Fight Club: Let the Bloodsports Begin
| Fight Club: Let the Bloodsports Begin | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 28 July 2017 |
| Location: | Unknown |
| Synopsis: | Summary needed |
| Cast of Characters: | Renee Montoya, Roulette |
| Tinyplot: | Fight Club |
Roulette sat at her desk. The smoke from the end of the cigarette holder and the half-forgotten tobacco there curled up with a lazy indifference towards the ceiling in contrast to the expression on the woman's features. At her side, a fair-skinned woman, wasp-waisted in her corset, waited with infinite patience and a blank expression like a sheathed sword.
"You're damn right I did," she stated, darkly, after listening a few moments to the voice on the other end of the phone. "We had an agreement. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let someone like Bronze Tiger die without a far more glorious ending. You cost me -money-. I have a -reputation-. And if you think I'm going to advertise no metas in my arena and allow them with whatever you sick plans are, you're off your rocker. I'm Roulette, in case you've forgotten. The only game I play is manipulating the crowd, their pocketbooks, and their eagerness for blood sport. Some disparity is expected, even encouraged. But this wasn't in our agreement. Nobody takes advantage of me. It's the other way around. We're done."
The person on the other end of the phone spoke, some more. And Roulette's face changed from merely upset to that of a furious rage. "Just. Try it." Then, the phone was dropped into the glass of brandy at her side. It popped, sparked, once, and then went dead.
The dark haired diva of the Fight Club looked at her major domo. "Our partner has severed his ties with us, after our last - display, and ruination of his pride and joy. It would seem he expected Bronze Tiger to die." Her lips press into thin a thin, tight line. The words came slow and were weighed heavily with the anger that was boiling in her blood.
"We're opening again, in a week. Send out the notices. This isn't going to stop us. No matter what he says."
The wasp-waisted woman nodded, efficient and prim in her obidience. And, now given purpose, moved in the indicated direction to see Roulette's wishes brought to fruition.
As she left, Roulette said under her breath, "Nobody screws over Roulette. Just try it. You want bloodsport? Well. Roulette will give it to you." Then, hand reaching for the brandy, she realized it was ruined by the cell phone sitting lifeless, dead, within it. The back of her hand sent the crystal and liquor smashing to the floor and staining the carpet. Without a word, she drew to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself another. He would see, she thought, why the house always wins.