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multiversallogs2011-11-15 10:47 pm
bangyoudead.livejournal.com) wrote in multiversallogs2011-11-15 10:47 pm
Entry tags:
cause there ain't no way i'm gonna let you stop me from causing mayhem
Who: 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.
He watched for a while, because shipping supplies for illegal stelanmancy and gear for going into the fog is not exactly uncommon; taking the recent crack-down on unregulated ventures as of late, the market's been seeing a bit of a boom. But the dates matched up, and the webs to connect back to buyers went routinely nowhere – a tangled vine of dummy contacts and no one anyone else had ever heard of, with no resulting activities, either. It's a good bet.
Not two minutes after arriving at their destination, Remy knows it's paid off: security is keen, angry, and too professional to be freelance fog hunters or the usual fringe crackpots. Still, it's only half a dozen mooks and a wagon with a steam engine, hovering outside a crumbling warehouse. As long as none of them get a good look at either Laura or Remy, there's no danger – surveillance systems aren't exactly a big worry, in Baedal – so he's surprised that when he drops one man into unconsciousness that the sounds he hears behind him are … slightly more sharp than a good whack to the head. He turns, raises his eyebrows at X-23. And her claws.
“They killed people. They would continue to do so.” It doesn’t quite sound like she’s justifying it; she clearly just doesn’t care. With her, it’s about necessity, not morality.
He can accept that. (And has before.)
Gambit drags the next enforcer inside by the neck, and the noise of it – man this guy's a screamer – is enough to stun the gangster inside by the shipment boxes into just standing there with a dumb look on his face.
Nobody talks. Not when he asks, not when she does.
It doesn't really matter. They've got boxes and boxes full of equipment and other supplies meant for the Candlelighters – and even better, they've now got the paperwork that goes with it, and everything else that comes out of each enforcer's pockets, that's left in any, every corner of the warehouse. They clean it out, get it moved, and leave all the bodies inside.
They're blocks away when the building blows, and long gone only heartbeats later.
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.
He watched for a while, because shipping supplies for illegal stelanmancy and gear for going into the fog is not exactly uncommon; taking the recent crack-down on unregulated ventures as of late, the market's been seeing a bit of a boom. But the dates matched up, and the webs to connect back to buyers went routinely nowhere – a tangled vine of dummy contacts and no one anyone else had ever heard of, with no resulting activities, either. It's a good bet.
Not two minutes after arriving at their destination, Remy knows it's paid off: security is keen, angry, and too professional to be freelance fog hunters or the usual fringe crackpots. Still, it's only half a dozen mooks and a wagon with a steam engine, hovering outside a crumbling warehouse. As long as none of them get a good look at either Laura or Remy, there's no danger – surveillance systems aren't exactly a big worry, in Baedal – so he's surprised that when he drops one man into unconsciousness that the sounds he hears behind him are … slightly more sharp than a good whack to the head. He turns, raises his eyebrows at X-23. And her claws.
“They killed people. They would continue to do so.” It doesn’t quite sound like she’s justifying it; she clearly just doesn’t care. With her, it’s about necessity, not morality.
He can accept that. (And has before.)
Gambit drags the next enforcer inside by the neck, and the noise of it – man this guy's a screamer – is enough to stun the gangster inside by the shipment boxes into just standing there with a dumb look on his face.
Nobody talks. Not when he asks, not when she does.
It doesn't really matter. They've got boxes and boxes full of equipment and other supplies meant for the Candlelighters – and even better, they've now got the paperwork that goes with it, and everything else that comes out of each enforcer's pockets, that's left in any, every corner of the warehouse. They clean it out, get it moved, and leave all the bodies inside.
They're blocks away when the building blows, and long gone only heartbeats later.