DIPLOMACY You Don't Know What You Don't Know

[Boris "The Bulge" Iliev]

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Tags:
Location: Megabuilding H10, Watson

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Part 1: Oldschool​

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"Y'know Boss, this place has always been beneath you. It always tears at my heartstrings to see you living like this, even tho' I know why." Watson was at one point a respectable part of Night City; a district the likes of the Kirilov family could be proud to call home at one point. They certainly had ruled it with an iron fist in their day, as firmly as Kings over their dominion. But they had fallen far since then, living by the skin of their teeth in a place no one would ever look for a former crime boss - a f*ckin' megabuilding. Boris remembered the days when they wouldn't have been caught dead in one of these places, unless they were personally visiting someone to 'send a message.' He was young then, nothing more than a two-bit pusher trying to make a name for himself among the big dogs - like the man sitting in front of him now, on a cheap sofa resting in the corner of a very... modest apartment.

"And you never fail to say that every time." 'Georgy' responded. Georgy was old - easily pushing 100 and looking every bit of it. Modern science had done much to prolong the lifespan of the average human, and he had enough chrome lining his face to reveal the reason for his longevity. Advances in technology aside, no one could live forever. Georgy clung to life like a bad cough, and was still quick enough to contradict how frail he looked by what he said and how he thought. To be fair, his voice still sounded as strong and authoritative as it always had been. "You've always been a good soldier Boris. Not many people are alive today who know who I really am, and who my family really is.

He was every bit the boss he used to be, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. His posture was straight, but his voice had a metallic rasp to it. He lost his lungs to cancer a few decades back - smoking will do that to you eventually. "Your patience - hell, our patience - is about to get rewarded." Georgy gave Boris a weary smile, as if he had finally been rid of some invisible weight that had thus far weighed him down. Over the past few decades, Boris had not been idle - far from it. While not working for the 'Kirilov Crime Family', he had turned over a new leaf with the NCPD, selling out a few mid level gangsters from the Family in exchange for a reduced sentence. While that'd normally make him a rat, was it really snitching if it was in the service of protecting his Boss? While NCPD and Militech were busy chasing those idiots, Georgy finished his final play to disappear forever with his family. Eventually the cops turned away from Boris, looking at bigger fish who made a lot more noise. So Boris made a 'legitimate' name for himself as a Fixer, who ran a few uh... establishments on the sly. He gave the right guys a piece of the action, so he never got arrested or even rung up on charges.

Now? No one cared what he did, and they eventually stopped watching him entirely. So he was able to help the "Antonov's" along as they started their new life. And by the sound of things... his patience was about to be rewarded. He had the broadest grin on his face as he waited for Georgy to finish. "...Dmitri has done it. He's laid the groundwork for our return to the City, or at least a step in that direction." Dmitri was watching silently off to the side, nodding at Boris when his grandfather mentioned him by name. Boris hesitated for a moment, but returned the nod. He should have seen that coming...

A part of him believed that Georgy would give him leave to start his own gang of some sort, strike out on his own after years of faithful service. But this guy was getting credit for 'laying the groundwork'? Sure, Dmitri had some bonafides, and had proven himself on several occasions - even bailed Boris out of a tight spot here and there. But this guy? Really? He was half Boris' age. What was Georgy trying to tell him anyway...?

"Dmitri is starting fresh, with the backing of our associates in Moscow. I will be his sovietnik, and I can think of no one else to be the other man at his side then you... as a brigadir."

'OH FUC--' His internal outrage was cut off by his quick wit and lips: "It would be my honor. I mean, you've always been the boss to me." Boris flashed a toothy grin again, the gold in a few of his teeth glinting from the artificial light. Inside, he was anything but happy. 'This man-whore doesn't know the first thing about running a family.'

"You've always been family Boris. I've got big plans, and you're a big part of them." Dmitri chimed in, with his deep smooth voice that could charm the pants off of a nun. Contrary to what one might think if they were able to hear his thoughts, Boris didn't dislike Dmitri per se. But his pride had been wounded. He'd get over it and move on, but that didn't mean he had to like it right now. Hell, he didn't. But he respected Georgy enough to not fly off the handle and take matters in his own hands. Maybe Dmitri would surprise him... and if he failed along the way, Boris could find his 'way to the promised land' in his own way.

"I guess I better start callin' you boss then, eh?" A boisterous laugh followed Boris' statement, with Georgy flashing a reassuring smile, echoed only slightly by his grandson, whose eyes were devoid of any mirth. Boris' laugh died off after a few seconds, and he took a sip from the whiskey glass he held in his hand.

Dmitri spoke again: "I need you to meet with 6th Street."

Boris froze. 6th Street? Those gun-toting militia bros? This time, it was Dmitri's turn to smile...

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Part 2: Does this Rain Smell Like Piss?​

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Location: Vista Del Rey

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The sun was setting on the day as Boris ambled from the driver's seat of his car and rose to his feet. He had a few days to mull over how to approach this meeting; no matter how long you waited, it was never easy to 'piss on someone's head and tell them it was raining.' I mean, if anyone could do it, Boris could. But that didn't make it any easier. 6th Street wasn't exactly known to be an understanding bunch - hell, it wasn't uncommon for them to roll up alongside a rival gang boss's car and threaten them with a pistol in hand. He had hoped to whatever God was above that Dmitri hadn't gone completely gonk-brained. The idea wasn't idiotic necessarily, but Boris had serious doubts that they'd go for it. But he had an angle that might work... if he played it right.

The real trick was to not get shot.

A small bit of exposed chrome from his leg prosthetic glimmered in the fading sunlight, which drew attention to his very noticeable limp. One would think that a cybernetic leg would remove such an impediment, but he was living proof that such a notion was not the case. He left his car on the curb, walking over to the meeting location. A second car door slammed, with another man in a suit falling in step behind him. He didn't come alone, which meant he wasn't wholly unprotected. But one bodyguard was hardly enough to prevent himself from getting killed if things took a turn for the worse. Iron wouldn't get him out of this. No, Boris had to play this one smart.

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[Voice of 6th Street]

Location: Vista Del Rey
Tag: @Boris "The Bulge" Iliev


As Boris approached, the gangers of 6th Street kept their eyes on him, their postures firm but not overly hostile. These weren't just street thugs, they were former veterans, disciplined and grounded, even if their methods weren't always clean. One of them, leaning against a parked, battle-worn Thorton, eyed Boris with a mix of curiosity and caution.

"Well, look who's limping into our neighborhood," he said, his tone measured but firm. "Iliev, right? Heard your name before. Can't say it's one that inspires much trust around here." There were no laughs this time, only quiet murmurs as the gang sized up the visitor. Another ganger, older and wearing a patched-up flak jacket, stepped forward. His voice was calm but carried authority. "We're not some brain-dead boostergang, Boris. You come onto our streets, you play by our rules. Some parts of Night City might've been your playground once, but this isn't about old war stories or family names. 6th Street doesn't answer to anyone, especially not to some relic from the Old Country."

The older ganger stopped in his tracks, "Name's Brighton." The group watched as Boris and his bodyguard stopped a few paces away, the fading sun glinting off the exposed chrome of his leg. "So, what's this about?" the older ganger continued, arms crossed. "We keep this district from falling into chaos, and we've got no time for shady deals or false promises. You want 6th Street to listen? Start with the truth. Why are you really here?"

The gang remained steady, not hostile but clearly in no mood for games. Boris would have to tread carefully, 6th Street might be open to a deal, but their patience for nonsense was razor-thin.

 

[Boris "The Bulge" Iliev]

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Part 2: Does this Rain Smell Like Piss?​

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Location: Vista Del Rey
Tags: @Voice of 6th Street

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"Well, look who's limping into our neighborhood," he said, his tone measured but firm. "Iliev, right? Heard your name before. Can't say it's one that inspires much trust around here."

Boris limped along, coming to a stop a few meters away from the no-name thug who decided to heckle him. He affixed an impassive, if not slightly annoyed expression to the muscle. 'And who the f*ck are you...?' was the thought conveyed by his expression, without even a word being said. Boris may not have inspired trust in just anyone - that couldn't be helped with people who didn't give trust to anyone outside of their gang. But Boris commanded respect, if for no other reason than by his reputation. Men like him didn't respond to cheap shots from people who didn't matter. Men with thin skin typically took more cheap shots than anybody out on the streets.

Rather than saying anything, Boris waited for the apparent leader of this crew to step forward and address him. Eventually, someone who definitely looked the part did so:

"We're not some brain-dead boostergang, Boris. You come onto our streets, you play by our rules. Some parts of Night City might've been your playground once, but this isn't about old war stories or family names. 6th Street doesn't answer to anyone, especially not to some relic from the Old Country."

The older ganger stopped in his tracks, "Name's Brighton." The group watched as Boris and his bodyguard stopped a few paces away, the fading sun glinting off the exposed chrome of his leg. "So, what's this about?" the older ganger continued, arms crossed. "We keep this district from falling into chaos, and we've got no time for shady deals or false promises. You want 6th Street to listen? Start with the truth. Why are you really here?"

Boris offered a toothy grin, the gold teeth intermingled within his mouth glinting faintly. He slowly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fresh cigar. He placed the tip into his mouth and his guard produced a lighter. Blue flame shot out, searing the opposing end of the cigar for several moments until it finally caught. He tugged on the cigar as it was lighting, with gouts of smoke puffing out with each tug. He pulled the cigar out from his mouth and let it smoulder between his fingers. It took several moments for the whole ordeal to play out, half while 'Brighton' was speaking, and half after he finished his spiel; which meant they had to wait a few moments still until Boris decided to respond. He could see the other members of Sixth Street lingering in the background, possessing a diverse collection of implants mixed with the classic 'army surplus' appearance they were known for. While such a view could easily intimidate many in Boris' position, he thrived when others tried to put pressure on him.

Call it survival.

He eventually spoke: "Y'know, I may be an old bastard; i'll give you that. But there's something about us old bastards that never goes out of style." He took another puff from his cigar. "F*ckin' respect..."

He met Brighton's eyes, looking at both of them straight in the pupils. "I wouldn't be wasting my time talking to yous' guys if I didn't respect you, or if I thought you were two-bit gangsters who didn't care about nothin'." He picked his teeth and tapped the edge of his cigar, coaxing the trace amounts of ash gathering on the end to fall by his feet. "You don't trust me? Good, it means you aren't stupid. I'm not here to take advantage of you; I'm here to bury the hatchet between us and see if yous guys are open to a 'mutually beneficial opportunity'."

Boris paused, letting his intro sink in and gauging the expressions on their faces before he threw out one last morsel. "We've been too busy poking at each other over the past few years, while the Tyger Claws have been running this city under our noses. My boss and I think that needs to change, and we figured you guys might feel the same." Another pull, followed by another gout of smoke punctuated his words. "You wanna shake things up with us? Or keep resting on your laurels? I got other guys to talk to if you ain't interested." He glanced at his watch, even though he knew exactly what time it was.

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[Voice of 6th Street]

Brighton's arms stayed crossed, his stance unyielding as Boris dropped his ask, less a speech and more of a skilled sales pitch. The older 6th Street Lieutenant tilted his head, his sharp gaze locking onto the man across from him like a predator sizing up prey. The thick smoke from Boris's cigar wafted through the air, curling lazily in the space between them, but Brighton didn't so much as flinch. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, "Respect, huh? That's a two-way street. And around here, respect isn't just words or flashy cigars, it's action. You might've walked in here talkin' a good game, but words don't stop bullets, and they sure as hell don't keep the Claws off our turf."

He shifted his weight slightly, still keeping his arms crossed but relaxing just enough to signal he was willing to listen.. for now. "Mutually beneficial opportunity, you say? Sounds pretty corpo for a guy like you. But fine, I'll bite. Say we don't think you're here to screw us over. What exactly are you offering? And what do you expect us to put on the line for this little 'shake-up'?"

Brighton's gaze flicked briefly to the bodyguard, sizing him up just as much as Boris. He let the silence stretch for a moment, the faint hum of traffic in Vista Del Rey filling the air as the rest of his crew shifted subtly behind him. Brighton might've been the one speaking, but 6th Street was a cohesive unit, and he wasn't about to risk their blood for some vague promise of cooperation.

"Clock's tickin', Boris," Brighton added, his tone steady and firm. "Convince me."



@Boris "The Bulge" Iliev

 

[Boris "The Bulge" Iliev]

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Part 2: Does this Rain Smell Like Piss?​

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Location: Vista Del Rey
Tags: @Voice of 6th Street

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"Respect, huh? That's a two-way street. And around here, respect isn't just words or flashy cigars, it's action. You might've walked in here talkin' a good game, but words don't stop bullets, and they sure as hell don't keep the Claws off our turf."

Well there was something to be said for not being immediately shot at by these guys. Although his demeanor didn't show it, Boris did not want to be here. 6th Street began as a giant veterans club, and they initially styled themselves as Robin Hood style figures in the neighborhoods they controlled. Back in the day, it was almost certain that most within their ranks might consider it a 'public service' to get rid of men like Boris. But those days had come and gone; today's version of their gang might have considered themselves the 'good guys' of Night City, but they were just as much a gang of Criminals as the likes of the Tyger Claws, or even Boris himself.

Whether they realized it themselves was another story.

"Mutually beneficial opportunity, you say? Sounds pretty corpo for a guy like you. But fine, I'll bite. Say we don't think you're here to screw us over. What exactly are you offering? And what do you expect us to put on the line for this little 'shake-up'?"

"Clock's tickin', Boris," Brighton added, his tone steady and firm. "Convince me."

The sound of traffic from the nearby street seemed to punctuate Brighton's fading patience. Boris drew again on his cigar to add a few more seconds to the encounter, even though he knew his time was beginning to run out. He looked at his bodyguard and gave him a nod. He was holding a briefcase, and took a few steps closer to set it atop a storage crate to serve as a make-shift table. He popped the locks on the case and swiveled it around.

It was a smaller case, filled with stacks of §100 bills wrapped neatly. By initial glance, there was easily §100,000 in cash within the case. The guard stepped back to stand at Boris' side, with Boris nodding at the case as he looked back at Brighton: "My old family might be dead and gone, but a new one is coming. Consider this a token of our good will from the boss himself, as well as a downpayment for some services we'd like to hire you for, if you want." He tugged again, and let the smoke billow out from his lips before he continued; allowing the 6th Streeters a moment to feel the impact of the cash sitting in front of them. It wasn't an exorbitant amount, but it was hopefully enough to get their attention. "You want it straight? Then I'll give it to ya straight - we're going to be moving into Charter Hill soon, after we give those Yakuza wannabees a black eye they won't soon forget."

He gestured to Brighton to emphasize his next point: "Even though we've had our differences, yous guys got a code not unlike ours. The Tyger Claws? They only care about their own kind - the rest of the City be damned in the process. Why don't we... let our disputes in Vista Del Rey and Arroyo lie where they are, and focus on teaching these kitty cats a lesson, eh? We got our side of those districts, and you keep your side." A chuckle was at the edge of his tone as he finished his pitch, with a broad smile creasing his lips and revealing his gold-filled mouth. "You had a point there earlier; respect is earned. We've done alot to each other to make either of us skeptical. But let's bury the hatchet, let the past be what it is, and start fresh eh? We ain't big enough yet to take on the Tyger Claws alone, and neither are you. But together?" He shrugged his shoulders with his palms open; a very typical expression amongst men of his... 'profession'.

"Think about it." He winked, as if putting a period at the end of his whole spiel. He would have left, but he knew better than to turn his back to these guys.

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[Voice of 6th Street]

Brighton crossed his arms, leaning slightly toward the makeshift table where the briefcase of eurodollars gleamed under the flickering light of a nearby streetlamp. His sharp blue eyes flicked from Boris to the cash and then back, his face unreadable. The air was thick with tension, the hum of distant engines filling the silence between them. The veteran's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "You got guts, Boris. Walking into our turf, laying all this out like it's just another day at the market. Gotta admit, your pitch isn't bad.. money talks, and that's a damn fine opening line."

He stepped closer to the briefcase, resting a hand on the crate as if appraising the offer with practiced detachment. "But you're not wrong about one thing. This isn't the same 6th Street you'd remember from the history books. We've had to adapt, change with the times. Means we still take care of our people, but we're not blind to opportunity when it knocks, especially when it's flashing a stack of eddies and a shot at gutting the Claws."

Brighton glanced over his shoulder at a few of his men, exchanging silent looks before returning his attention to Boris. "Thing is, though, what you're asking for? It's more than a ceasefire or some backroom handshake. You're talking about putting boots on the ground, risking blood and chrome for a fight that could light up half the city. And let's not kid ourselves, when the Claws come back swinging, they'll be swinging hard."

His smirk faded, his expression turning serious. "We've got a code. And if you're serious about this, about fighting the real enemy instead of each other.. then maybe we can talk. Charter Hill's been a thorn in our side for years, it's controlled by corpo rats and their private police and the Tyger Claws? They're long overdue for a reminder that they don't own this city."

Brighton stepped back, motioning to one of his men to retrieve the briefcase. The bills disappeared into the hands of 6th Street with quick efficiency, but his sharp gaze never left Boris. "We'll see what your 'new family' is made of, Boris. You want respect? Earn it. We'll put boots on the ground, but only if you deliver when the time comes. One slip, one double-cross, and there won't be enough of you left to bury."

He offered Boris a faint nod, a glimmer of reluctant approval in his tone. "For now, we'll call it a truce. But remember: trust? That's something you build. We'll see if you're worth it."

With that, Brighton turned, signaling his men to stand down but remain vigilant. The message was clear: Boris had his foot in the door, but the weight of 6th Street's trust would have to be earned.

@Boris "The Bulge" Iliev​

 

[Boris "The Bulge" Iliev]

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Part 2: Does this Rain Smell Like Piss?​

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Location: Vista Del Rey
Tags: @Voice of 6th Street

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The grin that had been coming and going on Boris' lips was on full display, gold teeth and all, as Brighton finished his response. He took a long pull on his cigar, enjoying the flavor of the leaf as the tip flashed a bright red. In a world full of synthetic imitation, the few indulges that remained as they always were were rare. He could feel the numbing sensation in his cheeks, which combined with the adrenaline flooding his veins from the success of his encounter.

Boris nodded and pointed at Brighton with his cigar. "You made the right call here, Brighton. You'll see." He winked before nodding to his bodyguard. Under normal circumstances, Boris was known to be a 'talker', but he had the sense to know when it was time to shut up and move on. He gave the crew a casual salute with his cigar hand, then turned and hobbled back to the car. The door was quickly opened for him, and he slowly shifted his awkward form into the back seat. He pulled out his phone, keyed the call button.

"Yeah, it's done boss; they even let me keep my ass-cheeks."

/end thread

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