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Kevin Mask is having a bad day. But when is Kevin Mask not having a bad day? And that's to be expected when one is an aristocrat and one's father is called Robin.
“Daddy, if you're not going to teach me to drive, then I'm going to find someone who will! You can't keep me locked up here forever!” he screams, after wrenching open the huge double doors of his father's study, his long blond hair slithering over his broad back like so many gold scaled snakes. When he receives no response within point zero seconds, he slams the doors and stomps back down the corridor to his room.
“Hm?” Duke Robin, busy at his ancient oak desk, looks up at the sound of a distant door slamming.
Meanwhile, Kevin climbs out of his bedroom window (for the rebellion) and stomps across wet grass, over rolling slopes and into one of the many woods surrounding the stately house reigning in a slightly more sunny corner of the green and pleasant land that is England. Deep in the furthest clump of ancient old trees stands a shack, a gamekeeper's hut, although the man who lives in it is quite a bit more than a mere gamekeeper. Knowing that he's home by the smoke pouring out of the chimney, Kevin gives a cursory knock on the lichen encrusted door, which is more than he'll give anyone else aside from his mother.
“Uncle Nikolai. Teach me how to drive. Please.” the young ponce says, as soon as a grunt indicates that he may enter.
Over at a table not of English make but very old nonetheless, a man sits, carving a stag out of hard, dark wood. Immense and even blonder than the young man hailing him, he wears an outfit that marks him as the mercenary he is. No longer a pet mercenary and assassin, but more like the only friend and bodyguard of the lord up at the big house. He looks up, much more quickly than Robin did, but unlike Robin, his eyes are not the same colour, one being a russet brown, the other the shocking pale blue seen in Siberian huskies.
“What does your father say?” 'Uncle' Nikolai asks, in a thick Russian accent.
“He didn't hear a word I said.”
The merc snorts and swipes a knife along the neck of his figurine one more time, before placing his work aside. “Alright.”
🐻🐺🦁
In asking his father's enforcer to teach him to drive, Kevin knew very well what he was signing up for. The man is like a tsunami or a tornado, in everything he does. He can't own a normal car. No, instead he owns a military vehicle more ordinarily seen racing around deserts in the Middle East, complete with heavy bull bars attached to the nose. The only difference is that it's black and red and made somewhat comfortable inside - perfect for racing around the local village if not the entire country performing chores for Robin.
“We'll use de thugs loitering in Asda’s car park for practice.” declares Nikolai, while patting the wide snout of his beast of a vehicle, which is so tall it makes him appear normal sized. Unlike Kevin, he does not know what he is in for.
“Yay!” Kevin, dressed as sloppily as any effeminate young yob, fist pumps the air.
Unfortunately for Nikolai, he failed to appreciate just why his friend elected not to teach Kevin how to drive…
“First sharp right, sharp right! Listen, Kevin, you have to listen to me, Kevin please, I beg you, you are breaking de car-”