Oroku Saki sat at the table, his fingertips placed together as he waited. The small table at the side of the large dining room did not suit him, but they would not be here long, and the display he was hoping for would be much more impressive if done in public.

The waiter came up to him, and filled his water glass again, not looking at him as he did so. "Are you ready to order, sir?" he asked as he slowly tipped the water pitcher upright, his eyes firmly on it.

"I will order when the lady arrives," Oroku said, annoyed.

"Of course, sir," the waiter bobbed and hurried off.

The Eleven Madison Park Restaurant was one of the finest in New York. After the Kraang had been sent back to Dimension X, the owners had taken little time to get it up and running again. Oroku found it plain, in the way that most American things were plain. It was decorated with cream walls, dark wood chairs, white tablecloths, large black vases with bad imitations of Japanese flower arrangements, business men and women eating their midday meals.

He was not unaware of the looks they sent his way. He always had to ignore the glances of those around him when he was not The Shredder. They were surprised to find such a grotesque beast, burned beyond recognition, out in public, much less out in the most incomparable places in the world. He relished the unease of his business associates who tried so hard to act as if he was not disfigured, as if his face was the same, handsome man it was before the fire at the Hamato Monastery. While his presence of self had increased over the years, growing with each passing day, it did not increase his beauty any.

Where was that reprobate Hun? How hard was it to drive a limousine from the airport to the restaurant? It was probably those imbeciles, Fong, Tsoi, and Sid. Knowing them, they'd not gotten all of her luggage out of the plane and had to go back to get it.

As if the thought had manifested her, the familiar gait of three inch heels clicking against Tuscan tile grew closer with every step. Turning, he saw the maitre de leading her to his table.

He stood up as they arrived, the jacket of his Gucci silk suit falling flawlessly into place as he did. She looked the same as she had ten years ago, young and vivacious. Her dark blonde hair trailed to her shoulder blades, and seemed to change color to sandy brown as the light danced on it. It was meticulously styled, as always, demurely pinned back with two combs. She wore a black shirt and black leggings underneath a sheer lace dress that ended at her knees. From just below her knees, black fashion boots encased her calves to her toes in textured leather. At her throat, she wore the pendant that bore the emblem of the Foot Clan in black sapphires and diamonds that he had given her on her twenty first birthday. She smiled broadly as her bright blue eyes met his, and he could see she had trouble not quickening her pace to walk in front of the matire de.

Oroku did not return the smile she beamed at him, but he did tilt his head slightly, and put out his hand.

"Saki!" she said his name with an impeccable Japanese accent as she grabbed the proffered extremity, and then let it go just as quickly, to put her arms about his neck. He returned the hug gingerly, simply putting his hands on her back, and then releasing her. "It is good to see you!" she breathed.

Oroku nodded at the maitre de, dismissing him, and then motioned to the table. "I take it your trip was pleasant," he asked her.

She slid into the chair across from him at the little table, and nodded. "Of course it was," she answered. "I have never known any of your surroundings to be unpleasant. Although," she paused, "I was surprised by the...caliber...of people you have chosen to employ."

"I had the utmost confidence that Hun would get you here safely," he replied.

"I can see that," she said slowly. "The other three…" she trailed off.

"Are idiots," he finished for her.

"Yes," she agreed. "That was the impression I got." She looked around the restaurant, and then back to him. "You know, Saki, I have never been here before."

"I know, Nikka," he replied. He noticed the change in her smile when he said her name. It was hard not to see. For such a skilled geijutsuka, she had trouble hiding her emotions. "That is why we are here."

The waiter came over, and gave a little bob to Nikka. "May I get you something to drink, madame?"

"The lady will have rose wine," Oroku said, "I will have a Japanese rice lager." The waiter was forced to look at him, trying to keep his face a calm mask as he looked in his good eye intently.

"Uh, we do not have that selection, sir," the waiter seemed to losing the color in his face.

"Then obtain it," Oroku said simply.

The waiter nodded and scurried off.

"You let him off easy," Nikka noted.

"We'll see what he manages to produce," he said. She giggled, and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off, "Now what is so important that you had to see me right away?"

The smile disappeared from her face, and she became much more serious. "Some men came to my children's school and asked them about their mommy's friend, Mr. Oroku." She said his name with an awful accent, totally Americanized. "And that, apparently, is how they said it."

"Hnnnn," he let out an annoyed grunt. He forgot, sometimes, about time passing for her. He tended to think of her as a girl, of which she looked not much more than one. But now, so many years later, she was married with children of her own.

"This isn't funny, Saki," Nikka leaned forward, her big, blue eyes wide.

"What did they say?" he asked.

"What is a 4 year old and 2 year old going to say?" The waiter came with the wine, and with a bottle of beer and a frosted glass. "Thank you," she said to him, "oh, could you bring us an appetizer. Whatever you think is the best on the menu," and waved him away, obviously doing it before Oroku could say anything. "They had no idea what they were talking about."

He nodded, his face impassive.

She stared at him for a few moments, none of the fear that others had at his disfigurement in her eyes. He had to admit, that disappeared a long time ago. "Are you in trouble, Saki?" she asked slowly.

"Hardly," he said, looking to the side, and standing up. He smiled, one of the few smiles he had, an anticipatory one. The entertainment was about to begin.

She followed his lead, both with his eyes and with his stance, as a heavy set man, with plain brown hair, balding on top, and a black briefcase came toward them.

He had his hand out before he reached the two of them, "Mr. Oroku," he said. He had sweat on his temples, and his hand was clammy.

"This," Oroku gestured toward the man, his eyes going to Nikka , "is my business associate Mr. Hammond." He looked at the aforementioned Mr. Hammond, and took Nikka by the arm, and gently moved her closer to his side of the table. "This is Ms. Veronika Heathcock."

Nikka took Mr. Hammond's meaty hand and shook it, a sweet smile on her face. The vivaciousness of a moment before was gone, the woman radiated calm and assurance. She looked him straight in the eye, unabashedly, and held onto his hand a moment longer than she needed to. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hammond." He looked at her and blinked confusedly. "If I had known this was a business luncheon," she glanced at Oroku, "then I would have made my leave already. I do not usually mix business with pleasure."

Mr. Hammond nodded politely, and looked to Oroku, and then back to Nikka . Once she was seated next to the imposing Japanese business man, Mr. Hammond sat himself down across from them. "I," he cleared his throat, "I am not sure I should be here, Mr. Oroku," he said.

"I wanted to talk," Oroku said, "without our lawyers present."

Hammond cleared his throat again, and glanced at Nikka, and then back to Oroku.

"My offer still stands," Oroku went on. "Sell willingly, and you will retain 25% of the company."

A bead of sweat trailed down Hammond's temple to his jawline. "25% is not enough," he said, trying to make his voice exude confidence and failing miserably.

"25% is more than generous," Oroku's voice was lethal.

"How much of the company do you want to retain, Mr. Hammond?" Nikka leaned in, resting her arms on the table, her eyes intently on the other businessman. Oroku watched in silence, and took the first drink from his beer..

Hammond cleared his throat again, "I want 50% of the company," he said. "I have worked my whole life to build this company, I deserve to keep half ownership of my stock."

"I imagine you have worked hard to build your company," she said, nodding her head. She reached over the table and took her glass of rose wine, and sipped.

The waiter reappeared with the tray of appetizers, an array of different things. He turned to Mr. Hammond, "What will you be having?"

Oroku, Nikka, and the waiter looked at the sweaty businessman. "Um, I'll have a Heineken." He turned his attention back to the other side of the table, glancing from Oroku to Nikka nervously. "I deserve half of my company," he said again.

Nikka reached over and took one of the delicacies on the plate. "Oh, Saki," she turned to him, and clucked her tongue sympathetically before popping the bit in her mouth. "Give the man half of his company."

Oroku shook his head and swallowed his beer. "30%," he said.

"That's not fair," she argued, her voice smooth, sweet, and genuine. "The man built his business from the ground up."

"So did I," Oroku said.

"Give the man…" she looked at Hammond. He was looking back and forth between the two of them as if they were crazy and he was about to be murdered with a butcher knife. "Give him 49%," she said.

"35%," he said, as if Mr. Hammond was not even present.

"40%," Nikka countered, turning to Hammond and smiling brightly. She nodded, as if they were winning at a bridge game. "Give him that."

Oroku looked from Nikka to Hammond, his face thoughtful and ruthless. "40%," he said in his low voice.

Hammond opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.

Nikka reached over and put her hand gently on his arm. Leaning as much as the table would allow without her looking as if she were reaching, she said quietly, "You will be richer with 40% of your company under Oroku Industries than if you had 100% of your company today." She nodded sagely. "I invested with Saki's company when it was just little," she held her hand up and made a tiny space in-between her fingers. "And I have been able to pursue my dreams because of him."

Hammond managed to stopped imitating a catfish, and asked, "Dreams?" in a tremulous voice.

"I am an orchestra musician," she whispered, as if telling a secret. "They don't make much money."

He nodded, as if he knew exactly how much orchestra musicians made.

Oroku drew out a document from under the table. "40%," he said. "I am being generous, Mr. Hammond."

The man looked from Oroku to Nikka again. He nodded, "Yes," he said, blinking slowly. "40% is very generous." He took the document and signed his name at the bottom. He slid it back to Oroku, looking slightly confused.

"We must get going, Mr. Hammond," Oroku slid out of his chair with the utmost grace, and offered his hand to Nikka, which she took and stood up. "Ms. Heathcock has just arrived in New York, and I am sure she is tired."

She nodded demurely, and then turned to Mr. Hammond. Rummaging through her purse, she said, "I don't know very many people in New York City, Mr. Hammond." She handed him a calling card. "Perhaps we can have a business trip to the orchestra here." He took the card, and looked at it, nodding slowly. She then turned, walking in front of Oroku, toward the exit.

Once the two of them had reached the stairs, she said quietly, "You didn't need me to do that."

"40% was more than I was expecting," he replied.

"Oh, you don't even need his company," she said. The doorman held the door open for them, and the limousine was already pulled up in front of the building. The doorman ran ahead of them to get the door to the car. "You can give him 40%."

"Hnnn," Oroku gave another non-committal grunt. He slid into the limo after her, and the doorman closed the door. He was always slightly amused by watching her perform The Art on someone. He liked the look on the person's face, the confusion and the willingness. When given enough time, the confusion was no longer present, only an intense compliancy to please. Of course, Hammond was a weak willed idiot, an easy mark, and hardly worth performing for.

"Saki," she said, reaching out and touching his arm, "this business with my kids is serious."

He moved his arm so that she was no longer touching him. He noticed her lips purse in annoyance, and then a pleading look came to her eyes.

"Saki, I understand that you're part of the Yakuza or whatever," she waved her hand in the air dismissively, "but you understand that the rules are different in the States than in Japan, right?"

He gave her a withering look. The Yakuza, that is what she thought? He could be the entire Yakuza if he wished, having every crime syndicate under his thumb. His look became thoughtful.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" her voice was worried.

He debated a moment with himself, and then he reached over to the glass that separated the passenger from the driver, and gave it two taps. Two taps were returned. "How is Miyabi-shishou?" he asked.

Nikka let out a long breath, obviously coming to terms with the fact that he would reveal what he wanted to reveal in his own time. "She's fine," she shook her head, as if she were contradicting herself. "I think she's fine," she amended. "You know how she is."

"I would imagine she'd tell you if she was not fine," he said, glancing out the window behind her.

She turned her head to see what he was looking at, and then back to his face. "I would imagine," she conceded. "How is Karai? I was hoping you'd bring her to lunch, too."

His eyes went to the window again, he watched the familiar buildings whiz by as the limo twisted down the streets of New York City. He had deliberated for years on how much to tell her. He had erred on the side of secrecy, the less she knew, the better, but it was simply easier now to be truthful than to come up with an outright lie. If her children were being involved in his affairs in some way, she would be too. He had an enemy trying to get to him, he had to find out who it was. Someone who was going about getting to him in a very roundabout way. She was finally involved, after all these years. A part of him was surprised it had taken so long for someone to think to get at him through her.

She was a powerful personal ally, and she could be an even more powerful business ally. More than that, she could be one of his most powerful underground allies. While her world was floors above those currently in his employ, she was no less savvy or useful in her arena. It was not a waste that she was now drawn into his machinations. It was a stroke of serendipity, perhaps, that his ancestors were smiling upon him, as each day he came closer and closer to fulfilling his destiny.

"There is something I need to show you," he said slowly, his eyes still on the window.

"What?" she asked, just as slowly. "What's the matter?"

"When you see it, then you will understand."

The limo came to a stop, and the door on Nikka's side opened. Oroku watched her closely as she stepped out and craned her head back to look at the building, with its vaulted roofs and stained glass windows, the clock stopped at seven o'clock for eternity. The mortar in-between the brick of the many stories crumbled in some spots"Saki," she drawled, fear in her voice, "what is this place?"

"This is my base of operations," he said matter-of-factly, walking past her toward the door.

"This is an old church," she said, following behind him, "with the cross removed."

He didn't answer her as the doors opened, and he walked through them into the entry. He felt her grow more nervous as they passed the guards, anonymous in their Foot Clan ninja attire, even their eyes covered with screens. He led her through the hallways and up the stairs, both of their shoes, his loafers and her heels, clicking on the hardwood floor.

She gave an audible gasp when they entered the throne room. Oroku Saki felt the warmth of satisfaction spread through his chest and his cheeks. Nikka, like her shishou before her, was difficult to impress. He had every right to be smug that he had managed to get a breath of awe out of her.

At the front of the room, next to the large throne at the top of the dias, was his armor, set up upon its frame, looking much like a headless sentinel. On the seat of the throne, sitting as if he left it like a child leaves a toy to go play, was the Kuro Kabuto.

He turned to look at her, her face filled with uncertainty. She turned her head to the side, and gave him a suspicious look. "You're not with the Yakuza, are you?"