Gizmos and Gadgets


devi_icon.gif smedley_icon.gif

Scene Title Gizmos and Gadgets
Synopsis Smedley goes to see Devi about a lunchbox. Or rather, a thingamajig inside a lunchbox.
Date August 25, 2010

Anarchy Customs: Garage

This three story building is constructed from old, cracked concrete and cinder blocks, the naturally gray hue is long since caked with the common signs of neglect and vagrancy, filth and graffiti, common on the island. The graffiti here, however, seems notably fresh.

The entrances to the buildings are too wide, large bay garage doors. The words 'Anarchy Customs' are painted in chaotic letters on each. Just inside a large garage is home to various motorcycles and parts in different states of dismantling, repair, reconstruction, or destruction. The walls are cluttered with various tools, mobbed further with stolen street signs and more untamable, fresh graffiti. The smell of oil clings to the air as eagerly as the grease stains spattered on the concrete floor.

Across from the large, bay garage doors, a single black-iron, spiraling staircase is set beside the opposite wall, corking up to the floor overhead.

"IT LIIIIIIIIVES!" Devi's bellowing can be heard echoing out of the Anarchy Customs building and down the streets of The Rookery. The spider machine's legs give a few hearty twitches, metal grinding upon metal as the gears pick up the call of the mastering remote in Devi's hand. The massive contraption fumbles about awkwardly and then…


The spider-o-death falls onto it's side, legs working foolishly in the air. "Fuck." The racket stops at the machine winds down when Devi hits the off switch. "Need practice," she mumbles, and tosses the remote aside, digging out a beer from the small mini-fridge beneath her workbench.

Perhaps unbeknownst to Devi in her mad scientist groove, Wes Smedley stands in the large open doorway of the garage, one eyebrow lifted slightly as he eyes the now 'dead' machinery. A Rookery regular in his capacity as a smuggler, Smedley is in his uniform, if it could be called that: worn but sturdy jeans, comfortable boots, a dark t-shirt, and a tan sport coat. Today he carries a leather rucksack over one shoulder.

"You're Devi?" he calls from the doorway, his eyes flitting from the mechanical monster to the heavily tattooed woman and back again. "Redbird sent me." Not like it's code. He probably could have gotten away with Cardinal's name, but still. Redbird sounds a little more official.

The dark haired woman pops to attention, turning about with a notable tension lining every muscle when she is first addressed. Unexpected visitors haven't proven regularly kind as of late. She eases entirely, though, at the mention of Redbird. Still, she casts a scrutinizing over the man's frame before nodding. "'Das me. And, you are?" She nudges her head back. "Come on in." The Raven diva reaches into the fridge, taking out a second beer and holding it out. "What's Toots want now?"

Toots? Smedley can only just repress a snicker at the nickname as he steps into the garage, giving the experiment a wide berth on his way to Devi's workbench. He swings the rucksack around and sets it down, one hand moving to pull open the drawstring. Reaching inside, he withdraws an old metal lunchbox. The picture of Optimus Prime on the outside is a little worse for wear, and the entire thing sports quite a number of dents and scratches. It's certainly not in mint condition. Smedley sets it down on the bench beside the rucksack, his free hand moving to hook a thumb between the belt of his holster and his belly. A man not packing in the Rookery is soon dead, after all.

"Toots said you could give me a hand with that. Tell me what the hell it is." But surely he can't mean the lunchbox. Even a bumpkin from west of the Mississip' knows what that is. Right?

The tattooed femme pauses, the open beer half lifted to her lips. She glances from the man to the worn, metallic box, and back again. She sets both beers down and cocks her head to the side, meeting Wes's gaze from behind a few wild strands of dark hair. "Before I frickin' touch it. Where'd ya get it?"

"It was a job." That's the easy answer. "Info up front with the cash. Where to find it, what it looked like. Wasn't that hard. But since I did the job, I've had the damned thing stolen and too many bullets fired in my general direction to count." He pushes the lunchbox toward Devi, his gaze settling in a squint on the array of tattoos on her right temple.

"More'n likely, they're after what's in it. Only I don't know what the hell it is." Smedley doesn't open the box, but he does lean forward just enough to flick up the metal tabs that hold the lid shut.

"You sound like a man o' talents," Devi quips, staring hard at the man as he makes to eyeball her tattoo features. After a moment, she leans in with a bright grin. "What? Want some ink?" She waggles her brows, only to look back to the mysterious lunch box when the tabs click aloud.

Devi glares at the box for a long moment, determining whether or not she thinks in might BADABOOM upon opening. Finally, she hooks a black-painted nail on the edge and flicks the lid wide open with a little clatter against the metallic surface of the bench. She cocks a brow in a high, curious arc and peeks inside.

The contents of the lunchbox glow slightly. Or else, it looks like they glow. A large brilliant cut diamond with a yellowish color catches the light and throws it back against the shiny interior of the lunchbox. It's far too large (and too yellow) to be a real rock, and inside it rests some sort of electronic gadgetry. At the pavilion, where the cutlet should be, is a tiny hole. This female connection is attached to the rest of the works by means of a small wire. Lights on the gadget blink on and off in a regular pattern, enhancing the thing's sparkle.

Smedley simply stands there, his gray-blue eyes moving between the contents of the lunchbox and the woman who can supposedly tell him what it is.

Devi stands there a long moment, glaring at the device within the oh-so-mysterious lunchbox. She wrinkles her nose, willing her ability to find something, anything, to unveil the mystery of this object. She scoffs and suddenly slams the lid shut. Maybe she truly has become Evo, relying so strongly on her ability.

The tattooed vixen combs her nails back through her dark hair, looking to Smedley. "If I can't tell ya what it does, whatcha plannin' on doin' with it, hm?" She glances aside at the box, truly bothered by the simple limits of her ability for the first time, and by the unanswerable puzzle that has been presented before her.

The simple answer to that is that Smedley has no idea. He scowls back at Devi, more disappointed with yet another brick wall than anything else. "Look," he says with a sigh, "I just want to get rid of the thing. I was s'posed to get ten large 'pon delivery, but the drop went south. "Damn thing is an albatross 'round my neck."

He grumbles to himself, raking his hand through his hair and turning slightly away from Devi. "If you don't know who it is, I'll pack'er back on up and either find someone who does know, or someone who'll take it off my hands." Of course, for no less than what he was originally supposed to be paid.

Devi lofts a brow, waiting until Smedley turns away to glare down at the box. She gives it a little shove of her knuckles, letting it scrape across the bench just a few more inches away from the disgruntled bitch. "I'll give ya eight. I dunno that it's any good to me, have no more interest in it yet than just tryin' to figure out what da damn thing does. Eight and your off the leash. Huh?" She steps away from the table, presenting a hand to Smedley. "And a promise that when I figure out what the fuck it does, I'll tell ya if'n you want ta know. Kay?"

The loss of two grand isn't ideal, especially with multiple bullets exchanged on multiple occasions on account of the lunchbox and its contents. He winces at the amount, his eyes falling from Devi's hand to the dented lunchbox. He purses his lips and squints as the rusty cogs in his head grind along the thought process of selling the lunchbox. She has a point, and being someone Cardinal knows and trusts, there are worse fences Smedley could find. And if she does find out what it is and is able to sell it for more, well, Smedley is cutting himself out of that.


Getting the thing out of Maddie's apartment, getting off the leash, as it were, is tempting. Tempting enough that he'll effectively pay the two grand and whatever else he might have netted. So it's with a deep breath that Smedley puts his calloused hand in Devi's to shake and lifts his eyes to hers for a split second. But he untucks the other from his belt to place his fingers on the lunchbox's closed lid. "I can do eight." There's no sense in haggling at this stage in the game.

Devi grins, her mood put a bit more at ease with the new opportunity. She nudges her chin towards the box. "Come on. I'll get ya your dough." She turns and snatches up her beer once more, trudging up the stairs. There she invites Smedley to take a seat before disappearing further up the stairwell into her private apartment in the top of the building. She returns with a tattered messenger bag, letting it dangle from her extended palm.

"You seem like a resourceful man. You deliver things other than mysterious lunchboxes?" she inquires, ever the business woman, as she sets the bag to swing back and forth, like taunting a cat with a toy mouse.

Smedley picks up the lunchbox and his rucksack as he follows, but he doesn't sit when the chair is offered. Instead, he snaps the tabs on the lunchbox shut and waits with relative patience.

He smirks at her when she returns, reaching out to snatch the bag's strap with ease. He lifts it and inspects the cash inside before he lifts it out and places the lunchbox inside. Smedley hands the bag back with one hand as he swings the rucksack around to stuff the cash inside with the other.

"I've been known to," he says, his smirk growing to a one-sided grin. "All dependin' on the risk involved, uh'course. You got somethin' special in mind you just can't live without? Apart from lunchboxes, that is, as I've already filled that little void."

Devi chuckles and sets her own re-filled bag on the plush, leather sofa nearby. She sips from her beer, tipping the last of its contents away to wet her alto-tones, before addressing the smuggler. "Nothing particular at the moment. Consider it a regular business practice to sell much wanted goods to the public, though. I brought a small shipment of goodies back from Mexico with me, but supplied are due to wane at some point. Had a few of my contacts out west put down by some over-eager pigs in uniform, so I'll be needin' to find some sources for restock at some point. That somethin' you might be able to arrange?" The femme flops down onto the black couch, lounging at ease - truly the queen of her castle.

All jargon is pointing to substances rather than items, and Smedley arches his eyebrows at that. "Should be," he says with a small nod. "You movin' anythin' specific? I mean, are you strictly a rodeo gal? Charlie's friend? Runnin' a pharmacy? Or are you more int' simple landscaping?" There are more options, of course, but getting a general idea for Devi's business is enough. "I can generally dig up whatever you want, but some stuff takes more time'n others. But y'already know that."

"The works," the Queen Raven responds. She lifts a fist, flicking up a finger for each listed item. "Guns. Ammo. Blow. Mary Jane. Rock." She pauses and curls her fingers back into a fist. "Can't find the Blue Glow anymore," she states with the faintest hint of a frown, watching Smedley with the smallest hope that he might have a source for that long-missed Refrain.

"Any special requests can be funneled for ya, if'n you need the business. Cardinal's got me workin' on some things that need a mech-touch. A few things out of the ordinary come up, and I can pass you a bonus if you can find me the right materials." She's already contemplating the task of the power suits to come. It won't be an easy one. She cracks her knuckles and hefts up the bag. "I'm goin' to go take another look at my new toy." She passes over her card - stark white, stylized with a wing-spread Raven and her telephone number. "Hit me up." With that, she heads towards the stairwell.

Like many of the smuggler's operating with Staten Island as basecamp, Smedley doesn't have an easy way for buyers to contact him. If a buyer can do it, so can a cop. So he takes the card with a nod, studying it for a moment before he slips it into his back pocket. Besides, if he does bring something that Devi either doesn't want or doesn't need, he can find someone else who will.

"Yes ma'am," he says as he watches her go back up the stairs for a little longer than what might be polite before showing himself the door.

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