business with a certain dealer.
WARNINGS: Who knows?

The Black Box isn't an official name. It's simply the name visitors eventually bestowed upon the worn-down brick garage that belonged to an honest mechanic before it was repurposed and doused in pitch-black paint. Most of the time, the place is abandoned. Fight nights are random, announced just hours in advance and only by word of mouth. Fighters and spectators have to know someone or know someone who knows someone, and even then, the muscle might deny entry to anyone who stinks of narc. It's a private event, buddy.

The entry fee is $90. The winner will walk away with $100,000.

Inside, the fighting ring is just a square delineated by steel traffic barricades. There are no seats, no bleachers for the audience. They'll stand on their own two feet and watch a succession of bareknuckle boxers fight round after bloody round until the champion is declared. Bets can be placed at the bar, which offers two beverage options: cheap beer or cheap whiskey.

This illegal enterprise serves as the cover to an even less legal, even more dangerous business being run out the back.

Ronan Lynch likes to fight a round or two to get his blood pumping, but his associates know he's not there for the prize money. He drops out when his real clients begin to show up and meets them in the place he jokingly refers to as his office: the locker room. This room serves no other purpose these days, as the lockers for some reason refuse to open for anyone other than Ronan Lynch. Each one holds a different treasure, or weapon, or enchanted item. He'll introduce prospective buyers to every single one, if they haven't arrived with something already in mind.

This may seem like a risky strategy, but anyone who might have once considered fucking over Ronan Niall Lynch has since learned better. One time, a would-be thief emerged screaming from the locker room with his hands half-devoured by 24-carat gold scarabs, which only returned to their jewelry form once they'd finished eating the rest of him. Another thief somehow ended up blind and too terrified to describe how he'd come to be that way.

Ronan Lynch doesn't have many friends. But as long as he doesn't deem them a threat to himself, personally, he'll sell anything to anyone. No questions asked on either side of the table.

Comments

[photophobic]

"Sunlight."

It's a simple answer, an almost laughably innocent request in comparison to some of the items he's heard Ronan has supplied to previous clients in the past— not that all such stories are to be believed, of course. But supplied to the right person, even this much proof of his intent would put him at considerable risk.

Or it will be, once he's carried out his plan. His head tilts as he scrutinises Ronan's face from behind his visor.

"To begin. Consider it a test."

[nightmarist]

Ronan, a delinquent through and through, is not very fond of tests.

"If you're trying to get some sun, man, you could just take that shit off and go chill outside. I don't think you need my help for that."

[photophobic]

"Contained sunlight," he says sharply, a certain tension slipping into his voice alongside the digital interference. "Extremely compact. Easily transportable. Can it be done."

[nightmarist]

Unfazed by the tone, in spite of the awareness that this guy could probably snap his neck with a single thought, Ronan makes a show of considering that request very carefully. He looks off for a moment, squinting, then slides his gaze back to Kylo.

"I heard about some kind of vampire poison a while back. You know, these little magic pills made of sunshine, and all you had to do was slip it in their blood bag or goblet or whatever and you'd fry that literal sucker up from the inside out. Not to accuse you of vampire hunting or anything. That's none of my business. But is that what you're looking for?"

[photophobic]

"Concealable and inert until... required. Yes."

Unseen behind the mask, Kylo's mouth tugs into a curve. Yes. Yes, that would serve his purpose very neatly. An elegant solution to another problem altogether, with a plausible motive for wanting to acquire the item in the first place provided at no extra cost. Speaking of...

"And your price? For a sample."

[nightmarist]

"Assuming I can find a supplier who's got this shit in stock," Ronan says, "I'm gonna guess we're looking at five thousand per pill, at least. Anti-meta drugs are almost impossible to come by, even for me. How many vampires are you definitely not trying to kill, anyway?"

[photophobic]

Kylo pauses. With the steady, blank-faced stare of his mask, it's impossible to tell what if anything he might be considering in the space before he supplies:

"As many as I can find."

It might, possibly, be a response infused with just a touch of amusement. His gaze slides to the weapon in Ronan's hand, then draws back up to his face.

"How many for a broad spectrum firearm and energy weapon detector. Military grade. Concerned as you should be about personal security."

[nightmarist]

Ronan stares at that mask for a good long moment, attempting in vain to discern whether this guy is joking or not. That's an absurdly generous offer. If Ronan did indeed have to go out and search the streets for this nonexistent drug, he would probably never be able to acquire enough pills to trade for a scanner like that. Unless this guy is trying to pass along some knock-off, that would be... hundreds of pills.

"Listen, man." He can't just agree to this. No other dealer could. "I don't want you going to the trouble of getting me something I can't pay for, and then you're all pissed off at me and my head ends up on a spike or whatever you guys do. Let me just... see what I can rustle up first. We'll work out the payment once I'm sure I can deliver."

[photophobic]

"A localised communications disruptor," Kylo's distorted voice offers, almost sounding more intrigued than invested in securing the deal itself, somehow. "For ten, if you can acquire them by this time next week."

Apparently, he was quite serious about a test. He leans in to examine Ronan's face a little more closely.

"I need to know you aren't going to waste my time. You understand."

[nightmarist]

It takes everything in Ronan not to recoil from that scrutiny. Psychic, he reminds himself, and focuses on his breathing. His pulse. The cold metal against his fingers. This is a test, for sure, but what exactly is being tested?

"Ten," he repeats, staring up into the black hollows of the mask where eyes are presumably hidden. "I'll see what I can do. I'm sure you know I didn't get my reputation by wasting people's time."

[photophobic]

It's impossible to know what the man behind the mask is thinking or even doing as he lingers there, unmoving, but one thing seems clear— he certainly considers Ronan Lynch worthy of more of his attention, and time, than is strictly necessary.

Eventually satisfied, he draws back and up to his full height. He's not much taller than Ronan himself, really, but there's something exceptionally solid and expansive about the way he holds himself. That, and it's never a good idea to underestimate the impact of effective costuming.

"I look forward to it," he assures Ronan smoothly, turning to leave. He may not be any closer to determining what Ronan's role in this venture is, but he is sure of one thing: he is exactly as special as whatever it is he so desperately wants Kylo not to see.