Chapter Text
May 12, 1990
That fateful day the May before had all but left Biker's mind. In fact, the man spent five months collecting evidence on 50 Blessings' activities, despite saying he wanted no part in the political aspect of the organization. He knew he wouldn't be able to rest unless he had shared the big secret with someone else.
After sending off his compilation to people of interest and hearing nothing in return, he knew it was completely out of his control. Feeling frustrated by his wasted effort and only slightly panicked about his fate, he changed his phone number, gave all his fish away (the hardest thing he'd ever had to do) and considered moving out for good. Once again there was nothing left for him here.
Speeding down the streets at night, he felt the scar across his nose itch and burn at the memory of the man who'd confronted him- the same man who was now eerily silent behind bars.
The new year really had nothing good in store.
-
The warm, purple Miami night was nothing short of tranquil for the fearsome boss of the Russian mafia. His name was Aleksandr Filip Lebedev, but everyone knew him better as the Son, for his father used to operate the organised crime in the city before he was encountered by the aforementioned man who is now picking dust bunnies in prison, thus the nickname.
The night Sasha found out about his father's death caused him to make a vow to take over his dad's business and try his best to properly maintain all the strings, connections, and reputation the Russians have made here, despite Lebedev's tendencies of abusing psychoactive substances, partying until the sun rises, and overall being a complete loose cannon and a bit if a liability sometimes. It was no matter to him, though, because he knew that he could always get shit done regardless of the situation he's in.
The Son was happily riding his slick, stylish Pontiac Firebird Trans Am which he always deeply valued; it was a car he drove absolutely anywhere, and he scolds pretty much anyone who looks at it the wrong way. He was blasting one of his favourite tunes from this Soviet rock and roll musician as he was steering the wheel, not minding how fast he was going and the fact that he was ignoring the signs on the road like it's nothing. This could only spell disaster for the mafia boss and whoever would get in his way.
-
The man commonly known as Biker was a bit of a myth nowadays, and his presence went widely unnoticed. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand, he used to love the attention; on the other, he would rather not be sent to prison.
Taking a sharp turn in order to head down to the liquor store and pick up a bottle of schnapps, he disregarded a red light, sighing deeply as he did. Well... He wouldn't do that again. He took pleasure in timing all the green lights perfectly, and that had been a slip up.
Taking yet another turn, he didn't notice the vehicle illegally speeding towards him until it was too late.
-
Sasha kept on increasing the velocity of his ongoing expensive vehicle without paying too much attention to the fact that there was someone along the way that was about to collide with him, potentially ending both his and their life on the spot.
Fortunately, the Son stopped jamming to his music and focused on the empty road for a second only for him to realise that something fatal could've happened to him and that man on the motorbike if he didn't slow the fuck down.
With his heart beating faster, Sasha hit the brakes with all of his might with the tires screeching loudly, leaving evident skid marks on the Miami tarmac. He didn't stop entirely on time, though, since his car bumped the mysterious biker off of his bike, causing them to roll over into a bush.
"Fucking hell!" - he exclaimed after he got out if his car and walked over to the man in the prop delivered by mother nature. Sasha hoped they weren't going to sue him for this incident.
Biker felt his hands be pried off the handles by gravity, sending him soaring into the air as his beloved Kaneda remained on the ground. For about half a second he saw his life flash before his eyes, but he was soon greeted by soft foliage, which caused him to sprawl out but little else.
Lucky break, he supposed. Except... If his bike was hurt, he'd be absolutely livid. Not only was that his baby, it was his only chance at escape and freedom.
Groaning, he adjusted his helmet as he began to wriggle out of the bush. "You son of a bitch, watch where the fuck you're going!"
He didn't even see who he was yelling at. He didn't care. He could already smell smoke...
Sasha never really cared about the wellbeing of other people, excluding his family, friends, and henchmen, so he wasn't exactly fazed about the fact that he nearly killed someone on the street. He was merely curious what kind of damage was done to his own car, the biker, and their two-wheeled motorcycle. The Son simply wondered if he could bribe his way out of this situation as he usually does when cops try to arrest him when he's up to no good.
He may own the police force, but the lackeys that work for it could only cooperate if numbers were slapped to their faces, to which Sasha always gladly obliged.
There was a little bit of smoke coming from the car's engine, but it was probably because it overheated from the constant speeding. The bike itself only suffered a few scratches, but that wasn't the Son's problem.
When Sasha approached the mysterious individual who was trying to get up from that nearly-catastrophic fall and heard them shouting profanities at him, he didn't take kindly to that and responded in the only way he knew how - getting equally pissy and demanding the respect he thought he deserved.
"Just who the fuck do you think you're talking to, zhopa?! Stand up and say that to my face!"
Biker could not believe what he was hearing. Was this asshole seriously threatening him after sending him sky high to a near-certain death (or broken bone, at least)!? His Blessings days may have been over, but one never forgets how to sucker punch an asshole in the face.
Or the nuts.
Getting up entirely and dusting off his pants, he kept his head bowed down, helmet obscuring his features entirely.
"Maybe the visor doesn't let you hear me properly," he grumbled, "but I told you to watch where you're going, you dickhead!"
Balling his hands into fists, he thrust his head up to meet the eyes of the idiot who'd knocked him down.
"I coulda died, what kind of four wheeled asshole just runs a red light!?"
It was then he noticed, in the dim streetlight, how the man before him was dressed in white and blue. God no, he thought, not a fucking Russian. I'm screwed.
He had no reason to be recognized, right...?
The nerve this helmet-wearing shrimp had to talk to the leader of the Russian mafia like that.
Sasha was growing pretty tired of this unknown wankstain's behaviour, and let's not mention his his further insults agitated the Son even more. So what if he nearly bit the dust? People die in Miami pretty much everyday, so his death would've meant nothing to him since he wouldn't have been the Son's first roadkill.
A visible vein appeared on Sasha's forehead out of pure, compressed anger. When the biker got close enough to him, he instinctively placed his head on the motorcyclist's right shoulder and pushed him away.
Not tonight. Not now.
"Step the fuck back! You're not a close friend to be breathing my air like that."
He didn't put too much force into that push. He may be just as pissed as the biker, but senseless violence was never his thing. Nonetheless, he kept his left hand in a fist form just in case.
"I don't care what could've happened to you. If you watched the fucking road, then none of this would've happened, now would it?"
Biker never really understood why it was Russians that he'd been assigned to kill until it had all been over, but now he was starting to develop a whole new urge to beat this one's skull in. He looked important too, somehow. He had hair, for one.
The touch to his shoulder very nearly sent him into a blind rage, so to prevent himself from losing his grip, he pushed his visor up and allowed himself to look around properly, taking deep breaths.
"Touch me again," he replied coldly, "and you'll be missing a lot more than just some paint on your hood."
He then began to walk towards his bike, ignoring any dirty look or threat the Russian gave him. He wanted nothing to do with any of it.
Pretty car... This guy was definitely important. He probably thought he was untouchable- Biker couldn't hold back a chuckle. If only he knew...
"Uh, no. I had the right of way, this is entirely on you. I could argue about this all night, pal."
Even though the Son had bitter feelings about the stylish motorcyclist, he was secretly impressed by his bold, aggressive tone along with his "don't fuck with me" attitude. He hadn't seen such cold rage and lack of fear in awhile, so the night was definitely interesting.
The threats meant nothing to Sasha, but he did feel insulted when Biker started walking away. What, he's not even going to punch him even once? He wasn't walking away that easy.
After Sasha tightened his hairband, he walked over to the motorcyclist before he got on his bike and asked without any hesitation:
"You think you're gonna leave so soon without settling this? Think again. I dare you."
Biker looked over at the Russian, and due to his visor being up, the other man would clearly be able to see the irritation in his visible eye. He just wanted to get his booze and get the fuck out of here.
"You're not gonna pay for any damages done to me or my bike, and I sure as fuck am not gonna do the same for you, so I got nothing to do here. Enough of my time has been wasted already."
Seeing that the man was approaching, Biker exhaled hard and straightened himself out to gain an extra inch.
"You don't wanna do that. This wouldn't be my first time beating the shit out of a whitecoat."
"Oh no, this isn't about your bike or the car, pink man. This is simply just a matter of some simple goddamn respect, and it seems you've skipped that class in life."
Sasha knew he could've stopped there and just went back home, but despite his anger, he wanted to have a little fun with the biker.
"Might not be your last time either" - he grinned - "But something just has to be done."
But then, a brilliant idea hit his mind.
Drag racing.
"How about a race around the block, three laps. You win, I'll give you a wad of cash and let you fuck right off. I win, and you'll have to work as my personal bodyguard whenever you're needed. Questions?"
"Yeah, I don't tend to respect assholes who knock me off my bike. Who knew?"
Biker was, in all honesty, already preparing his bike to take off at a moment's notice, but as the man continued to talk, he (regrettably) continued to listen. And this time, his chuckle was a lot louder.
This man really had no idea who he was, did he? This was too much.
"I don't think you want me as a bodyguard, pal. You haven't even seen me fight."
Or had he? Who knew, maybe this guy had been an accidental survivor of one of his raids. But no... He'd remember the hair.
"But I could do with a shitton of money, yeah." He couldn't possibly lose. The stranger running red lights was one thing, but he could take as many liberties as he wanted. "I hope you're ready to let go of a couple grand..."
There was no point in not milking a rich man.
Sasha always loved it when someone agreed to his crazy, on-the-spot ideas. The Son wasn't amused by the stranger's claims of being able to fight, though the motorcyclist's agreement to his racing proposition already made the night more fun for the Russian, which is why he laughed loudly when he heard that spiel about losing the dough he's acquired all by himself.
He spits on such ideas.
"Dream on, mudak! This chariot can go up to speeds you couldn't even dream of, so I'd love to see you and your "bike" try to beat me."
The Son didn't want to waste any more time monologuing, so he slid on the front part of his car, got into his seat, and started loudly revving the engine.
"You gonna stand there and let your teeth rot? Come on!"
Biker slammed his visor down so hard he very nearly gave himself whiplash. He wasn't going to let some Ruski fuck boss him around. His engine sounded okay when he started it up, so he was pretty confident he'd be able to leave the man behind without issue.
"We use the green light as a starting point," he demanded, seeing as it was currently red.
No matter what happened, he didn't plan to uphold his end of the deal. He knew the man had suggested the position of bodyguard in order to secure and witness Biker's early death. If only he knew.
The moment the light turned green, he sped off.
What, no countdown? When the biker sped off as fast as he could when the light flashed "go", Sasha did not slack off at all and put the gearshift into five, slamming down his foot on the gas pedal and set sail on the grubby asphalt. Drag races weren't quite his forte as he usually tended to lose a wheel on or two whenever he decided to participate in one, but a challenge is a challenge, so he had a lot of willpower to keep him going.
Plus, not to mention how he didn't want to lose to a stranger he literally just met, even though their meeting wasn't really the most pleasant one for both parties.
The Son managed to catch up to the motorcyclist, driving his car right beside the biker. He then rolled down his driver's window even more, turned around to face him as the biker was minding the road, laughed in a loud & taunting manner, and blasted an appropriate tune that was much louder than both of their vehicles combined.
"Danger Zone" could be heard.
"Ahahahah! How do you like that, pink man!"
Biker was not exactly experienced in the whole racing-against-a-car department (no, that was more appropriate for someone else), but he was certainly no stranger to speeding. His tires were sturdy and had been recently refilled in anticipation for his likely escape, so there was no threat of burnout or popping.
Something sounded off, though... He wasn't sure what it was- and he wasn't able to properly find out as Kenny fucking Loggins approached him at high speed, clearly trying to throw him off his groove.
He barely reacted, flipping the Russian off without turning his head. He then took the turn sharper than intended, causing him to almost bump into the damn car again.
"You'll see how I like it," he murmured to himself, speeding up considerably to catch the next green light.
He had to admit it was a little bit fun...
The Son felt the adrenaline rush within his body the moment he took the turn along with the motorcyclist. Sasha had cat-like reflexes thanks to his rigorous training sessions with Irina Evergreen, the former Russian mafia bodyguard who worked for his father before she suffered a severe blunt head trauma, so drifting wasn't an issue for him at all; it was like child's play.
That flipped bird only made Sasha more excited, because it made him want to really beat him and his puny bike to the ground. The Son wasn't going to lose to such disrespectful demeanour, so you bet your ass he kept on going.
As the music continued to loudly play from the Russian's speakers and the skidding noises of both his and the biker's vehicles shook up the streets, a local gang known as the Mulholland Gravestones, whose members liked to sport yellow and blue attire and who mercilessly enjoyed clobbering anyone with their custom-made pool cues, weren't exactly amused by the fact that two rowdy schmucks were a causing a disturbance on their turf.
In fact, this urban platoon that was hiding in an alley wanted to get them off the streets as soon as they could. After they cocked their guns and exchanged a few phrases, such as "ey, ready to put some more teef on your necklaces, fellas?", the gang members got into their cars and began chasing the Russian and the Biker with a thirst for blood.
Biker was entirely tuning out the Russian's presence, merely enjoying the ride as the breeze tickled his skin. He did occasionally look over, not registering the driver, but merely gauging the distance between them to make sure he was still ahead. He wasn't by much... They were practically side by side. No matter, there was time to catch up. He was saving his last burn of energy for the finish line.
If they ever made it, that was. Out of the corner of his eye, he started noticing movement behind them- unfamiliar cars, moving in a suspiciously synchronized manner.
Gangsters.
Clicking his tongue, he turned into a side road without warning, dropping some speed to be able to move behind the Russian's car. He was going to lose these fucks whatever it took... That was more important than some stupid race.
If he could lure them into an alley, he could probably take them, but he'd much rather they went after his competitor.
Sasha continued to enjoy the excitement the race brought upon his coke-coated soul. He hasn't had this much fun in a while, and the stranger with the bike sure knew how to keep that fun going in the best way possible.
However, when the motorcyclist lowered the speed of his vehicle and started tailing the Son's car, Sasha remained excited, but rather confused at the same time. He took a look at his rear view mirror and spotted three rusty cars with a cheap, blue paintjob on them, speeding up and going after him, and most likely the biker, too.
"Ah, blin! Fuckin' graves at this hour? I thought I got rid of those lowlives a few months ago, guess not."
There was no time for planning. Sasha ditched the race as well and started steering his car haphazardly with zigzag movements here and there as well. He wasn't in the mood to fight any rival gang members at that point, so he hoped he could lose them if he tried to confuse the yellowblue gang members.
The gangsters were getting pretty fucking pissed, so two of the cars lowered their windows and had some young thugs poke their arms out of them and open fire upon the Russian and the motorcyclist with various pistols and submachine guns.
The Son knew the situation would be fatal, so he grabbed a grenade from the glove compartment, pulled the pin, counted to three, and threw it out the window at the hostile urban assailants. All he had to was wait for the big bang.
Biker had been spat back out onto the main road, where he was disappointed to discover the gang members remained. And now they were firing on them- if he'd known this part of the city was someone's turf, he would have invested in clearing them out first.
Or he would have, if that were still him. Now all he could really do was dodge the bullets and berate himself for having stayed behind to fuck around with the Russian.
The grenade rolled past him, and he spotted it just in time to yelp and accelerate, missing the blast area by a millimetre. He felt heat on his back as one of the cars blew up in the air, the other two skidding away in time to be spared.
Biker then knew he'd have much more trouble shaking them now that they'd been stirred up, although he secretly hoped for the focus to stay on the maniac he'd been racing.
Spotting an alleyway up ahead, he began inching towards it, until he was safely tucked at the back of it, waiting for the next safe moment.
Cars wouldn't be able to fit down it, but people sure would, so he mentally prepared himself to defend himself. Not that it would do him much good without guns.
The pink biker's quick thinking impressed Sasha quite a lot. Sure, he wasn't able to slide his car into the alleyway like his new acquaintance did with his motorcycle, but the Son could easily just park his automobile right next to it and get out just in time to grab his stash of firearms that were resting comfortably in the trunk.
And that's what he pretty much did - as the Gravestones continued to catapult their piercing bullets at Sasha, the man put the speed of his car to a halt and skidded right next to the alleyway, safely stopping on time before it hit a wall. When he got out, he took out a shuriken he was hiding in his pocket and precisely threw it at one of the enemy cars' tires, popping it and subsequently causing a distraction.
There was enough time for the Son to grab a light machine gun he's wanted to use for the right occasion and a modified tec-9 for the motorcyclist that would definitely please him. He ran towards the Biker down the alley and threw him the submachine gun. After doing so, he started putting a giant belt of ammo into his gargantuan automatic weapon, smiling wildly like a primal beast with his eyes spelling "bloodlust".
"Prepare yourself, pink man! A standoff is nigh! Hahaha!"
Biker's first instinct when seeing someone run at him was to put his fists up and run back, but he noticed just in time who it was that was joining him in the alley. In his sudden shock, he almost failed to catch the gun being thrown at him. What...?
"What the fuck is going on?" The question was genuine, not accusatory, as he sounded truly confused at the sudden assistance. "What are you doing here?"
As he heard voices at the end of the alley, he quickly tried to figure out the weapon he was holding. "You lured them here!?"
Groaning loudly, he aimed the submachine gun at the end of the alley, looking over to see the look of sheer glee on the Russian's face. This was no ordinary mobster.
"Just who the fuck are you...?"
He managed to fit in the question before opening mad fire on the men.
As the biker's bullets soared right past Sasha's head with them hitting local urban props such as dumpsters, barrels used for bonfires, garbage bags loaded with plastic dolls, and, of course, the brick walls, the Son continued to maniacally laugh and cheer loudly as chaos continued to ensue around him. He hasn't had this much fun in a while.
" Ahahaha-haa! Try to kill one of them, and I'll spill any beans you want!"
The Son could tell that the motorcyclist wasn't very experienced with firearms, for his accuracy was a little poor with most of the bullets going straight into the aforementioned objects rather than the incoming hostiles, but he didn't care that much about it. He knew that everyone eventually learns something new in their life, and besides, he was having too much fun to criticise whatever was going on.
However, before the Son could fire his weapon he deemed as mouth-watering, one of the Gravestones managed to shoot him in the left hand, almost costing him his ring finger.
Good lord, did that hurt like fucking hell. The Son let out an audible, painful groan after the bullet got him like that, but Sasha was too emotionally invested into this fight to give a proper shit about it, he had a huge scar on his face after all. His hand was bleeding, but he still had enough strength to hold the gun and aim it somewhat properly, even if his wounded hand was shaking a little bit, proving to be a liability.
Without any monologues, catchphrases or further ado, the Son squeezed the trigger with all of his might and sprayed the opposing gangsters with lots of lead that could feed an entire family for weeks. He didn't let go of the firing weapon as it continued to fire its projectiles at the motorcyclist's and the Russian's mutual enemies.
Each new shot filled the Son with joy only a man with a big gun could experience.
Biker shot the man a look of disdain, realizing the other wouldn't be able to see it from under his visor. Whatever. He'd never fired a gun before this moment, and was trying his best to keep a steady aim with an unfamiliar weapon. The rebound made it hard, though- hence all the pitiful missing. Come on, you have better aim than this!
He was shocked at how many of these fuckers kept pouring in. There had only been a few cars, god dammit. Taking a deep breath, he moved his head to the side to push his bangs over. Ah, now that helped a little...
The second he saw the man beside him get hurt, though, he swore. With his shitty aim and his accomplice down, he was a dead man for sure. Yet the Russian kept firing... It awoke something within him, causing him to take a deep breath, grip his weapon properly, and fire.
He very nearly blew the head off one of the men due to the accuracy of his shot. Yes! He wasn't about to let this whole thing go to shit due to his incompetence. Having steeled his nerves, he found it a lot easier to pick off the enemy.
Something about it didn't feel right, though, so he'd not be using a gun again if he could help it.
Once the last of the men hit the ground, he sighed deeply and let his shoulders droop. Turning to the other, he quickly asked for his hand.
"Let me see."
The violent and nearly critical battle lasted for about six minutes, but Sasha and his motorcyclist acquaintance managed to somehow survive the ordeal that interrupted their little drag race. Even if the prolonged gunfight lasted for that long, no cops were to be seen or heard in the nearby vicinity, but that's just Miami policemen for you.
The Son dropped his then-empty weapon on the ground with visible blood stains on the gun's magazine from the Son's bleeding hand wound. Thud. The drop itself was nearly as satisfying as firing the automatic instrument of doom, but it just wasn't the same as blowing off some guy's head right off his shoulder with three shots.
After the adrenaline faded away a little, the injury became more unbearable. Too unbearable. He was in dire need of some medical assistance. The Son moaned in quiet pain as he handed over his hand to the motorcyclist. He probably knew one or two things about medicine and treating wounds, right?
Biker stared at the man as he witnessed him succumb to the pain of his injury. Of course. He'd have to be some sort of god to withstand pain that great once his heart rate went back to normal. Holding his hand, he hissed before looking around for anything he could use. He hadn't brought his knives, dammit! He didn't think he would have had to use them to go down to the liquor store.
"Who keeps shooting with an injured hand?" Although he was being berating, he knew he wouldn't have survived if the man hadn't continued firing upon the gangsters. Of course, none of this would have happened at all if the Russian hadn't crashed into him...
Figuring his own shirt was already ripped as it was, he lifted his hoodie and aggressively tore off the bottom of the plain white tee, quickly tying the strip around the stranger's hand.
"This is temporary, you know that, right? You gotta have it seen by someone."
Fuck, it was getting hard to breathe.
Even though the biker left a mixed impression on the Russian mobster, Sasha genuinely appreciated the fact that he'd rip a piece of his own shirt and use it as an improvised tourniquet just so he could treat the Son's wound. The pain was absolutely intolerable, but the moment he was having with the motorcyclist made it more fun to remember for future stories. Hey, it even helped him to almost forget that his hand was heavily bleeding and leaving nice, red stains on the ground for cops to investigate.
"A-agh...! There's this guy I know, not too far away from here... You can drive cars, yes?"
The Son knew very well he wasn't in the right condition to operate any vehicles that required his hands, and he didn't particularly want to taint his cherished automobile with his blood cells, so asking for help was the most tactical thing he could do.
Sasha didn't enjoy doing that, since he likes to consider himself a Russian superman who can handle anything at any time, but Irina taught him that one can't always rely on themselves if they want to hop over certain obstacles, so backup was sometimes the best choice.
Biker tied off the bandage before registering the Russian's words. It was true they couldn't stay here, but for Biker to drive him somewhere? That was a little excessive, wasn't it? He wanted no further involvement with this maniac... Fun as the night had been.
Yet he couldn't just leave him there to bleed out; not after the stunt they'd just pulled. He let his shoulders slump as he accepted defeat. Leaning down to pick up the discarded weapon, he turned to look back at the stranger, whose name was still a mystery to him.
"I'd say my bike is faster, but fuck it, I'll just fucking cram it into the back of your car. It's big enough, right?"
Huffing, he began to push it along, weapons tucked under his arms. This was almost an impossible feat... He occasionally looked back to see if the man was following- but he knew he had to be.
"Give me the directions as I drive, and don't fucking die until you've told me who you are."
Maneuvering around the bodies, he eventually reached the Pontiac, throwing the back door open and cramming his motorcycle in there by any means possible. After a struggle, he threw the guns in the back seat and finally removed his helmet.
It felt good to breathe...
Sasha carefully followed the motorcyclist as he was hauling the empty weapons and his bike to the Son's fancy and surprisingly big enough car that had enough space for both the two-wheeled vehicle along with the firearms. And the pink man of biking didn't even break much of a sweat when he did that.
God damn was the biker strong as hell; his arms along with his biceps were confident in showing themselves off to anyone who could see them. The Russian mob king truly enjoyed the sight of physically powerful men whenever he had the chance to see some, and since one was helping him out in his minor, but nonetheless personal time of need, he couldn't help but to feel... a little jolly about it.
After the biker threw the equipment into the back of the Son's car and took off his steamy helmet, Sasha silently gazed upon the motorcyclist's luscious, shiny, cyan hair that appeared before his eyes. And not to mention the biker's face. It was a face one would never easily forget - masculine, strong, but at the same time gentle, too. There was a story hidden behind that facial expression of his, and the Son was eager to find out about it some day.
Sasha then realised there was something special about the pink stranger. He couldn't quite put his finger on it what it was, but the Son knew that he'd be quite fun to unravel over time.
After the Russian sat down in his car right next to the good-looking stranger, he watched his hand lest it bled too much and cooperated with the biker in terms of addresses.
"Go down the road until you reach Little Moscow, and look out for a small, red pharmacy with a cartoon Lenin on it. Augh!" - he painfully moaned mid-sentence. - "And my name's Alexandr, but to you and everyone else, I'm just Sasha. Pleasure's mine."
Biker's helmet was now neatly beside the guns, crammed in the back of the car. He'd really put everything in there at an impossible angle... Getting reacquainted with cars was taking him some time- time he didn't have, so he decided to wing it, start the engine aggressively, and get the hell out of Dodge.
Now without his helmet obscuring his surroundings, he was able to fully appreciate both the vehicle and its owner. Yes, this man didn't look much older than him, yet he seemed a lot more important than any other mobster he'd encountered. Something about those crazed green eyes haunted him, too. Like he was supposed to follow him around and do his bidding. It was spooky.
Biker scoffed as he zipped down the street. Lenin? They'd drawn fucking Lenin on a pharmacy and expected not to be assaulted? Actually, how come it was still standing? Perhaps the mafia's influence reached further than he thought.
"Sasha, huh." Finally a name. He figured he'd keep the ball rolling, if only to make sure the guy didn't pass out. "I just go by Biker. Simple, clean..."
That sounded absurd, but it was true. He was also wary of giving away his personal details, especially to a Russian. "All things considered, you have a pretty neat ride. Been with the mafia for long?"
While Sasha was riding shotgun next to the motorcyclist, his hand continued to bleed heavily despite the best efforts of the cheap bandage. He was slowly on his way of losing complete conscience, but the Son's willpower kept him awake & alert lest his new acquaintance missed the designated pharmacy they were both looking for. He didn't want to pass out and have the pink man spin around in circles until he completely bled out, even if the Son's description of the apotheke was completely clear.
But damn. Biker. Sasha obviously knew that the motorcyclist had an actual name, but he understood that not everybody likes to reveal their actual identity to literally everyone they meet. It's generally not a wise choice, but Sasha felt comfortable revealing his thanks to his status as a feared Russian mob leader.
"Ugh... I like your codename, it's fitting... and, da, I've been in this organisation ever since the day I left my mother's womb..." - the pains distracted him from going on, but he didn't want to succumb to them at all - "... Not planning on giving up anytime soon."
Biker was determined not to let this Sasha fellow bite the dust. Who knew? Maybe he'd get compensation at the end of the whole ordeal... Now, he usually didn't do things for the money, but after abandoning most of his belongings and planning to flee, he figured he needed as much pocket change as he could carry. Speeding down the street as he was, he kept a sharp eye out for their destination. Any minute now... Best to keep the convo going.
"That long, huh?" Alarm bells were starting to go off in his head about this guy, but he bit his lip to keep them quiet. "That's some serious dedication to the craft."
Smiling slightly at the approval towards his nickname, Biker kept the ball rolling, even though it was against his better judgement.
"So you must feel pretty bummed out about all those killings, huh..."
Stay awake, Sasha. We're almost there. Then this small talk will all be over...
Sasha's vision by that point was still relatively clear, but it was becoming slightly more blurry with each passing minute. He could thankfully still hear Biker's voice and comprehend his words that were coming out of his mouth along with those juicy lips of his, but he internally feared that they'd become hard to understand sometime soon as well. No matter, he had faith that wasn't the end for him.
"Yes... I always regret hearing about new raids on my Russian headquarters... A lot of my men are dead because of those attacks, but I discipline them to keep going... or else we'll turn into more mush... Augh, blyad!"
The subtle hint sort of revealed that he was more than just a mobster, but Sasha was in too much pain to notice. The Son only wanted to get a grip on reality again, and properly repay the Biker.
Biker could see what appeared to be a pharmacy in the near distance, and he sighed softly to himself, running a final red light (this was becoming a theme) as he tried his best to reach their destination before these nice leather seats turned red. He wouldn't enjoy his drink as much that night if he failed such a simple task.
"Oh yeah, I can imagine- wait. Your men!?"
Bringing the car to a screeching halt, Biker began to connect the dots. That's why everything felt wrong! That's why this man felt important!
"You're Lebedev number three!? Oh, fuck, man, shit..." Would he be aiding the country if he left the Russian mafia without their leader, or would he be putting an even bigger bounty on his own head? He'd already betrayed one group of wackjobs; he really didn't need another on his ass.
And somehow, for a reason he didn't quite understand, he'd feel his skin crawl if he just let the man die. Perhaps the alley stunt...
Pulling the doors open, he hauled Sasha out of the car and practically shoved him into the building.
Sasha could feel that he was being carried by his new acquaintance, but he could hardly tell what exactly was going on around him while he was being dragged inside the small pharmacy. The people who worked there were all Russian (surprise), so they would naturally treat any Russian mob member, too. Especially since they got funded by the mafia in exchange for protection. Hence why no one could see a single piece of graffiti on the building, or even a spit stain.
A dark-blue-haired nurse in the hallway audibly gasped when she saw a half-conscious Sasha being carried by an unknown man. She knew of him, mostly because of the hair, so she ran towards the Biker and immediately started raining questions upon him.
"Боже мой, он в порядке? Что случилось! (Oh my God, is he okay? What happened!)"
Sasha's blood continued to drip on the shiny, polished floor. Hope nobody slipped on it after his visit.
Biker began to panic the second he was inside the pharmacy. He'd known there would be Russians, but he didn't expect them not to speak any English... Maybe they thought he was Russian, too? He needed to take deep breaths... The fear gripping at his chest was starting to make Sasha feel heavy. Steeling himself and trying not to focus too hard on his environment, he looked directly into the eyes of the nurse and rationalized what she may be trying to tell him.
Questions... He was being questioned, and it made him form questions of his own. Was she new? Did she know him? Was this a family owned business? Did they think he'd done it?
"He got shot. There's no time to ask for details. Fucked up his hand, I tied it up, it's up to you now. Before he passes out completely would be nice."
He wanted to put the mob boss down, but he knew the man would get nowhere on his own.
The lady thankfully knew a little bit of English since she lived in an English-speaking city, after all. She could make out what Biker said about Sasha being shot, also because she could see the bullet hole in the Son's hand. She was too panicked to ask anymore questions, so the nurse did not waste any time at all and yelled for immediate medical attention. The clinic did not have an emergency room like a regular hospital would, but since it wasn't that large and the hallways weren't crowded with patients, her screams for assistance bounced and ricocheted on the walls and were able to alert every available doctor who could provide help.
The atmosphere got more more tense as a bunch of medics started storming at Biker and quickly took Sasha out of his arms without saying anything. They escorted him to a nearby office and began to examine the damage. The nurse then looked at the motorcyclist and politely told him to wait.
"Wait here, please, sir. Yes?" - she smiled, nervously.
Biker had forgotten how to react to people running at him in any way that weren't totally aggressive, so it was a good thing his hands were occupied or he'd jeopardize the whole situation. Still, his heart rate spiked and he felt his eyes widen. He very nearly turned to run, still holding Sasha in his arms. It was a good thing he froze up instead, allowing the doctors to take the injured man away. A job well done, he would have thought, if he hadn't experienced a momentary shutdown.
Feeling the weight be taken off him, he began to regain his senses, and was quick to engage with the nurse now speaking to him. She seemed to have calmed down... That was good. He'd do the same, then. Let his guard down, just for a split second. Obviously they wouldn't believe him to have done it, right? Why would he have brought Sasha in if he had?
"...Right."
Biker didn't want to stay, of course. He wanted to jump onto his motorcycle and drive far away from the clinic, but that was out of the question. He had to see this through.
An hour or so passes after Sasha was taken into the emergency room.
Nothing new or exciting has happened since then. The moment the Son was escorted by the medical experts to get inspected for any critical wounds, the halls became silent with the nearly-senile janitor coming in to mop up the stains Sasha had left on the floor.
At some point, he appeared out of the metaphorical mist and greeted the motorcyclist with heavy bandages wrapped all over his damaged hand. So, of course that meant that it couldn't be properly used for some time.
"Hey, hey, I didn't expect I'd see you here, pink man. What kept you in?"
Biker had fallen asleep in the waiting room, sitting up. He'd been concerning himself with thoughts of what he'd just done, who he'd just saved.
All that time he'd pissed away killing Russians for those clowns only to end up rescuing their leader. It was unforeseen.
It was also deeply troubling. He didn't feel guilty, exactly, but he felt conflicted. Like he shouldn't be around this man. Shouldn't be helping him. Shouldn't be socializing.
The voice of the troubling man in question rose him from his slumber, and all the worrying returned.
"...Tiredness."
Despite Biker's simple answer, Sasha was nonetheless feeling rather confused about his presence in the Russian clinic. After all, they were two strangers who just got acquainted with each other, so the motorcyclist could've just easily left the establishment and head straight home to his comfortable bed, or pretty much anywhere that was far away from the Son.
But he didn't, so that filled Sasha's head with curiosity galore. The motorcyclist definitely had something in mind, and Sasha was eager to find out.
"So, you decided to rest here? I mean, the hallways here are pretty quiet even during the day, but wouldn't you rather return to your humble abode?"
Biker resisted the urge to roll his eyes, settling for a long exhale instead. Humble abode? Biker had a kickass apartment! Well... had was right. With everything being cleared out, it was pretty barebones...
But Sasha had no way of knowing that, and that's what pissed Biker off. The arrogance!!
He had to remember, of course, that this man was the leader of a powerful organization. Of course he thought he was hot shit.
"Listen, man. The nurse told me to wait here, I expected some kind of progress report, got none and passed out. There's nothing more to the story."
Attitude, much? All Sasha did was ask Biker a simple question, so he wasn't quite prepared for the annoyed tone he received from him. It didn't irk the Son much, though, because Sasha was already used to Americans being hostile whenever he hits the scene, despite him being a feared leader who's been known to do horrible things to those who messed with him.
Who knows, maybe the motorcyclist wasn't in the mood; who would be after such an adrenaline-inducing chain of events?
Sasha's focus was shifted directly at Biker's visible eye to signify that he was being serious.
"She did, huh? Well, there's nothing of interest to share. The doctors extracted the metal and put it in the trash. Then, uh, the wrapping happened, as you can see, so now I can't drive for shit."
"So I expect you want me to drive you home."
Biker's tone was more tired than anything else. He hadn't been able to pick up his booze, he'd nearly been the victim of a hit and run, he'd helped the man who would undoubtedly kill him when he found out what he'd done...
Yet he had no desire to return to his sad little apartment. He hated being there now that it was bare... he hated the anxiety that came with being in it, too.
Sighing again, he rubbed at his face and tried his best to ignore the fact he was speaking to a mafia man.
"Tonight was fun."
Despite Sasha's obvious injuries and temporary ability to operate vehicles, he still didn't want to ask for assistance to be driven home by his new acquaintance. His status as the head of the Russian mafia needed to be upheld, and requesting for help from a semi-stranger would've spoiled his reputation and lead to people asking a lot of questions.
But, the Son felt pretty calm with Biker. There was something special about him that didn't aggravate the Russian man, so he wouldn't have minded getting escorted by him to his main headquarters.
It was quite the fun night, indeed.
"You don't really have to, pink man. I may not be able to drive, but I can handle the grip of the steering wheel. Somewhat."
Biker sat on his next words, as he tended to do. He understood, on one hand, why the man would refuse help. He was a proud creature, Biker could tell that much from what little time they'd spent together. On the other hand, he didn't see why there would be an issue, considering Biker had driven him all the way here...
Personally, he didn't want to spend a second around the man longer than he had to, worried the truth would rear its ugly head and put him in an uncomfortable situation, but he felt he'd come too far into this mess to back out now.
That was always the case with him when it came to one night stands...
Chuckling, he folded his arms before getting up, cracking his neck to relieve the tension of sitting in a chair.
"I'm gonna call bullshit on that. Come on, I'll get you home."