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In a small apartment deep within the slums of Mexico City, Mexico -- Nicky Delabonte Jr. and his hired hands sit in a dark room. The disgraced, nearly murdered former CEO of Midnight Marauders International was currently off the grid, nobody knowing where exactly he was as he had kidnapped Roberto Mendez and relocated to Mexico for the time being. Nicky has graduated from needing a constant oxygen tank and is now able to just take a swig from an inhaler every so often, a sign of good progress that the young geriatric isn't on his way out just yet. He sits in his chair, staring at the piece of paper provided to him by Don Alexandro -- a phone number he'd been hunting for since the beginning. He looks over at Roberto, no longer tied up or gagged, who is despondent in an LA-Z-BOY chair with vibrating functionalities.



Nicky would cough loudly several times, his spittle flying across the room and landing on Roberto's face like the most covidrific bukkake you'd ever seen. Nicky wiped the spittle from his lips and sucked down some more of his inhaler before regaining his composure. He looked down at the number again and began to dial it in on his large Z-Fold Galaxy phone.



Nicky would hit the call button and hold the phone awkwardly up to his face as it began to ring. It rang, rang, rang, and even rang a little bit more -- until finally, it was picked up.



Nicky slammed his phone down into the ground and growled, getting up quickly from his chair and instantly losing his breath. As he choked while sucking in air, he again puffed his inhaler and stomped over to one of his hired guns and ripped their phone from them -- dialing in the number once again. He rubbed his stupid finger against the call button and place the phone to his ear, this time it ringing properly as he had a SIM card actually recognized in the country. It wasn't long before the phone was picked up and Nicky once again spoke before the other end could.

Nicky blinked a few times, staring a hole in the direction of Roberto who was still a bit despondent in his seat. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, realizing as he caught the end of the spanish that he had been sent to some sort of voice mail -- though using his detective skills imparted upon him by running tricks in the street he determined he'd at least been put on hold. He would lower the phone and put it on speaker, placing it on the table in front of him as he pondered why this had to be such a difficult endeavor. He just wanted to get in touch with Aaron Fatsumoto, he needed the man's help. He was once an enforcer for MMI, before Nicky's time -- but he knew the man remained on the payroll and there was a reason for that. Perhaps, in all that he was worried about, this would be the solution to his problem, whoever this guy was HE could help stop the tyranny of Brantley Summers. Nicky put his hands in his face and leaned over, waiting for the mariachi music to finally give out and hear an actual voice speak to him.

Finally, the music stopped, Nicky's ears perking up -- this wasn't the usual switch over to the start of the loop, no -- someone was FINALLY on the other end! The young geriatric leaned forward and listened in intently, but it was just more spanish that began. He quickly looked up to Roberto to make sure he was listening, which...well, maybe he was, who knows? As the woman finished her spiel, the only thing Nicky understood was "Fatsumoto", and thus its what he pinpointed.


Roberto finally moved from his spot and got up, taking the phone off speaker and bringing it to his head.


Nicky was shocked at Roberto's blatant control in the moment, taking matters into his own hands. As the phone clicked off, Nicky got out of his seat, taking a big swig of inhaler juice to counteract his speedy standing. He stomps his way towards Roberto, but the Brazilian went back into a catatonic state in his chair, Nicky knowing he wouldn't be getting any answers.