To Viktor Go The Spoils- Part 1

Viktor, the bartender of Lackadaisy, is confronted by a dangerous figure from his past, and that leads to some big changes around the speakeasy...

This one was a lot of fun- hope you all enjoy!

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Viktor hovered over the back end of the bar, wiping down the shot glasses and trying not to let some old memories bubble up. Unfortunately, he was losing that particular fight— he could still smell the gunpowder, the acrid tang of mustard gas from miles away, getting closer.

"Hey. Barkeep."

The burly orange cat's tail flicked in surprise as a gruff voice called him out of his dark reminiscing. 

"What's a man have to do to get a good lager around here, ja?"

Viktor turned but didn't look up. The man was in line with his eyepatch. "Pick your poison." He grunted.

"I suppose all you have around here is Schmidt."

"Correct." Viktor began pouring a glass for the man. There was a hint of an accent he couldn't quite place, but it sounded familiar. He slid the glass over to a large grey paw.

The man held up the beer. "Prost!"

A thunderbolt of recognition shot through Viktor's system as he nearly dropped the bottle. He turned around, spotting a hefty, excessively broad-shouldered cat. His whiskers were waxed, just as they had been back at Soissons, but there was no way that much brawn was fitting into a German captain's field grey uniform.

The large cat grinned, flashing his sharp teeth. "This is where you say Na zdravie, if I remember correctly, Corporal Vasko."

"...Captain Hoffman." Viktor murmured, still in shock as the other cat drank down his beer. "What… When did you leave Germany?"

The grey feline's grin twisted sourly. "About ten minutes after the Kaiser did," he growled. 

"And what happened to you?" Viktor asked. 

Hoffman scoffed, resting thickly corded arms on the bar. "Oh, you noticed," he said with a toothy grin. Viktor was liking this little reunion less and less, especially as the cat lifted his arm to flex, nearly tearing through his sleeve. "America is filled with opportunity— plenty of space for a man to grow."

Viktor frowned. "So you became strongman? I didn't know circus was in town."

Hoffman's grin curdled as he flexed his claws. With surprising swiftness, his arm shot across the bar and grabbed Viktor by his shirt collar, yanking Viktor across the bar and nearly off his feet. Viktor sank his claws into the bar to keep himself steady, ears folding back as he saw just how big Hoffman was.

"Listen, Vasko," Hoffman snarled. "I heard you had fallen on hard times— but I didn't think nearly a decade would reduce you to such a pitiful state, you broken down cyclops."

Viktor snarled deeply at that, bearing his fangs, but he could only grapple Hoffman's thick arm as he felt himself being lifted off his feet. 

"I would like so deeply to repay you for the humiliation you gave me at Soissons— but my employers think you might be useful."

"E-employers?" Viktor wheezed. He looked over to the bandstand, where Zib was slowly setting down his saxophone behind Hoffman's back, and alerting Rocky to the situation.

Hoffman chuckled darkly. "I was told about the trouble this little establishment was having with the Marigold Gang… the people I work for would chew them up and spit them out. For some reason, they want you— I told them how convincing an argument I could give you."

Rocky reached Hoffman first, the German feline's ear twitching to the sound of a pistol being cocked. With a cheshire cat grin, Rocky seemed entirely unphased. "Salutations, stranger— would you mind too terribly putting down our bartender, before we turn all this beef you're smuggling under your shirt into hamburger meat?"

Hoffman glanced down at Rocky and scoffed. He let Viktor drop— the orange cat hissed through his teeth as he landed on his bad knee, gripping the bar until his claw punctured the wood to keep himself steady. He glanced up at Hoffman as he slowly raised his bulging arms.

"Oh, this is just like Saint-Mihiel— remember, Corporal? You needed to be saved by a little American friend there, too." He leered at Rocky, the violinist's gun still pressed against Hoffman's back. "Don't tell this one how the war ended for that little junge." He stopped as he was marched out the door. "Meet me down by the docks tomorrow night, eleven minutes past eleven, Vasko— I'm told you're familiar. Wharf Nineteen. Don't bring so many friends, ja? We don't want to ruin an intimate reunion." He grinned before he marched out the door before Bruno slammed it shut behind him, the doorman leaning against it and sighing with relief.

Zib turned to Viktor. "You alright there, big guy? Who the hell was that?"

"Yeah, I don't remember you ever running in the same circles as Jumbo over there," Rocky said, hopping up on a bar stool. 

"It's nothing." Viktor snarled, his heart pounding in his chest.

"That's a whole lot of nothing, Viktor," Rocky replied. 

"It's nothing." Viktor shot back, glaring deeply at Rocky. "Old Kraut from the war. He wants to settle a stupid score."

"So you're going to do the smart thing and tell Mitzi about this right away, right?" Zib said sharply. 

"I can handle it alone."

"Viktor, I'm all for this David versus Goliath thing you've got going here, but do you really want your tale to be that of a tragic hero?" Rocky asked, placing a conciliatory hand on Viktor's arm, and quickly getting slapped away for his trouble.

"I can handle it." He growled.

"Okay, but tell Mitzi how you're going to handle this," Zib replied, the lanky cat folding his arms. "If there's a gang hiring sideshow freaks like that, she needs to start making plans."

Viktor closed his eye and sighed. "Fine."  

He winced slightly as he put weight back on his bad leg, but he didn't dare limp with Rocky and Zib watching him. With pain shooting through his leg, he struggled up the stairs to Mitzi's office, his claws dragging along the wall to grip his way up to her rooms.

"Miss May…" he grunted through his teeth, huffing and shaking from the effort. 

"Oh, Viktor, honey!" Mitzi shot up from her desk, the golden-haired, golden-furred woman rushed to Viktor's side, leading him to a chair and easing him into it. "What happened?"

Viktor, after a drink for the pain, told Mitzi everything that happened. She was quiet and listened, not saying a word as she turned from Viktor to look up at Atlas' portrait. "Well…" she turned back to him. "What do you want to do about this, Viktor?"

The larger cat scoffed. "I can handle Hoffman. He is mad because I was better soldier. And I was not a good soldier to start."

Mitzi's mouth twisted a bit as she took a small puff of a cigarette. "But you just said he came in big as a house. He sounds like he jumped right out of the pulps. How are you going to fight something like that?"

Viktor shrugged his broad shoulders. "Fight smarter?"

Mitzi folded her arms, taking another glance up at Atlas' portrait. She sighed, her shoulders drooping as she turned away from Viktor. "I agree. I think you need to go."

The burly feline arched his brow, waiting for Mitzi to continue. She turned to look up at him. "The one thing that is clear, is that we need to find out more about who this Hoffman works for. Go and get him talking, at the very least."

"You… want him to think I would join him?"

"Just long enough to get some information out of him." Mitzi gave Viktor a look tinged with guilt. "I know what I'm asking you to do. You can say no."

Viktor returned Mitzi's look with a steely glare. "I'll handle it. Period."

The following night, Viktor discreetly made his way out to the wharf. It seemed it was just a week for bad memories; he quickly passed by the alley where he had lost his eye, and made his way to the designated meeting space. Hoffman was already there, waiting. He was dressed down this suspenders, revealing the sort of body that Viktor had only seen on statues of gods; his shaggy coat of steel-grey fur may as well have been rough-hewn granite. Across his broad chest, Viktor could see the long, neat scar that had been left there by a bayonet back in some godforsaken field in France. Viktor looked away, his shoulders drooping wearily. Some people hadn't left the war behind.

"Vasko!" Hoffman called out loud enough that his booming voice echoed off the cavernous rafters of the wharf. He was smiling toothily, holding out his arms like steel girders. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come. You seem so much more… timid than Soissons."

"What do you want, Captain?" Viktor growled, his one green eye watching Hoffman as the German beast began to circle him like a hungry wolf, clenching and unclenching his fists, drawing his large arm muscles taut, his fur rippling. 

"What do I want?" Hoffman chuckled. "What do you think I want, Corporal?"

Viktor rolled his eye, his ear twitching— he was trying not to show any hint of fear, even as his tail curled, and he could feel the Captain's hot breath down his neck. He tried not to flinch as Hoffman placed his big hands on Viktor's shoulders. "Don't know. Revenge for the war?"

"Revenge?" Hoffman's hands slid off, and then he began to laugh, a deep, hearty chuckle that unnerved Viktor more than anything. "What, for Gott, Kaiser, und Vaterland?" The orange cat hadn't been this on edge in years.

"Nein." Hoffman calmed down, clearing his throat. He closed the space between him and Viktor, gripping his shoulder tight, claws pressing into the orange feline's flesh; he was also eye level with Hoffman's bare chest, a pair of steel plates with a gash through them. "I don't want revenge… Well." Viktor barely had time to brace himself as Hoffman punched him straight in the gut, and it was as if the one-eyed cat was hit by a car. He went down on his bad knee, crying out at the sharp jab of pain.

"Maybe a little." Hoffman chuckled.

Hissing through the pain, Viktor fumbled into the folds of his jacket, desperately grabbing for the pistol he had brought with him. But as soon as he flashed the gun, Hoffman snatched it up with shocking speed for his size. With a soft grunt and a quick flex, his round, swollen biceps and hefty, girthy triceps suddenly galvanized with a burst of power, he twisted the barrel of the gun, the sudden discharge and burst of powder barely bruising Hoffman's hands as he dropped the ruined gun at Viktor's feet.

"The truth is, Corporal, I do have a grudging respect for you— even now. Let's go over what you did right." Hoffman was circling Viktor again. "You remain bold— you saw the man I have become, and yet you still came, knowing that the risk outweighed the reward. Your Lackadaisy gang would definitely need to know about a new gang moving in the city, especially if they hire muscle like me."

He squatted down to be at eye-level with Viktor, rolling his broad, cannonball shoulders, taking up as much of Viktor's field of view as he could. "You were also smart." He glanced down at the pistol. "Coming armed. Don't be hard on yourself, how were you supposed to know what I could do?" He smirked, knocking his melon-sized bicep, which resonated with a hearty thump. "So allow me to reward your good instincts. I work for a group called the Hyperions. They're not rum-runners, but Lackadaisy and Marigold are not going to be tolerated— unless they bend the knee and play by our rules."

"If you're not bootleggers… what are you?" Viktor grunted.

Hoffman's smirk curled as he dropped a bag at Viktor's feet. "The future." He stood up to his full height, casting Viktor in his shadow. "Remember what this feels like, Vasko." The hulking feline grabbed the orange cat by the top of his head, wrenching his head up as he leaned over him. Viktor felt another chill run down his spine as he felt the sheer power in just one of Hoffman's hands, jerking him around like a toy. "Remember this powerlessness. This fear running down your spine. And know that it doesn't have to be this way." He tapped the bag with his foot. "This is for you. I urge you to use it… before our next meeting."

Hoffman let Viktor go with another chuckle, then slapped his cheek. "Auf Wiedersehen, Corporal."

Viktor was trembling as Hoffman lumbered off, his laughter and heavy footfalls echoing off the warehouse's walls. His breathing was ragged as he struggled to get back on his feet, and he was left staring at the bag Hoffman left him.

After he hobbled back to Lackadaisy, Viktor found it blessedly empty. His leg was on fire and his core still felt Hoffman's sucker punch— he was probably going to bruise for days. There was no one for him to snap at or threaten, no Rocky to punch— as a small mercy, Miss Ivy and Mitzi weren't around either to see him like this. He was alone.

Viktor's hand was shaking as he grabbed for a shot glass and something hard enough to steady his nerves. After downing a drink of vodka, he glanced at the bag Hoffman had left him. He had half a mind to throw it away, out of spite. But there was something eating at him— Hoffman's strange, miraculous transformation. Could that have come from whatever was in the bag? 

"Bah…" Viktor shook his head, slapping the bag off the bar. He didn't need some snake oil. No, he needed another drink. Or three. Unfortunately, with each shot of vodka, he kept thinking back to Hoffman's "gift." Powerless, that was the word he had used. He had thrown Viktor around like he was nothing. Whatever he had given Viktor was related to that. Besides— he would know what they were all up against if he saw what it did; though he was fairly certain he knew, and a part of him wanted it dearly. He steeled himself as it kept eating at him, and put the bottle away; if he was going to use whatever was in that bag, he better do it before he lost his ability to read.

He snatched the mysterious item off the floor and looked at the contents. A small, electric blue vial, a needle and a leather strap. Viktor's mouth thinned; he knew how this worked. He hesitated for a moment, but then tied the leather around his arm. He had gone through a few of these injections when he signed up for the army— vaccines and such. He filled the needle, placed it above a vein he could see under his fur, but then hesitated. If this did what he thought it would, what was he signing up for? Being a freak of nature like Hoffman? Was he going to play the Captain's game? But what if he didn't— would these Hyperions just find some other thug?

He braced himself and jabbed the needle into his arm, breathing shakily as he injected the contents of the vial. At first, there was nothing but the light-headedness and tingling of the vodka— and then, Viktor let out a sharp cry as he felt a sharp pain in his arm, as if he had been stabbed— no, it felt more like when he had been shot. Intense, hot, and piercing, it shot through his system like an electric current, knocking the orange cat flat off his feet and sending him sprawling onto the floor. He curled up, clutching his middle with one hand, the arm where he had administered the shot flailing as his claws raked across the floor. 

The cat's heart pounded in his chest— Hoffman had poisoned him, it had all been a ploy. This was his revenge— the white-hot pain was so intense he couldn't even scream, a strangled gasp the only thing escaping his mouth as he writhed on the floor. After the first few excruciating moments, however, Viktor realized he wasn't dying. He breathed in sharply as his eye focused on his arm— it was growing.

Every tendon was on fire and drawn taut as piano strings, and under the rustling of his fiery fur, he could see it begin to expand. He had worked hard all his life, trained hard, and had been blessed from a young age with a large and brawny physique— but now, he was seeing his arm buried under new, tensed muscle that dwarfed everything he had ever built up for himself. His sleeve rolled down his forearm began to split as his bicep inflated, his upper arm filling out into a vambrace of brawn. He grew accustomed enough to the metamorphosis that his breathing began to calm— only for another jolt to hit his core, causing Viktor to roar with raw pain and adrenaline pumping into his veins. More of his shirt split as hefty, solid mass billowed out across his body.

With each labored huff, his chest rolled out bigger and bigger, slab-like pectoral muscles rippling with every movement. His shoulders broadened with the rest of his back, the bloated, collected mass of burls bunched up and flowing out from either side of his spine like flags unfurling in a strong wind. Another huge arm reached up, slamming down on the bar and denting the wood. Viktor braced himself, ready for the pain that would shoot through his knee— only, it didn't come.

Viktor breathed in sharply as he stood up, the transformation winding down as he felt the raw strength and power in his legs, thighs thick as steering wheels, the sculpted heft of his calves— but to his absolute wonder, his bad knee had no pain to it.

"Bože môj…" he muttered, staring at his body. He curled his arm, and felt his mouth split into an awestruck smirk as his bicep leapt to attention, swelling larger than his head— and, to Viktor's grim delight, larger than Hoffman's.

The commotion had drawn someone downstairs; it was Rocky. "Viktor! We heard you shouting, and…" Rocky stopped as he spotted the now-massive feline. "Viktor, I… what…" His voice trailed off as his mouth fell open.

Viktor cast his eye on the violin-playing cat, his smirk spreading as he felt drunk— not on the vodka, but on this newfound wellspring of power, letting a deep chuckle that made his over-bloated chest bounce. "If this is what it took to shut you up, it is worth it."

Rocky recovered, shaking his head. "But… how… that is, how do you feel?"

Viktor looked down at his body, patting the rock-solid heft of his arm, then gingerly placing a large hand on his knee, now girded on all sides by swells of beef. He glanced back up to Rocky, a glint in his eye. "Never better."