Description: Objective: Unclear. Obstacle: Varied. Alias: None. Summary: Ayame thinks she has a sucker on her hands in the form of one Roland Sylvester Brown. A chump she can use to take the fall if her mid-afternoon escape goes south. One good hijink leads to another as the two find they make an effective if very strange team. In the end, however, it seems not destined to last.
How far hath the lowly Roland fallen?! Well, that is completely dependent on how far someone believes he had. He's not adapting very well to Southtown at all; his ego and pride happened to be a lot more fragile then he anticipated, and although he outwardly rolls such off him like oil and water, his confidence has taken a severe shaking that he's not yet managed to fix. With his fighting lust all but tapered out due to the beginning of an inferiority complex, he's instead done basic scams and cons to get by, but without any of the enthusiasm and satisfaction he's had. When a man thinks he's top dog and finds himself on the bottom of a pecking order numbering dozens, it's a blow to the proverbial groin. What he's doing out here in the forest is anyone's guess, including his own. He remembers something about running out on a tab and punching someone in the non-proverbial groin, but that's about where the spinning and bad memory takes place. He's frumpled even by his own scruffy standards, leaning against a tree and singing some slurred song, waving around a cliche bottle in a brown crumpled bag. Sloshes of it splatter upon the ground, intermittently taking a heavy drink and his annoying serenade to the inching caterpillar opposite cutting off now and then for a hiccup. He's really not as drunk as he seems; it's more of a purposeful melancholy, complacent in his belief of privacy. Given he came out here to hide, though, it's not really the smartest tactic. ...He's not nearly sound of mind either.
Fate has a way of intruding right in on an attempt for privacy and stomping all over it with abject irreverence. Such is Roland's fate this afternoon. While he has been skulking about, pretending to drown his sorrows in a marginally effective manner, another has been busy scheming, stealing, and no good scoundreling. Said someone is presently rushing through the forest at high speed, darting around trees, leaping over small bushes, and generally making a noisy ruckus as she bears in on poor Roland.
In a flash of red, black, and long, strawberry-blonde hair, Ayame whips around a nearby tree, looking over her shoulder as if she was trying to outrun the devil himself. She nearly runs right on by Roland, leaving him in a wake of stirred up leaves and dust by the speed of her passing, but a last second glance forward has the young hoodlum skidding to a stop instead of continuing on by. Gripped in her left hand is a basic looking, black canvas bag. It looks ordinary enough, the front of it emblazoned with an emblem that identifies it as coming from a casino in a rougher part of southern Southtown called the 'Total Highroller'.
Ayame looks Roland over from head to toe in one quick, dismissive scan before she suddenly lunges forward, pressing it against his stomach as if intending to hand the bag off to him. "Here ya go, it's a present." the young Asian chirps cheerfully. She freezes after a moment, right hand darting into the bag to withdraw a thick stack of yen, "Oops," she adds, "Except this part. This part is for me." Unfortunately, that means she's leaving Roland with an empty bag.
'Unfortunate' would be the choice of word because of the sound of angry voices coming from the direction in which Ayame arrived. Four or five men by the sound of it. It just so happens that they're hired muscle for the Total Highroller and right now they're very interested in catching up with the one possessing that very canvas bag!
"Hey, you look great, I really like what you've done with yourself. That whole hopeless slob look really works for you. I'd love to catch up on the latest, but I gotta run!" the girl continues, turning to the side, getting ready to continue on her rapid blitz through the forest, now with a fat stack of bills gripped tightly in her hand instead of that incriminating canvas bag!
There's absolutely no surprise from Roland, shifting his gaze towards the rapid beat of churning feet, blinking once before the familiar figure bursts into view. He follows the blur of her movement, bringing up his bottle for another swig and finally cutting off his annoying and out of tune song. "...what?" is asked, apparently not able to process the sudden flurry of events. Inverting the empty bag, he shakes it violently before catching sight of the green bills. "–Wait a second..." is began, pushing upwards to his feet. He teeters for a second, causing a burst of branches and movement that, given his continued hold of the black bag, flags his location to the others. Freezing like a deer in headlights at the people bearing in on him, he takes off like a bat out of hell, to follow after Ayame. Pressing his bottle of alcohol to his head to prevent the hat from flying off, he glances down to the canvas sack and hurls it aside. The hell is he keeping it for? "You did NOT just incriminate me!!" he shouts ahead. Whether he's chasing or being chased is rather difficult to tell at this point, but he's certainly groggy, disoriented and very unhappy a man right now.
The angry shouts echo throughout the forest from the direction Ayame had arrived in. "I see him!" "Him? It was a girl! ... I think!!" "Over this way!!"
Ayame leads the way as Roland pursues/follows/flees right along with her, glancing over her shoulder occasionally, checking his follow distance. Whenever it seems he might just catch up, she seems to pour on renewed speed, leaning heavily on her ability to outrun pursuers as she so often needs to do. "Huh? I was just sharing. You looked like you could use that bag to carry around all your depression in!" she remarks helpfully, only spare some of her breath to laugh a little as Roland finally chucks the sack to the side.
"Awh, that was a very nice bag too. Very quality canvas." She darts around a larger tree, changing the angle of her escape significantly, changing her pace just enough to make sure that Roland hasn't been left too far behind. Now that he's along for the run, he's going to prove to be useful the unscrupulous girl muses.
Another glance over her shoulder reveals three extremely large men tearing through some underbrush as a shortcut to catch up. "Uh oh, your new friends are gaining on us. You really should be more careful. This way!" Another sharp change in direction - one that might be hard to accomplish except for the way Ayame wraps her right hand around a narrow tree trunk to let her pull herself into the new angle.
It's only another twenty yards before the forest gives way to a city street on the outskirts, a number of run down, closed buildings lining the sidewalk. The young hellion heads directly for what looks to have been an apartment building at one time and drives her shoulder against the old door to force the lock into giving way. If Roland thinks she's going to make it easy on him to keep up, however, he might be unpleasantly surprised to find the door slammed back closed by the time he gets there.
"I'm not depressed!! Can't a guy who ran out on his tab drink in the damn forest?!" Roland yells out, as annoyed as ever at her little jibes. But she might be surprised at just how retardedly fast he is; he's also made a living out of legging it, as he never fights people who, well, aren't fighters. That code of ethics requires the evolution of being able to flee, and he's pumping up the juice. But he's not nearly as nimble, skidding to a stop or grasping tree trunks to redirect his momentum. When going in a straight line he's as good as an olympic sprinter. When changing direction or starting up, he's on par with a greased deaf guy in the mud. He pulls out a sleek pistol from within his jacket, turning around and leveling it at the trio. "Bang!" is yelled out after they dive aside, scattering like flies. "Hahaha, it's not even loaded." he jokes to himself, using the opportunity to get out of sight along with Ayame. He catches up in the time it takes her slender form to bust through the door, arms pumping. Then it slams shut. There's a loud CRASH that almost busts the hinges off, then a very meaty *thud*. ...Apparently he wasn't expecting that.
The door just about collapses in from the impact against its exterior. A couple seconds even pass by before a bolt slides open from inside and the door cracks open, revealing Ayame standing there to peek outside and see just what happened to Roland after such a painful sounding charge into the closed door, "Hey, hey, you still awake?" she asks. "Forgot to leave it open, eh heh..."
Brown eyes glance up toward the tree line as all five of her original pursuers come crashing out of the brush and from behind the trunks. Dressed like traditional gansters practically, with black trenchcoats, a few still with their black fedoras, three of them are particularly muscular while the other two seem to be more wirey sorts. "Uh..." Ayame continues, taking a step out to grab Roland by the arm and pull him after her into the run down old apartment building.
"Come on, we can lose them in here I bet. Unless you want to explain to those nice men why you decided to rob their cashier. I hear casinos are really sore about that kinda thing," she prattles on, grinning broadly yet acting with a fair amount of urgency as well.
Indeed, Roland's already pushing himself to his feet, one hand rubbing his forehead with a grimace. One can't say he isn't durable, but he looks outright shocked at the dropped bottle of alcohol, as if the pooled brown liquid was the crimson stain of a former best friend as opposed to something easily purchased for a buck ninety nine at a corner convenience store. "You...!!" He's yanked inside from his distraction, seeming to only hold back the instinct to throttle the other girl by the instinct to continue fleeing. "You act like I've never held up a casino before..." is grumbled, given that 90 percent of his life woes are due to that. Actually, it's pretty similar. Hopefully he won't get caught once more. Pausing at the end of the hall, he pulls out a length of wire. From within his voluminous trenchcoat, a small portable air-powered nailgun is similarly taken out with a twirl. "I can store a lot more in here then your damn skirt..." he offers, PCHEWPCHEW done as his simple trap is set before continuing to follow, head now spinning from both alcohol, the impact, and a raising rancor.
She doesn't seem the least bit put off by his increasing, and well justified ire, merely continuing to move into the dusty structure as if enjoying nothing more pressing than an afternoon's game of tag. "Me!" she chirps back, "Aya/me/." she then corrects, just to make sure he remembers her name for whatever egotistical reason it could possibly matter to her. "Oh yeah?" she laughs, changing to a longer hallway, scanning the terrain in front of her as if trying to get a feel for which way they should turn. "Maybe we should exchange some notes. I started a fire this time - right outside the cashier's booth. Slipped into it while the teller scurried out. A bit over the top, I think, but it got the job done. Kinda." she grins. The sound of the front door being bashed open and the pursuing men piling into the structure is easy to hear given the paper thin walls in the place and Ayame frowns faintly, hoping she can avoid picking a deadend hall to get them trapped into.
As Roland pauses, she turns around, ready to berate him for slowing down, "What's the matter, too drunk to-" she starts only to cut herself off as she sees him withdraw the wire and a nailgun to go with it, "Hey now, I'll cut you in on this, you don't need to be like-" she waves her hand only to realize he isn't drawing the contraption to fire on her but rather to set up a clever trap for their persuers. "Huh," she allows, so suitably impressed as to not even be able to grip about him making a remark about the storage capacity of her skirt. "Nice," she finally grins, turning to lead the way further.
"What else ya got in there? Anything to eat? I'm starved." They're only two corners further along when a shout makes its way through the building, "Ow, damnit, what the-" Ayame pauses, drawing her foot up to kick against a door that looks different from the standard apartment entrance, exposing a darkened stairway into the basement beneath the structure. "Probably a way out the back through here," she offers as an explanation before bounding down the stairway. Her left hand darts into the pouch affixed to her belt, drawing out a small penlight she usually uses for picking locks in the dark.
"Whatever your damn name is. Trouble is more like it." Roland grumbles, getting a lot more excitement then anticipated after his drunken bar fight and further flee. Ugh, he's pathetic and knows it, but it's hardly the time to reflect on such matters. "I infiltrated the casino as a new hire after making sure the human resources was on a sick day. Swiped a key to the dollar plus slot machines. Emptied ones to fives as fast as I could until security leapt on me. Couple grand, I think." This is offered casually. Obviously a bit more subtle then a sudden fire, but it worked well enough. "Yeah, you better give me a cut." is grumbled out, leaving his trap behind. Then tossing a wrapped sandwich towards Ayame. It's warm but serviceable, likely done merely to mock her then something he intends her to eat. It was supposed to be his dinner. "Dragging me to the basement already?" is grumbled, yanking the door shut and yanking out a small triangular wedge. He slams it against the bottom of the door and kicks it in with his steel toed boots, locking it firmly shut before descending after, groping blindly in the dark. Ugh, he's too tipsy for this crap...
"Niiice," Ayame whistles, liking the infiltration approach. It speaks to longer term planning than the rather spur of the moment approach she had to today's hijinks. She's been known to plan ahead from time to time, but usually only when going after something really big. "Yeah," she adds as he speaks up about being dragged into the basement, "This is where I bring all my victims," the girl continues, turning around, penlight held beneath her chin in order to illuminate her face in the traditional, not-really-scary-but-what-can-you-do way of many a camp fire ghost story teller.
Grinning, she turns away, waving the light around randomly, scouting out the dark chamber. When they ducked into the stairs, the men chasing them weren't even in sight, so in her mind, they've got all the time in the world now. Just need to find a back door out and...
A loud thud announces a meaty shoulder slamming against the door at the top of the stairs, but Roland's wedge keeps it from flying open like it definitely would have otherwise. Glancing over her shoulder, Ayame looks a little bewildered. "Those guys are awfully accurate in their pursuit," she muses, holding up the stack of bills in her right hand, pointing the penlight on them. "Hm..."
She starts thumbing through the money then, eyes narrowed suspiciously even as the door upstairs receives another powerful slam, the hinges threatening to break. And then she comes up with it, tucked between the two center bills, a small, thin tracking device. "Ah hah!" the teen menace brightens, having figured out how they kept picking the right turn to make to find the two of them step after step. "I should've checked." she admits with a grin, not seemingly too worried about the fact that she hasn't found an exit from the basement and that door isn't going to hold out too much longer.
There might of been a grumble about not meaning that, but he can hardly tell what's what as opposed to the accuracy of his lazy innuendo. Especially given even the highest swish of the skirt won't offset his anger just yet, even if it's already tapering off. He's just not the type to hold a grudge easily, ergo Ayame is coming closer then most have managed! Exciting life or not. "Maybe kicking the door wasn't subtle enough." he grumbles. His tools and tricks have helped slow them down enough that Ayame might have had to do some impromptu ass kicking otherwise! How mildly useful. "Let me see that..." He reaches his hand for the tracker, but then lunges forward to try and grasp two handfuls of bills. "I'm getting my cut now!! I know you won't cough it up otherwise!!" Is this really the time or the place for this? PROBABLY NOT. Apparently he's just as casual about any impending threat. Or maybe just completely confident on how he might avoid it.
He asks to see it and Ayame of course assumes he wants a closer look at the tracking device. She would like to keep it for herself, for it'd probably contain some electronics she could put to use in her latest travesty of a project back home, but she can't ditch the hired muscle if she's going to keep it either. Thus she readily holds it up a little for Roland to grasp.
That his hand comes away instead with two fistfulls of bills has her completely surprised. "Hey!" she retorts, swinging out with her foot to kick him in the shin petulantly, her hands full of the remaining money, the penlight, and the blinking tracker. "Yeah, yeah, I would've given you something," she mutters, taking a step backward, not really going into specifics as to what that 'something' IS. Considering she called that empty canvas bag a gift earlier, he's probably right in taking his money at the first chance he gets.
Her foot comes down on the sandwich he had thrown earlier and she makes a face, "Ew, that definitely doesn't satisfiy the dinner-date clause prerequisite before we can go any further, you know." she remarks, lifting her foot off the sandwich and turning around. The door upstairs receives another powerful, splintering thud, cracks running along the center and Ayame quirks an eyebrow, "Oh yeah, those guys."
She turns then, heading to the back of the basement, finding stairs leading up to the street. Three steps up and she reaches the door, leaning into it to try and push it open only to have it not budge. "What the hell," she mutters, swinging the penlight down to the door handle itself only to find it requires a key both inside and outside to be able to open it. One eye narrows as she glances over her shoulder toward the near-bursting door from the floor above, "Uh... can you stall them for a little bit? I need to pick this."
A gunshot rings out, putting a bullet hole through the handle of the door upstairs and it finally swings open, falling off its hinges in the process. It looks like their company has arrived!
The money is stuffed into his pockets and zipped shut to prevent any thieving later on in the event, and he seems to be much more gungho now that potential backstabbing is out of the question. He's an official accomplice with a cut of the money! Now he doesn't have to enter this half assed. "I'm not stupid, even if I'm drunk, as much as you'd hope. If I were you, I'd con me the second I could, send me like a pig to the slaughter, and run off. Knowing I'd make it out okay, maybe, but that's hardly consolation!" He almost sounds accusing about this hypothetical, as if it were fact instead of his addled fantasies, but he'd bet top dollar he's right. And, of course, he only gambles to *WIN*.
Gasping as his sandwich is defiled, Roland shakes the last of his cobwebs free and pulls out a small container of aspirin, shaking some free into his mouth and dry swallowing with a hack. "Fine, if we get out with the scratch, I'll buy us dinner. Then you let me get to second base. Everyone wins." Glancing up as she struggles with the door, he lets out an annoyed sigh before slipping and resting his back against the wall, reaching one hand into his pocket. Hurried footsteps come down, but the first wiry figure catches a brutal clothesline to the solar plexus, forceful enough he almost backflips before crashing against the ground. The second is a heavy, beginning to raise a pistol. Only to get a face full of sand. Sputtering, a few squeezed shots hit the wall, just as Roland's boot hits his crotch, shoving him back to jam the staircase. When a third awkwardly begins to climb over, his gun wielding hand is snatched, and a yanking takedown spams him face-first into the concrete hard enough to chip a tooth.
But this is all cheap shots. They aren't mere brushaways, or Ayame would of just beat them up in the forest. Two he has no opportunity to injure, and those he downed are already milling, agitated like a kicked bee hive. Hopefully she won't take too long...
She glances over her shoulder to give him 'that look'. The kind of look that suggests she's neither going to confirm nor deny his wild hypothetical theory about what it is she might've done at the first available opportunity, but that he just MIGHT be close to the mark. And that's all she does, finishing with just a hint of a knowing grin, tucking the money into the pouch at her belt and then fishing out her pick picking tools from beneath her left wrist guard.
Sticking the penlight in her mouth, she crouches down and gets to work on the lock. Looks simple, won't take long she tells herself. He talks about dinner and second base and she twitches, her finger slipping on the torque rod she's got jammed in the lock, causing it to pop out and forcing her to start over. "Tch," she grunts, unable to say anything intelligible with the penlight between her teeth as she picks the dropped piece back up off the ground and jams it back into the lock before sliding the pick in.
She glances over her shoulder briefly, watching as the duster clad gambler has some good success with an inirial barrage of cheap shots and surprise attacks. The men are tough. One on one, they would be fodder for either of the two cons, two on one might be tough, but five on one is really stretching it. The girl rakes the pins a few more times, eyes closing as she listens to each one slipping into place and at last the lock gives, twisting open suddenly. Catching her off guard, Ayame tumbles out the door into the alleyway behind the building, landing with a grunt of surprise. Taking the penlight out of her mouth and shoving her lock picks away, the girl glances over her shoulder, wasting precious time and breath with yelling back, "Second base?! Oh please. You can't afford me," she rolls her eyes, hand going to rest at her hip. "Oh yeah, also," she continues, turning around as she gets ready to pour on the speed, "The door's open. Quit clowning around and come on!"
The mild chuckle is the same one he's used every time he's surprised Ayame outside her own playful mask. She's probably heard it more then she cares to in the short time they've bumped heads. It feels like a lot longer then just... twice? Compatible criminals, he supposes. The remaining two are held at bay with a procured forearm knife, before they realize they have guns and he has to dive away from bursts of fire. Trying to wound them means that Ayame messed around with the darker casinos. Probably owned by cartels big enough to bribe away a homicide and send a message to other would be crooks. HE at least wouldn't of made that mistake. ...Again. He's not shaken free of the last criminal casino, damnit. Yet the fact she bothers to make that comment so long after his own, having almost had it leave his mind, makes him laugh all the harder in that exact same manner. "So it's possible if I had enough money?" he seems to wish clarified. But he ducks a whizzing bullet, deciding it prompt to run up the stairs. Pulling out a baked potato sized item, he presses a button on the side and an LED begins beeping with increasing speed, the silver package tossed towards the opponents. "SEE YOU IN HELL!" Understandably, they move to flee the explosive. But as he runs up and out the door behind Ayame, "It's just a baked potato with a modified oscillator keychain alarm. Cost maybe 4 bucks." ...Just how much stuff does he have in his coat?
She answers his question with practically the same look she gave him when he pointed out she might happily betray him at the first moment of convenience. It bears that same 'maybe/maybe not' equivocal expression she seems to be rather experienced at offering, apparently comfortable with toying with the expectations and teasing of others. A bullet bounces off the metal door at her side and Ayame darts around to break line of sight from the armed men inside. Oh yeah, she definitely stirred up a hornet's nest with this reckless caper. It's how she keeps life interesting, makes her feel alive, pulling her out of the dulldrum laden boredom that is a normal existence in poverty.
Roland draws what looks like an explosive at first glance out of his trenchcoat and Ayame's eyes widen, mouth opening as he chucks it back inside the door before turning to follow her out of there. "You just-" she starts before he explains just what the decoy was and the strawberry blonde just shakes her head, grinning teethily as she turns her back to him and sprints down the alleyway.
At the end is a very tall wall, cutting off any direct course of escape, but the girl's hands are already busy, pulling out a length of wire thin cable from a spool on her belt and drawing out a small weight from the pouch at her side. Normally it's a rope dart used for combat, but for right now it'll do for getting the hell over the wall.
"You know, I have to admit, you DO got a lot of useful stuff in there," she muses the moment she knows he's caught up. His 'potato bomb' and cheap shots have bought them a few seconds for certain. Ayame twirls the weighted rope at her side, looking up high above the barrier to a rusted drain pipe. "Hm... hope that thing is sturdier than it looks," she muses before she sends the weight careening up into the air with graceful accuracy, hooking it up and over the pipe before the weight twirls around a few more times and comes to a snug stop.
Testing how snug the rope is, Ayame wraps her hands around the cable, glad for the fingerless leather gloves she wears. Keeps the wires from cutting the palms. In the background, the five suits are tumbling out of the basement into the alley, eyes adjusting to the change in lighting as they glance up and down it. "Ladies first," Ayame chirps and immediately starts to scramble up the wall with the aid of the very strong cable. Of course it's a case of higher altitude combined with a daringly sort, red and black plaid skirt, but she's long since demonstrated she's not particularly shy. She reaches the top of the wall and pulls herself up onto it, "Don't leave the end hanging," she remarks, brown eyes raising to glance toward the five brutes closing in fast. "This is our get away moment now." If they can't get over the wall to pursue the two cons, the trip to get all the way around is going to take them far too long to have hope of catching up with them...
Roland doesn't seem to be too tired despite the chase and high adrenaline for whatever mysterious reason, turning around and leaning against the wall while again taking a moment to nurse the growing bump upon his forehead. "Maybe..." He reaches his hands into his trenchcoat, grasping a thin concealing liner and in a swooshing motion that's more fitting for a flasher, reveals what's inside. There's literally not a single inch that lacks a loop for a tool or a pouch for some miscellaneous item. He has dozens of things, completely random assortments better fit for a junk drawer. Unlike Ayame's raw efficiency in numbers, he cobbles together countless single-use items that are of rather low quality. But it reveals the source of his endurance, as it probably weighs a hundred pounds. Add on the other hidden steel she knows of, and it's a good training regiment for being svelte.
Sadly, he doesn't seem to have anything more to use against the encroaching suits, as he looks to be somewhat apprehensive now that he's somewhat cornered. This is offset by Ayame climbing up the wall. Near the top, she will probably notice a series of bright flashes, doubtlessly caused by a small portable camera. Indeed, after she slithers over, he's scrolling through the images, and seems distracted enough to have forgotten the immediate danger. "Mmm? Oh."
Rolling his shoulders, he grasps the wire and manages to make it about one step up. Then the pipe cracks, flies down, and hits him on the head. He crashes spread eagle on his back, utterly disoriented as the five incredibly angry suits charge, reloading. NOW he is officially more trouble then he's worth. Too bad he pocketed a large amount of cash... "Ouch."
She gets a hand on the top of the dividing wall then a second one, releasing the cable to pull herself up onto the top of it, looking back down the somewhat long drop to make sure that he's scrambling up behind her before the hired muscle catches up or else she's going to have to consider cutting the wire just to keep them from making it over the wall too. At least, that's what she's thinking, brown eyes narrowing back down at the coat-clad Roland. "Hey..." she squints. "Get up here so I can kick you in the face for that," she remarks, hand shaking the wire as if to encourage him to pay attention to it instead of flipping through UNAUTHORIZED PHOTOGRAPHS.
And then, after taking his sweet time, he starts on his way up. There's a downside to all that weight he's packing within the linings of his coat and then some though. Sure he has a tool for any situation and even some situations Ayame doesn't want to imagine, but that rusted pipe just isn't going to cooperate with the extra strain. Breaking off at a particularly brittle part, Ayame watches it hurtle down to clonk her unexpected partner in crime in the head.
Grimacing, the girl shakes her head, "Hopeless." She starts to turn away, clearly just about to hop down the back side of the wall and leave the unfortunate, down on his luck Roland to a very unpleasant fate. But she pauses just shy of slipping out of sight and glances back down at him. He's not even cognizant of his surroundings yet. If he was on his feet and ready, he'd have a tough, maybe impossible fight ahead of him. But he isn't even /close/ to that right now it looks like.
Grumbling, the girl reaches into the pouch at her belt and withdraws a small black cylinder. One of the last smoke bombs she has left from when she stocked up on all the mercenary gear she could get her hands on while working for Blackjack. Flicking the top open, she hurls it down to have it crack against the concrete. A plume of smoke billows out in an instant, giving Ayame cover to leap back down to the concrete. A flurry of motion, she's got a wire in place at ankle level spanning the alley in an instant before hopping back over to stand near Roland outside of the smoke, a six foot long metal staff already in her hands.
A friendly 'kick' is given to his side as the girl tries to get him to move, "If you're unconcious, I'm totally leaving you behind," she hisses just as the first two men to plow into the smoke go tripping over the wire she left for them and collapsing to the concrete.
"I had to make sure they were good quality." he offers, in a tone that's genuinely defensive as opposed to joking. Given how pleased he seems, that's the case. Maybe not the most rare of things, but it's not just a furtive glance! He does manage to pull himself up to a sitting position, yet it's after the billowing smoke and her preparations for a trap. The boot to the ribs gives a loud grunt, but he's still smirking an awful lot for someone just clonked in the head. "Aw, you care." he offers teasingly, managing to get up to his feet. Two extreme blows to the head so far, and none of them from Ayame. How surprising. "Don't worry, I got a grapple line..." He pulls open his coat, but then closes it again. "No, not really. Hmm. Ditch the tracker over the wall." Apparently he's pondering the usage of such things, before he pulls out a string of heavy fireworks. Lighting them, they are thrown behind and begin going off like automatic fire, the already disoriented men thrown even more askew in the diluting smoke. This time he takes the lead along the wall, before yanking up the top of a dumpster. He leaps within and closes it behind. There are a few ways one could flee from this location, so they would be intent on moving on instead of stopping to look around, and his noisy display would distract from the sound of it opening. ...Of course, he didn't keep it thusly open for Ayame.
Ayame gives Roland a somewhat deadpan look as he speaks up defensively about the pictures taken. "And just what is it that you're planning on doing with-" she starts to mutter just before a gunshot rings out through the smoke - one of the men who didn't barrel into the obscurring cloud deciding to take a chance at hitting one of the two identified thieves and slowing them down a bit. "Care? Hm... Let's just say I don't have what I want out of this encounter yet." Her hands tighten on her staff as she backs up against the wall, well aware that the time left on the smoke cloud isn't much.
Roland proves to have nothing so useful as another grapling line to get the two of them over the wall and Ayame just sort've stares at him as if expecting him to come up with something to make himself worth having come back for. "Maybe I should just hold your share for you so that you won't lose it when these guys /catch/ you." she remarks dryly.
A handfull of firecrackers explode around them, making things even more confusing, and Roland takes the opportunity to lead the way along the wall. Thinking he's actually made himself worth the hassle, Ayame follows, only to bump into the dumpster that he dives into, the lid closing closed behind him. Ayame stops short, glancing over her shoulder to squint into the cloud as it begins to fade. She pauses... thinks... thinks... "You better have room in there," she mutters at last, nudging the lid of the dumpster open and slipping up and over into it before closing it far more quietly. "...I /really/ liked my idea better." she notes as she drops down in side.
"Oh, my." Roland immediately responds to the statement of what Ayame wants, little need for verbal innuendo given the tone of his voice. He didn't even duck from the fired bullet, seeming to be careless enough to not bother worrying about the chance of injury. Although he does snort a bit too loudly, enough so he discretely wipes at his nose with a finger. "Yeah, right. Like I'll fall for anything you'd do to weasel this money out of me. I got two concussions and had to throw my favorite potato away. It's mine!" Sadly this dumpster is not particularly empty. It's too high to one side with thankfully mostly physical debris as opposed to food, but Ayame still drops directly upon Roland, who lets out a yelp and shuffles around agitated. "Mother–There's a toaster jamming my ribs!!" The light then blacks out and he goes silent, trying to get the jabbing metal item from the incessant pressure. "...This isn't how I pictured my day ending." he murmurs lightly. Whether he's displeased with it or not is hard to tell, however. It's hard to tell where the pursuers are, ergo; at least for him. He's mostly concentrating on the one thing that DOES smell somewhere in here...
On top of Roland, the girl settles into position without much concern for his continued discomfort. "Sssh!" is her answer to his complaint about the discarded toaster sadly jabbing into his side. "If you don't be quiet, I've got something else I'll be jabbing into your ribs in a second," she adds to further encourage him to quit making noise.
The smoke outside clears and there's the sounds of movement for a moment, the men that got tripped getting to their feet, and one of them chewing out the tough guy with the gun, pointing out he could've just as easily shot one of them firing off a round into the cloud like that. That the two start arguing doesn't bode well for a quick end to them loitering there, though three of them speak up about needing to catch those two no good crooks.
Ayame shifts a little, getting just enough room to slip her hand into her belt pouch and draw out a small bent, reflective metal used for spying around corners. So carefully, she uses the top of her head to nudge the dumpster lid up slightly, lifting the mirror to her eye so that she can peek out into the alleyway, every second of trying to endure the smells of a city dumpster making the whole cost-benefit analysis of this afternoon's hijinks spiral rapidly into the 'There's got to be better ways to get money!!' column.
One of the brutes seems to pull rank and finally get the five of them moving. With the alley empty, and the assumption made that the two couldn't have made it over the wall, they scurry back the other way. One ducks back into the building basement with an order to 'yell if you see anything', while the rest speed down to the street at the end. "They're going to figure out that we didn't make it that far," Ayame notes after a moment, daring to push the lid up further to give her the ability to see all the way down the alley. "But one guy split off." Take him down and that might reduce the mob to a mangeable size for the two street trained fighters. PERHAPS. Kicking down against Roland, the girl hops out into the alley, careful to hold the door open to keep it from slamming shut. It's time for a bit of stealthy tactics in her book, her mind already focused on the one man off on his own.
"Nngh. If I was the girl and you were the guy..." he begins after that last threat, but decides it more prudent to stop talking. Given she's got a lot of knives upon her. At the very least he's content that she's only reasonably fat, which makes it more annoying then anything; he's forced into an awkward position, even if padded by the thickness of his trenchcoat. There's a bit of fidgeting for a few seconds from Roland as Ayame peeks out from the dumpster, but he stops before he might get reprimanded. "Yeah, but there were gunshots. We could just wait for the police and claim we were frightened lovers. Here, let me make it look more realistic..." Had she not been about to kick already, he'd of doubtlessly earned it then, and goes back to grumbling silence. There's another flash of a camera when Ayame raises, Roland pushing his head up and crawling out while trying to look at his picture. He crumples upon his face instead, catching his foot in the closed top of the dumpster and wriggling uselessly before managing to get it out. Graceful as a drunk dog. Standing up thereafter, he begins brushing himself off, not particularly caring about the most expedient or safe method. He bets she just wants to beat the crap out of one of them, and he can indeed commiserate!
As stealthy as a sumo wrestler, it seems to Ayame, as she turns around to stare at Roland as he faceplants to the ground. And was that another camera flash? She's had just about enough of /those/, she decides, making a mental note to relieve him of that pesky camera before she's finished with him. His disregard for her sneaking tactics earns him a very clear frown but she decides she's going to try and make due with what she's got. Even if he doesn't amount to MUCH. "They'd never believe we were lovers. You're way too low class for me," she points out what she believes to be the obvious flaw in his crackpot scheme.
"All right, here's what I'm thinking. If we sneak back in after the guy that went to search the basement, we can take him by surprise before he can yell for the quartet of trouble to come running back this way. We can then leave through the building and ditch them for good." This is almost as good as her 'loose them over the wall' plan. This can't go wrong.
"But in order for this to work, you're going to need to actually try to be quiet for once in your life. Look at the bright side though, if we go back that way, you can get your favorite potato back again." She says it so calmly, as if she really does believe that potato is an important item to the not quite sober guy.
Unfortunately, with all her attempts to plan this out, she's given time for one of the thugs that went out past the end of the alley to peek back around the corner and spot them. "HEY!!" he shouts, calling for the other three that were out searching on the street for the duo.
Ayame blinks, glances down the alleyway, then toward the still open basement door into the abandoned building. "Okay, plan B is to just run for it!" she remarks, darting forward to charge back into the basement, "Close the door behind you!" she remarks, remembering that it'll click locked once closed. "And don't screw it up this time!" she adds, sounding almost like she expects he will anyway. It's only once inside that she realizes that she's got a gun leveled at her from the other side of the basement. It would seem the lone man heard enough to get ready for their arrival afterall. "Eh heh..." the strawberry blonde forces a laugh, raising her hands up slowly, "I'm sure we can work out some kind of deal..."
"Now wait one minute..." Roland begins as Ayame makes her rebuttal, raising up a finger to waggle in a deriding fashion. "...You aren't high class." he finishes, unable to argue at least half of that. "Mmmhmm. Aggressive much?" he murmurs, but obviously is intending to go along with any plan she might have. Probably since he's a bit drunk, and the pristine thoughts of his happen to be ‘leap in a dumpster and hide'. Not really top of the line. Although the comment of the potato does suspiciously perk him. Either he wasn't lying, or he's just doing it to annoy her. Hard to tell, really. Although he's not incredibly surprised to find that they are leaped upon. "Why didn't you plan this in the dumpster..." he grumbles to himself. Following thereafter, the door is yanked shut and slammed, before he comes to a slow stop upon hearing Ayame. There's the sound of him slamming into something with a muffled curse. Or was it a stomp? He's ordered to get down, and does trundle with his arms up... Waggling his fingers and moving in a suspicious manner. This distracts the fact that a small triangular blade is peeking from the tip of his boot. Rather casually, he stamps down his foot once more. There's a hiss of compressed air that fires out disturbingly loud. It impacts the other man in the stomach; he squeezes off a shot while stumbling backwards, firmly slamming into Roland's shoulder. But he's already rushing forward, tackling lunge catching his wrist and beginning to wrestle firmly, the rest of the clip empying into the ceiling. A crash like water against waves as the other four hit the wall. "Punch him in the groin, damnit!!" is stated towards Ayame, as if it's her fault somehow. It PROBABLY IS.
"Because," Ayame retorts to the suggestion of working out the logistics of her brilliant plan while in the safety of the oh so comforting dumpster, "Another second in there with you and I'd just as soon go turn myself in. Prison can't be /that/ bad."
Faced with getting shot if she so much as twitches the wrong way, the girl holds perfectly still as Roland comes in behind her, walking right into the same predictament it would seem. Of course, when it comes to him, first glance assumptions tend to be a bit off. Unless one is assuming he's a no good drunk, then they might be getting CLOSE. He stomps and she almost has to look to see what his problem is. Is he trying to kick a bit of dumpster-tracked-in refuse off from his shoe? But when the hiss goes off, she finally catches on to what he was up to, the armed man taking one in the stomach from another one of Roland's interesting traps. Gun fire goes off, peppering only the ceiling, sending chipped pieces of concrete and ricocheting bullets pinging around the room.
Deciding it's okay to lower her arms now, the beribboned con decides the least she can do is give Roland a hand with that guy. Sprinting forward, she draws her leg back, "Have to settle for a kick," she states, perhaps ENTIRELY to be contrary as she swings her foot forward, planting it in the poor guy's groin at the same time the door behind her starts taking a serious pounding. "I think our fan club's back," she remarks, drawing her hand back and swinging forward to slug the guy hard across the face to help aid in taking him down as summarily as possible. "How are we going to ever hide now, they'll be able to smell us from a mile away," she adds with a roll of her eyes, trying to ignore the dangling candy wrappers sticking in her long hair.
"Gimme some credit, like I'd do anything you wouldn't like." Roland grumbles defensively, seeming to almost take offense that being trapped in a stinking dumpster squished against him is worse then prison!! Of course he's reading into the connotations of himself as opposed to environment, but he's RATHER SURE that is what Ayame intended. The rapscallion is not badly enough wounded to care about it, more worried of the aesthetic ramifications in sewing another ribbon of leather into his already motley outfit. Indeed, through the tear visible by the bullet, strips of thin kevlar are intermingled. Likely intended to dampen kinetic force, ergo. The captured man folds up beneath the kick, and as he's further struck across the face, Roland finishes him with repeated knees to the solar plexus. His gun goes loose, clattering upon the ground before his writhing form follows. "I'm pretty sick of this myself." he growls, yanking at the collar of his suit and approaching the way up. Digging in his trenchcoat, he pulls out a big yellow smiley-face sticker. He places it between both of his hands, putting his back beside the staircase up. There's no sign of this being a joke, and indeed there's a freakish amount of chi already gathered within the item... and now being carefully prepared. "You can run if you want. It's okay to be a coward. I can be a valiant hero for the hapless damsel in distress." Were he to know his base psychology, she should do anything but.
Taking a step back as Roland finishes off the haplessly double-teamed hired muscle, she looks him over only briefly, "I see you managed to not get shot," as if that amounts to the limits of concern she's capable of demonstrating. "That's good at least." she adds with a follow up grin, hand dropping down to her waist. Her faint trace of approval fades quickly when he arms himself with a giant smiling sticker. "Hey, what're you-" she starts to nag only to cut herself off. Capable of very precise chi manipulation herself, it's not too hard for her to sense the ebb and flow that plays into what he's doing next, charging that silly looking thing up for some reason.
"Well," she starts, with a roll of her eyes at the invitation to leave, "Being around you IS rather distressing, but I admit, I can't help but want to see what you think you're going to do with that."
She plants her back against the wall on the other side of the staircase, hand reaching down to dip into the pouch at her belt, "All right, valiant hero. Let's see what you got." The door from the alleyway dents inward after a cacophony of noise from outside. It sounds like they might be ramming it with the dumpster... and it looks like it's about to give. Ayame exhales softly, "Not looking forward to seeing that thing again." she mutters.
"Don't judge me until you've seen all parts." Roland responds rather pointedly. The paper already had a fair amount of chi, but h e seems to be coercing it, drawing more within the talisman with his eyes narrowed. Indeed, wisps of green flutter around him, a herald to the potential lying beneath the surface. The door, a relic of sturdy engineering, finally gives in to the corner of the dumpster, which bounces down the staircase and crashes upon the floor. Roland edges to remain fully out of sight, holding his breath in some manner of deep concentration. They likely think the pair ran off to try to escape again, so are quick to descend. But after the dastardly cowboy's first ambush, the initial person twists and levels his gun. In the wrong way at first, which costs him initiative. Roland snarls while lunging towards him, bringing the weapon up a fraction of a second before he's too close. But there's a veritable eruption of green energy, dancing across his form as he ducks the loud report of the weapon, Roland slamming the sticker face first on the man's head. Pouring as much of the gathered energy within as possible, there's a sudden terrific eruption, rattling the walls and sending dust and debris cascading from the ceiling, which gives a frightful creak. Roland is knocked straight on his ass, disoriented, but the receiver is much worse off, hitting the wall hard enough to crack the bricks heavily before slumping upon the floor. Three now! Very manageable!
For once, Ayame is actually quiet, watching Roland use the odd prop as a focal point for gathering up a respectable amount of chi. Having always had an affinity for working with and exploring what one can do with careful chi control, she can't help but get a feel that Roland's capable of doing more with chi than he's let on in the past. The green flickering wisps of power hint at the build up going into the impending ambush, and the girl just stays still.
At last the dumpster comes careening down the stairs into the room and the girl tenses up, keeping out of sight from the stairs themselves, holding her breath along with Roland. And then Roland goes for it, creating a point blank explosion of chi atop the first man's head, more than taking one of their pursuers down in the process. "Nice show," Ayame remarks as she steps forward into a blur of movement.
Her long staff already back in hand, a soft hydraulic hiss herlading the telescoping weapon being readied once more, the girl steps right into plain view of the steps leading out. "Hey guys." she chirps, jamming the weapon forward, the low end of it stabbing low between the feet of the man in front. She brings it up swiftly with a punishing crunch between the legs before taking a step to the side and twisting the staff along with her, taking his feet clean out from under him and bringing him tumbling to the floor of the basement. Before he even lands she's already bringing the other end of the weapon up and back down against the back of his head with ending force, certain to leave him unconscious or at least far too dazed to put up a fight after that.
The entire combination is swift, oddly graceful for the street punk of a girl as Ayame twists out of the line of sight from the remaining two in the process. "At this rate, I almost feel like I've earned the money legitimately. Maybe I should just get a day job," she remarks, holding her staff up in front of her vertically to the side of the stairs.
"It's two on two now!" she calls out, raising her voice in challenge, "You two think you can handle us? I'm willing to bet not!"
Indeed, the graceful moment makes Roland somewhat jealous, given he does wish to have that capability for form and potent skill. He knows he can do it, something that somehow makes it both annoying and bewildering in the same breathe. Having genuinely injured himself in his own assault, he still is nonchalant as he pops free a long blade from his sleeve, menacing rasp of steel heard as his tongue draws across the razor edge. Those two remaining, despite having the pistols, indeed seem to think it more prudent to back off. One procures a cellphone; it's pretty obvious they are going to get backup, although with the tracker gone Roland would bet such is a mere excuse. "Ugh. I intended to pass out and wake up, dirty and dry mouthed with no memory of what I did. I expect you to make this up to me." He rolls his neck, shoulders raising and falling with a muffled pop. He certainly got the worse for wear, two lumps upon the forehead only the encore. "I probably deserve a much bigger cut, but instead I'll make you take up that offer. Dinner, damnit!!" A finger jabs accusingly towards Ayame, retracting his weapon with another slither of coiled spring. "I'll even pay. I can get us into the ritziest place in town. Saving money's for chumps; the more you can grab in a day, the higher the life you get to live that life. It's my motto!" Although his smile is somehow not quite that of a charming benefactor, nor any truly romantic inclinations beyond physical attraction. And were the latter the case, a dinner is not the way to go... Suspicious!!
The concealed arm-blade gets Ayame's attention, the girl happening to have a similarly hidden weapon beneath the black and red wrappings over her right arm. But for right now, her staff suffices should the men outside try to take their chances fighting the two stubbornly effective theives. "What?" Ayame snaps back at him when he talks about making it up to him, "You already stole more money than you're worth!"
She calms down, looking him over a little. It's hard to say that between the two of them, Roland didn't suffer the worst of it. By a long shot. But the girl is loathe to admit it and it shows on her face. She smacks one end of her staff against the floor of the basement, the metal resonating sound echoing off the walls, pursing her lips a bit. A really fancy, expensive dinner does sound nice. She hasn't had one of those since Blackjack went under. His motto about burning money as fast as you can make it finally cracks a faint smile. It's true. Long term planning is for suckers. Sieze the day 'n all that.
"Yeah, yeah, all right," she finally relents, lifting her staff and pressing a button in the center that has it collapsing back into itself. "But I sure hope you clean up well, 'cause right now there's no way you're getting us in anywhere fancier than a Gedo street bar." The staff is tucked away into the pouch at her belt before she snaps the pouch closed. "Don't forget your favorite potato," she remarks with a smirk and nod over to the side.
"Fine! One hour! Business district! Dress up fancy! I bet you twenty bucks I'll get us a top tier table." He seems quite pleased by this turn of affairs, before going over the three men who are still milling, badly wounded. Each is thoroughly muffed and viciously kicked, leaving behind only the guns. Too dangerous to sell or carry, and he doesn't care for them anyway. The cash and credit cards are stuffed into his pockets, without any offer to compensate the hapless girl. "To pay for dinner." he states with a beaming smile, brushing himself off. Before blinking and looking around the room. He sees the glint of silver, rushing over before slowing down. Falling to his knees, he picks it up. It has been stepped on; the underside gushes mashed white, the flow stemmed with a hand. "No... You bastards!!" Getting up, he hurls the potato at the face of the nearest man, swiftly kicking him in the face with a shocking look of anger, so violently blood splatters the wall. Then he laughs, hoping to see some look of shock or horror on Ayame. "Just kidding. It's only a potato." Did he just make a joke that was based on breaking someone's nose? Seems to be the case, although he does retrieve the beeping device from his hapless tater and stuff it in his pocket for later. "One hour!!" is repeated, before he moves to go up the stairs to the main house. A last time he can be heard yelling. "AN HOUR!"
"Twenty bucks, eh? All right, you're on," the girl replies, sounding skeptical as she folds her arms loosely in front of her, taking a step to the side to lean a shoulder against the wall. She's pretty quiet then, just watching Roland frisk the fallen men. She makes no move to compete with him for the lootables, even for the one she took down, seemingly more interested in just watching for the moment, her expression neutral, indifferent.
But when he goes to find the mushed potato, the girl's eyes widen just a little. She was just ribbing him about it, not expecting it to be a serious issue. But when he kicks the guy's face over it she's starting to think she's agreed to dinner with a complete psychopath. But when he turns to laugh it off, well, now she just KNOWS she's dealing with a crazy man. But one that she's not as worried about as the potato-lover persona. "Heh," she relaxes. He got her, it seems, but she doesn't seem too bothered by it, brushing her hand along her blouse absently.
She stays in place as he takes to the stairs to head up out of sight, reminding her of the one hour appointment twice over. Eyebrow twitching a little, she pushes off from the wall, dusts herself off, picks a few wrappers out of her hair, "Well. Time to go steal something that looks nice," she ponders idly, following along the direction Roland vanished in after another half minute. Hopefully this next escapade will go a lot smoother than her casino heist!
Obviously Roland cared more about freaking Ayame out then any long term repercussions to the implied instability. Which probably says a lot more then his ease in doing the act of abject cruelty, not that the bastards didn't deserve all that and more. Indeed, they actually had the same idea, somewhat. The jacket and weaponry, beyond some base essentials, were stashed away. A well tailored suit was then bought with one of the credit cards, smooth talking past any identification. Hair has been fastidiously combed, and even his stubble was removed for the occasion. "Good... I'll look the part." is beamed. This isn't about looking good for Ayame, it's about winning that bet. With this done, he heads down to the center of town; right before a grandiose restaurant, a classical dining establishment of more European standards of regality, with valet parking and design better suited to the highest tier casinos. He lingers outside, eyeing his watch and ignoring the looks of the upper class elite who peer at his two lumps, one already swelling into a nice bruise...
Perhaps the promise of free food was too strong a temptation for Ayame to avoid putting up with Roland's company even longer on this wildly random day of crime and, ah, sarcastic passion. And there might be some doubts as to whether or not she was going to show anyway.
But show she does in the end, finding Roland on the street. Gone are the chains, the mishmash of goth, punk, and who knows what else that she normally traipses around in. In fact, she might not be bearing any weapons at all, given the attire itself isn't one of her own custom altered outfits but rather a freshly stolen nice, black party dress. The skirt stops at her knees, and the shoulders are bare but for two thick straps holding the dress up. A crimson ribbon belts around her waist, tied into a bow behind her back.
Her hair cleaned, and free of dumpster-debris, she looks healthy and in good spirits, not sporting the bruises and other evidence of the earlier hijinks. She seems to move with ease, not looking around furtively in spite the risk she's possibly taking at moving about seemingly unarmed. Maybe it's just another act, a show put on like any other she's capable of doing to deceive and manipulate, but for the time being, Ayame actually looks vaguely happy.
Maybe because she's pretty sure she's about to get twenty bucks for proving Roland wrong. Stepping up to the side of the young man, the girl looks him over, one hand coming up to brush some of her lengthy hair back over her ear, "This place, huh?" the girl remarks, glancing up at the impressive establishment. "I should've upped the ante more, this'll be easy money for me." She glances up and down the street, lowering her hand from her ear, "Did you pick out a backup place for when we fail to get into /this/ one?"
Well, Ayame is still eyed rather closely, but in a very judging manner. He furrows his brow, crossing his arms and hrrmphing. Although he looks rather stunning; his suit was masterfully adjusted to him, and with the shave and combed hair his natural attractiveness doesn't need to struggle through five o'clock shadow and dusty clothing. Even if he's pretty ignorant about using it to good effect... "I need your help to get the table, obviously." Roland offers, nodding slowly in thought. "Because if I fail we don't get to eat here, anyway. C'mon, can't you look more... more... alluring?" He actually states this in a genuine fashion, throwing his arms up like an angry director. "Look at that cleavage!!" He points at her breasts, which draws some peculiar stares. "You call that cleavage?! And your dress, get it higher! Tossle your hair, also!" He'd move forward in an attempt to actually inflict this upon her. "Our role is that I'm the son of H.P. Mortgage Bank president, who came to Southtown with him. We got mugged on a walk during our date and are trying to finish on a positive note. I fought them off, but got hurt. Reservations got lost." He taps his bruises, which look ambiguous enough to potentially be blunt trauma such as fists. "I'll fast talk them, but you need to look distressed. If I push hard enough, they'll seat us rather then risk a hit to reputation. Got it?"
To be fair, he looks like a completely different man than the bleary eyed individual trying to hide from the world in order to drink in peace and quiet she ran into quite by accident earlier in the day. He almost looks half respectable. She isn't sure if he's going to pull off being some member of the wealthy elite with it, but all in all it's an improvement!
Of course, her own appearance doesn't fit the scenario he's concocted to get them inside the establishment, it would seem. "W-what?!" she exclaims back when he begins to critique her, "But I like-" she protests, only to get cut off as he immediately calls into question her lack of a sizeable bust, her right hand coming up in a close fist to rest against the base of her neckline a bit defensively, taking a step backward in umberage. "How dare- what about my hair?"
And in the next instant he's on her, moving her dress, going for her long, normally straight hair, to muse it up some, leaving her bangs sticking off to the side at a bad angle and several locks drapped back down over the front of her shoulder in the process. Ayame stumbles backward, adjusting to the low-heeled dress shoes she's got on. "Touch me again and I'm going to stab you," she growls back, hands clenched, no longer looking happy at all. Distressed? Well, maybe it's a bit in that direction. There is a passing flicker of an odd expression as she levels the threat though. She doesn't actually have any knives to make good on it. Now she looks distressed. "All right," she frowns, mood shifting to be a bit downcast, "Let's get this over with, before I decide to help make your story even more convincing," she adds, shaking a fist at Roland briefly. She goes on to mutter something about stupid plans and messing up her good evening, but nothing actually intelligble is voiced loud enough.
With a grunt, Roland tossles up his own suit, enough to look like someone had attempted to make themselves reasonable but did not completely manage. His neck cracks to either side, exhaling and smelling his breath, then finally extending an arm towards Ayame with a smile rather charming in contrast to his earlier argument about her dress. Given it's not actually part of the charade, one can only wonder the purpose. Once hooked, she'd be pulled close and an arm slipped around, but she couldn't really argue. She's supposed to be distressed, after all. He's being comforting! Yet the one part of him she has never seen is him acting. And how unholy his talent is might be surprising, every nuance of his face scrunched up now in stress, body even felt tense as he marches towards the door with Ayame in tow. The doorman looks skeptical when they pass, but isn't given so much as a sideways glance.
Inside, it's marvelous. Almost as if one should pay money just for the artistic view, soft music from a live orchestra drifting around. The soft undertone of conversation, pleasant laughing, and clinking plates. The smell is amazing, despite being minor. Approaching the man at a podium, thin but crisply dressed, Roland gives a crisp nod. And one of outright suspicion is returned. "May I help you?"
"Douglas Patricks." he states. The seater doesn't relent. "What happened to your face?" Roland seems to be almost pridefully insulted, squeezing Ayame a moment. "Tourists apparently cannot walk around your town at night. Douglas Patrick." He's not laying on the sweetness at all, and unsurprisingly the reservation isn't found. "I'm sorry, Mr... Patricks. You are not in the books."
Incredulous. Roland looks so incredulous that the small smile is slapped off the seater's face. "Beg your pardon?" Now seeming to be genuinely apologetic, primly manicured hands are raised consolingly by the seater. "I did not find a Douglas Patrick in our reservations this evening..." He actually checks the other days, but shakes his head once more... So far, it's hard to tell which way it might go!
She looks his extended arm for a long moment, lips drawn tight, pressed thin, as if she's on the fence about actually going through with this. Ditch Roland, ditch this stupid getup, and go get a simple meal somewhere with the money stolen earlier. It sounds so simple, so safe, so... boring. Maybe that's it. Maybe she doesn't care about the bet, the free meal, or the chance to mingle with the wealthy class. But the prospects of cheating their way into a place they're not supposed to be - the lying, the acting, all that is exciting. In the end she steps forward, reaching for his arm, hooked and drawn in close, an arm slipped around her.
When it comes time to look the damsel in distress for the man at the reservations podium, she's a natural. She's used that sort've thing to get out of bad scrapes in the past, twisting and beguiling the trust of others to escape her well past due justice. He squeezes her close as the man asks what happened to his face, "It was dreadful. I thought this was a safe area to be, but..."
The book is searched in vain, the reservation not found, and the receiver looks skeptical. Ayame's doe brown, and slightly damp eyes fix on the thin man, expectantly at first, but stressed afterward, "Can you believe it, after what we went through, and now this?" she asks, looking up at Roland, her hands tightening on his arm, "Can you believe it? I cannot." Her attention snaps back to the seater, this time with a delicately hopeful expression, "Are you sure? Is there any other place it would be written? Oh," she sighs, bringing her free hand to rest at her forehead, "I don't know if I can take this. Maybe we should just..." she looks away from Roland, biting her lower lip, "Should we have your father call? I-I hate to bother him, he's probably still in that big board of directors meeting, and he's going to be furious when he founds out what happened practically on this place's porch, but..."
The girl shakes her head, "Maybe it's not worth it; it's not this man's fault this establishment lost the reservation. Don't get on his case over it, honey." She fixes the seater with one more look, lowering her hand from her forehead, "I just... after what we went through, I don't think I can handle the stress of dealing with a lost reservation to boot." She gives him a wavering smile, "You weren't the one that lost it, are you?"
Hmm, it would appear Ayame is better at the game then he had hoped. This is a good thing, he supposes. But he's not about to be oversold in this con! "Shh, shh." is stated, with a sort of urgency that hints that he's taken such personally. There is no attempt from him to gain pity in this regard; being mugged, failed or not, is apt to emasculate most anyone, especially those who feel their station in life puts them in a position of power and safety that human nature might not necessarily enforce. Understanding all these things is exactly how he is such a good actor; he gets the foundation, and works through what he believes is natural. It's rather apparent that the seater isn't quite sure how to approach this, as it seems almost a scene from a bad movie, but in a surreal fashion that is neither believable nor disbelievable. "Ah... no, I do not do the booking... What is your father's name?"
"Herbert Patricks." There's a small pause from the seater now, who recognizes it. "H.P Mortg–" "Yes." Roland states, allowing some exasperation to get through. "We came to visit your WONDERFUL city. It seems it can't protect the streets or remember a damn reservation!!" Deep breathes control himself, rubbing at his temples with a frown. The seater checks again. "No Patricks at all." Seeming to almost get a sly look, the manager squints at Roland. "May I see your identification?"
Roland stares at him. Oh boy. This is when it all falls apart. He obviously lost his wallet in a mugging and wants his father to be billed. But he pulls out his wallet and hands it over. It is filled to the brim with credit cards and cash. Lots of both. And the driver's license does indeed read Douglas Patricks. This is not the first time he's used the identity, and it's a rather nifty forgery. Enough to fool a simple seater. "Ah..."
Snatching back his wallet, Roland stuffs it within his pants. "Manager." "Exc–" "Let me speak to your manager!" The angry con artist's voice raises, almost to a level that might begin to draw a scene. Nodding and bowing gratuitously, the seater scurries off. Roland still looks the part, but does murmur.
"Not bad. I think we nailed it." A congratulatory squeeze to her side is given. "Douglas Patricks has got me through hard times. Big enough to be intimidating, and you can't just call his cell. ...Of course he doesn't exist, but they won't find out until it's too late."
Ayame gets ready to run when the wallet is asked for. It doesn't show on her face, or in her body language. But Roland will sense her tense up, flight instincts kicking in. The wallet isn't going to have the ID it should. The scam is up and it's time to just split before the scene gets any worse. But much to her surprise, there is an ID to be found - one that works convincingly well to keep the seater from being able to dismiss them out of hand.
Roland raises his voice, getting more incensed at the delays keeping the undeserving duo from enjoying their ill gained money on some fancy, over priced dinner, and Ayame's grip tightens on his arm, "Now dear, don't get angry. You've been talking for months, telling everyone we know all about that experience we had at the Ginza Shushiko back in March." The name of one of the most expensive Japanese restaurants in the world probably rings a bell with the receptionist. "Sometimes I wish you would just let these little mishaps slide rather than malign them at every dinner party we go to week after week. It's not good to get so worked up," she continues, hand coming up to touch tenderly at one of his bruises.
She falls quiet as the man goe sto find his manager at Roland's request and Ayame relaxes just a little, "Yeah, I'm sure good ol' Herbert appreciates his name being dropped by a no good, lowbrow con," she states quietly with a shake of her head. As much as she wants to rib him for the tactics, and as much as her helping is going to cost her twenty bucks if this works, she can't deny that she's having quite a good time.
"The manager can be seen coming back with the seater in hand, and they are talking furiously. The tail end of it is audible, clearly not by intention. "I checked the identification... We cannot get in contact with the person who set the reservations, he is on holiday... it's impossible to confirm or deny..." A tall, stressed looking man with balding hair, the apparent proprietor works his fingers and smiles warmly to Ayame and Roland. "I apologize for the delay. You are in luck. Today we had not anticipated much service and so had arranged our reservations to be swiftly accommodated by a smaller amount of chefs. As such, there are plenty of tables. If you do not mind a potential wait, you can be seated...?" This is a compromise, of course. A somewhat safe offer that does not lavish asskissing, yet neither does it kick them out of the door. They get money, a mild strain for a short time on chefs, and everybody wins. Although how unhappy the manager is happens to not be hidden. Nodding to the seater, he walks back towards the swinging doors leading to the kitchen, likely to break the news.
"Ah... right this way." With a sweep of the arm, they are lead to a small table lit with a candle, offering a nice view of absolutely nothing. The orchestra is rather far away, and no other diners are visible. In other words, purposefully sweeping them into the proverbial corner. Roland makes an annoyed comment about it, but seemingly defeatist. Were H.P. to be bigger in this town, they'd probably of been treated a lot better. But also had a much higher chance of being found out. Glancing to Ayame, Roland then motions aside and walks a fair distance, and talks too lightly to be heard for a good twenty seconds. The seater nods, seeming annoyed and wanting to leave, which he's finally allowed to after being slipped a couple twenties. Approaching the table, both hands clap together loudly, sauntering in a blatant strut before slumping into his seat, all smiles. "Someone just won a bet." he states, blinking in confusion at the number of forks. It's obvious he's never been somewhere this good before.
It seems they did it. The manager returns to settle the situation, and the only possible recourse seems to be to sweep the two off to a corner to an available table far away from any other guests. Led along, Ayame plays with her hair, pushing some of it back over her shoulders, brown eyes taking in the environment. It goes without saying that she's already casing the place to figure out what's worth taking with her on her way out of here when all's said and done.
Seated, the teen rests her hands on her lap, looking over the table idly. She's had meals like this, when splurging during her far more financially profitable days working for Blackjack, but it's been a while. She looks up to see that Roland isn't seated across from her but rather off to the side, speaking with the usher, and try as she might, she can't make out what he's saying, nor see his lips to take a crack at reading them. How bothersome.
At last he returns, bringing up the matter of the bet they had, and Ayame waves her hand absently, "Ja, ja, I haven't had dinner yet, so I'm not paying up yet." She leans forward after that, the black bow she tied in her hair flopping forward over her face, having been knocked out of place by the earlier hair tousling and finally giving up hope at staying properly placed atop her head. "Che," she grunts, hand coming up to push it back up to the center of her head, "What was that all about?" she asks, nodding toward the seater's direction, clearly annoyed at not being kept in the loop on everything.
"None of your business, that's what it was about!" Roland retorts. It's like some bizarre roller coaster ride of being pleasant and being grating, probably given the ambiguity of his intentions. It's certainly not to impress her beyond short doses. He simply looks around, if more due to being out of his depth as opposed to potential financial gain. Picking up a fork, he places it down crooked, and crosses his arms primly before himself. Then fastidiously straightens it, glancing up to look at Ayame. Cough. "So." Apparently the grand scheme of his didn't incorporate the fact they'd suddenly have a long expanse of time with only themselves as company and no outright killing. "..." Eyes drop down, brows waggling a moment. "I'm sorry. You have GREAT cleavage." Grinning with his pearly whites, he leans back on his chair, having used that comment as a leaping point from the awkwardness. "We're going to be stuck here awhile! Might as well tell me about yourself!" Not offering it himself? He glances around a moment. There's a waiter walking by, but upon looking at them walks even faster. It seems they won't get anything until the chefs have time for them...
Roland is being difficult again, refusing to divulge what was discussed with the usher during the moments he was away, and Ayame frowns, giving him a sour look for a moment. She watches him intently, the fidgeting movement of the fork. Only to straighten it out again. "Salad fork," she remarks, leaning her head to the side a bit, looking a bit smug at one-upping him on her knowledge of how to fit in at a place like this. "You work your way in with each course, fork after fork. Placing the fork down on the center of your dish indicates that you're through with that course and ready for the next one."
The information given, she leans back a little, meeting his glance as he looks at her, perhaps sensing that he's feeling a bit awkward. She's a shark when it comes to reading people, and while Roland has proven to be one of the most difficult people for her to read, in this moment of weakness, he seems a lot more vulnerable to her understanding. He coughs, 'So', and she meets him with a raised eyebrow, not making any effort to make it easier on him.
It makes no difference in the end though as he goes on about her chest again, provoking a blush accompanied frown, her hand coming up to rest at the top, center of the dress as if suddenly self conscious all over again. A breath is taken as the waiter looks their way, the girl exhaling slowly, forcing herself to look the part a little bit better, rather than coming across like an annoyed teen. "What's to know?" she asks back, shrugging just a little, her fingers rolling into her long hair and looping a lock around her finger as she seems evasive about the subject.
She decides to lie. "I'm an orphan. I don't know who my parents were. I was taken care of in foster homes until I got tired of it and ran away. I've been here in Southtown ever since, doing all right by myself." Of course, he's already seen plenty details about the girl to really make such a simple story rather suspect, but she isn't really sure how astute Roland is to begin with.
"Huh. Why on earth would you learn something so inane?" It is not phrased as an insult in the slightest. In fact, Ayame might be pleased with the tone; it's sort of a surprise that someone he feels is ‘like him' has dabbled in such matters of complete unimportance, when he doesn't even have the decency to not kick a man in the face for squishing his potato. Yet in a double layer, it disarms her smugness just a tad since he's more or less accusing her of wasting time on factual hogwash. At least he managed to patch up his hole pretty quickly. Ayame is actually one of the hardest people he knows to put on edge. Certainly almost impossible to manipulate. And if he exposes any weakness, she'll tear into him! Maybe that danger is what's alluring... Playing with someone who's a potential peer on the field... "That only makes me more interested." He listens attentively, quirking his head slightly with brows raising. "Painfully cliche, but not something that can be disproven. Bravo. That's the same kind of story we hammed together to get these seats." He leans forward, glancing around in a conspiratorial fashion. "I'll tell you a secret... Cliches are cliche for a reason, Ayame... Because they are the essence of simplicity, easily absorbed, understood and reflected by the common mass. But they are also completely unrealistic for that reason. Remember me showing him my wallet? That was intentional to break the script and make it real. Otherwise they only make good stories, not lies!" Leaning back, his arms cross before his chest smugly. Then he frowns a tad. "Unless you are serious. Then my apologies." ... Whoa. He was just serious? What the hell? That's a first. Someone who will mock her, flash pictures of her climbing ladders, has no compunctions about bodily harm, outright innuendo or opportunistic gropes has a peculiar grain of compassion. Way to drop a weakness, Roland. Awkwardness begins, but is much more rapidly overcome with a fist banging upon the table. "Your turn! Ask me something! Truth or dare, I suppose!"
"I'm going to be rich and famous someday," she retorts when he asks to what end she would have ever picked up such trivial nuances of hobnobbing it in a place like this. Her hand pulls away, letting the curled lock of her hair unfurl so that she can swish the entire length of it over her shoulder with dramatic flaire as if to emphasize her point. "It doesn't hurt to be ready for it." She cracks a faint smile, still satisfied that she can put on the show of being upper class when needs be.
She's quiet as he calls BS on her story, or at least calls into question it's validity, listening to his advice, brown eyes focused on his, her mouth pressed into a neutral expression. When he says he's sorry if she was serious, Ayame simply shrugs, coming across as if definitely trying to brush off the apology, "'s okay, don't worry about it," she states, her tone somber, her demeanor seeming to take a downcast turn. "It's like the recipe for budding street rogues, I guess. I don't think it defines who I am anymore." It looks like she's going to go ahead and stick to her story AND capitalize on his moment of softness while she's at it, completely without shame or scruples.
The demand comes that she reciprocate the questioning and Ayame looks at Roland, intently for a moment before leaning back against her chair, "Truth, huh. Hm... You ever killed anyone, Mister Patrick?" the strawberry blonde asks, leaning her head to the side slightly. A random question, perhaps, but maybe someone crossed him more than just mushing his favorite potato. Never know to what lengths some people will go.
"So you wanna be rich, eh? It's not so great. You'll take it for granted, and once it's gone you'll sure as hell miss it." He leans back in his chair, scratching at his belly with one hand and smacking his lips. Fingers rattle lightly upon the top of the table, not appearing to be a fan of sitting still for any length of time. "Yessir. My family was very rich. I'm talking retardedly rich. Our family owned land in Las Vegas before it was anything good. Prime downtown real estate. Bought out and leased to casinos in the fifties or sixties. The last lot of land sold for fifteen million in the eighties. It was all liquidized and prudently invested, so the family fortune grew and grew." He doesn't offer anything beyond that, or clarification. Actually, Ayame could easily verify it. Probably he's not lying since he uses his real name in the first place.
"Mmmhmm." Roland muses, having no reaction to the rest of the story beyond a small flash of pity. Yet this isn't anything that can be capitalized on or manipulated, but it does hint to some area that is either vulnerable or important to him. Enough to bother sympathizing. Finally he manages to flag down a waiter by creating too much of a scene to be ignored. "Best bottle of wine for the best lady in the restaurant..." He'd try to grasp Ayame's hand and brush the back of it with his lips, sultry raise of his brows done. Entres are also managed; fine bread and salad. Something to gnaw on as an excuse not to talk if either care to.
"Nope." Roland dismisses it with too much ease to be any use to gauge the truthfulness. Then again, given his careless injury to others for a joke, if he felt any thus murder was justified he'd probably not have any emotional hangups. Looking around for the progress of the waiter, he scrunches his face in thought. "...When was the first time you put out?" is asked. Obviously now using the questions to horrify and embarrass her instead of learn any insightful details about her personality and history.
"What? No way it'd ever be gone, I'd just-" she starts to protest the idea that there could possibly be any downside to being wealthy like she's always envisioned herself being. But Roland keeps talking and Ayame falls quiet, brown eyes widening a little as he shares an account of his family's financial history. Suddenly, she's all ears, leaning forward, hands flat on the top of the white cloth covered table. She mouths back the words 'fifteen million' before sitting up straight, eyes narrowed, "Wait a second then. What're you doing around here if you've got all the money you could possibly want back in the States?" she snaps, almost seeming to take offense at the idea that the young man sitting across the table from her had access to a family fortune.
But she settles down a little, falling quiet as he beckons the waitor over, deciding not to do anything to make a scene that might blow their somewhat dubious cover story. Her hand on the table is easily grasped by Roland, the girl not putting up a fuss with the server right there beside them. She manages a patient, demure smile in spite wanting to draw her hand back immediately, and then the two are left alone and she plants her hands at the edge of the table instead, to keep them out of range of any further contact!
He says he's never killed anyone, and Ayame is quiet for a moment before she just nods in acceptence, "Me either," she states simply. It's a line she's never crossed, though came close to on a couple of occasions. It's as if in the utter dearth of scruples she lives with, there's just something about the final act of taking a life that she's stopped at every time. He decides to ask another question and Ayame's eyes widen a little before narrowing, looking a little caught off guard at first but ending up with a vague smirk and shrug of her shoulders. "None of your business," is her calm answer as she leans forward, hands pressed against the table, deciding to dig at something else she's so very curious about. "So where did you figure out how to make all that stuff you've got? You some kind of college flunkie? Your parents send you to science camp? What is it?"
"Yeah, I wonder why?" Roland snaps, eyes gaining a bit of fire and seeming antagonistic. This is actually incredibly uncharacteristic of everything she has seen. It's not some mild annoyance at petty matters that rolls over in the next second; that intensity remains in a dark simmer, even after his eyes narrow askew with muscles tense. Although the waiter wouldn't of noticed any such undertone given the supposed events that took place with his evening in Southtown. "Oh, so you can pick and choose your questions, but I still have to answer them?!" he asks, seeming to be absolutely insulted. Although this erases the last vestiges of ire that the topic of his family brought up. Indeed, somewhere in that word is his truest vulnerability. They are given some relatively stale bread and a bottle of wine settled in a cart that, although not poor, isn't the house best either. Chipper stoicness tells them the chef should be available to take orders in the near future, although the options will be limited. Salads are the last to be set down, and are quite exceptional. There's no half-ass greens to be given, it's the same anyone else would receive today. After taking a mouthful of his food, he hrrms thoughtfully. "Where did I learn it..." is repeated, tapping at his chin. "Why... I just can't recollect..." Shoulders lift and fall with a sigh, pulling the wine bottle from the metal bucket with a rustle of ice and wrenching the cork out. Pop! "I'll see if I can jog my memory." He fills up his glass, smugly observing Ayame. He knows how much she actually wants to know, and doesn't seem apt to reveal it without making her at LEAST suffer.
As her inquiry into his family fortune is met with ire, Ayame backs down immediately and doesn't press it. That doesn't mean she isn't still horribly curious about it, but it's not too hard for her to tell when she's reached an absolute road block through which she's not going to get anything else but more sarcasm if she pushes it.
He points out her stubbornness with answering his questions and she rolls her eyes, "Then don't ask stupid stuff like that!" she retorts, "And maybe I'll answer them!" She falls quiet as the helpstaff draws near again, hands resting at the edge of the table, her polite if somewhat tense demeanor adopted again in an instant, to keep up appearances until the salads are brought out and they're left alone again.
But now it appears to be HIS turn to play difficult with the questions and Ayame twitches a little, knowing he's toying with her. How could he possibly claim to not remember how he learned to be so creative with ordinary objects? The girl huffs, folding her arms over her chest and looking off to the side. "All right, fine." she grumbles, fixing her attention back on him, "Ask something else."
"How is that stupid! Maybe I was subtly using it to determine the lengths you are willing to go to manipulate other people!! You certainly got the body to seduce!" Well, that's a compliment, sort of. At least as far as possible when saying someone would be successful as a whore. But he waves it off, appearing to bother being serious about the inquisition. Taking up one of the pieces of bread, he sinks his teeth into it and tears off a huge hunk, not very demure in the slightest as he devours it. For someone who came from a family that very likely could of attended this kind of prestigious establishment daily were they inclined, he... didn't even know about forks. That alone might be curious, were he not also to simply think it a waste to figure out. Etiquette? No thanks. "What was the first thing you ever stole?" he settles on, pouring a glass of wine for Ayame as well, bringing up his own to wash down the vestiges of bread with a surprised sigh. "Mmm. If they were trying to be skimpy on wine, mission failed!"
"I don't care what you're subtly trying to determine!" Ayame replies, her voice raised for a moment before she calms back down, bringing her hand up to her mouth, closed fist, to cough into it, "Ahem." She reaches for the bread only to find that it isn't all that great. For the money this place costs, one would think they'd be bringing out some tasty cheese bread or something. But of course, that's too lowbrow for these sorts, she muses, simply looking at Roland, seemingly content to let silence linger where it may.
The glass poured for her is taken, the girl swishing it around in the chalice a little as she craddles it between her fingers. "First thing I ever stole? I'll never forget that one," she states, grinning a little. "It was a few years ago. One of those little mp3 players. Well, not so little back then, but still." She rests an elbow against the table, rather inappropriately for a place like this, but she doesn't mind. She survived a mugging tonight, after all!!
"It wasn't about money at the time," she continues. "I just saw it and wanted it, wanted to see how it worked. I broke it apart before the school officials caught me with it. I was going to put it back together, but they didn't give me a chance." She shrugs a little, swishes the wine, then downs it before placing the cup on the table. "You shouldn't drink so much," she scolds, "Kills brain cells!"
"I didn't know you could be promiscuous and prude at the same time." Roland marvels, as if this is some great paradox in life. Before snapping his fingers, coming to a conclusion he appears to already know. "Oh, right. You're just a tease, aren't you? Skirt swishes, but no touching!" He's smirking to himself regardless, not about to allow her off that hook until he's sure that maximum exasperation has been achieved. Really the bread isn't bad, but it's not good either. Given it's free, beggars can't be choosers. "An MP3 player? Huh. Well, I don't actually steal, anyway. Not physical things, at least. I'm a conman. Money can only be given to me consensually. If that consent is due to a lie, it's their fault for falling for it. Oh, this rule can be bent. For example, if I masquerade as an employee and snatch it. Basically, if I don't do some acting, I don't do it. That's my code of honor, so to speak." He drinks more of the wine, chugging gulps that do little to savor it. "...Okay, preference. I don't really have any scruples that would stop me from doing whatever the hell I wanted." Bemused slightly at the statement, her glass is refilled, before he strokes his chin. "A few years ago... I didn't know orphan runaways attended school. Interesting." Smirking openly at a potential chink in her story, one that was all but laughable at the onset, he sighs before looking up to the ceiling. "The mysterious story of my inventions. I make it up. That's about it. I get an idea of something that would be useful, find parts that would achieve what I want, and tinker. Sometimes I read up on it if common sense won't suffice, like rapid oscillation on my..." He chokes up, grasping his chest. "My potato bomb. Magic tricks and sleight of hand have always been a hobby. Fundamental mechanics for that is the core of my inventions. Being small, being hidden, being cheap, and being effective." Nowhere did he say efficient. Or precise. Or always work.
At his pointing out her seemingly inconsistant reactions to innuendo and embarrassing questions, Ayame says nothing, brown eyes flashing back at him with a hint of annoyance. But when he calls her a tease, that annoyance passes, her mouth curling into a trace of a grin as she leans back against her chair. He comments on her first theft then goes on to speak about his own scruples, as such they may be. She's about to call to question the idea of him having a /code of honor/, quite certain anyone else in the world would beg to differ, but he amends his statement on his own and she stays quiet instead, only to shake her head in the end. "Yeah, I didn't think so."
She leans forward a little, "You strike me as the type that will do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Your so called code of honor must just be something to make yourself feel better or I don't know," she finishes with a shrug, sitting up a bit more straight. She doesn't touch the refilled glass at the moment. If he thinks to get her quickly inebriated, he'll find that a tricky goal. "I didn't run away until I was sixteen," she smirks back, seemingly not bothered by him poking holes in her flimsy if rather generic story. "Or maybe I was fifteen then. Who knows. Was old enough that they probably didn't even bother looking for me. One less body to keep track of, I bet."
And then she's back to listening as Roland speaks about where he gets his stuff. How he learned to make them. A mixture of a creative, if perhaps borderline crazy mind, and the standard resources any man can get his hands on, and the end result is the various devices, weapons, traps, gizmos, and... yes, precious potato bombs she's seen him demonstrate in her various encounters with him thus far. "Huh," is her response at first, not sure what to make of such a common sense answer. "Interesting." she finally allows after another moment has passed, leaning back in her chair, hand plucking up the fork next to her salad before she begins to consume it, at last realizing just how hungry she really is. "For me, I just break stuff apart to see how it works. Try to make my own combinations of systems I've studied before. When I started stealing at first it was just to learn how things operated. I didn't need the money until I had run away," she grins.
There's definitely a raised brow from Roland, apparently having gotten the answer to his question, even without any juicy details. Enough so that he drops that topic with a wave of the hand. Although given that he's also drinking the wine rather quickly, and already had been on the road to excess when literally stumbled across, it's a very stupid plan were it his intent. "You're reading way too deep into it." Roland states, waggling a finger in the air. "I do it because it's more fun to be given what you want then to take it." The glass is swirled slightly, almost spilling the liquid as more of the bread is gnawed upon. There's a sort of lazy nod there, letting out an ‘mmhmm' of sheer doubt. "So you were a natural tinker, and I was a natural showman. I guess they ended up not being too different. Me, I always loved acting. That's pretty much why I don't do direct stealing. I don't need physical items, been there and done that. Money is another matter! I do sometimes miss high quality." He chomps more of his salad at this, devouring it. Amazingly, the waiter comes not long after to take the orders, although he offers a menu instead of asking. Roland takes the soup, a pheasant, mashed potatoes, two pieces of pie, cheese covered broccoli, and a small tenderloin. The waiter is obviously dubious of his ability to eat all of it, but still would take Ayame's order before toddling off. "So, question, question..." he wonders, tapping his fingers upon the table. "So. Tell me." He edges forward a bit, conspiratorial. "Do you do it for the money and rewards, or the rush?"
She leans back, enjoying her salad then, listening to Roland speak for the moment. He mentions that it's more fun to be given something than having to take it, and she shakes her head, "Maybe," sounding not sure on that point, as if she'd never really given it thought. She's definitely not above being given something, and she's even taken people's so called 'charity' when the moments presented themselves. But she likes people to surrender in the end, fully knowing they've been outwitted, out smarted. "Maybe." she repeats. "I hate it when people are able to just wander home, filled with that warm fuzzy feeling of having done something right when I was the one that conned them into it in the first place. It's like they're getting credit for my cunning!"
She pauses to listen further, going back to eating patiently. He speaks of acting and she's quiet, pondering where he might be had he put his knack at it to better use. It's always easier to scrutinize the life path of others than study one's own mistakes or wrong turns after all. When he says he sometimes misses high quality, she opens her mouth, the question she's about to ask almost plainly written on her face. He HAS a wealthy family, right? Why not... just... But she never asks it, her mouth closing after a moment, the girl sitting silently until waited upon.
She orders a crab meat melt, some vegetable concoction, and some kind of chicken dish with sauce and cheese that sounded nice on the menu. No sooner than she's left in peace from the waitstaff, Roland presses with another question. Is it all about the stuff she gets? Or is it the thrill of it all? "Depends on how close rent is to being due," she returns with a smirk, "Or how hungry I am." she adds, grinning a bit more before shoving the last of the salad into her mouth.
"Both, I guess. I don't... know how I feel about fighting, to be honest. It's a great way to get a job done these days, and it opens the door to some opportunities..." She shrugs, "I like beating people at it, but I'd just as soon take them down in a game of chess if it still meant I got to take their wallet in the end."
She smiles a little, placing her fork down in the center of her salad dish. "So just depends on the situation. It's a means to survival, but it's also pretty fun."
"It's easy to beat up weak people and take money. Maybe if you care about the physical reward, but that's not what I'm after. I could get money much easier and safer through legitimate pursuits, probably. But I'm not about to go through life bored, conforming to society since it's convenient and legal. You only live once. I'll do what I want to do, and fuck anyone who says different." Ah, a classic rebellion cliche, although in this case rather obviously true. And to a point that is somewhat inhibitive, as he's ignorant of advice and mainstream methods of getting what is wanted. Her curiosity about his past is completely missed, not appearing to bother trying to read any ques at the moment. His salad is finished now, swirling about his fork and licking the dressing. Mmm. Delicious. The last of his bread is popped into his mouth and chased with another glass of wine.
"Oh? Rent? Hah. I stay in a motel if I can afford to. Otherwise I sleep on the ground. Everything I have I carry with me." That might explain some of his packrat tendencies; and he did say he *stashed* his clothing, not that he put it in his apartment. It's somewhat odd, as he should make more then enough to stay in a hole in the wall just from Saturday Night Fight. "...Huh." Roland muses, licking the rim of his glass. "We're the complete same. Fighting isn't anything special to me. I'm good at it, but it's a means to an end. Probably wasting my potential... not that I'm used to competition..." The latter is grumbled with a flicker of the dour depression she got a mild peek at during the onset of this frenetic night. "I'd like a trainer, but I don't know where to start looking. And if there's one talent I'm supreme at, it's procrastination." The food actually arrives quickly. The chefs seemed to want to get them out of the way to get back to a comfortable pace. Two trays are needed to pile up on almost every ounce of the table, and Roland tears into it with hunger, as if he's starving. No manners at all! "What's your question?" is stated, through a mouthful of pie and whipped cream.
Ayame is quiet, listening to Roland, not doing anything to interrupt his observations, quietly contemplating on the similarities in their pursuits, interests, motivations or lack thereof. She isn't sure if it bothers her to find another that has so many things in common or if it's somehow reassuring to know she's not the only one. Probably a little of both, really. Her food is placed in front of her and she sits up straight, shaking her head, looking a little bemused. "Right on the street, huh? Doesn't that just get you robbed? Then again, judging by how you normally look, people probably assume it's not worth the bother. Heh."
She narrows her eyes a little, "So I stole this dress," she states, fork burried in some chicken, "But what about you? Did you steal that suit? I can't imagine what it's like not having at least some place to call your own. I mean, sure, I pay rent to live in a dingy hovel of a studio, but at least it's a place to put my stuff, a place to sleep undisturbed, or shelter from a lousy storm..."
He speaks about looking for a trainer and Ayame narrows one eye thoughtfully, "Good luck there. I'm not sure where you're going to find a dojo dedicated to hurling potato bomb projectiles or happy face sticker chi focused chi blasts. I've just learned as I've gone, a little trick picked up here and there... Though..." She drums her fingers on the table, "I guess I spent a lot of time pit fighting earlier this year. That'll make you learn real fast. Some serious bruisers in the place I was fighting, and they wouldn't stop hurting you just because you couldn't fight anymore, either, whether or not you're faking. Nothing like the fear of death to make you pour on the effort a bit ore." she states with a half shrug.
At last the forkfull of chicken makes it to her mouth and she chews thoughtfully. "So tell me," she states after swallowing, deciding to give him a question as requested. "Why did you decide to do this?" She gestures at the table, the platters of food piled up in front of him. "Not coming here, that is. That I can guess. But why me? Why'd you decide to spend some of your hard fought money to give me my next meal?"
"Hah. Not really an issue. I'm not stupid, I don't lay anywhere that'll end up in me having empty pockets. Not like many people care to take my junk. The only stuff worth crap is strapped to my body." He works over more of his food, vigorously and with small parts of it all at once. The mention of her dress being stolen earns it being appraised a bit too closely, the newfound alcohol seeming to dull the repressed physical interest. "Bought it with a stolen credit card. I'll sell it somewhere after this." he offers matter of factly before waving a hand in a dismissive fashion. But he does let out a less then refined snort, scratching at the side of his face before diving in to eat more food for a good twenty seconds. After surfacing and wiping his face with a napkin, it's hard to tell by his expression whether he was paying attention or not.
"I want to learn a martial art, damnit!" he finally states. "I only know what I've bullshitted over the years." Seeming to realize he might of just stated a weakness, he grumbles to himself. Not that it isn't something blatantly obvious in 2 minutes of sparring. "And my first fights were pitfights and back alley brawls. I do a mean kick to the groin." He lets out a contented sigh, having managed to finish two thirds of all his food; leaning back and patting his stomach, nursing a last glass of wine. "Why indeed..." he muses, seeming to be smug. "Maybe I like you." A dashing grin and wink is offered. "This was fun. Next time, we should try to enjoy the fair without spending a dime."
Of course, the seater is now approaching, looking to be rather irrate. "Sir. I need a word with you." is stated towards Roland, who stiffens and gives Ayame a grimace. But the seater is already walking back to his front podium, with Roland exhaling and rising, adjusting his tie. "Did they actually try to check out the name...?" he grumbles, stepping out of his chair and ambling off dejectedly in the direction. "I'll be right back. If you hear fighting, then go for the fire exit."
Content to enjoy the lavish meal provided, Ayame is quiet as Roland speaks, going on about how he gets by sleeping without having a place to stay, epitomizing the lifestyle of a bum more than she had originally given him credit for. He talks about the suit and she grins, waving a fork around absently. Yeah, makes sense. Probably one of the cards found on those guys they beat up for having the indecency of trying to stop them from being no good thieves. Works for her.
He talks about wanting to learn a martial art and the strawberry blonde shrugs a little, shaking her head, "I dunno what to tell you. A master is going to want, you know, money or something to spend time on you. You're going to have to go rob a bank or something to afford training from anyone that's any good." She shakes her head, sounding skeptical that he'll pull off finding a teacher any time soon.
When the matter wraps around to him inviting her out to dinner, Ayame just looks amused, not offering him a lot to go on to tell if she likes him back, but when he mentions a next time, she rolls her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, "You mean next time I do all the hard work of robbing a place only to have you help yourself to half the proceeds?" She laughs lightly, laying her for back down, feeling moderately sated with the meal thus far. Not one used to eating in courses, to say the least. "All right, we'll see."
But at that moment, Roland is being drawn away from the table and Ayame arches an eyebrow. It seems strange to her that they would bother to check on the cover story after going through the trouble of actually making them the meal already. Curious, wary brown eyes follow Roland as he gets to his feet, before she glances along the wall of the room, spotting the fire exit. "Yeah? What about you?" she asks, hands pressing down against the table, the girl scooting her chair back just a little. Drat. And she had already done so much running for one day too!
"Shut up. A good trainer cares about potential. I got plenty of that!" Roland sounds huffy and offended by the sheer prospect that his lack of money will destroy his hopes and dreams!! He doesn't seem to have any defense beyond that, and seems more then content to wave the conversation on to another area – quite literally. "Bah, that's why we'd start small. Rob a fair. Beat the rigged games. Lift wallets to pay for food. Good times!" Seeming to be greatly inconvenienced by being lead away, he just waves off the comment while slumping along, out of sight. Ten minutes pass, before the seater can be seen approaching Ayame. "Ah, miss Ayame." he offers, setting down a letter. And a bill. For over three hundred dollars. "Courtesy of Mr. Richards. He left saying he had left the money on the table, telling me to give you the letter... and I was already in the process of reading a second note to the establishment, during which he slipped away. He outlined you are very likely to run out on your bill... I had a feeling you two were not kosher!. We will be watching you attentively. I *suggest* you pay in full." The seater then stomps off. Indeed, there's a fair amount of well-dressed security lurking in the adjoining area.
The envelope enclosing his letter is rather crumpled, obviously having been hidden in his pocket. Within, on simple yellow legal paper, it reads:
Hey there sexy.
When you first saw me talking to the seater, I paid him fifty bucks to come and pull me away from the dinner in a way that wouldn't make you suspicious.
I decided the perfect ending to the perfect evening was to get you back. It didn't have anything to do with slamming the door in my face, though. Not at all.
It was fun, though. Hope we'll meet again soon.
Good luck getting out of here.
- Your lover,
RB
Seconds tick by, turning into minutes. Worried at first, the girl slowly becomes bored, resting her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her other hand drumming fingers against the white cloth covered surface. "Good grief, if he hasn't convinced them by now, there's no way this could possibly be going well," the girl mutters, hands pressing against the edge of the table as she prepares to rise up to standing. But in that moment, the seater steps back into view and the young reprobate freezes, not wanting to tip him off that she's about to bolt.
He speaks the psuedo-name she's passed off as being her own for a good while now and one eyebrow quirks slightly. She hadn't ever given her name to them earlier. Settling back into her chair more fully, brown eyes dart down to focus on the letter being placed in front of her, then toward the bill adjacent to it with a slow blink. She doesn't even begin to read the message before the usher elaborates.
In an instant she already knows where this is going, when it's clear that Roland isn't even in the building anymore. She doesn't even need the rest of the accounting as she looks up slowly, eyes widened just a little, cheeks a tad pale as she glances to the side to watch the seater move off, clearly irritated, only to notice the security a little ways beyond. "Oh... boy..."
Her hand darts out to pick up the letter, glaring at it as if she could somehow harm him by proxy if she evil-eyed it long enough. By the time she's finished reading the contents, her expression has twisted into a strange mixture of fury and panic, putting the crumpled note back down on the table slowly. "I'm going to have to kill him, it seems."
One hand comes up to rest behind her head and she closes her eyes as she tries to clear her mind and think calmly as to how she's going to deal with this mess. She sits there for a long while in that exact position, making no other sounds or motions. Practically unarmed, in an unfamiliar environment, and way out numbered, this is going to be tricky...
"Well," she muses, opening her eyes slowly, lowering her hand from the back of her head to rest against the table, reviewing two primary plans and one fallback option one last time before getting ready to act, "At least I don't have to pay up that bet!"
Log created on 00:03:00 06/25/2008 by Ayame, and last modified on 01:50:23 07/03/2008.