Clay Pigeons


montague_icon.gif rupe2_icon.gif

Scene Title Clay Pigeons
Synopsis Small moving targets, designed to be expendable and used for target practice. Draw your own analogies.
Date October 11, 2010

Upper West Side

It has been a quiet day for Montague Bonaventure - both of them. It is not uncommon for him on a slow day like this to send one of his duplicates to the hospital to watch over his mother. In this instance, he sent a worried one. So without a worry in the world, he stands in the outside yard of the Bonaventure Estate in the upper west side, dressed in a casual chic of high priced khaki pants, a button up and comfortable sweater.

Gripped in his hands is a rifle, specifically one used for skeet shooting. On his hip is an electronic device connected to the pulley mechanism that fires off the clay discs. He taps the device, then lifts the rifle to take aim at a clay disc as it shoots off through the air before pulling the trigger to blow it to smithereens.

Situated on the south end of Morningside Park within clear view of the spires of the Cathedral of St.John the Divine, the estates of the Bonaventure Family rest squarely on what was once a public baseball field. The tracts of forested land expanding north of the manor provide the perfect environment for skeet shooting in an otherwise crowded urban environment, and the distant barricades of skyscrapers two blocks away on any one side make it feel as though the park itself was Montague's private playground, and the distant buildings high castle walls to his own private palace. In a way, it isn't that far from the truth.

When the clay pigeon shatters into a shower of crumbling pieces from the shot, there's a slow clap behind Montague, followed by the sounds of scuffing footsteps making their way across the brick-paved patio. The applause comes from America's Most Wanted, Rupert Carmichael. Standing in a tweed jacket and brown courduroys, he looks the part of a bumbling College professor more so than one of the nation's most wanted terrorist masterminds.

Stringy, thinning hair swept to the side atop his slightly bobbleheaded gourd, Rupert lifts two dark brows and smiles sheepishly to Montegue. "Sorry for inviting myself in," Carmichael apologizes with an awkward dip of his head and rise of his shoulders. "I hope you don't mind."

It is a good thing that the first rule of skeet shooting is to only load as many shots as you'll be firing, or else Rupe may have ended up with a round in his gut. Montague turns around, hands working to open the chamber of the rifle before one hand slides away to pick up spare ammunition. He eyes Rupert with an air of curious frustration, but his words don't match his eyes. "No, of course not."

It is true that the Bonaventure Estate is one of the finest in New York. And it's castle like privacy and security may be a boon at times, but sometimes it can be a little lonely. So uncommon is it for people to show without invitation, it would have been easy for Rupert to slip in uninvited as he has. Montague loads a round into the rifle, clacks it closed, and then turns around to blast another clay pigeon out of the sky.

"You don't seem all that surprised to see me, but since men in suits aren't jumping out to twist my arms behind my back," Rupert arches one brow slowly, "I figure that means you're still on board with things." Quietly scuffing the flats of his shoes against the brickwork, Rupert makes his way down off of the steps from thew patio and onto the grass, coming out to stand beside Montague, staring out over the expanse of the parkland beyond the estate.

"We're moving in to the second phase of our operation," Rupert explains quietly, offering an askance look to the replicator. "Now I know you signed on to act as a silent partner with funding, and that is going to be needed now that most of my assets are frozen. I made some transfers prior to the DHS crackdown to your offshore accounts, rights to some land deals I had going through and transferred a partnership to Maxwell Development Corporation's Midtown reconstruction project to you. Too much heat to keep all my money in onr spot right now."

Rupert's brows furrow, his head tilting down as he folds his hands behind his back. "I need you to sit on that, quietly, for me. Some people might come nosing around, but you should be fine if you keep calm. EVerything I transferred is on the up and up, nothing to worry about there. My stocks in Maxwell are also transferred to you," which comes with an incline of Rupert's head, "and I expect you to handle your seat on their shareholders board responsibly…"

"Careful, Rupert. Just because you don't see the men, doesn't mean they aren't there. Especially in this day and age." Montague clicks the safety of the rifle into position as Rupert approaches, then lays the butt against the ground, leaning it against a small table as he picks up a glass of fresh lemonade. "Lemonade, Rupert? I'll have Ramona bring out another glass." He raises a hand, gesturing to the servant inside before he points to the glass in his hand.

He takes a drink, swallowing slowly while he formulates the right words in his head. "Well, I do admit, I thought you'd be throwing in the towel.." He sets the glass down, folding his arms over his chest as his gray eyes watch Ramona scoot across the grass with a clean glass. "Don't worry about her. She has no idea who you are." This is said before she reaches the two men and sets the empty glass down on the table before retreating towards the house.

"I'm not sure you've met me if you think I'm one responsible enough to sit on large sums of money." He chuckles, unfolding his arms to pour some lemonade in the fresh glass and then tops off his own. "Then again, you have met me.. so you know I'm not exactly what the tabloids like to print. I'll watch over your money, and if anybody comes snooping around, which I doubt.. it will be handled."

Offering an askance look to Ramona, Rupert narrows his eyes, then turns his attention back up to Montague. "My face is on every television from here to Alaska, Monty. But I trust you to keep your staff in line…" and his dubious elipses imply a certain amount of doubt in that sentiment. "There's a little bit more than being my financier that I'll need your help with, though. Since things have escalated the way they have, I'm a bit… ah, short handed I guess is the proper word, when it comes to manpower."

Rupert then just offers a smile, still having ignored the offer of a drink. "I figured you might be able to lend me a hand or two in… say… a couple weeks?" One dark brow lifts above Rupert's eyes. "We're moving on some radio and television stations, planning to spread the word about our cause to the mainstream in a way the government can't regulate, and I could use a couple of you for the job."

"That may be a concern, if Ramona actually watched any television other than her Spanish soap operas." He scoops up his refilled lemonade, sipping at it while he listens to Rupert. "Well. I know I'm not exactly on the front lines of your little battlefield, but a word of advice.. don't you think you should work on clearing your name, before you launch any other terrorist activities? Especially since the last little charade was a real bang-up job."

"That being said.." The glass of lemonade is set down and the rifle picked back up, and loaded in turn. ".. I know better than to say no to you. Even without your mojo, I don't need the world knowing exactly how many Montague Bonaventure's there are.. so what's a duplicate or two between.." the last word hangs on his tongue for a moment, ".. friends." Another clay pigeon flies out of the pulley system, arcing through the air before Monty blasts it into pieces.

After the gunshot's echo has faded, Rupert offers a thin smile. "Friends," he echoes, followed by a slow incline of his head into a nod.

"What happened last week was, ah, unfortunate. But it seems I had some security leaks inside of the organization, I've since severed them clean and gone back to cellular operations, which is why I'm a bit short-handed. I'm giving you some advanced notice," Rupert notes with a dip of his head towards Montague. "Because this is going to require some forward planning on your part. I'd bring along yourself a vest, just to be safe, and a mask to conceal your identity since it's going to take place in public. If all goes according to plan, the city will have a lot more to focus on than what you're doing at the television station…"

Rupert unclasps his hands, then tucks them into the pockets of his tweed jacket, wandering a few paces away from Montague, shoes scuffing on the grass. "We'll be meeting up ont he seventh of November, then performing the operation on the Eighth." The four-year anniversary of the Midtown explosion.

Both of Rupert's brows lift in a isn't that wonderful expression that creases wrinkles into his forehead. "I appreciate the help, on your part. And, provided everything goes according to plan, you won't ever need to raise a hand in support of Messiah…"

"…ever again."

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