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bangyoudead.livejournal.comWho: Gambit, X-23, and six dead Candlelighters.
What: After several weeks of lead-chasing in the underground, Remy pins down a black market transaction being shipped by the Candlelighters. He and Laura go to investigate. Results are varied.
Where: The western outskirts of Howl Barrow.
When: 3am, Coardi.
Notes: Co-written.
Warnings: Violence.
Gambit leaves when it's been dark for hours; not so late to be truly suspicious, not early enough to be out doing anything wholly innocent. He's not surprised when a slim figure falls in step behind him halfway down the walk – he hadn't heard Laura leave the house, nor had he specifically invited her along, but that she knows (or knows enough to decide he needs minding -- she hasn’t forgotten the incident with Lady Sinister) isn't something he questions.
Their mark is across the city on the edges of Howl Barrow, near where it begins to thin out into the Spatters. It's not a bad area, exactly, but it's one that slips by under the radar of the Militia – not enough upstanding citizens here for them to care about, and too near Hellsing for any real supernatural threats to get going in earnest – which makes it one of the varied, perfect pockets for underground shipment paths of the black market. It was a long shot, weaving these leads together, but nobody reads between the lines of cooked books and bookie ledgers like Remy LeBeau does, and that's how all rackets get busted eventually: fucking up the numbers. Using the documents saved from the ant-infested houses as a guide for his systematic tracking, something eventually pinged on the radar: ( Candlelighters. )
Their mark is across the city on the edges of Howl Barrow, near where it begins to thin out into the Spatters. It's not a bad area, exactly, but it's one that slips by under the radar of the Militia – not enough upstanding citizens here for them to care about, and too near Hellsing for any real supernatural threats to get going in earnest – which makes it one of the varied, perfect pockets for underground shipment paths of the black market. It was a long shot, weaving these leads together, but nobody reads between the lines of cooked books and bookie ledgers like Remy LeBeau does, and that's how all rackets get busted eventually: fucking up the numbers. Using the documents saved from the ant-infested houses as a guide for his systematic tracking, something eventually pinged on the radar: ( Candlelighters. )
