Blame Game


brian_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Blame Game
Synopsis Brian and Deckard argue about who's the most fucked. It's kind of a toss up. Also, Brian needs things to kill people with and Deckard needs money. Only good can come of this.
Date November 29, 2008

Secure Abode

It is safe and a house.

Deckard is looking better. That is to say, he's looking rested and maybe a little better fed, because he's still scruffy as ever and he's been wearing (and sleeping in) the same grey suit for two days. Why not?

The room remains spartan. Wood floors, a desk, a chair, gun cases, and a bed. Deckard is, as usual, stationed at a post on the latter. Sitting upright with his back against the wall and one knee bent up to provide a support for the notepad he's scratching at, he's pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.

Tawny light fades across the floor through a single grimy window, but there's a definite air of gloom about the place.

Teo was hesitant in allowing Brian to visit him, but the chronically depressed man insisted upon it, so Teo gave him the information and told him to wait til after they went out together. But, Brian can be tricky. So whilst one duplicate goes with Teo, one comes to pay Deckard a visit.

Two books are tucked under his arm as he moves into the room. He looks.. sick. The door is quickly closed behind him. His worn gaze rests upon Deckard and the only greeting he can muster is a nod. Walking over to the desk he lays down the two books. 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' and 'Midnight's Children'. "Teo sends these." He says quietly, before looking back at Deckard, as if waiting for something.

Brian's appropriately gloomy entry and Deckard's temporary state of unusual blindness means that it takes the sound of the former's footsteps scuffing over the floor to draw his attention to the fact that he has company. He stiffens, as paranoid men do, spine rigid against drywall while his head swings after Fulk and his eyes narrow.

A quick study is performed that way, plainly, with a hint of greater intensity about its tail end before Deckard drops the open notebook aside, followed by the pen. "You look like crap."

That observation made, he sits there a few seconds longer, then pushes to move himself off the bedside for the desk so that he can squint down at the books. 'Midnight's Children' gets a glance. 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' gets a flicker of an expression that reads a lot like a sneer.
Once the delivery is made, Brian backs up till he is touching the wall. He dips his head in concession at Deckard's proclamation of his current crap looking like state. He glances over to the books and gives a little sigh.

"Teo can be a weird guy." Brian notes softly. "He thinks everyone speaks Italian." Then his gaze sweeps back to Deckard. "Do you like to read?"

It takes controlled breathing and a clench at his jaw not to get pissed. Teo sent them, he said. He can cram them up Teo's ass, later. "Nope." The solitude one is lifted, and Deckard flips it carelessly over to peer at the inside flap. "I'm planning on making a bullet proof suit out of classic literature." Whatever he reads there, he reads it quickly. The book is dropped again, and he turns his full attention back over to Brian.

"Why are you here?"

"Why would Teo send that, then?" Brian asks, though there is no curiosity in his voice. He slowly slides down the wall until he is seated on the floor. His knees hugged to his chest, he is the spitting image of pathetic depression. A little 'heh' is given at Deckard's joke, more of a sharp exhalation of breath than a laugh. But it was funny.. Even if Brian isn't that much into humor right now. Looking up, he gives a sigh and a shrug in response. "I heard some things about you. I heard you gave me away to..

"Because he's an ingrate and an asshole. And a kid. I think half the real reason you people keep me around is that I'm one of the only guys you know old enough to buy booze." A flick of Deckard's fingers drops the sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose. "If you hadn't beaten the hell out of me the first time around it wouldn't be an issue. And for all that I can 'get stuff,' so far the best I've done in here is convince someone to buy more expensive toilet paper."

"I need help." Brian says, almost whimpering. He looks desperately at Deckard, and laces his fingers together around his knees. "I'm sorry. I.. was just trying to protect Abby. I'm really sorry. It was an idiot move, I can't take it back, but I will make it up however you want me to. I just need you to help me out." Brian says passionately, his eyes look like they may be on the brink of tearing up should he give the wrong answer.

A measure of the cynicism written in hard around the line of his mouth and the furrow of his brow eases into less abrasive puzzlement as it becomes more and more clear that this probably isn't some kind of joke. Deckard glances to the door, then back to Brian. If he's suspicious, it's well hidden behind his dark glasses. "I…don't have any drugs."

Sudden movement. Brian's fist pounds against the ground in this abrupt gesture of frustration. "I don't want fucking drugs." Brian hisses. He takes a moment to steady himself. Bringing back his hand up, Deckard could most likely tell his hand is shaking. "I want guns." The young man says quietly. "I can pay."

Sudden movement evokes sudden movement. Deckard reaches for his own gun, right hand vanished into his coat and under his arm, where it clamps around his piece without actually drawing it. Notably, he doesn't release it, either. He does glance to the door again, and then down between his own feet, watching something down there with mild interest until his grip on the grip finally begins to ease away. "What kind of guns?"

"Guns." Brian answers bluntly. Giving a slightly confused expression to Deckard. "I don't know much about them.. I just need guns. Pistols, shotguns. Whatever. Whatever you can get me.. That isn't really expensive." Brian answers then pauses. "And I need something special.."

"Okie…dokie." Deckard marks confusion with a downward twitch of his brows, but declines to comment on it. Bad for business to make your customers feel like idiots. What he does do is turn his back on the younger man to pace back for the bed, where his notebook lies dormant across the sheets. "Can you give me some vague hints about what you intend to do with them?"

"You know my ability. I just want to make sure me and mine are well equipped." Lies. Well, partially a lie. "You work with guns, so you tell me what would be good for me." Brian pleads. "How much do they all run? How much is a shotgun?" Leaning forward he pushes up off of the ground. Standing up over Deckard, he takes a step forward. "And I need something else.."

"I can't tell you what would be good for you unless I know what you want to do. If you're looking to rob gas stations en masse, a couple of saturday night specials will do you cheaply and effectively. If you want to kill people before they kill you back, things might get a little more expensive." Back still to Brian, Deckard reaches for his notebook and flips to a fresh page without taking a seat. "If you're pressed for cash, I can get you a twelve gauge for under a hundred bucks, but it's going to be a piece of crap." The 'something else' is noted with a glance over his shoulder.

"I've been working three jobs and spending barely any of it." Brian mutters. "I can do expensive. I don't want pieces of crap. I want things that will work. Well. That gun I took from you worked.. Maybe things a little more powerful." And then he brings out the 'something else'. A piece of crumpled paper is pulled out of his pocket and handed over to Deckard. "This." He says softly, pointing at the picture.

"Then you're looking at four hundred for the shotgun. Maybe more if getting out of here to get it fucks me over somehow. On top of whatever you already owe me for the .40." That last bit punctuated by a private smirk, Deckard double takes at the picture. He's slow to take it, and slower still to take off his sunglasses so that he can peer at Brian more directly. It's an oddly professorial look, simultaneously searching and skeptical. "Kid," he says finally, "I know this kind of stuff looks really cool on TV, but if you try to actually go after someone with one, you're going to die."

"That's why I need the fucking guns, you smart ass." Brian responds angrily. "I don't expect you to understand, and you don't have to. I will get you the fucking money, so you just give me the things I'm paying for right?" Four hundred for the shotgun. "Well how much for that .40 and two more? And what about something else? Like a Desert Eagle?" Brian asks, tilting his head at the man.

"Three hundred for the used .40 — two more with matching wear would be around the same price, with similar jack-ups to cover any unusual threats to my life that I should incur in liberating them for you." Deckard flips backwards several pages through the notebook to check information from weeks past with one hand and folds Brian's photo request over in the other so that he can tuck it neatly into his coat. His mouth is still set at a 'just as long as nobody comes crying to me when they find your body' slant, and he avoids eye contact, but business is apparently business. "Something 'like' a Desert Eagle is going to run you a K, and it might be a while before I can find one."

"You ratting me out to killers should put a nice deduction on my price, if that's how you play." Brian adds in, with a deep set frown. "And don't worry about me dying. I'm used to it. So.. that's around 2400, right? Does that include bullets? And.. how much.. for that?" Brian points to the picture Deckard tucked away.

"You tortured me for information, Osama. Information that I later gave to you people without coercion." Deckard's eyes have gone a little starker than usual in the warming light of late afternoon, and he takes a step in Brian's direction as he tears out a page and snaps the notebook shut. "If they find me, I'm as dead as you are. Maybe even more dead, once they finish torturing out the information they didn't already overhear. So don't play the fucking victim card with me, you piece of shit. I didn't tell them a goddamn thing." No answer on the ammo or 'that.'

"You're a dick, dick." Brian says in fiery retaliation. "I don't think you can be more dead than me." The young man reports back in all honesty. "I'm not fucking made of money, I'll make payments or something. I can give you a grand and a half up front. You should know with my ability I can make good on the rest.." Once he starts going back to work that is. If he does go back to work. "And.. thank you. For not telling them anything."

"I'm a dick." Incredulous indignation roughs Deckard's voice, and he continues his advance, as intimidating as a wild-eyed rail of a man in a decaying suit can be. "These guys wouldn't have bothered me in the first place if you assholes weren't running around blowing shit up and painting your name all over the city. I don't even know what the fuck I'm protecting here. A bunch of idiot kids with a fetish for lost causes is what it seems like so far." Not doing much to dispel his labeling as a dick, Deckard doesn't-quite-fling his notebook back onto the desk behind him, where Teo's books huddle in fitful silence. "Payments are fine. No interest, since I'm not sure you could handle the math anyway. Ten shells and fifty cartridges free, but you're on your own from there unless you want to keep coming back to me for bullets — which you shouldn't, because I hate carting them around and will bleed you for them. I don't know about the other thing. Depends on how much of an ass I feel like dragging it around."

Brian's depression seems to fade away and anger seems to take over. The young man puffs out his chest, taking a step forward. "I don't care what you think of them man." Brian says rather sadly. "I just want that stuff, and I don't want to be raped on the price. I can exchange services or something. If you need favors.. or something done. I'm not as retarded as you think I am, and I could do shit for you. My ability is useful." Brian asserts. He nods a little bit. "How long will it take you to get all that shit?"

"If I raped people they wouldn't come back to me, and that would make me sad. And poor." Succinct in his pricing logic, Deckard turns his sunglasses over in his fingers, still watching Brian. He doesn't blink as often as he should. It's a little creepy. "Services are a possibility. I have a few deliveries that I need to make. If you can prove yourself trustworthy enough that I don't have to worry about you stealing my crap, we can talk about that in the future. As for timing — I don't know. How much sway do you have with Teo?"

"I don't steal." Brian says as if it is just a fact. "I don't lie either." Except for a little bit ago. But that's important. "I won't fuck you over unless you fuck my people over." Brian says simply. At the question he gives a shrug. "I can talk to him, and I can get him drunk. I need them soon. As soon as you can." The young man pleads.

"You don't? Wow. Well, great. Thanks for clearing that up. Let me just…write down the address for you." Which, obviously, he makes no actual move to do. He just stands there like a fence post and glowers before twice folding the page he tore out earlier and passing it over. "Give this to him, and do whatever you need to do to get me into Midtown. Or at least…where I can leave here and still come back. If that's even an option. If not, we'll have to work something else out."

"Shut up." Brian responds. "I don't steal.. I'll prove it to you. Get you to midtown. Alright. I'll get you out. Just please get me that shit soon." With that, Brian starts to wander back towards the door. "Enjoy your books."

"Out where I can get back in," Deckard clarifies again when he turns to watch Brian out — just in case. "I'm not dying so that you can run around New York playing cowboys and ninjas.”

"Fuck you." Brian says in a sing song voice as he slips out the door and closes it behind him.

Deckard's eyes cool in the dim-lit room once he's alone, gaze tracking along through the wall to follow Brian's progress out. They skip back to the trap doors, and then all the way back around to the desk, where there are books. Mmm, books. He frowns at them.

Deckard's note for Teo:


November 29th: Live Together, Die Alone

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 29th: Complicated
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