Back to Business


deckard3_icon.gif magnes_icon.gif

Scene Title Back to Business
Synopsis Magnes needs guns; Deckard needs money.
Date October 19, 2009

Coastal Staten Island

After scouting out a spot he wouldn't have to worry about pesky snipers and spies, Magnes made a short call to Deckard for a bit of a business meeting. Wearing his dark blue t-shirt with a neon blue Superman 'S' on the front, an unbuttoned black denim jacket, some black blue jeans, and his black sneakers, he's crouched down on an abandoned fishing warehouse at the Staten docks. He watches for the older man's arrival, not wanting any surprises or unwanted guests.

It's a sunny day on Staten Island, but no warmer for the white wash of afternoon light smeared hazy over the rust-encrusted docks. Coffee still steaming against the cold in his left hand, Deckard cuts a distinct figure against the lap of black harbor water and green slime, all hard edges and scruff above the shoulders of his shabby black overcoat. The bullet hole Magnes put in it last time they ran into each other hasn't been patched, but neither have any of the other ones.

The important thing is that he's here, and alone. And not waving a gun around.

When Deckard arrives, Magnes suddenly makes a casually slow descent down to the man, holding a black rifle case in his right hand. He frowns slightly at the hole in the coat, but quickly forms a friendly smile and nods to the man. "Glad you could come. This meeting's just between us, and if you're as discreet as I suspect, maybe we can have a solid business relationship. Thanks again for healing me, by the way." He doesn't raise the case at all yet, though he does take a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket. "I heard of something recently, I'm not sure how valid it is, but have you heard of ability suppressants?"

"Great," says Deckard, who doesn't look like he's been awake long enough or had enough coffee to fake actual enthusiasm for the promise of any kind of solid relationship, business or otherwise. He sniffs groggily, scratches at his head. Reaches dimly out after the folded paper. "People are talking about a cure. I haven't heard anything about suppressants."

"I heard someone say they were either injected or shot with a suppressant before being dragged off to Moab. I don't have my hopes up, but try to look into it and I'll make it worth the trouble?" Magnes requests, then nods to the paper. "The things there should be easier to get. An M1911 with a double-slack rail frame, and an SV IMM Open pistol extended compensator barrel, two of them. And two TASER model X26es."

He finally raises the case and holds it out for Deckard to take. "That's my rifle. I don't need you to do anything with it, but I want you to take a look and see if it's anything you can find ammo for. And, for everything, the guns and ammo, I trust that this stuff won't be traced back to a shop, and most importantly, me."

"Seems to be a popular one for clandestine operations in New York," said of the M1911, Deckard tucks the paper away without glancing at it, opting to utilize that span of two seconds or so to sip at his coffee instead. "The gun will most likely be registered as stolen if you don't want it in your name, but that's only a problem for you if you're holding it when they find it. Serial numbers require evolved intervention to wipe completely."

He sips again as he sizes up the rifle case, reluctant to take on its weight when opening means he has to crouch and set his coffee down and woe woe woe.

He does it anyway, stiff at one knee before he's settled down enough to pop the clips and lift the case open. More out of idle need to get touchy than anything, he turns the bolt out and back. Been a while since he's done this. Been a really long time since he's done it without being able to cheat. "Shouldn't be a problem. The only thing you'll need to worry about with the ammunition is cartridges from the same run of manufacture being linked together. Bore markings. The usual ballistic bullshit."

"Hm, I see." Magnes says to the mention of clandestine operations, as if it answered some random unasked question. "But alright, I don't plan to shoot anyone who'll be making any police reports anyway, so we should be fine on the ballistics front. And man, have you seen that FRONTLINE armor? They've got some crazy Master Chief stuff going on. I'd be aiming for that if I wasn't about to be fired." he makes random idle conversation, then nods when everything seems to be in order.

"I'll call you with a cost estimate once I've located the guns," muttered more to himself than Magnes, Deckard gives the sniper rifle one last looking over before he lets the case fall shut and relatches it so that he can lift it (and the coffee) on his way back up to eye level. He gets the case offered out at a stiff-armed lift before he thinks to ask, "Master-who?"

"And don't forget to look into the ability suppressants." Magnes takes the case, raising an eyebrow at Deckard's question. "You know, Master Chief, from Halo? Kills aliens and stuff?" He just shakes his head, then his eyes widen as he remembers something. "Oh, wait here, I forgot something!" He suddenly swoops up into the air and back to the roof he jumped from, then hunches down to grab something, then jumps back down and holds out a brand new bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon. "I looked it up on the internet, they said this is the best whiskey in America. This is thanks for healing me." And a sorry for shooting him.

Ability suppressants, Master Chief, Halo and aliens. The look Flint favors Magnes with angles slightly sideways, and then the kid is gone — flying up onto the rooftops again or something. He sniffs against the cold again. Swallows coffee. Makes a mental note to buy a new pair of gloves.

Then Magnes is back, and he finds himself looking at a bottle of Maker's Mark. You know. Whiskey with a y instead of an ey. Brows lifted into a dubious tilt, he looks both Varlane and bourbon over a little too carefully before he reaches to take the latter, expression inscrutable. Sigh less so. "Thanks."

"Alright, I think that's everything. Thanks for coming out. And give me a call when you figure everything out." Magnes starts to float a few feet above ground, holding his case firmly as he looks down at Deckard. "You need me to drop you off anywhere?"

For all that Deckard rolls his eyes up to the sky as if he might actually be considering it, in the end, he shakes his head 'no.' Maybe even more like nnnnno. "I could used the exercise," railed off as a half-assed, semi-polite kind of — excuse, he gives Magnes one last glancing over before he turns to lead himself off landwards, whiskey, coffee and all.

"Alright, see you later!" Magnes says with a quick wave, then quickly ascends into the air untll he can no longer be seen.


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