Description: Belated entry from the Thailand plot. More to come in the future.
Miercoles ventures southwest to Gedo Street.
In a modest yet tastefully appointed condominium somewhere in Southtown Village, a woman slides out of her bathrobe and steps into a steaming bath. With a languid sigh, she reaches to the side of the tub, pouring herself a small glass of chilled white wine, and lifts up the water-sealed telephone as she leans her head back onto the waterproof cushion set at perfect neck height. She takes a sip from the glass and keys up the redial.
She closes her eyes as she lets her finger rest over the green-on-silver key, breathing in and breathing out. She has to wait - wait for the time to become truly right. It's not now... it comes closer, drawing nigh, closer and closer yet...
She presses the button. The phone makes a series of swift beeps as Rose lifts it to her ear. Somewhere far away, at the perfect moment, the telephone begins to ring!
If Ralf could see what the potential 'client' was lounging around in, he'd...well, he'd... Huh. He's get the carpet filthy with his boots, ask why there's no real booze in the fridge (white wine is for wussies, you know), and what the hell is up with all of this tofu. Or not, but people who think sitting in bubbly baths and sipping on the crisp bubbly is a good time probably think that tofu and bean sprouts are real food. Which, of course, they're NOT.
But, Ralf's not there. He's in a crappy, seedy little bar whose regulars hardly have a dozen brain cells to rub together and a bartender who's been around enough to know when to keep his ears open, but also enough to know when the hell to keep his damned mouth shut. It doesn't hurt that he's given a regular payment to ensure that he stays shutted the up fuck. The man is there, stocking drinks when that blasted bar behind the phone rings. You know the one: the corded one, a little old-looking, but it does the job.
"Miki's Sake House," he answers in a gruff but low voice, immediately.
Shame the place is actually San Saki Sochi.
Rose is from northern Italy, where a favored dish is the chopped up flesh of baby cows kept in the dark and fed milk until they get big enough to kill. Vegetarianism is for Hindus and heart patients.
She answers the man in a warm voice, slightly accented but fluent in Japanese. "Yes," she says, "I am calling for a man..."
She leans out of the tub to check the reading that she had jotted down. "Very tall, and built strongly, but not thick. He is clad in black and green, with a ruddy complexion. He will wear gloves, but with no fingers, and has black hair, adorned with red and gray. Is there anyone like that in your bar?"
A moment later, she adds, "I think that he is American, in habits at least. It is likely that he is also angry."
Oh, man. If Rose weren't such a hooker, she'd probably be the marrying type.
"Mmm, don't reckon I know anyone like that..." the bartender mumbles, the squeak of his finger rubbing across the edge of a glass easily heard over the radio. It's slow today, so there's not yet a cacophony of voices drowning out such little things. The phone is wedged between his jaw and shoulder. Now, clinking can be heard as he stacks up glasses, bottles, and so on and so forth. Whatever it is that bored bartenders do.
"Don't suppose you've got a name or nothin'? I can see if he's here anyway, ne'er know when a man kin change his clothes." Oh, that was... He said that with FAR more sarcasm than was necessary. Far more!
Rose can be pretty cool if you get past all the Italian. At least she shaves.
Rose listens to the man carefully; not just his voice, but the noises behind him. The squeek squeek of glasses being washed, the clank of glasses being stacked... She makes a faint 'mm hmm?' sound while the man explains, so that it's clear the line hasn't been dropped.
"Well," Rose says warmly, "I know his initials are R.C., but I am not certain of exactly how he is filling them out, as he has been out of communication for some time. But, if you can, please tell him that there is a job for him - although I must admit, it IS a little dangerous, and so I can understand if he is not interested."
There's a bit of silence from the bartender's end of the phone.
Well, not full silence. There's still the sounds of life in the background, though muffled, as the mouthpiece has obviously been turned and stuffed against the rag slung over his shoulder. Occasionally, there's the soft scraping of cloth against the microphone, so the connection IS still there. Well, most likely. Maybe the guy is just trying to destroy Rose's phone bill!
After about fifteen seconds of this, the 'gag' is removed, and a little clunking clatter of plastic as the thing changes hands. This voice is much deeper, far more gruff, and is obviously not a Japanese native. It's like an American speaking the language, with rough consonents. "Who the hell is R. C.?" he asks immediately. The sound of a glass rubbing back and forth across a laquered bartop indicates a restless hand, mimicking his voice.
Rose sighs and sinks a little further into the tub to enjoy the warm feeling of the water soaking into -
Oh, there he is. "Hallo," Rose says, in English. Her English, while understandable, has significantly more of an accent, and she continues easily, "I understand that you are Mr. R. C.? I am sorry that I have not gotten your name more accurately, but it was only a vague look! Anyway, I apologize to disturb you in such a way; I am Rose, and I would like to ask you to do something for me."
That may have been a tactical error, but then again, it is a woman on the line. (Or Poison. (If Poison wasn't a hot woman and nothing else, of course.))
There's a sound akin to a snort; something must have amused mister 'R.C.'.
"Do something for you, huh?" Ralf now speaks in English as well, but it's far better than the crummy sort he's most likely to hear over the phone. His is American English, the only language that's awesome enough for guys like him. There's a tinking sound as his fingernail smacks against the glass, and the thing is rubbed across the countertop once more, this time pushed toward the bartender. "Go ahead, double this time." On that nice, comfortable bar stool, Jones turns so his back is against the wall, one of his feet rising to rest on the stool next to his, causing it to squeak as he turns it clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise, clock-
You get the idea.
"I dunno," he says now, again speaking directly into the phone. "We've kinda busy this time of year. Lot of kids looking for presents for that Christmas in July crap. Those presents don't wrap themselves, you know."
"I'm certain that you are VERY good at handling a package," Rose says in a warm tone, "although the package that I have in mind is not quite ready yet, and it will, besides, take a little..."
The water in the bathtub sloshes as Rose feels out what will get the most determined interest from the man. Hm. Money? Money may work, but a true mercenary isn't in it purely for the money -- otherwise they'd be arms dealers. No...
"Doing," she continues, voice lowering, "to move it where I want it. But I suspect that you are already moving things in that direction as it is? So, it may not be such a burden after all."
"A package, yeah?" The tone in Ralf's voice is incredulous, derisive. Even the sloshing of water, the sultry compliment (though, it could be taken that he's good at handling OTHER people's package, in which case, holy crap, screw you lady) isn't enough to bring Mister Jones about! Having to deal with all of Heidern's paperwork is taking his toll on him. Weeks and weeks of no missions, or quick ones, and coming back to mountains of paperwork, it just...just sucks the soul out of you, man! No wonder the old boss was a vampire, he'd been at his desk for too damned long.
"Look lady, you want your package shipped, you better call UPS or somethin', whatever you got over there. We're too busy to go carting your box of silk undies straight from the worm's ass in China." And with that, there's a click. Shortly after that, a dial tone! How rude! But if she's really serious, she'll call back, he figures. The Ikari can afford to be picky.
"Oh, we seem to have been disconnected," Rose says conversationally. She still seems to be there in some form - if anything, she's speaking in stereo now, and without the interference from solar radiation or the crappy phone line leading into this little dive. "Of course, this is a great deal more secure, and I will be able to speak more clearly!"
She continues after a moment, "I will need to move a small group of people into Thailand. I am informed that you may be in possession of the means to do it - the latest in stealth technology, perhaps? I am not certain."
Pause.
Ralf closes his eyes, rubs them with the backs of his hands, then opens them. He's...well, he's still in the bar! A critical eye is cast toward the phone, one brow arched high, the other low. He picks the thing up, brings it to his ear, and, when he hears not the woman's voice, but a dial tone? He just sloooooowly sets it back in its cradle. Still, he remains silent, fingers resting on the edge of the bartop, and then they start drumming.
How. Fucking. WEIRD.
"Hey, give me something stronger, will you? A triple shot of it. And no ice! Just fill that damn glass up."
Rose remains companionably silent, and when Ralf places his drink order, she starts speaking again. "It's good that you are taking this so well. Normally, people are distressed; in order to avoid difficulties I've taken to using other methods..."
She trails off for a moment, before continuing, "I'm not sure how much you're already doing there, and it is possible, of course, that all of this is in vain... but I suspect otherwise. I'm sure you've been concerned by all these events, haven't you, Mr..."
Is she rummaging in Ralf's brain!? She does conclude, "/Jones/! I am terribly sorry, I could have sworn that was a 'C'."
No sooner does the drink get set down in front of Ralf, than Rose starts piping up again. The first time, he chalked it up to crummy booze. The second time? Well. The second time, he doesn't take it nearly as well.
In a hurry, he all but falls off of his barstool, backing up against the wall with his arms out beside him. "Get the FUCK out of my head, man!" He looks left, he looks right, searching for signs. He's seen them. There's always something: a bright light, a quiet little guy with an odd stare and a neck that doesn't sit at QUITE the right angle. Vision shifts from person to person to television to mirror, finding himself staring at...well, himself, just in case the mirror shows what his sense of feeling can not.
"You want revenge for your freak friends, you're not gonna find it here! I'll kill alla you bastards, doesn't matter how big your queen mother is!" As he yells out, apparently not quite caring what the patrons think, he sliiiides along the wall, slipping back around the corner to the little cubby that leads to the bathrooms. He peers around them first, searching for things. A space ship, a slime trail, whatever.
"Why don't you just show yourself, huh? We'll get this settled nice and quick-like."
Rose's voice produces no words, but instead a long, tired, world-weary sigh as Ralf makes his moves. "I'm not an alien," she says, with the soothing and determined tone of a preschool teacher explaining to a child that while God may be everywhere, he isn't angry at you.
Not right now, anyway.
She continues, "I'm speaking to you with my psychic powers," which is not that much of a distortion, "and I am not physically present, and as such, shouting aloud will not really help matters." A moment later, she continues, "Were you listening to anything I said, earlier?" This sounds only a -little- nagging.
Ralf makes his way into the men's bathroom, still stiff, still looking around CONSTANTLY. "Nobody's god mind powers except for Martians," he answers aloud, matter-of-factly. Small half-steps take him to peer around each dividing wall between the urinals, fists clenched and ready to punch the shit out of those creepy little alien bastards.
"Yeah, I heard you. You want someone to deliver your package of Martian babies, you'll have to get someone a helluva lot dumber than me! I'll smash the little bastards, and then when I find your mothership, I'll beat the holy hell out of you, too!"
Still slinking along, he kicks open a door to a stall, greeted with...well, with a bit of bog paper on the floor and a toilet that could stand a little cleaning, but otherwise...nothing.
Rose is silent during most of this. Part of it is simple incredulity, the other part is formulating a plan. "You are correct," she says finally, deciding that deceit may be the path of least resistance, "in that I am from Mars, but you mistake our people for being identical."
Think, Rose, think, she tells herself as she fully submerges every last inch of creamy skin in the bathtub, several miles away. What was that book?
"I represent the... Malacandrian faction, which wishes nothing but good for your people," she continues. "The mothership of the invasion fleet has been tucked away in Thailand, and our enemies' leader is the true force behind the one whom you know as 'Vega'."
The toilet does not attack Ralf.
While the toilet does not attack Ralf, Ralf does indeed attack the toilet. His leg lifts up, and he kind of...bats at the porcelain rim with the bottom of his boot. When all it does is stand there and not vaporize him, he decides that it must be safe.
Now! On to the NEXT stall!
The people outside of the bathrooms listen intently. Hell, some of them wonder if they should call the authorities! But he's not breaking anything, so...maybe he's just really, really...really drunk.
"Ah hah! So you're with that nazi guy, huh? Screw you, mister Martian superleader lady, I'm not dropping your alien babies off to feast upon the corpses there. We've got this thing all under control, so you just sit up on your red moon rock and wait your turn!"
"No," Rose says with a tone of extreme patience. She is not entirely sure what Ralf is doing at this remove, but she can feel that drunken masculine agitation that generally leads to some sort of shenanigans.
The next stall is similarly empty, although -- is that something in the bowl, Ralf?! Maybe it's a transmitter!!
Rose continues, "As I said, I am working with your people to prevent our escaped criminal - the 'nazi guy' that you mentioned - from causing any more harm than he already has. Our sources chose you as the most talented person available."
Rose, back in her tub, eyes her tarot cards in momentary suspicion.
Ugh. No.
That's not a transmitter.
That's a floater.
...Fucking retarded alien brain thing.
With a grimace, Ralf flushes the damn thing down. Then again. THEN AGAIN. Christ. It was like some...some super block that wouldn't go down. NASTY. With that, Jones has run out of stalls! The bathroom, it seems, is safe. "Don't be stupid, your nazi guy is totally different from that dictator we've got going nuts over in Thailand. This guy's got like the biggest chin, EVER. Your guy doesn't have pants. See the difference?" Pause. "What kind of super-intelligence alien brain beast are you that you don't even know that?"
At the very least, Ralf seems to have calmed down. He's still speaking aloud, however. "Look, we're already working on the Vega creep. I'm still not going to drop your space lingerie on him, though. We humans can handle this crap on our own, you hear me?"
"You didn't just flush your head in the toilet, did you?" Rose asks suspiciously. Then she continues, hearing Ralf perfectly well, along with all of the other people in the bar, "We are rebels and do not have access to a full information gathering suite." Yes, she thinks to herself, that would work out.
She then wonders who the hell is the man without pants, but presses on regardless. "Would it help if I introduced you to the group of individuals who I wish to have enter the captured territory? To satisfy you that they are not, as you say, full of my space lingerie."
Ralf may have the impression of something being swallowed, before Rose continues, "You will also be compensated richly." A momentary pause. "In Earth monies."
Ralf did NOT flush his head, thank you! Jesus. Alien bitch needs to get on the ball, learn what the hell the different between flushing a turd and giving oneself a swirly is. The man will be glad to demonstrate--or would, if aliens had hair, which they totally do not. It's not as much fun without the hair.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, just--" He waves his hand, as if talking to someone in front of him. And he's still speaking aloud! "You know I can smoosh your alien babies right away if they look funny, right? I don't care if they're armored or anything, I'll punch the goop right the hell out of them. If this is all some kinda scheme to get me to help you get a foothold, you're gonna be missing like, two dozen larvathingies." The man's arms fold over his chest as he walks away from the stinky stall, stopping to look once more in the mirror. "And cut the crap here, tell me what the hell you've got, where it's goin', and we'll talk about payment. I ain't agreeing to a thing until I know what the hell you're trying to pull."
"I promise you," Rose says, with more of that audible patience, "that if you see any of my alien spawn, you may destroy them if you feel that they present a threat to your green and pleasant world."
Rose, back in her tub, takes a pull straight from the bottle of white wine, rather than refilling her glass. After a sigh, she continues.
"In a period between one to three weeks from now," Rose says, "I wish to transport a group which will contain at least four, and perhaps as many as ten, individuals to the interior of Thailand. I would also appreciate assistance in the form of firepower for part of this journey, although this is negotiable. We will then be leaving, hopefully all intact, some time between one and three days later."
She is writing these details on the side of the bathtub wall with lipstick in order to make sure she remembers them clearly, later.
"How does that sound," she concludes, "Mr. Jones?"
Jones grinds his teeth a bit at this, one eye squeezing nearly-shut. His Popeye impression isn't terrible, but it's also unintended. He's just staring at the mirror, trying to make SURE there's nothing latched onto his brain right now. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Lord Poobah. We're not transporting anything without knowing what it is, and only if we agree to it." The collective 'we', that is. The Queen's 'we'.
Now, the firepower ain't a problem. Like I said, we're already fixing to gear up for the place anyway, figuring someone would call us for it." Pause. "So, what's the cargo? EXACTLY."
Rose almost says 'human beings' but decides that this is probably not the right phrase to use even as Ralf is inspecting himself for pod creatures and finding nothing other than what may be a zit on his eyebrow. Right in the middle, too! That sucker's going to hurt if it's not a stray piece of ceiling dust.
"Soldiers," she continues. "Fighters. I do not have precise identities yet as we are still... recruiting, and there is training that must be done. And are you really? Well, then; perhaps I am 'someone'."
Ralf does NOT have a giant zit on his eyebrow, GOD. Rose must be drunk, what with her lipstick letters to herself. God, naked Italian hooker psychics are WEIRD. Just WEIRD.
"That ain't an 'exactly'! Look, here's how it's gonna go." He starts counting off on his fingers, more for his own benefit than anything. "I'm gonna need a list of WHO I'm running around. Names, pictures all that! And no last-minute additions! Once we've got who we're dumping off, that's it, no freeloaders." His arms fold again over his chest, lower lip tucking in as he sucks on it. "Secondly, I'll need a point of contact for you. We're not doin' any work for someone we can't get a hold of. THEN, even considering IF we don't find that your spawn is all evil, IF we decide to ship these fighters instead of dumping them into the ocean, payment is up front. All of it." He's quiet for a second then, waiting for some sort of confirmation.
The voice doesn't answer for about fifteen seconds.
"Your terms," Rose concludes, "are acceptable. You may contact me at the following phone number -" digits go here "- and you may leave messages at me at the 'Young Fighters' Community Center' in Southtown. I hope you will understand why I do not disclose the location of my residence."
She then adds, "If there is nothing else, I'll let you be. Mars gives you its thanks."
Client not wanting to be known is common, luckily for Rose! The Ikari see such things all the time. However, Ralf does groan. "Youth Fighters what the hell ever... Great. Got a fucking pedophile for a client." It dawns on him that he didn't write the number down, however! He reaches in his pockets, scrambling for a pen, writing it on the palm of his hand when he finds one. How classy!
"Mars can blow me," he adds, with a bit of finality. No, wait. "You better take over that stupid planet soon, I'm sick of them always trying to take us over." NOW there's finality.
"No, that's Vega," Rose observes in passing. "We'll keep it in mind. Goodbye."
Then she stops talking. There is no distinct difference in mental tension. Perhaps she's still there? Better tell her off more later to make sure.
Log created on 19:57:35 06/07/2007 by Rose, and last modified on 05:13:55 09/13/2007.