conrad_icon.gif deckard_icon.gif

Scene Title Seriously
Synopsis Conrad swings by all, "Hey Deckard, want to rob some banks?" and Deckard is like, "Seriously?" and Con's all like, "Seriously."
Date December 26, 2008

A Safehouse

Deckard hasn't been back for long. Muddy grey slush is still fresh on his boots when he clumps his way into his new(er) digs, ratty-looking duffel bag slung heavily onto the floor near the bed — which is less ratty probably only because it isn't actually his. His backpack is tossed less carelessly onto the mattress. Hands and back thusly freed, he paces on over to the desk, where a few scattered notes are read and crumpled into the neighboring trash bin. Maybe surprisingly, the rest of his crap, gun cases and all, are mostly where he left them.

"Fliiiint….I am the Ghost of Christmas is Over…." comes a haunting (but unmistakably familiar) voice out of nowhere. Yeah, Con's fooling around. "Open the door." The rattling of chains can be heard from the other side of the door. "Let me in so I may teach you the true meaning of giving and sharing."

"Who you gonna call," Deckard mutters to himself, the heavy bottle he managed to retrieve from a desk drawer in the .2 seconds before Conrad's voice invaded hefted, considered, and lowered back into hiding with a hard blink. It can wait. "It's not locked," called more loudly (and obnoxiously) over his shoulder, he knees the drawer shut and scuffs the cap off his head.

Door opens and in comes Con. Naturally there are no real chains. "How's it goin Flint?" he asks easily, shutting the door behind him. "You have a good trip? Get some of that country air?"

Left hand roughing after the removal of aforementioned itchy cap, Deckard turns his squint briefly back onto Conrad, then goes back about his business. Hat onto desk, hands to overcoat buttons, forward progress to open closet. "Is that where I was? Out in the country?"

"Hell I dunno where you fuckin where, Flint." replies Con easily, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. "Need to place a small-arms order. You good for the business still or are you on hiatus?" Beat. "Also, the jerks who were after you have probably forgotten about you by now. We think they tried to kill Rickham. Blew their wad on that."

Overcoat shrugged off and draped awkwardly across a plastic hanger, Deckard examines his half-assed handiwork with a frown before he slings it in onto a rack as is and is left with…nothing left to do. A glance to the duffel bag proves unfruitful: he lacks the energy necessary to unpack. So it is that he's left to angle himself back at current company, who he eyes more intently now. "Depends on what you need. And Teo mentioned the Rickham thing. Load blown or not, somehow I don't think they'll be happy to see me should we ever wind up on the same bus."

"You don't ride the bus." points out Con easily. "I got a list. It's all personal type weapons, nothing crazy except for the legal issues." He produces a list from his jacket pocket and holds it out to the other man. "If you're not ready to get back into business yet it's cool. I can take it to somebody else."

"I've ridden it before," Deckard argues back for the sake of being argumentative. He doesn't mention that Teo made him do it. Kind of weak. Jaw worked around a short silence instead, he eventually nods to the offered list. The room is crossed in a few long strides, and he reaches out to take it. "Personal business I can attend to. It's the advertising that's killer."

"Need me to be the one who tells folks I know a guy?" asks Conrad. It's an offer anyway. "It's not like I want your lifestyle to be turned anymore upside-down and pearshaped than you make it yourself." Momentarily he glances at the door and window, doing it for the sake of concentrating on them. And though the effect isn't terribly noticeable he erects a little silence around the room while they speak. "Got something else I wanted to ask you about. See if you were interested. Just an idea really."

"Depends on what kind of percentage you expect for your referrals." Still scanning the list at a distracted squint, the older man checks it twice (like Santa) before folding it over in his hand. "I have some of it in storage already. Assuming 'storage' still exists. I can check tomorrow." The list is folded over again while he steps back over to his desk. Out of the top right drawer comes the notebook. "Hit me."

"I'll settle for a discount on my own orders. I don't need your money." This is the part where Con grins and says, "I was thinking. I know I'm the type that wants to avoid hurting other people. Physically. It's a huge mess and anyway it's just not what I do. You seem like you're on board with that philosophy for the most part. But neither one of us particularly cares about the property rights of others." This has to be leading somewhere.

Deckard looks a little doubtful, there. Is he the type that wants to avoid hurting other people? He has to think about it for a minute. Compared to, say, the Vanguard, the answer is theoretically yes. So. It seems reasonable enough to go with that. Hesitation dropped along with his line of sight, he tucks list into book and flops both over onto the bed, where his backpack waits. "If people really wanted that stuff they'd pay closer attention to where it was."

"Right." So far so good. So Con heads into the other part of his pitch. "I don't know exactly how this works for you," he says, putting fingers to his eyes and clearly talking about what Deckard can do, "but it seems to me with your connections and our abilities we could stand to make a lot of money lifting things of value. Big things of value. Like the kinds you find in banks. Or casinos in Atlantic City."

Banks and casinos. Midway through hoisting his backpack up into an openable position, Deckard lets the weight of it sag back down at an awkward angle. Brows hooded low, for a second he eyes the wall. Theeen he turns to aim the same suspicious look back over his shoulder at Conrad, as if to see if he's serious.

The look Conrad gives back is quite serious. Arms crossed. Level. Poker face. "Seriously." he says, as if underscoring that.

"Seriously," Deckard echoes, not quite a question. Seriously seriously. "It'd be nice if we had a telepath." The thought exits brain and mouth at approximately the same time. The knit in his brow deepens, and he turns back to his backpack to pick up slowly where he left off.

"Yeah. Hard to find one of those. But also, I ran into this girl who turns invisible who seems to have a similar set of values to us. And you know if we got a good team together, planned it right, covered our bases…" Conrad lets that thought trail off into the inevitable. He fishes a packet of crackers out of his pocket and starts munching on them.

"Invisibility is helpful." Compelled to observe the obvious, Deckard rakes a few clanking minibottles of cheap vodka out ahead of a more substantial notebook, back still turned to Conrad and his crackers. "We should probably start small. Or at least, smaller."

Nodding, nodding, Con can't help but grin as he munches. "Smaller's good. Work out the kinks. Just got the notion that we could be getting paid for our talents. And nobody's exactly hiring in the traditional sense, so let's be proactive. What're you doin over there?"

"Checking inventory," is the muttered answer, robust notebook flipped open so that Deckard can start peeling his way through the pages to whatever information he's after. "I think your notion is a good notion, so long as we don't all get caught and carted off to rot in prison forever and ever."

"Yeah there is that. I'm all about avoiding that part. Anyway, we oughta get together and maybe start some talent scouting. I only know Invisi-Girl, but there's another one I work with who's good with mechanics and shit who might be interested and able to keep her mouth shut. Anyway, just wanted to take your temperature on that idea and put the thought in your head." Conrad didn't realize it'd be agreed to so readily. He's about to finish off these crackers.

"I might not have as much free time as I used to," post conversation with Grace, "but I'll keep my eyes peeled." Nose wrinkled down at whatever he finds in his Big Book of Shit, Deckard claps the cover over and drops it back down onto the rest of the crap already on his bed. "I'll give you a call tomorrow to let you know what I already have. The rest'll take longer."

"Gotcha. Thanks for the hookup, Flint." Con says with a wink and one of those cheeseball point-snaps. He drops the whole silence barrier thing quite without it being obvious and then lets himself out of the room. "Need me to bring you anything next time I'm in the area?" he asks, sticking his head back in.

"Thanks for the business." With Conrad on his way out, Deckard fishes a box of cigarettes out of his remaining jacket and trails his way over to where a smoke alarm blinks in the ceiling — a chair already conveniently positioned beneath it for some mysterious reason. "I should be okay for the next week or so. Stopped at a liquor store on my way back."

"Right. See you around." And Con gets the hell out of there.

December 26th: Healthy Skepticism
December 26th: Neither Friend Nor Foe
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