Brown Paper Bag


christian_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Brown Paper Bag
Synopsis A short scene in which Christian pays for services rendered and Deckard nearly shoots him for it.
Date December 13, 2008

Ruins of Midtown

Ice and snow stick silent to the snarl of Midtown's skeletal remains, white over grey and grey and more grey. Cold wind funneled sharp through warped architecture howls after tags of rotting paper and cloth, worse one story up than it is on the ground. Steam lifts from isolated unblocked vents in the surface here, where a connection to the sewer line is still functional. It's pretty bleak.

But Deckard has an iPod, Rob Zombie, and Starbucks. Shotgun crossed over his knees, which are crossed over a rusty lawn chair, which is mounted on the flat section of a half-caved in roof some two stories up off the remains of a once busy street, he sits and sips his coffee.

He's pretty fucking sneaky for how big he is, Christian that is. "Hey!"Or not, yaknow whatever right? He bumps the door the rest of the way open, before clomping out into a finite mixture of gravel and snow. He was still adorned in his riding gear, which was a biproduct of owning a Ural now. "Goodness gracious, I cant express how pleased I was with the quality of your wares."He offered a genuine smile, but didnt advance closer.

He didnt carry the money in a briefcase, no Christian wasnt quite that green. No he's packed it into a brown paperbag, with a legitimate 40oz peaking out the top of it. One could even surmise, from the expert rolling of the paperbag to its appropriate lenght that Chris may have done this a few times before. "I've got your money, I hope its not a problem but I couldnt get those neat little bank bands so I just used some rubber bands. Anyway, you want me to just give this to you?"and truthfully, handing Flint Deckard a brown paper bag with a 40oz inside was far less odd than any briefcase.

Deckard is pretty fast for how old he is. At the sound of Christian's voice over the drone of his ear buds, the lean man drops his coffee and scrapes around on his heel to center the shotgun on Powell's chest, jackrabbit reflexes tweaking that aim up onto his head half a beat later.

The combo of knit cap and sunglasses makes his expression difficult to read, but the lines carved in stark around his mouth suggest ANNOYANCE. And for all that the black barrel of the 12 gauge follows Chris's head until it's nearly touching when he approaches, he doesn't actually fire. "Just set it down, asshole."

Christian sighs softly, setting the paper bag softly down on the rooftop. "You should really cut out the caffeine dude, at this rate I may start to think you dont like the color of my money."his pokerface was cool, not seeming the leastbit alarmed. If nothing else, Deckard was close enough for a scuffle. "The Radios are perfect, but I wont be needing the rest of the order unless you've already lined something up in regards to the little arsenal I asked for?"

"So long as you aren't paying in pesos I don't give a flying fuck what color it is." Perhaps arriving at the same conclusion about the whole 'within reach' thing, Deckard stutters a couple of quick crunching steps backwards. His coffee leaks brown across the snow. Sad. It was expensive. "No dice on the guns so far. Go away."

Christian frowns, go away huh. Chris moves quietly enough towards the door, jerking it open before he pauses."By the way Deckard, pointing weapons at me hurts my feelings. You wouldnt want to hurt my feelings, would you Deckard? I'd hate to be cross with you."and with his little mildly creepy statement made he's entirely too eager to slip right back down the stairs. Barring gunfire or anything else dramatic anyway, Chris was pretty much done with trying to make friends.

"With my only sane contact with the government deceased, that might be a bad thing, yes." No denying that. And yet, here he is pointing guns. All the way back across the roof and to the door, even. "But I'm willing to bet that your current employers would be really sad to hear about the kinds of things you've been having me look for." There is nothing more dramatic, really. Just a lot of scowling.

December 13th: Trigger
December 13th: Three Babes and a Scrapyard
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