Description: New players. New cards. Blackjack enters the game. Gambling ain't a sin. Provided you always win.
The warehouse district is infested with ne'er do wells and similar societal malcontents. It's almost a constant across the world that a busy trade harbor also holds a seedy underside. Nevertheless, in Southtown, the level of criminal activity is so great that people have become very brazen int heir activities. Most businesses expect to lose a portion of profit just due to the amoutn of things that 'fall off the boat'.
And here's where Elle makes a good portion of her money.
Missions are few and far inbetween nowadays. Most, if not all the big tyrants have disappeared or fallen by the wayside, which means that there are very few wealthy clients left to need mercenaries in particular.
Nevertheless, there are always people that need less than legal goods in mass quantities, and Elle is in the business of knowing those people.
The place? An unmarked warehouse. A veritable bazaar of the bizarre, almost anything can be found here. Cocaine peddlers attempt to move bags of white powder labled as off-brand laundry detergent next to crates of fake Rolexes. Men and women haggle over prices of assault rifles and tubes of spectra armor plating, the nigh mythical armor hardening substance coming in what looks like toothpaste tubes.
And in the middle of this mess is the de facto Blackjack commander dropping what look like urine sample jars filled with faintly glowing green liquid on a table in front of a man selling hot pharmecuticals. "Look, I know it's devalued since Burn came out, but there's still a demand. What can you give me for two hundred liters of this stuff?"
"Sorry lady. no can do," growls the gruff voice from the man across from the table. The scruffy looking fellow wears a woolen cap and an army vest over a wifebeater. "Glow just ain't movin' like it useta. Best I can do is swap out for my surplus of 'natural male enhancement' pills. You can sell that shit at double the cost in Veitnam and Thailand at the docks."
Poor Elle. Clearly things aren't going too well for her. Business ain't exactly stellar, what with all those recent fluctuations in the industry. Hard to push your drugs when there's competition which is better and cheaper. She's just losing her market share. But that's life. Some people have bad days.
While others have good days.
There's movement on one side of the warehouse, at the loading bay door functioning as the marketplace's entrance. The shifting of guards, men figuring weapons, eying the new arrival so casually waltzing in through the entrance. But then they relax, letting her pass unhindered.
Which is odd, really. You'd think a 14-year-old girl would gain some attention walking into a place like this. She's just this small slender thing, a teen in in-line skates and stereo headphones. The sort of kid who belongs zipping down the sidewalk down in the Village. Not over here, all the way in Southtown's underside. A place so low on the city's anatomy, it isn't even an underbelly...but somewhat lower and rather less hygenic.
But no. She just passes by the arms dealers, the drug pushers, barely rating a glance.
Riko Koganei.
They know her here.
If Elle was prone to emotional outbursts, she'd likely leave in frustration. Most of her team applied for leave. Many of them have fallen idle since the work dried up. It's been a difficult month, much less a day. While she's saved up enough for a rainy day, Elle's not too keen on biting into company savings while she waits out a dry spell.
And then comes the non-interloper.
They may know Riko here... but this environment is ill suited to deal with her. The glances might be sparse, but they're there. Information fiters quickly through the market, and while Riko may have managed to establish familiarity, nothing will remove the underlying sensation of her being alien here.
Besides. No black marketeer worth his or her salt would ever trust a ninja.
"Brat at three o'clock," mutters Dominic "Skittles" Capano, the guy in the cap and vest, his nickname originating from the well known fact that he pushes pills around like candy. "Look, if you're looking for work, E, she might be the one to talk to. Rumor has it, she's got some cash on tap, you know?"
Elle turns around just in time to see Riko skate by lazily, and her normally neutral face turns into a slight frown. Kids. She hates kids. Just on a very basic fundamental level. But business is business, and from what she's heard, ths Riko character is involved in more than just a few trades in the market. "Thanks, Dom. I owe you one."
Leaving the devalued NESTS manufactured Glow behind, she begins to follow after the skating ninja, her heavy boots cracking along the concrete floor.
Meanwhile, a few stalls away...
...Riko stops, coming to a halt. The wheels of her skates scrape against the ground, the hard floor of the old storage space. She casually leans to one side as a tattooed man brushes past her, wrinkling her nose at the cigarette smoke. But she stays where she is, suddenly motionless in the crowd.
She can't have heard the exchange between the Blackjack leader and her associate. It's too noisy in here. Too big a crowd. But she seems to sense Elle's approach all the same. The girl turns her head, looking over her shoulder. Past a table full of butterfly knives, through the press of criminal humanity - her eyes fixed directly on Elle. Making contact.
Riko smiles.
Elle's not wasting any time, which doesn't give her much in the means of preparation. Normally, she likes to thoroughly study a person before she deals with them. In this particular case, all she can do is call upon her memory. While she does have a fairly impressive one, it's limited to what she's seen in print.
Even her photographic memory has limitations.
And now the kid is smiling at her. Wonderful. Elle doesn't do that herself much. Never has reason to. Makes people think, and that's the last thing Elle ever wants people to do. "You're kind of small to be making such a big stink," elle says, her soulless brown eyes staring at Riko, her voice dry, raspy, bland.
"Then maybe," Riko replies, without missing a beat, "I should change my diapers."
She returns Elle's gaze. That smile still hovers on Riko's lips. But it's amazing how that's purely a movement of muscles and skin, over the canvas of her face - but one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Unblinking, locked with Elle's own.
The girl's voice is a clear soprano, pitched just right to be heard over the noise of the crowd, pitched just so she doesn't need to strain to be heard. Cheerful, almost friendly, a pleasant lilt.
She turns fully, then, gliding closer, her skate wheels rolling over the concrete ground. Past the knife stall, round the table. Coming to face Elle.
This is precisely why Elle hates kids. When they're not mewling idiots, they're smug and irritating. When you're a mercenary, the fastest way to die is to go into a situation with more confidence than you can afford.
But that's neither here nor there. She's dealing with a ninja. It's a broad brush to paint with, but there's a certain way about these jokers. She'd prefer not to deal with them at all. Lies and deception were never her strong points.
"Your crap," she intones, "is playing merry hob with almost every business contact I have. You're destablizing my investors. I'm not going to get pissed off about it. It's how the business works. All I want to know is: What's your deal, shortcake?"
Riko tilts her head to the side. She blinks once, twice, the very picture of perfect innocence, guileless and true. She peers at Elle with wide eyes, her eyebrows arching, her mouth forming a small 'o'.
And then she blinks again, her face changing, returning to that smile. She spreads her hands, fingers parted, palms open towards the ceiling.
"My deal?"
Yeah. Elle's swayed by that. She's also got some swampland in Florida to sell, too.
"Let's try this again. We're not going to discuss how well you can stab people in the back of the head in the dark. You're probably good at that. Seems that everyone is nowadays. But you're not too keen when it comes to covering your tracks on an op."
Elle keeps her hands to her sides, straightening her back so that she stands at her full height. "And again.. normally I wouldn't care at all. But you're shaking up my cash flow, and you beat one of my operative's head in, so I have a vested interest now."
She points a finger to Riko. "I'm not a brainless statistics sheet with feet like the rest of these yahoos. So spill."
Riko stares at Elle's finger, stabbing towards her. She doesn't make any attempt to deny the accusations. But she doesn't seem troubled by them either. Hers isn't a guilty expression, not the look of someone caught. She just gives a tiny little shrug.
She turns her head, looking left, then right. The motion quite deliberate. By now, the little exchange between the Blackjack leader and the teenage ninja is beginning to draw some attention. The background noise is falling slightly, as conversations cease. As people turn to look. Confrontations and violence are hardly alien in a place like this, populated by men of the Syndicate, of the Yakuza, and others. But this is something different.
Riko glances at the onlookers. Then she returns her gaze to Elle.
Again, she smiles.
"So," Riko murmurs, "he was one of -yours-. Interesting, we hadn't realised that."
Her eyes narrow, closing into slits.
"Well then...what do you -think- we're up to, Ms. Belmounte?"
"I don't. That's why I'm asking. If I sat around all day playing fifty questions with myself about what ninjas are doing in my backyard, I'd be a prime candidate for the nuthouse," Elle replies frankly. The quieting surroundings doen't seem to bother her, although the fact that the probability of any valuable information being shared has just been flushed down the toilet.
"Look. I'm being straightforward with you, and all you're doing is giving me smug, cryptic bullshit. That's a cute little trick when you're dealing with kids that are barely old enough to put on big boy pants, but it's not doing a thing for me."
The mercenary lowers her hand. As usual, talking to a ninja has become a counterproductive exercise. "It's my business to know everything, kid. I could tell you Billy Kane's grade point average in high school, if I really needed to know it. You can just tell me what's going on and save everyone a lot of hassle... or I'll find out anyway and just get very upset while doing it. Then nobody'll be happy. So like I said: spill, and I'll just go home."
Riko's lip twitches. She lifts one finger, touching the tip to her chin. She looks quizzically at Elle, genuinely curious.
"Billy Kane went to school?"
Pause.
"Oh, nevermind."
Riko moves her hand - but keeps her finger raised.
"Then let me count for you, hm?"
She smirks.
"One, you said we've been 'destablizing' your business. So..."
She gestures at their surroundings, indicating the expanse of the old warehouse.
"...you have some idea what we've been doing, hm?"
A nod, towards the far corner of the warehouse floor - and a table of firearms, Kalashnikovs and Saigas.
"I understand the Russian underground has been -very- peturbed with all those police raids, missing shipments, and all that money just...vanishing from bank accounts. Not that -we'd- know anything about that, of course."
It's a bland statement, a simple one. But it elicits a faint amount of muttering from the crowd. Riko ignores them. Another finger comes up.
"Two," Riko continues, pleasantly, "you know we've been ambushing fighters. You've already guessed we're evaluating them, right? Reed's bright, did he figure it out? Or was that you? Either way..."
A third finger.
"And three," she says, "you know we've been -spending- money. Quite a lot of it."
She grins, impishly, folding her arms.
"So," she concludes, "so."
"So, what that means," Elle says dryly, "is that you've accrued a significant bounty on your head."
"Quite a buildup you have there. I'm impressed. It's a pretty elaborate setup," intones the mercenary. There's a few other choice words Elle could say, but she doesn't have the same heroic gumption to say them, much less act on any of them. If Riko was one of her teammates, however, she'd be getting a giant lecture right about now.
Just another reason she doesn't work with kid or animals, as the Hollywood adage goes.
"You know, I wish I had the balls you had when I was your age. Maybe I'd actually be doing something productive with my life," Elle eventually says after mulling over the information in her head for the fifth time since Riko finished her statement. "The catbird seat must feel real nice right about now."
"Oh," Riko replies, glibly, "Seishirou-sama's the one with the /balls/. I have different anatomy."
She gives Elle a quizzical look, her face scrunching up, brows knitting - she cups her chin with one hand, giving a feigned expression of complete and utter befuddlement.
"But so do you, unless..."
Riko trails off, leaving the thought - thankfully - unfinished.
Of course, mild insult aside, there's...quite a significant piece of information there. If Elle thinks Riko's working alone...well, the girl seems intent on correcting that misconception. Setting the facts straight.
But why?
Elle learned a long time ago that letting assaults to her ego get the better of her results in failure. That, plus a particulalrly unpleasant run in with Vega has left her little more than a burned out shell. Being the living dead has it's ups and downs. One of the bonuses is that the jibes of a 14 year old girl in the grand scheme of thing pales to the other problems in her life.
Like the stiff neck she has from spending the entire night studying financial records.
But the main thrust: that Seishirou is involved at the very least, if not one in the driver's seat, doesn't register on her face. Maybe she's just slow, or maybe she doesn't care.
"That means you're replaceable, in every sense of the word, right?"
"Not really," Riko shoots back, her mein utterly deadpan, "can't make another Riko. Haven't stolen cloning technology...yet."
She doesn't mention the name of NESTS. There's no need to, really. The point stands well enough on its own.
If it's a joke...well, that's hard to tell. Her tone is light, conversational, casual - but the words are serious, completely so. She makes that pronouncement without batting an eyelid.
"But how 'bout 'cha, Miz Belmounte, could your /friends/ do without /you/?"
"See, here's the thing. I'm not under any delusions that I'm more important than I actually am. All of them managed to survive before me, and I'm sure they'do just fine without me," Elle says. "And they're mercenaries. Every one of them knew what risks they were taking when they signed up."
"And in the end? I don't have any friends. Just people that I like to do business with."
Certainly, replacing a few faces and bodies would be hard... but the lack of expression on her face isn't a mask. That's all there is to her. A colder-hearted person would be difficult to find.
Kill the head and the body dies. That's what she's been told. But the head has a hard time getting anywhere with the body's arms and legs broken.
But Elle's not dumb enough to start a fight in the middle of the market. Not if she wants to get banned from doing business here. "Must be nice knowing everything. I know just enough to know that I'll only have half the story at any given time, and let me tell you, that makes for pretty miserable going. See you around, shortcake." And with that, she turns around. True to her word, once Riko spills, she's going home.
"See you around," Riko echoes, "Miz Belmounte."
She makes a jaunty little wave, swinging her arm in a cute little arc. A big broad smile plastered across her face. Bright, sunshiny, and oh-so-positive. But still, all the same, showing just a touch too many teeth.
Riko makes no attempt to stop Elle. She just watches the woman as she walks away, keeping her eyes on Elle's back. And then, once she passes from view, engulfed by the crowd of humanity packed into the black market warehouse, Riko turns on the ball of her foot, pivoting on one skate wheel. She glides off in the other direction, passing between stalls of extra-legal merchandise.
"Hm," she muses out loud, as she slips a hand into a pocket, producing a slender mobile phone. Her fingers play deftly over the keys, whipping out a text message. A few brief lines, accompanied with the mandatory ^-^ emoticon.
Interesting, this Elle Belmounte. Not what Riko expected. The profile'd indicated a do-nothing go-nowhere slacker, a lackluster musician. Hardly a background of success. The only point of interest, her recent criminal activities - but even those, limited by scope and the ragtag nature of her personnel.
Yet...it would seem her intelligence - and her Blackjack group - is more than what they'd assumed. Maybe Elle doesn't -quite- comprehend the full scope of the plan. But she's closer than anyone's gotten so far.
An unexpected bonus.
Really, she was expecting to be challenged by someone from the Russian underground, but if Blackjack is aware of their activities, that's almost as good. Perhaps better.
It's true that Riko hasn't -quite- covered her tracks well as she could, in going around and doing her master's bidding.
Riko smiles, as she thumbs the 'send' button. Then she pockets the phone, and whistles merrily as she rolls away.
It's true. But every trap needs bait.
Log created on 13:28:53 08/11/2007 by Riko, and last modified on 15:03:02 08/12/2007.