| PARTY IN INTEREST I [2362] Kincaid :: Hare Dominic :: Hiren |
| In the Terminus underground rumors were the best way to pass information around. In a world where information could easily decide who lives and dies, anyone who hoped to have an influence remained keenly in tune with the whispers. Larger organizations would often hire grunts whose sole job was eavesdrop on passed messages just to get the first shot. However, even a lowly individual could suddenly rise to fame and fortune through a lead. This market functioned two ways. Potential clients could reach out to a vast network easily and in turn others could always find work if they knew where to listen. A mafioso his entire life, Dominic was well aware of this underworld. As a family man, he knew that lone operatives often got snuffed out, regardless of their individual strength. This was especially true when the mission in question was almost suicidal. Regardless, the payoff would be priceless. While he knew exactly what he needed, an object that was rightfully his, the current owner would not be willing to part with it. What he needed now was insurance. It was because of this, Dominic created a new rumor, a new job. Only the most skilled thieves would be accepted, teasing them with tidbits of information. This served two purposes. The first was the screen out the weak willed while stroking the egos of those who believed themselves to be at the top of their game. He played up the scenario, promising a harrowing ordeal. He tacked on some further embellishments promising a hefty compensation, one that he surely would be able to pay after he gained control of the family. The meeting time and place were simple, a bar called Blue’s near the limits of the city. It was a hole in the wall the say the least. The decor was more hunting lodge than bar, made almost entirely out of wood. The clientele were more of the unsavory type, a mix of criminals and those simply down on their luck. Either way, it was a well known location to have a conversation without the law breathing down your neck. For his part, Dominic was dressed in his work uniform, a well fitted gray suit with a thin red tie. The patrons appeared to be avoiding him, a mix of his surprisingly formal appearance and imposing figure putting them off. The muscular man was used to this, his perpetually stern expression not being extremely agreeable. He sat in the back corner, nursing a glass of whiskey while he waited to see if anyone of note would arrive. So it was a mystery when a stumbling drunkard fumbled his way into a chair just across from the mobster, seemingly oblivious to the overall atmosphere of the bar. The stranger hit the table, spilling some of the drink from his tankard, right before tossing it back and taking a long pull of the bitter liquid. When he set the mug down, he let loose a slow exhale that reeked of one too many drinks. The stranger was a short laicar, his brown hair tousled, and his dull green eyes unfocused. He didn’t look much different from the riff-raff that occupied the other seats across the establishment and compared to the man across from him, the drunkard looked absolutely dirty. Leaning forward on to the table, the drunkard laid his head down against his arm and muttered, “Cheap ale is still the best.” As the smell of stale booze assaulted his nostrils, Dominic’s first reply was a simple glare. Usually, that was enough to make even the most egregiously drunk get the message. However, it quickly became apparent that the message was lost on this man. He could never tolerate drunkards. Addiction to any substance was a sign of a weak constitution in his eyes. The mafioso reached forward grabbing the mug. With little fanfare he swirled the liquid once before downing the remaining liquid in a single swig. The drink was absolutely vile, bargain basement would be considered an understatement. Afterwards, he simply dropped the mug off the side of the table, it shattering immediately after contacting the ground. A fair exchange however was part of his code, and he did believe that it was his duty to share his strength with the unfortunate. He pushed his glass towards the other man. “Once you taste perfection, everything else tastes like cheap shit.” The other laicar didn’t seem all that upset about losing his mug, though he did appear confused. Too much drink. The man was practically brainless. His eyes glanced down at the offered drink, dipping just a moment to the shattered mug on the ground, then back to Dominic’s whiskey. He looked to it longingly, licking his lips like a man who’d crawled through miles of desert, before carefully closing his shaking hand around the glass. At first, the man took only a sip, and the moment the drink touched his tongue he shuddered as if he had found ambrosia. A pleasant sigh escaping him before the drunkard nodded and tossed the whole glass back, downing the whiskey in one go. Men more sober than him might have found that sacrilege. Once the drink was gone, the laicar set the glass to teeter dangerously next to the edge. His green eyes turned to the other man with a pleasant smile, as he said, “Lots to be said ‘bout a man from his drink. And any man willing to share Aridusian whiskey with a stranger is fine by me.” The stranger nodded sagely, agreeing with himself. He turned then, grabbing a nearby server’s attention. “Two glasses of Aridusian whiskey,” he ordered, giving the enlil woman a smarmy grin. He gave a drunkardly wave to Dominic and himself, “So I can celebrate new friendship.” Dominic raised an eyebrow questioningly. For a man who looked like a homeless wretch, he did have quite expensive tastes. Aridusian Whiskey was an expensive luxury, usually only reserved for those who either had or came from money. To order two glasses without hesitation either was a sign of how drunk the man was, or betrayed the man’s wealth. “Aridusian whiskey isn’t cheap you know,” started Dominic before being interrupted by the returning enlil barkeep. Two glasses were set down on the table, the amber sheen of whiskey living up to its expense. The hitman grabbed the glass, taking the first sip. “Regardless of our... friendship... don’t expect me to cover the tab,” he finished. The drunkard chuckled and waved away Dominic’s worry with a shaky hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” the stranger replied. He stopped long enough to cover a burp before continuing, the drunken slurr of his words somehow more subdued than before, “In honest I figure you need a good drink more than I do.” He laughed at this, the red tinge of his cheeks growing redder, “A man sitting by himself is either troubled, or busy, and I gotta say friend, you don’t look all that busy.” Swaying in his seat, the drunkard reached for his own glass and took his first pull of the drink, reacting much the same as he had before. He set the glass down and sighed. “So, I gotta ask: What’s a well dressed fella like yourself doing sittin’ all by his lonesome? Not woman troubles, I imagine. Something else, though, I gotta eye for these things so I know.” There was a small glimmer in the stranger’s eyes. “Come on, won’t ye tell your new friend?” Dominic took another sip before setting the glass down again. “Troubled...? Hmm... that’s not the right word,” mused Dominic, looking at the drunk man. It wasn’t that difficult for the mafioso to piece together that the man in front of him wasn’t your run of the mill drunkard. After all, to voluntarily pay for not one but two glasses of Aridusian Whiskey? There was no bum in Terminus who could even scrape together enough cash for that. “Can’t think of the word... but I think you’ll understand.” He reached forward, grabbing the man’s glass again and dragging it over towards him. “This glass was yours. However, I’ve decided that it’s now mine. But while Aridusian Whiskey is expensive, it still has a price. What I’m talking about... well... priceless is a better fit.” The muscular man smirked. “Wouldn’t you be pissed?” The stranger gave another sage-like nod, saying, “Sounds like trouble. Thievery to me, but I ain’t like you so I won’t call it that.” The other man inhaled deeply as if taking a moment to think. Silence between the two men was brief, though, as the drunkard leaned back into his chair, his eyes keeping an unfocused watch over the glass Dominic had procured. “What every ye do want to call it, friend, there’s usually a good number o’ folk willing to help you. Hear they even opened a guild... the So-so something. “Bet they’d help ye with your... situation.” “A guild of thieves sounds more like a gang to me. But no, I’ve heard rumors of new people joining the industry. It’s got some people really uneasy around here about losing business,” Dominic stated in a haughty tone of voice. He leaned back to copy the drunkard, before beginning to take sips out of the man’s glass. “Though keeping a bunch of criminals in line is a tough job. No doubt they have some wide-eyed idealist with piss poor ideas leading the whole thing. Those tend to only last a few weeks then poof! One of them murders the other or something. “No, I don’t need a guild. I just need one person who’s damn good at their job. I don’t tolerate people who waste my time by asking for multiple chances. One job. One chance... but with a suitable reward.” The stranger nodded along as Dominic spoke, seemingly agreeing with the man. At the offer of rewards for accomplishing jobs, the other laicar’s face was split by a large dopy smile. He chuckled, amused by the mobster’s words. “Pay is always good,” the drunkard replied smoothly. With a noncommittal shrug, he went on to explain, “I only bring up them folks because I hear they get their jobs done. Can’t say much for their leadership, but -- and mind you this is only supposedly -- if they can’t do a job they know people who can.” He stopped to laugh. A friendly sound, but one not without the characteristic motions of a man who found himself funnier than he actually was, “Besides, criminals ain’t so tough to manage!” Leaning forward, resting one elbow on the table, the drunkard rapped his knuckles on the table’s wooden surface and stared Dominic directly in the eye. Behind the glossy drunken gaze was a twinkle of levity... and something else. It was then that the drunkard brought up his other hand to reveal a knife. Made from fine auritium, it danced between his fingers in a showy display meant for Dominic. The drunkard’s smile dipped into a smirk, and he said, “You find something they want, and you give it to them.” Shocked, Dominic quickly checked his waist, expecting to still see his sheathed knife. While the sheath was still attached to his belt, the expensive knife was gone. The man laughed, it being quite a while since he had met any worthwhile thief. Most were just brutish muggers. The mafioso believed the art of pick-pocketing as being lost. He set the man’s glass down back on the table, sliding it across back to him. “I’ll take this as a sign that you’re actually worth something friend. It takes some brass balls to steal something from somebody sitting across the table from you.” It had been a while since he had met anyone who actually showed a shred of talent and strength. It comforted him slightly that there were still criminals in Terminus that respected the old ways of thievery. “I need someone to help me steal something important. More specifically a weapon,” started the brown-haired mobster. He looked at the man who was still twirling the knife in his hands. “I see that you like the flashy shit. This job should check all your checkboxes: a powerful weapon, stealing from one of the most powerful crime families in Terminus, and did I mention that our cover would be a gala? Interested?” Dominic extended his hand to accept his knife back. “With suitable compensation of course.” “Compensation is nice,” the other man said. Politely, the drunkard returned the knife, handle first, to the mobster before he took back his whiskey. Kicking back the glass, to take a long pull, the thief set down his drink. The glossy drunken look seemed to have disappeared from his eyes, replaced instead with the steady gaze of a man who knew exactly what was happening. “Hm,” the thief mused, swirling his drink in small circles. “Lots of people, high profile, plenty of security, arrogance, and a priceless item that needs recovering...?” As he repeated the list Dominic had given him, the man’s free hand rested on the table, and tapped a thoughtful rhythm. “Has all the trappings of a fine stage to make an appearance. “I do have just one question,” his tapping stopped, “how many people do I have the good fortune of pissing off with this job?” “Certainly everyone at the gala to say the least. Throw in a mob boss, easily all of his underlings, and anyone stuck with cleaning up the mess afterwards,” Dominic replied with a laugh. However, his tone quickly changed as he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, resting his head on his hands. “If you fail you’ll at least piss me off,” he bluntly stated in a threatening tone. However, as quickly as the tension rose, it dissipated. “Four nights from now, meet me at the bar called Icon[OR] in the upper residential district. Come wearing something respectable Mister...” he paused for a moment, “I don’t think I ever got your name.” “For this?” The strange man finished off his glass of whiskey, setting the empty glass down and leaned forward. “You can call me Kincaid.” |