Description: A rather secret meeting between Rolento and Oswald, in which Oswald is paid a heft amount of money to retain the Gambler's services as a problem-solver. A deal which will lead to a future log of a fight between Rolento and Oswald himself, as a test of strength.
Potential employers are likely nothing new to a man of Oswald's reputation. Although few are as careful and thorough as the mysterious individual who has attempted to contact him for the last number of days. Such would have began with a plain looking individual in a duster, approaching with thorough information on Oswald's underworld identity and activities. There is absolutely no threat, merely confirmation that he knew the mercenaries' resume. Questions would have been answered, within reason. Someone wants to put him on retainer. Someone with an enormous amount of money. Someone very important and powerful. In many ways, this intermediary is going through the motions; Oswald would likely get the impression he is not unique in this type of proposal. A crisp, no nonsense business with an almost dark efficiency.
He would only be there to gauge interest, and offer a place to meet. Within 4:00 and 4:15PM, at a small Antique store. Merely ask the cashier to see Mr. Johnson. Oswald would be able to bring any associates he desired for his own personal protection, but with an empty smile and hands placatingly raised, the intermediary would assure that is not necessary.
Said store, if Oswald cares to go to it, specializes in old war treasures, from the Civil to Vietnam. Windows are tinted, the sign on the street almost too subtle to be read, and the atmosphere within far from welcoming, flickering lights casting the myriad items in shadow. It is disturbingly small, although the items are high quality. At the very back is a thin man behind a counter, with a lone door of unusual thickness behind.
While employers themselves weren't a rare thing, those that actually are interesting aren't quite so common. 'I need your help', and 'I want this person killed' rarely catch his attention or his handshake on a role, a man of reputation and rather odd 'scruples' of his type gets to pick and choose the tasks he gets paid for. A perk for being unique in his skills.
Oswald came alone to the antique and curio shop, the little bronze bell chiming a bit as the door shuts behind him. It was well placed, easily accessible yet obscured from obvious, and even better, the shelf's contents would keep him interested if he had to wait. Such antiquities weren't oft seen, so for the first few moments, the sharply dressed Oswald - in his best suit today - casually looks over the items until the keeper would come to him. And then he would ask...
"Oh...don't mind me, I'm just here to meet Mr. Johnson."
The cashier is obviously old and gaunt, features distinctly Vietnamese; one eye is missing, with the appearance of having been lost to a violent encounter. Likely well into his fifties, he may be a veteran of Vietnam as well... if on the winning side. Southtown, of course, could care less about such. He said nothing, merely approaching with a dour expression. "Mr. Johnson is downstairs." is all but whispered in response, hand gesturing to the large door. He scans the rest of the shop, seeming to note Oswald came alone but saying nothing of it. Turning around rather slowly, the cashier folds his arms behind his lower back and slips back behind the register. Crouching, he reappears with a broad key ring. And then opens the door, taking a couple seconds longer then even conservative guesses. Within, the darkness of stairs curving down. He would go back to his vigil thereafter, good eye focused on the shadows flitting past the window facing the street.
Said stairs lead to a steel door, likely not standard installation. Rivets and reinforcements are seen upon it, and a shutter at roughly eye level. With a loud rasp it is pulled open the second Oswald arrives. The reason isn't hard to deduce; a blinking red light of a camera situated above. "Oswald?" is asked, accent strongly Hispanic.
They certainly needed quite a bit of protection. Rightfully so, he supposes, most of his employers have a plethora of reasons to stay discreet. As the door creaks open and the name is asked, the Gambler reaches up and takes his fedora-like hat off, looking up to the camera. He wasn't much concerned with it, after all the fact he was approached and hired meant his image was already well known. He hadn't done much as of late that could be considered 'illegal' anyway.
He keeps the hat pressed against his side by somewhat-pinching it between arm and chest, giving a nod to the clerk before passing through the open door, looking into the shutter's interrogator as his name is confirmed. "Yes." He responds plainly but flatly, leaving little room for doubt or second guessing, fingers drumming each a single time on the rim of the hat as he awaits, "Mr. Johnson is expecting me."
"..." There's no hurry, the sliver of tan flesh and narrowed eyes focused for a good few seconds. The camera's light continues to blink regularly. Finally, the shutter slams shut. And the unusually distant sound of locks disengaging, before the door is drawn open. Immediately, the thickness would be noticed. To an appraising eye, this room is likely completely sound proof. A single naked bulb dangles from the concrete ceiling. There are four men in light tan uniforms, all housing red berets. They have no traditional weapons, beyond a large number of daggers. This room is likely twenty by twenty feet, the middle taken up by a metal table and two chairs on opposite sides, all bolted to the ground. A radio occupies a corner, wire coiling up to a hole in the ceiling likely connected to a rooftop transceiver. Crates are stacked up in another, and the last is filled by a lone wooden chair with arms. Makeshift straps are where the ankle and wrist would be, and a pushcart nearby houses a battery and a superbright directional lamp, presently off. There are stains of red around it, currently uncleaned.
Oswald might be able to garner something from the red berets. Only one private military in the world has such a distinctive outfit. The United Soldiers for the People's Liberation, a radical group lead by the notorious Rolento Schugerg. A man who laid siege to Metro City for months, and has an unknown wealth that can only be measured in multiple millions.
...But Rolento is not here. These four are underlings. Another camera is in a corner, facing the stained chair. "We'd like to search you." is asked by the Hispanic. Two are Arabian. Another seems American. Quite the melting pot, this aspiring dictator has.
Memories. He's seen such a chair before, felt the deafening roar of soundproof silence in the past. He had spent his fair share of time as a 'soldier' himself before adding 'of fortune' to the end of that title. A momentary flit of the eyes go to that chair, wondering if but for a moment if it were for him - but no, chances are that it was not - he had not crossed anyone's path, and all of his previous 'victims' were long since dead or rendered non-volatile. A part of Oswald, deep down, is quietly thankful for that, given that these four looked quite ready to be 'convincing'.
Oswald is unsurprised as the imperative search is brought up, handing his hat to one of the guards, upside down, and removing his personal effects. Glasses neatly folded, watch plucked and removed, chain, wallet, a cigarette tin, and a used deck of casino style playing cards - complete with the hole punched in the middle. Just so happens it's the deck he won quite a lovely sum of money at a few years back - and no, it's not the cards that are so laudedly used in his unique style of combat.
"Proceed." He assumes a rather knowing position, arms out to each side, standing up straight. He knew better than to pack a weapon in a first meeting - it was a risk but it was worth taking for that first impression...
The Hispanic begins a thorough search, none of the hesitation or nervousness that some might have; likely a man who's not about to miss anything out of the ordinary, as another actually checks the hat thoroughly, checking for any small compartments. The lucky deck was taken out, and all of them inspected. This employer knows his talent, it would seem, and they look to each other before shaking their head, seeming intent. This appears to now be phase one. The third, an unusually tall Arabian, pulls out a small metal detector. He slowly pivots it over Oswald's standing form, top to bottom, but finds nothing out of the ordinary. "You no have cards?" is asked with a grunt, as if Oswald has spat in the face of these four. They look to almost be hostile. "Where you hide cards? Mr. Johnson say make sure confiscate cards!"
"Mr. Johnson..." Oswald takes a moment to punctuate his phrase with a pause, looking at the man with the metal detector with a look that is more of disdain than anger or annoyance, "...should know that I don't come armed to meetings."
He lets his arms go down as he unbuttons the first-held button of the jacket and slips it off, leaving him in his shirt, tie and slacks, "Employers have enough weapons pointed at them, they don't need another person to worry about." The jacket is held at arm's length as if expecting someone to take it for a more thorough search, though there is, in all earnesty, nothing to find.
"You may search to your satisfaction, but this is how I operate. Though it's a roll of the dice that my employer-potentiates would return my curtosey, they have the benefit of my respect from the get-go."
Indeed, a more thorough search and another pass with the metal detector follows. The two Arabians consult with each other; portions understandable, but it's a vague dialect. 'Looks clean', is the jist. One of them then goes to the radio, checking his watch. 4:19. He radios something, whispering in hushed tones while glancing to Oswald repeatedly. Finally he nods, although absolutely nothing came from the other end. "He coming."
The very second that it is 4:20, the metal door is pushed open, and immediately all four men are struck with rigor mortis. They are almost painfully upright, one arm at the side and the other brought up in a salute. Eyes face directly towards the new arrival, void expressions not quite able to disguise a trace of fear. The presence of Rolento Schugerg is suffocating to lesser people, after all. Sheer confidence, control, dominance. Tall and disturbingly well built, he looks in his forties despite having to be more like sixty. A jagged shrapnel scar is upon his face, eyes milky white. Gripped in one hand is a metal briefcase.
In a smooth motion he hefts it upon the table without a word, and unclasps both ends. It immediately springs open. Within is stacks of hundred dollar bills. Lots, and lots, and lots.
"One million for retainer. A bonus for every successful assignment. What I need, Oswald, is manpower. I have an army. I only need people able to stop one-man armies."
'He coming', was enough to satisfy his patience for the moment. "Mind?" He asks flatly as he reaches to the hat - if unprevented, aiming to light up a cigarette - and moving to offer some to the Soldiers... and then the door opens.
As they stand at attention, the cigarette tin is closed and tossed back to the hat where it would be safe, and Oswald himself doesn't quite get as rigid but he does stand more proper.
Oswald tries to keep a cool face in the presence of rather unmitigating authority, shoulders instinctively straightening - reverting back to his own days in a militia-esque time. A short nod would be given if eyes meet his, but otherwise Oswald stays focused on Rolento. Analysing, scrutinizing, taking in every detail. To have such an effect on others is two parts power, one part composure. Oswald sought to pick up on the nuances... but the time to do so was short.
That briefcase is placed and popped open, Oswald's lips purse together and eyebrows raise a bit at the sight, turning head to look toward Rolento. "Straight to the point. I can respect that." he gives a pensive nod and brings his arms up to cross before him, "One million does cover and surpass my usual retainer. But no doubt as you have heard, I usually like to know, generally, what you expect me to go up again. After all, I am a good gauge of my own capabilities, and wouldn't want you to imporperly invest your money - and for me to improperly invest my life."
A hand reaches out to the briefcase, pulling a random stack out of the batch and letting the bills flick through, making sure they were not blanks, "I won't ask for ... intimate details ... but I do request some sort of information on which 'one men armies' I will be sabotaging."
"Negative. I would not waste money on a frivolous lack of talent. You are a composed, reliable and consistent mercenary. That is not in question." The money taken is non-sequential circulated bills. In other words, completely legal and untraceable. "Insects." is all that Rolento mulls in regards to any intimate details. "I have countless enemies, and little time. If any interrupt my operations in a meaningful manner, I will contact you." He reaches into his vest and pulls out a small satellite radio, setting it inside the briefcase. "The only other perquisite is a combative assessment, in order to gauge your capabilities. Your performance will influence your compensation on comparative danger, as well as how much your time is worth against lesser fighters..." Rolento's eyes shift to the Hispanic, who has begun to slouch. In a flash, there's a horrific crack of his baton hitting him in the back of the knee. He cries in pain, collapsing to the ground.
"INEXCUSABLE." Rolento snarls, reaching down and grasping the injured U.S.P.L. soldier. "IF YOU LACK DISCPLINE FOR MERE STANDING, WHAT USE ARE YOU TO MY ARMY?!" He hefts the man, who is not nearly small, as if he were made of paper. And he does not beg for his life, although sweat and fear are upon his face. "I,It will not happen again, commander!!" The other three did not even flinch. For long seconds, Rolento stares into the man's face, then hurls him against the wall. Before turning to Oswald, as if nothing awry took place. "When is a good time for such a test?" He sheathes his baton in a smooth motion.
Oswald had seen the strike coming the moment that palpable moment of tension was felt. Though Oswald did not flinch at the crack of the baton, he did inhale sharply and pause to see the scenario through. Physical strength, speed, and that tangible, undenyable authourity. The radio is placed in the briefcase, and that makes Oswald opt to close it, thumbs fastening the clasps shut.
"Mister Rolento." His tone is as it usually would be, cold, brisk, formal and steady - while he probably would take a severe beating from the man and his allies - Oswald still had remarkable mental resole, "Understand that I usually care to review options before accepting an open contract of this nature." The tone would indicate that he's making an exception, and the fact that his hand is clasped about the handle as he lifts the briefcase from the table would support this.
"You are not a man that is flighty in his decision - you don't strike me as such. You know that I have a strict code of conduct with my employers and the way I do my business, it is how I have survived my years in the business."
"I reserve the right to re-evaluate the contract at the end of each mission. Should for some reason our agreement come to an end in a premature manner, a pro-rated amount of the retainer will be refunded. During this time I will be in your service, and despite any future contract the information and knowledge that pass regarding you or your targets remain priveledged. For a period of four months after contractual obligations end, I will not engage in acts that would interfere with your goals as far I would know so long as your organization and any of its members do not act against me first."
He seems rather stern about the rules, they are quite paramount, especially in such a vague deal, "They may be hard rules to swallow for some, but I do not betray my clients, past or present. However, a man of your experience knows that a soldier must be cautious in these sorts of dealings. If you accept the regulations, we can arrange for a test at a time we both see fit."
Such is merely listened to, absolutely no sign on Rolento's face for ill or good. Before he begins to smile, and then laugh, yet in a way that is not exactly insulting. "What I do is not a business, Oswald. I am a commander. I am fighting a *war*. And I have no rules but my path for success!! All obstacles will be torn down and shattered beneath my feet! So know that my word is not absolute, and not binding; your contract would be secondary to the vitality and success of U.S.P.L., yet it is very doubtful such will conflict. As long as it will not inconvenience me and your business remains valuable, your terms are accepted, and you can part peaceably at any time after completing a mission." But he looks dangerous for a moment, smiling in an empty, unnatural way of a man who has no right to use such an expression even in jest. "But the moment you stop working for me or become a liability, you are an enemy." There's no need to describe what that entails. Oswald needs only look at the bloodied chair. But he reaches out to give a heavy smack to the back of Oswald, as if he were an old war buddy. "But do not misconstrue this as me being unstable or untrustworthy! Negative! Absolutely negative! I am simply extremist, and demand the same from others. I have never backstabbed or sold out a single person in my employ." At least if he did, they never spoke of it. Or were unable to.
There's a curt nod at such, the laugh was unnerving but his words made sense. "I wouldn't expect any less." the response is quick and short, being a liability comes with the territory, looking over to the chair as Rolento motions to it, and with that Oswald's eyebrows raise and face turns into a visage of consideration.
Despite the moment of ambiguity in the words, Oswald didn't seem to bother with it. Most employers had such things to say, though they may not have the extreme weight behind them that Rolento presents, there was a sample of familiar air to it all. The way the laugh echoed in dull thumps in the soundproof room was unsettling, overall, though.
"Well then, Rolento." The briefcase is tucked under arm, and right hand is extended for a handshake, but a single black business card is held in palm at the same time, "My resources are retained for the U.S.P.L., Should you need another way of contacting me, you will find information on the card. May your campaigns be short, violent, and spectactular successes."
The handshake is taken. Strong and almost intruding, grip borderline uncomfortable and lingering some seconds. "There is still the matter of your combat assessment." is reminded. "I would like it within 3 days. Contact me and I will arrange a location. I am afraid dealings with me will be by my terms, especially where mercenaries are concerned. Trust is a useless thing. Trust is a weakness. One I cannot afford." Such has been the case, even within the jungles of the Mekong Delta. "The only gesture of good faith I will give is that you know the location of this safehouse. One of two dozen, and unimportant, yet I have slit the throats of men who knew far less." He stands upright and offers a salute, before he walks towards the door of his own accord. "I have other operations to monitor. I expect an expedient response. For you are one of my soldiers now; at least, while in my presence!!"
"Within three days is acceptable." the firmness was indeed uncomfortable, but then again that seems to be the overall motif of this man, the more he keeps you off guard, the more likely you are to slip up, or not screw with him. Oswald had much experience, extensive, some would say, with dealing with people in power, revolutionaries, large agendas and heartless types. Still this rather took the cake of all his meetings.
"Give me 24 hours to finish my standing business then you may contact me to be at a location of your choosing. I trust you will have a good opponent for me." He goes to retrieve his hat and belongings within, placing them into the pant pockets as he slips his jacket back on, "I will not disappoint."
"Your opponent will be me." is the last thing Rolento states, before he ascends up the stairs. His men relax immediately once he is no longer in sight, and the last of the belongings are returned to Oswald from the desk housing the radio. "We trusting you not speak of place." one mulls, warningly. Obviously, this station; the four here are probably the soldiers who work in this area. Thereafter, Oswald will escorted up the stairs, to the relics of war. It seems the first meeting with Mr. Schugerg is over; but apparently, it won't be the last!
Log created on 17:29:47 03/11/2008 by Oswald, and last modified on 22:35:19 03/11/2008.