[wilderby]

Edward Edward returned the shake rather roughly - but he didn’t seem to realize. It was after an almost awkwardly long time that he let go, allowing his arm to now point to the other - that’s where his interest lied.

"You’re the oldest, I’ll talk to you," he continued to point - once again for an awkwardly long amount of time, soon he thrust both of his hands into his pockets, looking over the one who held his interest.

"I’ve heard about you - and by that I mean I haven’t. You’ve been quiet, quiet to most. Of course you must be you’re an underground operation but not underground enough to avoid my interest. you’re bit enough to be seen but small enough to fly under the main radars. I mean, by all this, that you’re big enough - and smart enough -  that I’d like to offer my help. I know of the fights you have here, that’s my main interest. That’s what I’m here for - in a way. Call it … ," he paused for a moment, staring at the elder man. He was thinking, but it was hard for him, thus he continued to stare blankly for a few moments.

… and then he was back.

"Waste management. That’s the nicest way to put it. I have a way of disposal that won’t link to anyone, anything, any place. Not you, not me. Nothing. And I’d like to take the bodies off your hands - for free! It’s just the right price and we both get what we want." He grinned, resting his hands on his face somewhat excitedly. "We’re all business men here - after all. You’re smart enough to know a good deal when you see it."

[dubiousinvestments]

The younger couldn’t help but smirk, and the older couldn’t help but frown. The man was loud, he spoke too fast and tripped over his words and repeated himself and presumed many things. And presumption was never a good thing in this business. He seemed haughty, sure of himself, and above all it seemed that he was proud and never dreamed they would refuse him.

Of course, they had heard about… how eccentric the man was. He was in inventor after all, but that high and mighty attitude? One found it hilarious and the other… didn’t look upon it in good spirits at all.

But still. Business was business and the younger did not seem to mind that he was brushed aside. In fact, he was staring at his frowning brother with mounting amusement as their guest rattled on about deals and business on the shop floor of all places. It was as if the man had no sence of privacy or decency, despite the fact he was practically a hermit.

“If you are here to talk business.” The older starts slowly. Deliberately. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be mingling with the crowd. After all, you would know best that sometimes things are left out of the sight and hearing of others hm?”

His brother sidles up beside the guest, grinning widely and placing a steady hand on his back. “Yeah. Y’ talk that fast out here, ain’t no-one gonna hear nothin’. C’mon, we got some private boxes that ain’t bein’ used right now. Hows about y’ slow down, have a drink n’ run it by us again, huh?”

The older had already begun to move, and the younger is left to steer the inventor through the crowd and drink towards one of the many cubicles high above the stage. The door is unlocked and the elder steps inside. The younger releases the guest and moves aside, motioning him to enter. Or not.

But it’s clear there will be no business spoken to prying ears.

[wilderby]

'The great inventor' had fallen from his high pedestal. This was his own fault, for he never had wanted the spot light. The fame was an accidental thing. When you've been alive for almost a hundred years you tend to pick up a few things. A few things including money making schemes.

You’d not normally see an old man around these parts. You’d not see one sitting in the boxes at ribbon fights, or even seeking out the owners of such fights. No, you’d see old men sitting at home, complaining about the sound level of their TV.

So this man was old, but didn’t seem old, didn’t act old, didn’t talk old. This man was different. Edward Edward was one of a kind, and, in a strange way, the rick man belonged in this place.

It didn’t matter that the ribbons covering his arms were all real, as opposed to the fighter’s fake ones - they were much the same. Fighting for their lives, killing for their lives. Edward wouldn’t have it any other way. For a moment he pondered asking them about what they did with the bodies, but he supposed that would be no way to start a friendship.

It wasn’t hard to find who he was looking for. He knew their faces, he knew them - in a small way. You do enough research and you really feel like you’ve known a person all your life.

It was with a flick of his wrist that he offered a hand to one of the men he recognized.

"Edward Edward!" He announced, assuming the other’s would already know somewhat about himself. "That’s me, and I know you. No need for any further introductions. There is more important issues at hand … I’d agree, you’d agree. There all done. "

[dubiousinvestments]

It was not often they were approached by anyone other than the serving staff. After all, they usually circled the floor drinking and making smalltalk amongst themselves, watching the crowd roar and the fighters fight and the women and men serve in all manner of being.

However, being approached was nothing new. Leery men and women to knew them as being with money, people trying to get a slice or a hand in, or just simply wanting to know why they were there. Of course, the most common was the question of who was the clone, but that was usually dismissed with a sour face and a laugh.

As this man approaches, all theatrics and volume, his presence loud and present as if he were someone important. But unlike many others before him who had adopted that style of introduction, they recognise him. Someone of important or previous importance, it was hard to say. Why, they knew he was very low key, moreso than they. So it was difficult to determine anything at all about his character past what was whispered and bled out through the cracks of his mansion walls.

The elder's eyes flicker to his face, recognising and calculating while the younger's flicker to the ribbons decorating his being. They are not stupid. They recognise him and they recognise those.

"Alright." The elder said, staring hard at the man's face as his brother reached for the man's hand. If introductions were done, then what more would he need to say?

The younger grinned and laughed, shaking the man's hand once, firmly and surely before letting it drop. "A'right no need fer smalltalk huh? What can we do y' for? Thinkin' 'f gettin' back int' inventin'?"

[dubiousinvestments]

Cities.

Cities with lofty buildings and cities where money and technological advancement and cities with the heady taste of discovery, of science, of money in the air.

Cities with people, with employers and employees each representing a beat, a life cell of a living city that expanded and thrived as the wheel of industry turns a slow circle around them.

Cities that held people, desperate and hungry. People who were wealthy and wanting. People who were lost and unafraid. People with money. People without. People with time and people without.

But no city is perfect. Each has a speck, a smear or even a scar of wrongness. Some come and go, some are permanent, some spread like a cancer before it consumes everything.

But this city seemed to be... stable. It's own cancer limited to nothing more than the illegality of murder and underground markets and above all; ribbon fight rings.

These sectors were hidden, left alone and passing unnoticed and unwatched by the eyes of so-called 'justice'. Places where desperate men and even more desperate women fought for the right to live just a little longer. places that money, drink and human entertainment flowed freely as long as you obeyed the out of place 'No Smoking' rule.

These areas of cancer were controlled. Here and there by people, by businessmen, by council members, by anyone who could lay claim to some land in a quiet and unnnoticed part in the city. However, the fight rings were dangerous, and required more money and security than the lesser people had.

So fight rings... were special. Held by those with money.

These rings, sealed and hidden behind dark doors with the seal of a twisted ribbon, wer marked. Owned. And though no-one knew who exactly held the rights to this place, they all knew the money had to go somewhere. After all, who was it that hired all these people? This security? Who found the fighters and who managed the women and men and who served the private boxes?

All employees, but of whom?

Questions never asked. Questions that could get you killed.

So they were never asked.

And instead the public, those people with money looking for company and entertainment, and those without looking for a chance to strike it rich and those desperate who seek but a few more years of life all gathered behind these closed doors.

To fight and drink and bet.

Because it is human nature to want for things you cannot have, right?