multiversallogs | over and over they call us their friends

Entry tags:

over and over they call us their friends

Who: Odessa and Vicious.
What: Taking stock and touching base.
Where: Brock Marsh.
When: The day following Vicious' visit to Spike.
Notes: Beginning with a network conversation, moving into a log.
Warnings: Discussion of drug use.

She's been staring at the piece of magical technology in her hands. It's not like that time she was given her first portable CD player and she thought it was magic; the CiDs are actually magic, which makes them somehow untrustworthy to a woman of science. And above and beyond all of that, there's something wrong with it. Not just hers, but others' as well. She's seen the occasional slip up on the network - someone's filter gone awry so thoughts are shared with the cohort, sometimes a "wrong number." The biggest tip is in the reaction from the city's Militia. She's decided that it isn't just the riots to blame. She's seen the military reel after such events before. There's something else going on now. There was something else then.

But still, life is expected to go on, and operations are expected to move forward in the city. Odessa has rebranded Ophis Industries to Primacy Technical, Incorporated (and someone should slap her in the face for it), on the advice of one of her new benefactors. While the city is used to its denizens coming and going, it seemed better to re-emerge with a new name to go with the new face of the company Odessa inherited. And business has kept the young entrepreneur busy enough to cut back on her hours at the Glory Shada, taking appointments only, rather than working emergency. It's been nice, if she's honest. (She so rarely is.)

Her thumb presses the send button, and she waits for the screen to indicate that she's connected with a contact she's labelled Adam Yenrai. "Something's wrong," suffices as greeting. She keeps the video feed off, with tape over the camera lens to avoid any accidental broadcast. "I think we should meet at my building." Not her home, of course, where she's drawn the curtains and is decidedly ignoring the night life. "Can that be arranged?"

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The man labelled Adam Yenrai is -

somewhere.

In the eyes of the handful of people who have experienced him since his arrival in the city, Vicious exists in pieces - in a ghostly half-life of slim and calculated appearances merely punctuating the disembodied presence of his (very corporeal) actions. It's deliberate, but not in a theatrical way; he just knows what he's doing. He knows which notes to hit and which lines to walk, when to pull the trigger. Baedal is an alien, massive, writhing, minefield of a city, but it's still a city, and Vicious understands it. New key, same song.

Wherever he is, he takes the incoming call from Odessa, letting it connect wordlessly.

"Yes," he says, after her inquiry is voiced. He sounds calm as always, the same calm that's present whether he's sorting inventory notes or cutting someone's arm off. "One hour."

Odessa has long since gotten used the annoyance of having to wait for others' travel times. Though with people like Vicious, one never knows what else is in play. She may not know much about him, personally, but she's known people who he reminds her an awful lot of. It makes her feel like she knows something about him. It will probably get her into trouble later. She realises it in the back of her mind, but doesn't dwell on it.

She voices no affirmative in return, letting the disconnection speak for her to say that the arrangement is amenable. Presumably she'd have brought up some concern or proposed an alternative if it weren't.

She's waiting for him when he arrives, dressed pseudo-professionally in a short skirt, semi sheer blouse and a pair of four inch heels, all in black. Her red-dyed hair has been swept back into a high ponytail that's sleek enough on top to give the impression that she might be somehow severe, or even glacial, but left to hang shaggy down to her shoulders in a way fashionable enough for an evening out. She wears a long white trench coat, with its sleeves rolled back to display satin lining, blood-coloured and vivid in contrast to her otherwise monochrome attire. Her nails and lips, incidentally, happen to match.

A briefcase sits on a table nearby. She was told when she began repurposing this building that it once belonged to someone influential in her cohort. Her lips curl upward faintly at the thought. And so it will again.

It doesn't take an hour to get from anywhere else in the city to Brock Marsh, but as the assumption stated: one never knows with Vicious. He could be in the middle of goddamn anything at any time of day or night, really.

He is on time, however, arriving at the once-residential warehouse precisely one hour after the call. There remains little record of the activities of this place, though buildings trifled with by their cursed cohort tend to plummet in market value and sit like graves ripe for robbing no matter what goes on in them, or so he's told. This building was no different - vandalized, but only halfway; this canton is not a hotbed for petty crime. Academia reigns supreme, and as such, the building's return to apparent mundanity by housing ambiguous science and not dinner parties has generally pacified the locals. Regardless of cohort.

"Odessa." Vicious is not warm, but his greeting isn't unfriendly. Aesthetically formal as usual, he joins her. "I take it whatever's wrong is nothing mortal."

His is an opaque humor.

Edited 2012-10-19 09:39 (UTC)

There's something comforting about Vicious' demeanour, to Odessa. It doesn't say anything good about her, but go ahead and ask her if she cares. "Vicious." She likes the sound of his name, too. She's both satisfied and amused at his humour. "Nothing so dire, no. I just don't trust the network in its current state. I'm sure you've noticed."

She folds her hands in front of her and idly draws a semicircle on the floor in front of her with the toe of her shoe, as if she wasn't trying to be so serious. "The Militia's edgy, even by their standards. They're going to be even angrier now. Do you have a line on any of it?" It's presumptuous of her to ask, but she believes she's proved loyal so far. Admittance of having information doesn't necessarily mean he'll share it anyway. It's also presumptuous of her, perhaps, to assume that they are somehow partners in her endeavours, and that he'd warn her if her operation was in danger.

"Someone did attempt to order take-out from me." Dry. Yes, he's noticed; he sent someone to investigate that order misfire, even - and it's turned up nothing suspicious, an honest technical hiccup. Which is, it seems, quite unusual.

Her coyness in contrast to her context is somewhat charming. Vicious never feels like she's trying to lie to him, instead retaining whatever ticks of normalcy she fancies. He can appreciate that - like he can appreciate her scars, her slightly uneven gaze. Perfectly polished glamor has never done it for him; she is acceptable company, while working.

But it's her competency and not anything else that gets him to answer: "Muddled ones. They could be at a loss." He isn't dismissive, but he doesn't seem inclined to worry, either. The obvious implication would be that what's bad for the Militia is good for them, but Vicious knows that's not always going to be the case - sometimes you want the cops to stay consistent, even if opportunities to exploit their disarray can be highly advantageous. "Have you investigated past the surface technically?"

Teeth to her lower lip take the place of a chuckle. Someone would get more than they ever bargained for with that order.

"Not so far," Odessa admits, slightly apologetic, "but I certainly can." She's quick to offer explanation, however. "I've been kept busy by my other pursuits." Which brings her to slide her gaze to the briefcase she's left on the table. Her voice lowers to something of a purr. "I wouldn't have you come all the way out here just to hold my hand and tell me you've got everything under control, of course." Whether it's the scars that twist her smile and keep it from looking entirely pleasant, or if it's just her is up for debate.

"You might."

Look he's not. Blind. Okay. But that said - in a way that's ambiguous, neither encouragement nor reprimand - he gestures towards the stairs that lead to what amounts to office space; if she's going to show him something, they might as well sit for a while versus standing here in the middle of the laboratory garage space. Let's see, then.

"I might," she agrees easily with a shrug of one shoulder. She retrieves her case and leads the way up the stairs, maybe because ladies first is a sentiment that's survived still in the time Vicious comes from, but also because Odessa enjoys making a show of giving her back to him. Make no mistake, she reads too much into her own actions, but she likes to think it's a way of displaying some sort of trust.

In the offices, she places a case on a glossy ebony coffee chair centred over a white shag rug. The furniture - a loveseat and an opposing pair of wing chairs alternatively upholstered to keep up the black and white theme - surrounds the table, making it the focus of the room. Odessa chooses to settle herself on one end of the short sofa, reaching into her neckline to retrieve a key on a silver chain, which she fits in the locks on the attaché.

"They call it Refrain where I'm from," she presents the introduction to the vials of phosphorescent blue liquid she's apparently been creating in her labs. "Though I'm working from a recipe that's called Cobalt on the street. It's not as pure, but I think that's actually a benefit given the diversity of this city." She doesn't wait for him to ask what it does, and she has to fight the urge to watch his face as she continues to talk up her offering. "In people with abilities," the like me tacit, "it causes powerful hallucinations. The draw of it is that they tend to be happy memories. So I'm told."

Someone hasn't been sampling her own product.

He sits across from her, the processes of undoing the jacket button automatic by now; it's strange to not wear a uniform on business, but his formality has become its own kind of uniform anymore. Baedal is diverse and colorful and violent in its fashion, unkempt, inconsistent - Vicious is not. He manages the look without seeming fussy, dark colors and masculine lines, a shade old fashioned but pleasantly so. He looks a little funny meeting with the capos in Griss Twist, but they seem to find it appealing despite it.

"What's the difference between pure and this?" There are only faint changes to his expression, but interested ones. Drug trafficking is near and dear to his heart, after all. (His own stock is being kept, for now. He is skeptical of how effectively it would even sell, in a place like this, and the odds don't make running the risk of withdrawal worth it.)

One vial is extracted with black leather-gloved fingers, and Vicious observes the liquid, handling it with steady care. "Specific," he muses, of the effects. "A clever chemical."

"The purer formula more aggressively reacts with the SLC gene - the genetic quirk that gives people their powers where I come from." She taps one of the remaining vials with her red-painted nails, enjoying the little muted tink! sound it makes. "This version, Cobalt, is generally cut with another hallucinogen. This at least gives it some appeal to the more mundane user. The sense of euphoria won't be as powerful as it will be for someone with abilities, but... It's there, and it should be enough."

To get a user hooked, presumably. Odessa isn't sure when she decided pushing drugs might actually make for a lucrative career move, but she can't deny its financial benefits right now.

"I wish I could take credit for its creation. It was initially developed by a previous employer of mine in an attempt to create abilities in baseline human subjects. This was not the intended result, but its redevised use has served well enough." Science is funny like that. Odessa raises her brows and raises her slightly irregular stare to make eye contact with him. She leans back and crosses one leg over the other, clasping her hands together over her knee. "Are you interested?"

A sliver of a grin is meant to sweeten the pot, as is the assertion: "I thought of you first."

"I'm flattered."

(Well, of course she thought of him, he's keeping her quite busy.)

"It's worth developing," he says after another moment, and sets the vial back in her briefcase. "There's market opportunity for the repurposed use." Anything that incites euphoria in otherwise unattainable extremes is always an easy sell - memories will make it niche; even just as a sex drug, replaying experience after experience, will have appeal.

He sits back in his chair. "The trick with production is hitting the right balance between potency addictiveness. Not enough and it'll die out no matter the impact, and too much will burn people through. And once it's properly field tested," in the masses of the city's drug culture, who will fund this out of the goodness of their hearts, "it can be stripped down and patented as medication."

Even in narcotics, quality is important.

There's a glimmer in her eye that's equal parts amusement and self-satisfaction. "It's so nice to work with a real professional," she muses. She's used to a more direct route to the pharmaceutical endgame. Dallying on the illicit end of things is, in her mind, much more fun. "I enjoy your appreciation of my work."

She smooths her hands over her skirt before resting them at either side of herself on the couch cushions. "I'll get to work on it, then. Get together a few sample batches to leak to the street market. Shouldn't be too hard to gauge consumer reaction from there." In a city like this? It's not quite New York, is it? "You can have this batch. I'll have others ready for you soon. I believe I'll have more assistance in my laboratory again before long."

Edited (UGH WORD REPETITION. this is what i get for phone tagging from bed) 2012-10-20 12:04 (UTC)

"I'll send someone to handle the street aspect." There's no need to distract her or potentially delegitimize her, considering her job at the Glory Shada. Vicious is keenly aware of the necessity of above-board community ties, and that position is an asset both to Odessa herself, and Vicious' own interests.

"Once existing orders are settled," meaning the weapons situation, of course, "Make this your priority." He taps his fingertips, once, against the edge of the briefcase. It's implicit agreement to fund development - which may be getting himself into a steep investment, but should it work the way she says, it'd turn over and be in the black in no time. Baedal is different from the galaxy at home, where drugs carried higher risk and reward - here, they're far more commonplace, and weapons are the more difficult angle. It'll be good to have a steady cash turnover to anchor that endeavor.

"Your assistants will need to be vetted."

"Of course." Odessa bows her head in a way that's gracious, while also suggesting a certain amount of submissiveness to him. "One I have in mind used to work for my former partner." Partner is being rather generous about her relationship with Rex Lewis, in any sense of the word, but it isn't as if the man is here to set any records straight, is it? "There were never any issues before, but I obviously respect whatever decision you make. It's not like I'm..." While she pretends to search for the word she wants, she uncrosses and recrosses her legs, right over left now. It's a somewhat girlish fidget, but it stops short of actually swinging her feet. (Not that that's an option with the low seating anyway.)

Her lips curve into a sly smile as she seems to settle on, "Attached."

Edited (I can remember my own set-up. Honest.) 2012-10-24 10:47 (UTC)

Vicious was not in Baedal while Odessa's former partner was, and his knowledge of that man and whatever other employees he had is limited - though it seems harmless on the surface, he is skeptical and duly paranoid, because he isn't stupid. He looks at her frankly, his gaze taking on a slightly more human, personal weight, like it does sometimes in small breaths in between his cold professionalism.

"I don't mean to isolate you," he says, of his insistence on overseeing her contacts. "But the work I've asked you to do is dangerous, and I do not recklessly endanger people important to my interests."

He is protective. Of her. (It is a mild implication, but one he knows Odessa will see; he knows because she wants to see it - something he also knows.)

"Aww, Vicious." Odessa wrinkles her nose playfully, but successfully fights back the urge to giggle. While she's often aware, and wary, of being played, she has historically done very little to actually prevent or combat it. Call her crazy (she is), but she enjoys it in some way. "I'm glad you consider me such a lucrative investment." Asserting that she has no illusions about being anything more than a business venture is all part of it.

He leans forward slightly - not menacing (.. sure), merely the consequence of shifting his weight so his elbows are rested on his knees. The expression on his face is not quite a smile, but something hinting at that difficult-to-pin sense of humor again.

"Are you teasing me, Ms Wander?"

Her natural instinct is to lean forward in return, and she indulges, resting the points of her elbows on the gentler peak made by her bent knee. Fingers threaded together, she rests her chin on their backs. It's not at all a ploy to show off her cleavage (probably). She doesn't even instruct him to use her title of doctor like she would most anyone else. Some people you just don't correct, and some people just don't need to be corrected. Vicious falls neatly into both categories.

There's the faintest change in her gaze, like it's gone darker somehow. "I would never," she assures in an even voice, and it's true in the sense that she'd never poke fun at him. As for the other interpretations of the word tease, well... "Unless you asked me to."

(To be entirely fair to Odessa - Vicious probably wouldn't remember even if she did correct him; he just doesn't come from a subculture where academic titles mean anything, and are rarely present. Ms sounds formal as hell to a street-born gangster.)

"Pretty forward." He puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet in a movement that looks like it should be accompanied by creaking noises, then- "You look like you're dressed to go out."

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over and over they call us their friends

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