scorpions, frogs and teamwork: a true story

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Remy Lebeau
What: Because there's no 'I' in 'team'.
Where: Eliandre's temple in Griss Twist.
When: Two days after this.

They don't lock the doors, here, after dark. One of those places that understands its clientele and the needs of Baedal's citizenry. The dead don't have to worship death, necessarily, but they should at least feel at home.

Wooden doors engraved with justice scales are tested and pushed open by white hands. Inside, the light is kept with fire and electrical lamps that hang from bare rafters, and the space is wide, stone and wood, and there's the scent of dust and preserved hunting trophies - the heads of boars, deer, and even one dusty looking lion with glass eyes mount the walls. Wide windows, set with glass in defiance of the old world sensibilities, show in the nightlife city light, the artificial ambiance beamed off a cloudy sky in ghosting light pollution as opposed to genuine moonshine.

But that's alright too.

It's well after sunset, by now, and Deacon possibly seems out of place in expensively cut and fitted clothes, too much a businessman to be considered a hunter welcomed in this environment, or so appearances would have it seem. He doesn't light a cigarette, but he does absently toy with a silver lighter in jacket pocket as he roams in further, shiny shoes obtrusively sounding against the hard floor.

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[fuckin_thirsty]

He breathes draconic curls of smoke into the air in lazy, slow consideration. On the surface, it sounds like a petty waste of time, but it doesn't take long for Deacon to unpack the potential behind the offer. The corners of his mouth hint enough at a smile that it could even be an actual facts smile. It's just hard to tell, sometimes, with Frost.

"Positively."

He flicks off ash, glimmering embers that die before they hit the ground. Wryly, he adds; "I'll even do it for free, how's that sound."

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

The potential is the point. It's why Remy laughs a bit at the offer to work for free.

"Sounds like you get the idea, homme."

Remy isn't here to try and get anyone under his thumb, or to try and use Deacon as free labor. This is an opportunity to send a message and to dig deeper - he's only one man, but start kicking over rocks and trading whispers in the dark? Things start moving.

He pulls a folded up piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and hands it to the other man. It's a list of small-time gangs all over the city.

"Now, there's no proof anybody on that list was doin' more than a job they got paid for, no questions asked, as is their wont."

A shrug. "But they been known to move product for 'em. Who knows who's watchin', no?"

[fuckin_thirsty]

Deacon takes the page across the backs of the pews, promptly opening the page to scan it for the sake of context as Remy explains. It gets slid into the inner of his jacket not so long after.

"I can make them look," he assures, pushing his weight off pew back, then, and strolling on out for open space, leaving smoke hanging in the air, its slow disintegration.

"You just worry about what you're doing."

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

He grins, not entirely kind.

"I'll let you know if I hear anything. Don't be afraid to holler if somethin' comes up."

Remy'll head out in a minute - maybe from the front door. Maybe not. Maybe make a phone call first. He sharpens the glowing cherry of his cigarette against the wooden edge of the bench he's leaning against.

"Enjoy yourself, mon ami."

[fuckin_thirsty]

That does bring about a laugh, rough and dry though it might be. It's sort of an answer - Deacon probably will enjoy himself. There's no reassurance either way that Deacon will contact Remy, that Remy will contact him - they either will think it relevant to do so, or they will not.

He leaves the temple, respectful enough to at least drop and grind out his cigarettes on the second step down instead of the first, and vanishes into the evening.