The Bell Tolls - TBT Act 2 - Know Your Worth

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Description: Senna's mission to raze one of the the Scarlet Dahlia's safehouse went awry, leaving her captured and at the manipulative crime lord's mercy. With the Huntress responsible for Senna's capture at her side and in her ear, Dahlia offers the boxer a chance to make up for the sins nearly committed against her.


Bulleta swipes the blood gushing from her nostrils free with a fist after cuffing the unconscious Senna's wrists behind her back. It's a /very/ temporary measure: just one shot from the invasive boxer was enough to leave her leaking for a while to come. while she does the needful would be nice. A small, aging phone comes out of the basket post-swipe; the only number programmed into it gets a picture of the unconscious woman's face, followed by...

Bulleta: got you something~
Bulleta: gonna leave it in a spare room for when you get back~
Bulleta: also we are gonna have to gtfo but i have an idea for that

Insert another picture, this time of gas cans.

Bulleta: technically it's her idea but its not like she's gonna sue
Bulleta: also my face hurts, does akemi know how to roll a joint
Bulleta: im gonna ask her


Senna might not know it, but she has the Russian warlord of an African nation to thank for the futon she's currently occupying, the zip ties binding her dangerous fists together at her front, and the meal - a sandwich, chips, water - waiting for her whenever she wakes up. The spare room is furnished for guests, as if Senna still needed signs that the ryokan isn't quite as abandoned as it should be. There may be some light signs of use - Bulleta's definition of 'spare' is easily extended to 'rooms that I, or people I personally like am not currently using' - but the boxer otherwise has a clean, neatly appointed room to herself. There aren't any phones, televisions, or radios in sight, but that has as much to do with the nature of the ryokan itself as anything else.

Past the sliding door, the distant sounds of rapid movement and packing are audible.


"Right in here," Bulleta says as she approaches the door. The exquisitely soft whine of an electric motor just barely underleis her assurance as the minute Huntress briskly approaches. "She got through the mine field okay, then I got her to the staging area, and-- I mean, you saw the wall, right?" The one Senna took down after being flung through it by a concussion bomb. "And the doors..." that Senna punched her way through after escaping the assorted traps outside. "It got a /little/ ugly, but I got her under wraps okay." There may still be a bandage over Bulleta's nose, thanks to the machine gun hook punch she took before Senna finally went down.

"She's just a Syndicate merc, like I said..." A dark shadow falls over the girl's expression as she briefly considers just how the Syndicate might've known to look in Kasukabe, then she shakes her head. "Anyway. She's aaaall yours..."

The door begins to slide open.

Acceptable losses, all of them. The Dahlia had fully expected the building to take a hit, so Bulleta's successful defense is a welcome bonus. Sure... it might need to be evacuated -soon-, but the mission, and the intelligence gained, brought invaluable intelligence.

The voice that responds is soft, barely above a whisper and evenly controlled. An eyebrow arches, along with a half-smile. "Mercenaries have a price."

Two forms would appear in the doorway, their silhouetted forms lit by electric lamps mounted high upon the ryokan walls. One figure is seated, hands folded upon her lap. Her irises are lit by thin strands of amber, glowing faintly in defiance of the backlighting. And of course, the room's inhabitant would likely recognize the slightly-taller form.

Scarlet Dahlia's concerns are numerous. And she is here to gain some answers.

"All mine, you say..." answers Dahlia, with a faint whine of motors accompanying her entrance into the room. "And how are you so sure she's working with the Syndicate? Just so that I'm... following correctly."

With her right hand cradled around the joystick of her wheelchair, the Akatsuki boss lady draws closer, craning her neck to get a better look at the offered gift. Her half-smile grows full, eyelids narrowing into calculating slits.

"Oh, I do hope she's sleeping soundly. I'll be able to have much more fun that way."

Dahlia's half-smile is returned with interest.

"'I'm workin' for the Syndicate,'" a beaming Bulleta parrots. In her white button-down blouse and loose, red slacks, she isn't /much/ taller than the seated crime boss she's flanking.

"'They want back in. And they want the Akatsuki out.' Then we hit each other, and, y'know, here we are! So it's that, or she's got some kinda death wish, right?"

Or Kira got clever, and fed one of her people a story, and--

The girl pushes her flagging smile back into place with a little chuckle.

"She could be a /lot/ of things, but 'Syndicate merc' seems like a safe enough bet."

Suddenly, from the futon:


The word is thick, heavy; it drops onto the floor like a lead weight, and not just because the voice that utters it sounds like it's being spoken with a tongue swollen to double its thickness.

And once again, for the kids in the audience, after a brief rustle that is probably testing the zipties at her wrists:


It, surprisingly, doesn't sound angry, but as Senna opens her eyes, wincing, she just lays there, getting her bearings.

To tell the truth, she's... actually kind of surprised she _is_ waking up, but that isn't a complaint. She can taste blood in her mouth, no surprise, the dull metallic tang of old blood. Pushing herself up on an elbow, then levering herself up to sitting, she regards her captors.


"... what now?"

Dahlia peels her eyes away from the ziptied figure, leaning on the elbow nearest her parroting associate. Either Senna was telling the truth, or she's good enough to fool someone of Bulleta's caliber. But it'd be highly unlikely that the pugilistic mercenary would be able to fool the psychic Akatsuki boss, at any rate.

Dahlia's mouth parts, as if she's about to say something.
And then she's interrupted by a few choice words.
Her lips press into a firm line, as she waits for the tides of unconsciousness to ebb away from her prisoner. Elbow propped on the armrest, she rests her chin upon an upraised thumb, considering thoughtfully.

"Well, that's up to you, isn't it? The Syndicate wants us out of this building, so rather than send a nicely worded legal notice, they send one half of a King of Fighters team."

Dahlia's chair scoots just a bit closer to Senna, her chin dropping so that she can get a better view.

"So yes. I'm giving you a choice."

Dahlia's long forelock begins to lift, its long tendrils of hair lighting with wisps of yellow and purple radiance.

Her voice grows hard, unyielding. "You've inconvenienced me, Miss Chaiket. And as you can tell, I'm no stranger to debilitating injuries. So I'm warning you right now -- throw attitude in my face, and I'll break your goddamn arm in half."

She takes a deep breath, and a smile brightens her expression. She tilts her head to the opposite side, the tip of her tongue darting across her lips. Her free hand unfolds into an open palm, extending out towards Senna.

"You can help me... or you can test my patience. It's up to you."

Dahlia peels her eyes away from the ziptied figure, leaning on the elbow nearest her parroting associate. "I'll... chalk that up as an educated guess, yes." Either Senna was telling the truth, or she's good enough to fool someone of Bulleta's caliber. But it'd be highly unlikely that the pugilistic mercenary would be able to fool the psychic Akatsuki boss, at any rate.

After a moment of consideration, Dahlia's mouth parts as if she's about to say something.
And then she's interrupted by a few choice words.
Her lips press into a firm line, as she waits for the tides of unconsciousness to ebb away from her prisoner. Elbow propped on the armrest, she rests her chin upon an upraised thumb, considering thoughtfully.

"Well, that's up to you, isn't it? The Syndicate wants us out of this building, so rather than send a nicely worded legal notice, they send one half of a King of Fighters team."

Dahlia's chair scoots just a bit closer to Senna, her chin dropping so that she can get a better view.

"So yes. I'm giving you a choice."

Dahlia's long forelock begins to lift, its long tendrils of hair lighting with wisps of yellow and purple radiance.

Her voice grows hard, unyielding. "You've inconvenienced me, Miss Chaiket. And as you can tell, I'm no stranger to debilitating injuries. So I'm warning you right now -- throw attitude in my face, and I'll break your goddamn arm in half."

She takes a deep breath, and a smile brightens her expression. She tilts her head to the opposite side, the tip of her tongue darting across her lips. Her free hand unfolds into an open palm, extending out towards Senna.

"You can help me... or you can test my patience. It's up to you."

Bulleta has no trouble at all with holding her smile by the time Dahlia presents Senna with options, nor before then, as she punctuates the bruisologist's credentials with a-- well, it /would/ be a low whistle, but there's an inescapably shrill, nasal quality to it, thanks to /someone/.

"It'll only be a /little/ personal," the beaming Huntress assures while casually setting a hand over her stomach and letting that crushing basket dangle in view. "I /like/ this place. But you had a job, and I get that." Her shoulders roll as she takes a few steps in Dahlia's wake then lingers behind her.

"That's just /me/, though-- I can't really speak for /her/." Her chin tips towards Dahlia. "I /can/ suggest you take her at her word and be glad she's giving it to you."

Senna blows out a breath, after the menacing and the display of power from Dahlia, and the reinforcement from Bulleta. She sits back, groaning slightly, because she still hurts, especially where she took Bulleta's basket to the temple.

But then she starts to laugh, sounding actually mirthful, though the renewed pain cuts that laughter short too.

"Ow, ow ow... look, I got nothin' against you. 'kay? This was just a job. I'm not one of those black-suit-red-tie motherfuckers who actually thinks they're part of a 'family'. I'm trash. Always been trash. I'm just useful time to time for them and they pay me. And they ain't pay me enough to be a flag-bearer."

Lifting her zip-tied hands, she shrugs.

"You wanna break my arm, put me out of commission? That'll suck, yeah. But I'm used to pain like that. You got somethin' else in mind? Spit it out. They're gonna know I fucked up here, and if they're insistent they'll send more."

Dahlia adopts a wan smile as her business associate cheerfully tightens the proverbial screws on the captive Senna. She leans back in her wheelchair, tenting her fingers before her mouth as she considers a response. And, at the earliest opportunity:

"For my part, it's not personal at all. Purely a business interest."

Her smile lingers, for just a few moments lore, before Senna breaks into laughter. Any number of emotions can be hidden behind a mirthful laugh -- and the psion refuses to let herself be distracted by that. As her expression falls neutral, her eyes begin to grow glassy, the amber grains in her irises growing brighter.

Words spill out -- and in a blink, the crime boss returns to her earlier expression. She's sensed what she needs to.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she says, having something particular in mind. With Senna accepting the threat of severe injury as a risk of doing business, there's no further need for threats -- the stakes are mutually understood.

"I like you. And I'd like you to work with me now, and in the future."

Dahlia reaches into a side pocket of her wheelchair, unzipping an inner compartment, and withdrawing a stack of currency. She jogs her thumbnail along it, wafting the unmistakable scent of a series of bills throughout the room. A scent that she's sure might elicit -some- reaction her short-statured associate.

"On one condition -- You don't take any action against Akatsuki interests from this point forward. I value your independence and free agency, and this -can- blossom into our mutual benefit."

The bills are curled in her hand -- and then she lightly rests the stack down upon her armrest.

"If you agree to that... then all I really need now..." Her eyes narrow, and her lips pull into a predatory smile. "... Is for you to walk me through the steps that brought you here today. Names are -not- required..." She draws in her breath, tapping fingers atop the stack of bills for effect. "...but they would be =greatly= appreciated."

Tiny nostrils twitch and flare. Blue eyes flick chairwards and Bulleta tilts a little closer to its occupant as the corners of her mouth curl a little higher.

Once the stack goes down, her eyes rise until they meet Dahlia's with an unspoken question. Just beyond them, inspiration lights the dark labyrinth of the girl's mind, tracing an uncertain path--

"But you /didn't/ fuck up here."

The Hunter's eyes seek permission and validation for a beat further before rolling towards Senna. By the time her gaze makes it from one woman to the other, the rest of her featuers have shifted entirely: wrinkles crease her brow with bemusement; eyes narrow, peering at the boxer as if she just told them that the sky is red. Head cocking to one side, she approaches the futon, letting the basket heavily sway and smack against her midsection.

"The Scarlet Dahlia wasn't here; it was just a crew of Akatsuki. Maybe she was /never/ here: were you sent to an old safehouse? An auxillary one? Was she out on business? The intel was great, but when you're dealing with a sneaky bitch who doesn't know her place... I mean, who knows /what/ kinds of devious shit she might be pulling? Not /you/; that's not your job! You're just a humble boxer looking for a pay day." The last couple words are punctuated with the dense, reverberating note of her basket dropping to the floor before she helps herself to a seat at the futon's edge.

"One of them had some kind of flail, or hammer, or something; got you /good/, right in the gut," the girl continues, leaning in to give Senna a sympathetic smile and a shoulder squeeze. "But you were so brave, so /tough/: you fought 'em all, you /won/, and you did your job. What/ever/ that ryokan was, whatever she was doing with it... it's ashes /now/."

Dahlia /did/ tell her that the ryokan was expendable; no amount of time and vodka could've washed that away.

"Don't you remember?" Bulleta draws her bottom lip in, clearly worried that Senna took a bad knock on the head during her valiant scrap with the Yakuza; why else would she forget something so important? "You did good! They oughtta appreciate you that much more, now. They oughtta /trust/ you that much more, now." Beyond a punctuating wink and a devilish twinkle in her eye, Bulleta maintains her concerned look-- even as she glances towards Dahlia again in search of validation.

"It's a good deal," she then whispers to Senna, "and you're a smart woman-- right?" Once that's said, she hops off of the futon, collects her basket, and backs away to resume hovering near Dahlia.

It's easy enough to make the commit. It's not like she's in a strong position to say no--or even to bargain. Senna's eyes flick over to Bulleta, and she smirks wryly. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't here to kill any Dahlias... whatever you think of the Syndicate, they don't tend to underestimate their enemies like that. But..." Her head turns towards the Scarlet Dahlia, and she lowers her hands into her lap, leaning back, blowing a puff of air up to clear some stray strands of hair out of her eyes.

"All the things they wanted me to do were aimed at squeezing y'all out of Southtown. Attacking storages, facilities. They knew I wouldn't be able to take you--knew I'd tell 'em to fuck off on that note. Ain't in this to get killed. But they wouldn't give a damn if I was, either. Only the made men get that courtesy... and like I said, that's not me."

Briefly, her eyes blaze, as as memory rises unbidden; Dahlia can probably tell it's about something very personal, but just as soon as it flares, it dies. "Never threw a fight in my life, but... this ain't the ring. So, I'll tell you what's what. I get my orders from a grubby man. He's nothin' but a courier. I never asked and they wouldn't've told me even if I had. But the Syndicate's a big org. _The_ big org. You probably know more about 'em than I do. They'll probably want me to bust another warehouse, another safehouse, somethin'." A wry half-grin.

"S'all I'm good for, after all. I'll make it look good but I won't succeed. That's the best I can offer right now."

Normally, Dahlia's followers are seen but not heard.

In this case, Bulleta's presence is not only -tolerated- but -appreciated-. As the enforcer directly responsible for such a prized target, she deserves to reap all the credit due. And she has proven herself as a -most- valuable source of information.

Dahlia's eyes cast over to the Huntress. Meeting her gaze -- and giving her preliminary approval to continue with her course of action. But as it becomes clear that Bulleta's train switches tracks... the eyes of the Akatsuki boss close. Her smile fades, lips pursing instead. The tips of her forelocks light with a faint golden energy, stirred into motion by an unseen wind. Dahlia does not interrupt Bulleta; far from it. She remains as silent as a wintry graveyard in the still of night.

She keeps her eyes closed until Bulleta is finished, fixing her silent, assessing gaze onto the target. Her lips never quite settle back to the pleasantness they'd revealed moments prior.

Really, the only flicker of interest seems to be her eyebrow raising once Senna wrestles with her demons of the past.

"Will your mission parameters be feasibly satisfied by a building that takes hours to burn, instead of mere minutes?" She inclines her head towards Bulleta, indicating the earlier-mentioned plan. "Loathe as I am to disagree, I am skeptical."

To Senna, she continues, raising an open hand. "It's possible that I do know more about the Syndicate than you do. But nevertheless, I have questions for you, Miss Chaiket."

One finger ticks off. "I have woven an intricate pattern for the Syndicate, and this building was not on it. In fact, I expected only arsonists from a different group entirely -- and big grubby men are not that group's style."

Dahlia props her elbows on the armrests, lacing her fingers together as she stares back at Senna. "So tell me -- how did you know to come -here-? Was this grubby man the source, or someone else? And was there a -list- provided, or just this solitary target?"

"As long as it burns," Bulleta softly offers while settling back into her place at Dahlia's side with a little shrug. "If someone were /watching/ us, right now... I mean, then this would probably /all/ be fucked, right? But assuming nobody /is/, it shouldn't make a difference; a burned safehouse is a burned safehouse. As long as they buy that /she/ did it..."

Blue eyes roll Senna-wards, indicating-- then fixing.

"I know they didn't send you to kill her with some gas cans," she then says with a faint smirk, "but the details matter, even if they're little ones like wondering what the not-that-abandoned inn you're torching is even /for/. The right amount of detail'll help you sell just about anything... and you're probably gonna want to be able to sell this to the Syndicate."

Once that's said, she tips her chin down a little and cedes to floor back to Dahlia, letting her count, question-- tensing and swallowing as expectations are mentioned.

"Could you describe him well enough for a sketch?" she blurts after Dahlia's questions. Her eyes flick down, uncertain of how many artists Dahlia keeps on staff but no less eager to try. She had expectations of her own, and whether they sync with Dahlia's or not... anything that tells her how close they are to becoming fact would be greatly appreciated.

"Couriers aren't always /nothing/," she addes while putting on a grin. "Not anymore than boxers smart enough to feel the way the wind's blowing are."

"He was the source. And they give me my targets one at a time. But..." She trails off, then shrugs.

"That warehouse that burned down, in the docks district. Some guy that was there, he gave me a... a map. Looked like a map of Japan, or some of it, lots of locations marked with red stars." She closes her eyes, to picture it, as best as she can.

"Pretty sure this place was on it. I didn't give it to anyone, but... I don't know where that guy went and it's pretty clear he had no love for you guys. I wouldn't've put it past him to go to the Syndicate with that information. He knew I was with 'em, after all, and it's not like any other gang was gonna be facin' off against you guys."

"Hey, can you guys cut the zipties off or somethin'? They ain't exactly comfortable." Blowing another puff of air, she shrugs.

"He's... I dunno. Maybe mid-thirties. He's not a fighter. One of those consigliere types who greases his hair and has that fake Italian accent. Tryin' real hard to be real Mafia-like. Sad to say they're like cockroaches, I'm sure they've got dozens in storage ready to trot out. But, yeah. He's got brown hair and green eyes, 'bout... eh, 'bout 5'8". Maybe 180 pounds, he's not too fast on his feet."

Going back to an earlier point, she shrugs. "They just said to burn it down. They're not real big on detail for shit like this. Maybe they didn't even care if I burned it or not--they could've been testing defenses, checkin' for patterns... I ain't smart but I'm used to being disposable."

Dahlia nods slowly as Bulleta muses about the impending destruction of the building in which they stand. It's a shame -- this ryokan has a good deal of history behind it, but it certainly wouldn't be the first historical building in Japan to burn to the ground for clearly circumstantial reasons. "We'll make it convincing, don't worry. But that's why I need facts."

As Bulleta makes a request for details, Dahlia retrieves a small tablet computer from an inner pocket of her wheelchair. As Senna rattles off the answers to her questions, Dahlia nods in attentive response, her fingertips flying across the screen of the tablet.

As the -other- guy is mentioned, she looks up from the screen, with interest. "Ah... he was just... there when the building burned down? Fascinating." Her fingers sweep sideways, then scroll through another listing. She lifts the tablet -- revealing a picture of a tall boy with a powder blue shirt and a colossally bored expression. The file is labeled: Kazuhito.jpg. "Was this him?"

Dahlia frowns, after a moment, adding: "And... what did you do with this map?"

As Senna requests the zipties to be tied off, Dahlia gestures for her associate to step forward. "Reasonable. Bulleta, would you kindly? And do tell me... is this building ready for the 'show?'"

As the description of the burly man is rattled off, Dahlia returns to her tablet, paging through photos. "Disposable, hmm...? You're working for the wrong clients." She looks up from the tablet, her eyes glimmering with veins of amber. And, as she speaks, the words appear to be... stronger somehow. Like an echo, but not -really- an echo.

"We value each and every one of our employees and contractors, not just as workers doing a job, but as people we'd want to get to know better. Trust is a two-way street. And you've earned mine, Miss Chaiket."

She draws in her breath, eyes winking shut for just a moment. And then she turns the tablet around to face the pugilist once again. Upon it is a grid of six men, all of which appear to be Syndicate members matching the descriptors offered by Senna. "Was it any of these men?"

Where did the knife come from?

Bulleta didn't budge an inch more than necessary to glance down for confirmation when Senna made her 'reasonable' request and barely ramps it up afterwards. Several brisk steps and a flick of her hand later, she's slicing through plastic with a blade in one hand and a tight grip on Senna's forearm for the other. The smile's gone, blown away by stormy thoughts of this mysterious third party with forbidden knowledge of the Akatsuki.

"We're gonna wanna do something about all the missiles," she replies to Dahlia. Briefly, as she flicks her eyes up to Senna's, her lips curl up and her teeth show. The furniture in what became their battleground hid more than just spare guns for the Huntress and she can't help but indulge in letting the boxer know she's luckier than she may feel. "I'll take down the guns; the other traps can stay. It should look like you cared about the place, right? It should look like they /hurt/ you." Leaving the tie in Senna's lap, she steps back-- into the space between Senna and Dahlia rather than returning to her place, knife still in hand.

Just in case. Dahlia trusts her, sure... but she isn't a /mind-reader/; how much can one person really trust another with so little to build on?

"You're disposable because you /say/ you are," Bulleta suggests, low and a little tense. "You think it, you act it-- you /are/ it. You've been living that story for, god... a /while/, it sounds like. You know it by heart; it gives you an excuse to /fail/. You're not soft; you're not weak, you're not slow. You're not /stupid/... but if you carry yourself like garbage, it's that much easier for people to /see/ you that way."

Still lingering defensively, she at least edges a little further from the futon before giving a little head-bob in Dahlia's direction.

"Lucky for you, Dahlia sees more than most people do."

"I don't know where he came from," replies Senna, to Dahlia, as Bulleta cuts the zipties off; she stretches her arms, up and then out, working her muscles to get some blood flowing, before settling down. "Didn't ask his name or nothin'. But sounded like he knew, he'd been there a while, or somethin'. He wasn't..." A little frown, a shake of her head. "I dunno. He seemed like a kid who'd stumbled into somethin'. Maybe a local who was just too observant."

Rubbing her wrists, she looks at the tablet, frowning. "Shit... I dunno, could be this guy or this guy," she says, pointing out a couple of the guys--both looking kinda sloppy-ish in the face, if not necessarily unkempt.

"I never got a name or anythin', you know. Just orders. Usually simple instructions or typed out. The usual, I never kept that shit around 'cause why would I want shit implicating me if I ever got picked up?"

At Bulleta's suggestion that she's the reason she's disposable, her voice takes on a sardonic tone. "Yeah, no shit. It's a hard lesson to learn in life, but I sure learned it early." Sardonic, and more than a little bitter.

"But you got me," she says, to Dahlia, tensing her hands into fists then relaxing them, repeatedly, folding her thumbs inside her fingers and squeezing, inducing popping out of those big thumb joints.

"Like I said, I think they wanna burn you out of Southtown. They'll rebuild after. Hell, they'll use it as good PR."

Dahlia shakes her head to dismiss the idea that she'd -needed- to know more about the kid's past history. If anything, her casual demeanor suggests that she already knows who he is, where he's going, and what she's going to do about it. "Idle curiosity, nothing more. I didn't have a problem with him, but he's working against me now." Her lips press into a firm line as she pauses for effect. "... And that's not good for his health."

Still -- there is the matter of the unknown Syndicate operative, and with Senna eliminating a few of the choices from her roster, the shadowy manipulator seems placated to some degree, nodding with a sincere half-smile. "That's enough for me to work on. Thank you."

With that, she reaches over casually to the stack of bills on her armrest. She thumbs through them, piecing the summary from Bulleta together with the information from Senna.

"... Right. Burkoff told me that was the plan. Gonna be real hard for them to spin this as good PR after all the -terrifying- shit they've been pulling to find us, but we'll see."

Thumb, thumb, thumb. So many bills to count. Dahlia seems to have no problem conversing and counting at the same time though -- well, one would -assume- she's counting, anyway? "... So, I'm in agreement with Bulleta here. This ryokan has seen better days, but I don't want it standing here tomorrow." Her chair swivels, so that she can face both Bulleta and Senna equally. "Your arrangements sound fine. You have my full support on this. You two... make it look convincing." She shrugs, a broad smile working its way across her face. "Perhaps my visit merely forced a delay on the operation, but it's now proceeding as intended."

As she concludes counting, she extends the whole pile of bills out to Senna. "And... this is for you." It's... a not-inconsequential amount, and it's offered with a saccharine, razor-edged smile. "Proof that I'm serious about a business relationship. I can't expect you to do work for me without some kind of financial incentive. Consider it a down payment for future endeavors."

To Bulleta, she smiles. "And of course, I'll have something for you on completion. Don't worry about that, of course."

With the exchange complete, Dahlia rolls back -- as if she's about to head back into the hallway for departure. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you two ladies. Have a wonderful evening."

"Plenty of time to learn how to be something else, then," Bulleta replies to Senna, unfazed by the woman's sardonicism if the cheery lilt is anything to go on.

The bills get a lingering look when they - /all of them/ - are offered for Senna's taking; how could they not? That that's /all/ they get - that there's no staring until they're taken and tucked away, no invoices fluttering down to wheelchair level - speaks to the Huntress' faith in her benefactor. Dahlia has her, so why worry?

For that matter, Dahlia has Senna, too... so the knife winds up wherever it was stashed after a little brisk sleight of hand. Up a sleeve? Against her back? Somewhere.

"You too, Dahlia," she chirps with a smile and a brisk bow for the departing woman. "I'll let you know when we're done."

"I've got some stuff in my basket," she then offers the boxer while shifting forward to give the crime lord all the room she needs, "in case we need a little extra help. Just remember that there wasn't any /we/, if anyone asks you any questions about tonight. There /definitely/ weren't any blonde Americans living here; why /would/ there be?" Her now empty hand extends as she continues approaching and her expression falls along with her voice:

"I'm /real/ serious about that," she gravely murmurs.

Once that's out, she stretches a smile back into place and offers the boxer a handshake. "C'mon! I've had a lotta time to think about this place; sucks it's gotta go, but it shouldn't be /too/ hard-- especially if we're working /together/~!"

Senna takes the sheaf of money, stuffs it into a pocket. She knows better than to sit there and count it, and in any case, unless it's counterfeit, a sheaf like that represents, in general, a fair amount of money. Probably as much, if not more, than she was promised upon completion of the job. As Dahlia turns to leave, the boxer gives the crimeboss a nod, then finally stands up, stretching again.

"Doesn't need to be too elaborate. They just wanted me to burn it." Her lips quirk as she finally finds something amusing.

"'Normal' arson, if you get my drift." She glances out towards the front of the ryokan, where she'd entered.

"We could blow up some of the cars though, maybe. Maximum property destruction is kind of my mode anyways," she says, offhandedly. Crossing the room, she grabs one of the gas cans--one of those big ones--and looks to her left. "Guess I'll start in here, and--you're probably better with explosives and shit than I am, so, I'll let you figure that out..." She doesn't even address the 'there was no we', part. She's dumb, but not that dumb. That's a given, isn't?

"C'mon, let's get this done. I need to go home and take some aspirin, you clocked me fuckin' hard."

Log created on 12:45:18 09/26/2018 by Bulleta, and last modified on 10:17:53 10/15/2018.