Description: Rochelle pitches the use of Mr. Burr's drug, Pledge, to a contemplative Duke. Will Southtown be the site of a drug epidemic?
The Shanghai Sports Bar had a private event.
Invite only. Members only. The Sport Bar was closed to the general public for a private party between legitimate businessmen. The place was quite ritzy for a sports bar, quite clean and a little too fancy; with marble bar counters and gold trim runners along side the floor. But only the best was needed for the private party. After all.
Duke had Syndicate business here.
The crime boss was seated on a leather chair, placed at the head of a table. He was garbed in black and crimson, taking in the thick fumes of a cigar in his maw. Several Yazuka gangsters are busy with 'bodyguard' work. What that actually meant in this job is that they were the only customers that this bar would have. Some were ordering non-alcoholic drinks at the bar, others were in the midst of pool games at the tables. Some were even at a leather couch, watching a baseball game unfolding on the plasma screen.
There was someone who had a pitch.
A business proposition. An engagement. An offer. Duke sits at the table, puffing away at the cuban cigar with an expression of pure contempt. It was still early. Duke just made a note to make things early. Time was money.
Hopefully, this person will well compensate the crime boss for both.
The high pitched revolution of a modified Ducati street motorcycle signals Rochelle's arrival, heard distantly outside as it swung around the corner, then screaming around to the side of the building where it would be less likely noticed by Southtown police. A low, distant beating putter is heard as the motorcycle was shifted into a park position, before a sudden halt to the noise. Rochelle made sure that the frenzy of the motorcycle trick outside was particularly loud, even though she lacked the typical white knuckle frenzy of a Mafia assassin. She was at peace, she just knew to put on a certain show to blend in with the typical Yakuza in Southtown. An actress always.
A minute or so later, Rochelle stepped into the Shanghai Sports Bar, her porcelain skin and crimson red hair making her look like a high class courtesan, although her black motorcycle jacket and semi-loose leather pants dissuaded the notion. And if one were still debating it, all it took was the subconscious drag of her motorcycle boots, albeit with the nod to fashion of a thick chunky one inch heel. She looked to the hostess, her blue eyes with a slice to them as they panned over, before she looked away and pushed open the doors to the club with both hands.
Rochelle stepped inside and let the doors close behind her, the finely maintained hinges of such a swank establishment guaranteeing no loudness or squeak, as was preferred by patrons who desired to look like they were the creme de la creme of Southtown's fighting scene (or otherwise). Rochelle looks straight at Duke, and her red painted lips curled into a smile, her full cheeks dimpling as she slid her black gloved hands into her jacket and sidled along the table, approaching from his right. "Hi there, boss man," she purred, her hips taking on a canting saunter as she approached.
"Thanks for putting it on the ritz for me."
It was hard not to notice all eyes on Rochelle.
The Syndicate members weren't supposed to make it so obvious. But it was, unconscious to them. Duke puffs away on the cigar as his yellow eyes train on the woman. He wasn't lusting after her. He was a professional. What a woman wore on the job made it clear what kind of work she was in. And if Rochelle was honest about her line of work... that meant never letting your guard down.
The man rumbles in a dark baritone, pulling the cigar from his mouth between two fingers. The crime boss reaches below the table, pulling up a small hourglass. "As I understand, ma'am, you have a proposition to make between yourself and the Southtown Syndicate. When word reaches my ears, and I am required to come down, it usually means those propositions are taken very seriously. But I need to hear the proposition in person. I need to hear it from the individual in question. And that person needs to sell it to me." The crime boss taps the cigar out in the ash tray, as he turns the hourglass, letting the sands trickle down.
"You have five minutes to tell me how this is not a waste of Syndicate time."
Rochelle demures at the show of quiet authority and force, her eyes lidding down as she smiles and looks at his hand, specifically the cigar. She knows what that means to a man. Most women do, at one age or another. "Of course, Duke."
Rochelle slides into a chair at Duke's right, kicking her leg up on the table between her sole and the chunky heel, demonstrating her flexibility as she rests a gloved hand on her knee. Her left hand gestures with an articulate gesticulation, pinky held straight as the marker of her personality, shown openly in these circles. "Call me Rochelle, I prefer to see it as my stage name. In Sunshine City, one of our charitable organizations that we use as scouts spotted a new street drug, Pledge. The culprit selling it is one Mister Burr, true name unknown. He isn't affiliated with anyone, he is a street chemist of unusual merit. He is making a drug charged with addictive chi."
Rochelle's gaze slinks to the hand on her knee, as she straightens her fingers. "Normally, I wouldn't bother the Syndicate with such a petty individual's existance. However. This drug, Pledge, has an intoxicating effect on those susceptible to chi, particularly those without the training to make them a professional fighter. I had a thought on this." Her voice drops. As we both may know, the profit from Southtown Syndicate is not the sole reason for our existence.
[OOC] Rochelle says, "Hit enter too early, sorry."
"The boss's war with his rivals in Southtown, also important. If we flooded the streets with this drug, we'd create dead weight for the police, and the chief's rivals, to deal with. It would be a morale blow." She smiles, looking back at Duke. The smile is distinctly predatory. "And it would clear our path towards our enemies, so we could rule this city definitively. It would be a Darwinist way of spotting those we needed to destroy, by their resiliency to the drug."
[OOC] Rochelle says, "Now I'm done."
Duke is a patient man.
Placing the cigar in the ashtray, he steeples his fingers together. Listening. watching. Taking in the details with dilligent effort. A new drug. The details weren't the problem. The plan was unfolded before his eyes. Starting another war in Southtown, bringing a drug that could cripple his opponents, send them in disarray... all through simple commerce. You couldn't have a war right now, with the Shadow Council. But you could have commerce. Economic warfare on a black market. The plan made sense. The problem was?
He didn't believe it.
Duke shakes his head, scowling. "A wild ambition, Rochelle. But I've heard enough stories. I only believe what I see, and "I need to see this drug in effect." The crime boss's arms shudder, as waves of chi boil over him. "I will presume you have some samples to share. I hope, for your sake." He glances back over to the hourglass.
"You have 3 minutes"
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "And now"
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "I must spin away"
[OOC] Rochelle Nods.
Rochelle's blue eyes narrow faintly, a hint of her American blue blood upbringing sneaking into her facial expression at the accusation of disenguinty. Her cheeks pucker her lips as she considers Duke as the chi boils over his arms, aware that the threat is real, but not the intent. She lifts her gloved left hand and conjures a ball of crimson chi above her daintily gesture, before clasping it with a shutting hand into her palm and letting the wisps escape from between her clenched digits. "Very well. Let's not test it on one of our own. That's a rule from Java, you know. It lets the Dutch divide us." She turns away and lets her leg sink down from the table, emitting a steady sigh of relaxation and moving her hand into an inner jacket pocket, withdrawing a pyrex vial of glowing sallow liquid. "That's just history. Always take a personal risk, even if that means you are more dependent on your fellows. I believe the Japanese agree." There's a faint smile around her lips, as she slides the vial across the table to Duke. "I hear it's a general feeling of power, despite the fact that it saps one's connection to the environment. Sugar instead of toast."
Duke has disconnected.
Rochelle has disconnected.
Rochelle has connected.
Rochelle has disconnected.
Rochelle has connected.
Duke has connected.
[OOC] Rochelle says, "+pot/last has my pose."
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "Got it!"
There was that charm again.
The Syndicate capo listens carefully, taking in the proposition in full force. The moment she references the Java, Duke gestures towards the side, without glancing. At one of the pool tables, two men, one ready to line up a shot, the other watching. At the gesture, the shooter pulls back, placing the cue on the table. The other keeps his, wrapping the cue behind his back across the shoulders. The pair walk off, as the crime boss continues his glower, as she fetches out the vial.
The sands were dropping down. "I won't take your word for it." The man states as the two men return, with a third. One of the kitchen staff, grabbed by each arm, dragged before their table. He is slammed face down, head manually twisted to the side. Duke's hand reaches out, to steady the hourglass. "How do you apply the substance?" The crime boss states suggestively, gesturing towards their new test subject.
The clock was ticking, Rochelle.
Rochelle turns her head slowly to observe the two gangsters disappearing, then pulling the kitchen staff out to the table. She frowns thoughtfully, looking the cook in the eyes, perhaps a mistake. Her breathing shifts unconsciously into a meditative exercise, as her eyes flick back to Duke, quicker than the slow, methodical glances previous.
"Apply it orally. It bounds with the body's chi naturally, and the mouth is one such entry and exit for one's aura."
She looks at the kitchen staffer, pursing her lips. "We shouldn't need much." She leans forward, another unconscious gesture occuring, the show of her cleavage above her black t-shirt. "Don't worry, honey," she says apologetically to the cook. "It's just a mild kick of an auric drug. It'll make you feel like you can throw a fireball, that's all."
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "By the way, what kind of response should this guy have"
[OOC] Rochelle says, "I'm not sure how Mr.Burr writes it, but I'm guessing like a fake 'charging' round on the CSYS."
The cook should have taken today off.
As Rochelle says oral, one of the gangsters forces the mouth open. The woman might have a gentle touch. But the Yakuza had neither obligation nor desire. The cook was afraid, he wasn't trying to struggle. But for a moment, as Rochelle leans forward, he seems to almost relax. Duke taps the sands. "Give it to him then."
"One minute left."
Rochelle slowly draws her glove off her right hand with the left, and reaches across the table to place a palm on the shoulder of the cook. She offers him a smile, sincere or insincere, even she does not know, as the Yakuza forces the liquid into his mouth.
The cook begins quivering, before a sudden adrenaline surge bucks him off the table with the mobsters behind him. He convulses back onto the table as they force him down, his eyes glowing with golden chi as he begins to grunt and balls his hands into fists. Unaware of what danger he's placing himself in by disobeying these most dangerous of masters, he slams his hands on the table.
Rochelle withdraws her hand, blinking at the man's rage. "I assume all users aren't this violent." Her eyes move to Duke's again, as she slides the glove back on her hand, offering him a little smile as she wiggles her fingers back into the leather comport. "Just a matter of situation. He knows not what he does." She lowers her eyelashes. "Sir."
[OOC] Rochelle says, "Sorry about the wait, had to order food."
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "Don't worry about it"
Duke watches the reaction with a smolding stare.
Yellow eyes transfixed on the man, he watches the reaction, the writhing, the squirming. The reaction. A new drug, a new reaction. There was the effect. It looked like that there was product. What was missing was the buyer. Buyers... and logistics. She wiggles her fingers, she lowers her eyelashes... and calls him sir. And what did that mean to the crime boss?
"Time's up, Rochelle."
There was no flirting, no coy teasing. Just that ruthless presence around him, as he unclasps his hands."You've given your demonstration." The Yakuza keep the man pinned at the table, as the crime boss fixes his eyes. Everyone in the room has... stopped. Frozen in place. All eyes on Rochelle. "It's time for your closing comments, Rochelle." Duke places his fists on the table, as he twists his head slightly.
"Any last words?"
"My summation is simple." Rochelle says quietly, looking Duke straight in the eyes as her mouth curls up the left side of her ivory face into a rancid smirk. "This operation's only flaw is within the skills of the operator I've sought to recruit, Mr. Burr. If he is as good as he says he is, we have at least a slight advantage the Master's enemies in Southtown. And if he's not?" She looks away, looking to the sweating, jawgrinding man on the table in the ecstasy of a false chi rush. "Then we at least get to understand a potential tactic." The Jago adept's smirk fades, as she says in faux toughtlessness, "I suppose it's a matter of whether we're willing to follow the dogmatic ways that our opponents seem to have fallen into."
Rochelle tosses her red ponytail, placing her index and forefinger on her cheek, tilting her palm under her chin and resting her elbow on the table, as she regards Duke. "We can't rely on the natural experiments of others. Research and development doesn't just apply to corporate diversions, sir. Our tactics require innovation when viable."
"Oh, I know Mr. Burr."
Duke states very flatly. There was that flare of chi energy over his body. A nerve was struck. "And if he looks to operate in my city... well, he'll be playing by my rules." Duke mulls a moment. The gangsters were waiting for the order. He rubs his chin, inspecting the woman, her plan. He casts his eyes to the writhing man. And finally, the decision is passed.
A nod of his head.
All at once, the gangsters return to their paid idling. "You have our interest, Rochelle. That means this was not a waste of my time. I am still not conviced you are ready to be a member of our organization; but I have graciously decided to give you the opportunity and resources to prove yourself. I'm authorizing an extension of our resources to let you prove your success. You will be recieving a contact about what you'll get. Think of this as a... trial." Duke begins to rise from his seat.
"I'll let your success or failure be your judge."
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "As a heads up, Lao Po is heading me out the door"
[OOC] Rochelle says, "Yep, sorry, was eating."
[OOC] Rochelle says, "I'll do my final, then quit the log. :)"
[OOC] Duke Torgue-O says, "Being married + no internet is bastards"
Rochelle slowly closes her eyes and nods, a peaceful gesture on her face that is deep enough to be genuine, despite the flare of her gloved hands as she moves them to the table. "Of course, Duke." Her eyes lid open as she smiles and stands. "I am used to trials. But remember, I am a warrior, not a soldier." She turns about, her hands slipping into her pockets as she walks out with a swinging of her hips. She nods at the host, and steps outside into the harsh night time chill of the Japanese winter.
There's a whine outside, followed by a rev and a steel horsepower scream as she drives off into the night. Best get in riding hours before the snow falls.
Log created on 16:29:01 11/23/2016 by Rochelle, and last modified on 18:09:15 11/27/2016.