Participants:
| Scene Title | Supplies |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Elvis has some supplies to push off on Deckard. Also a supplies about who is still alive and — ahhahah ow okay sorry. Deckard has to be everyone's daddy again. Or something. Why can't these people ever just kidnap medical doctors like normal terrorists? |
| Date | February 5, 2008 |
Staten and a Safehaus Somewhere
Ringringring-ringringring-ringringring goes the batphone.
Row, row, row your boat. Deckard has departed the one he rode over here, hands stuffed deep into his overcoat pockets against the bald slap of the wind while he paces his way down the length of a rickety pier. A cigarette leaks smoke from the corner of his mouth, whisking thin behind him in a jerkier line when his phone buzzes, and his head tips down after the appropriate jacket pocket. The hell? Not like he's actually given this number out to a multitude of people.
"Hello?"
"Its Elvis"comes the voice, but it sounded weak. "How you doin Deckard?" She was holed up in Cat's little safehouse, the most luxurious joint she'd ever even stood in during her entire life. If she wasnt you know, dying it would be pretty swank. She'd at least stripped down partially to wrap her ribs up halfway decent, the first time since that big night she'd been able to do that at least. She'd take a long bath later.
Elvis? He only knows one. Chick who nearly got him killed on a motorcycle. The phone held away from his ear, he squints at the number again, making a hazy mental note to actually save it somewhere. He should…probably save all the numbers he has on his call list. At some point.
Bootfalls treading more carefully over rotten old wood, he knits his brow into the wind and nods to a thuggish type loitering at the dock's land end. "Oh, you know. One more apocalypse narrowly avoided. What's up? Timmy fall in the well again?"
Straight to business, Elvis is. "I have twenty five Mac-11s, ten Mac-10s, and the equipment to manufacture silencers. I may need someplace to hole up, and maybe a business partner. If you could get me shop space, I could make many more. They're not hot, they're brand new and I built them myself withot serial numbers or other nonsense. You want in, Deckard?"
"…Okie…dokie." Twenty-five Mac-11s. The guy at the end of the dock perks up a little, and Deckard swings away from him, the track of his footsteps pacing along in a direction where he's less likely to be overheard. Chilly eyes rolled skyward behind the wrap of his sunglasses, he leans to flick his cigarette off into the murky shoreline off the dock's butt and keeps on walking. "I don't have a shop, but with the climate over here I could probably move several of them for you. Were the numbers scraped off or never there to begin with?"
"I'm a mechanic, I made them from scratch. They're completely clean, cant be traced to anyone or anything. I can make other stuff too, AK-47s, bombs, handguns you know whatever you need if I get some shop space. If I make these things, I'd need a partner to move them. What do you say to an even split, at two grand a Mac thats a cool twenty five Gs and thats just the leftovers. "She wasn't betraying anyone, she wasn't leaving anything you see. No, Elvis wasn't so motivated yet. She was hedging her bets, she didn't want to end up a meat anchor again. They fished everyone else out of the river, but not Elvis. They were lying to her, they didn't care about her. Phoenix, wasn't hardcore enough.
Jesus. Deckard rubs his free hand up over his brow and blinks hard, then glances back over his shoulder. Mr. Thug is trailing, although more in the context of trying to overhear than anything more sinister. Probably. "I can find buyers, but the majority of the stock I deal with isn't fully automatic. I'm still wanted. Draw too much attention to myself flooding the market out here with machine guns and I'm likely to wind up getting clubbed over the head by someone undercover." Or in a pair of cement shoes at the bottom of the Hudson for driving prices down.
"How fast do you need the money?"
"Not now, I'm just hedging my bets. Phoenix is run by a bunch of liberal college kids, I'm a criminal. Its heart breaking to see these kids try to act like terrorists, ugh. Anyway, I have the stock hidden somewhere very safe. I just need a place to lie low before too long, and a back up plan."She pauses, turning away to cough and hack none too pleasantly."I'm laid up really sick right now, I'm in a really bad way. Have you seen Abby?"
There's a silence on the other end of the line, eventually hazed over by the sound of a sigh when Deckard slows out of his walk and half-turns back for the dock, reaching for the interior of his coat. The guy following immediately finds something better to do with his Friday night. "No. I figured she was dead."
"Naw, I think only two or three died. A few got arrested, but I know for a fact Abby survived all that. Her and her boyfriend Teo, and a whole bunch of other people I dont think you know. The problem is just that everyone waited for this jackass to get all good and ready, and then we let some math nerd tell us how to do our business."She shrugs on her end, running a hand gently over her busted ribs. "Are you safe, is everything ok with you?
More silence, longer this time. "Teo was shot in the head. …He fell in the water." The idea of him being alive does not compute, leaving Deckard to stare dimly inland while he scuffs the muzzle of his gun up over an itch in the scruff at the side of his head. The regular blast of mounted artillery beats at the back of his memory, forcing him into a hard blink against the sudden onset of a headache. It doesn't work as well as he hoped. "I'm fine. I'm on Staten."
"Maybe he's evolved, like super tough. Maybe he hung on and Abby got to him, but I heard he's totally alright. I knew a guy who was shot in the head by this crooked cop, had a chunk the size of a tennisball. Anyway he was like pretty normal, survived and everything."Theres a story that goes with that, about body bags and waking up in a morgue but she skips it."I got hit by a truck, flew into the river at a pretty good speed. I got the flu or somethin, some dude says I have cancer so I don't know. I just need to find Abby, and then everything will be ok. I got enough hardware saved up, and I think you and me together can make enough dough to keep ourselves uninvolved in this stupid bullshit."she sniffles, wishing suddenly she could find alcohol.
Still. More. Silence. Teo is alive. Abigail is alive. "Maybe," is agreed at a delay that borders on suspicious. Deckard frowns down at the toes of his boots, no longer talkative. He has a lot to think about, suddenly. "I don't know where anyone is. Haven't talked to anybody. She's probably around." More around than he knows, really. His gun hand falls slack back to his side. "Sure."
"Ok, I'm gonna go rewrap my ribs up and try to eat again. Listen, this number is good for the next few days. If you can find her, please -please- let her know. I'm in really bad shape, I think I'm starving to death. I'm really fucked up."Ok, so she will finally admit just how fucked up she is. "I'll call you back when I move, but if you don't hear from me in like a week or two. I'm probably dead, ok dude?"
"I'll get it written down and make a couple of calls." Resignation gravels along with everything else. Decide everyone's dead, abandon Phoenix, join the circus. Find out everyone's alive, get placed in charge of trying to make sure people don't die again. His life is baffling, and also apparently insistent that he take responsibility for the lives of other people. "You should try to get in to see a doctor in the meanwhile. Kidnap one or something — I don't know. There's that Sonny guy. I'll keep my phone on."
"I'll see what I can do. If you need me, or just want to bilk me for info you just call. If we're gonna be doing business, the least I can do is talk to you now right?"You can almost feel a smile, tired but genuine. "Goodnight Deckard."
"Night." It's not really a good night, is it? Handgun maneuvered stiffly back under his coat, Deckard glances back down at the dock one last time before thumbing over the power button and tucking the phone back into his pocket. Back to his place to dig up his little black book and all the numbers listed therein.
 February 5th: The Full Story |
 February 6th: Different Instruments, Different Loves |