|
|
| (3 intermediate revisions by the same user not shown) |
| Line 1: |
Line 1: |
| − | {{Infobox Log
| |
| − | |name = 12.10.19: Revelations
| |
| − | |summary = Roxy meets with Ransom, who has an offer for her. But is it worth it?
| |
| − | |icdate = December 10th, 2019
| |
| − | |ictime = Night
| |
| − | |players = [[Roxy]], [[Ransom]]
| |
| − | |location = [[Styx and Stones]]
| |
| − | }}
| |
| | | | |
| − | [[Category:Logs]]
| |
| − | [[Category:Styx and Stones]]
| |
| − | [[Category:Roxy]]
| |
| − | [[Category:Ransom]]
| |
| − |
| |
| − | [[File:RoxyMain.jpg|250px|right]]
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ransom steps in, an unfamiliar face but a familiar-looking type. Rough around the edges, vaguely disreputable, yet without any indicia of particular affiliation with the swirling mass of reprobates that favor places like this. The only thing out of place is the attention- a sharp, avid flick of regard from face, to face, to face.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | At the far end of the bar, Roxy is leaned over a sketchpad with an array of pencils next to her, hand working quickly to place a design onto the paper. The other side of the pad sits a shot glass with her favorite drink inside, which she occasionally grabs for a sip; it looks like gin and coke. With the door opening, the woman glances up to see who might be arriving.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The outfit isn't his usual, being about eight notches down the casual scale, but the face is well-enough known among the streetwise demimonde; it's Ransom Blythe, a fixer who usually works out of Prospect. A very rich fixer, at that. From the way that bright gray gaze settles on Roxy, it would seem the man has at least heard enough to place her face in the criminal class as well. He gravitates to the bar, perching himself within casual conversational distance. "Nothing needing catgut and needles tonight, eh, doc?" he inquires in a mild Midwestern bass.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Ah, shit..", the woman mutters as she does something wrong on the page, leaning down to look into the slingbag that's sitting at her feet, but unable to find what she's searching for. Instead, Roxy tries licking the end of her finger and rubbing it into her mistake, spreading the pencil into a softer smudge of shading. With a wave of her hand, she shrugs it off, "It's only a rough."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Talking to herself might get her institutionalised, but there's nobody else nearby to grumble to. Hearing a voice that seems pointed in her direction, she turns her attention from her sketching to Ransom, "Not tonight..", she replies, ".. we need more gunfights around here.", the corner of her mouth lifting into a hint of a grin. "Have we met?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Never provably in a court of law," Ransom replies affably. "Ransom Tertullian Cicero Blythe. Or 'Ransom' to normal people. I'm in the goods-and-services business. Mostly over in Prospect, but I do business here from time to time. You know how people are; always after those goods and services." A lean hand waves over a drink. "Unless I miss my guess, you'd be named Roxy, wouldn't you? Looked like a particular sawbones I've heard about. One that isn't troubled with an excess of medical curiosity, so to speak. Can I get you a drink?" A glance to the sketch and its contents. "Or a gum eraser, maybe?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Lifting her glass, Roxy finishes the last of her drink and pushes the empty aside, which allows her to reply, "I'm in need of both.", though she looks down at her sketch, a tilt of her head, a lazy hand curling some of her long black hair behind an ear, "Though I can work with that.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The sketch looks like something that might be painted onto a motorcycle engine; skulls, snakes through eye sockets, dark clouds and weird mists. Her skill is impressive, considering the amount of shading and detail work she's done. The error hits the curve of one of the skulls, the smudge of her finger making it appear more like the mist is floating over the top. It's not perfect, but it works for a rough sketch.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "And you'd be correct, I'm the doctor on call, though I've been drinking so I can't guarantee a perfect stitching if it comes to it.", the woman giving a little grin. "Jack and Coke, if you're buying. Are you looking to add another name to your little black book?", reaching into her jacket, pulling out a plain white card, except for a gold embossed fancy lettering that reads, 'Roxanna Keys', with a cellphone number beneath. The card is pushed across the bar, muttering an, "Excuse me..", to the biker trying to buy a beer between her and Ransom.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ransom leans out slightly to make room for the biker as his lean fingers pluck up the proffered card. He inspects it carefully, interrupted briefly by a glance up to wave the bartender in for the requisite Jack and Coke for Roxy. He lets the biker get his beer before he replies to the artist. "Guessed it in one, Ms. Keys. I'm sorry to hear that the bloodshed's been low of late and you haven't had as much chance to show off your skills as you'd like." Those eyes go to the sketchbook once more. "Though it looks like you've got other hobbies as well. You do cosmetic work at all? Tats, piercings, implants?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Nothing like that.", Roxy giving a shake of her head, "This is a hobby of mine, it's acted as a distraction to all the study.", her twinkling blue eyes appear distant for a second, remembering the past, but she shakes that off and continues, "I can paint onto anything though; bikes, usually.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The drink arrives and she gives Danny, the bartender a little smile, "Thanks Danny..", gathering up the glass, and raising it in a toast to Ransom, ".. and to you.", a quick drink before it's placed down in front of her, though she keeps her fingers around the glass. "I might just start shooting people for the repair work.", she chuckles.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Do you _want_ to do cosmetic work?" Ransom asks mildly, lifting his glass to politely echo Roxy's gesture. "I'm thinking there are a whole lot of people in your life who might find it real advantageous to not look like they did last month. And given the prices for the whores around here, I don't think a lot of the girls are going to be heading upscale for their boob jobs and butt implants." The scotch in his glass is briefly consulted; the man doesn't sip it or gulp it, but drinks it like it was a glass of milk. "And vanity is eternal. But I suppose that might take an operating theater better-equipped than you can get out of a trauma bag. Or do you have a spot where you can work like it was civilized?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Leaning forward, Roxy rests her elbow on the bar, brings her hand up to her mouth where she nibbles on her fingernails while she thinks about it. "It's not something I've ever done, but..". A little more thought, her head tilts down, looking toward the stained floor of the pool hall, though her eyes aren't looking at that, they're looking inward at her training, her abilities, the possibiility of shifting her repair work to reconstruction.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "I could do it.", she nods to Ransom's last comment, "It would take a better equipped surgery, some additional equipment..". The question gets a shake of her head, "I don't have a location, just the basement here for now and that's not ideal for surgeries.". Her gaze returns to Ransom, but her eyes are still distant, thinking over the idea.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Don't know much about medical matters myself," Ransom allows, that unblinking gray gaze still settled on the physician. "Oh, I can stop bleeding- mostly- but nothing like a real doc. And I do know that a basement isn't the best place for a surgical clean room. But the clientele you're looking at aren't exactly in a position to book an appointment in downtown Prospect and they don't exactly have the money for a _fancy_ job. But you've got talent. I know you do, or else somebody you fucked up on would've killed you by now, or their friends would've." Another lift of his glass. "It's possible that you and I could be making a little deal. One mutually beneficial, as they say. What do you want from life, Ms. Keys?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "What do I want from life?", Roxy asks, repeating the question, it even causes a little chuckle. "I wish I knew. I've spent so much time being what my parents wanted me to be, a doctor in a high paying job, that I haven't had a lot of time to find out who I am.". Her glass is lifted, a small drink of the JD & Coke, giving her enough time to think about it. "I enjoy the freedom, being out on the road, having friends and family at my side..", 'family' seems to mean something other than family by blood, ".. keeping them safe and breathing.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | A little shrug of her shoulders, the glass put aside while she puts away her pencils and sketchpad. "If you have the backing for a surgery. I mean, a proper surgery, with the medicines and tools I need, in a sterile environment. If you have the backing for that, I can work off the cost. It depends how much of a bigshot you are.", her comment causing her to give a little grin.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Going to need to repanel that basement," Ransom reflects. "Something germicidal. Positive air pressure. Scrub changing alcove. The usual trauma hardware, plus the equipment for cosmetic use." Item after item, ticked off with methodical precision. "And the drugs, of course- a whole lot of scheduled drugs. I could get them, but that seems rude when you doubtless have acquaintances who are in the pharmaceuticals trade. Wouldn't want them to think I was dealing in the bar, so it might be best to buy from them. Ah- and a couple weeks of having a Tijuana nip-and-tuck man come up and tutor you, because this isn't the kind of thing you learn off YouTube." The empty glass is set aside. "I can assure you, Ms. Keys, that I am plenty big enough a shot to afford all that- if you've got hands steady enough to do the work. You got that little recreational substance hobby of yours sorted out?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | There's a slight wince at that final question, Roxy reaching up to scratch the back of her head, brush aside some of her long, black hair. "You heard about that too?", she seems embarressed, looking down and chuckling awkwardly. "This is my drug of choice, these days.", she says, lifting her glass of JD, "It's the type of drug I can clear from my system in a few seconds.". How she does that is anyone's guess, California is a strange place full of strange people.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "It's not a problem.", she nods. Thinking over the offer for a few moments, she glances up at Danny, across at the gathering of bikers playing pool, laughing and singing along to whatever rock track is playing on the jukebox, and she looks surprisingly content at the sight. With another nod, she returns her attention to Ransom, "If you want to put up the backing for all that, we should work out the details. I'm not naive enough to just say yes and expect everything to be sunshine and roses. But..", she nods, ".. it sounds like a good path to walk. I have a natural talent for healing people.". Her comment carries more weight, as if she means more than just being a doctor.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ransom is paying attention to her words. Every single one of them. Each shift of her eyes, each twitch of a fingertip, every small unconscious gesture- Ransom is undoubtedly taking note of them all. If the man's blinked once since starting the conversation, it's been a quick one. "I hear about all kinds of things, Ms. Keys. Especially when it comes to what people have been needing. Maybe you've got some special sauce to clean out the booze," he observes at her words. "And maybe you've got talents when it comes to patching people up. Lot of talented people in the world." His glass is forgotten, a prop no longer necessary to the conversation. "Sounds like you just want to keep living as you are now- but able to do more to help your people. Who _are_ your people, Ms. Keys? You're wearing Devil's Legion colors, so I suppose them. But I'm kind of guessing it goes past that."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Leaning down, Roxy gathers up her slingbag, pulls it, and her glass of JD, along with her until she's at the stool next to Ransom. Her slingbag dropped at her feet, she slides onto the stool alongside the man. "The Legion have moved on without me. I'm on lock down here in California for now.", though she doesn't explain why, "So right now I don't have people, but at the same time..", she glances over her shoulder at the collection of bikers, all the varied tags and faces, "I'd say all of them are 'my people'. It's where I fit in best.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Her attention drifts back to Ransom, a soft, content smile upon her features. She wouldn't win any beauty contests, but that smile does give her a bit of a boost. "I've been thinking of finding a new crew, a new home, but I've also thought.. maybe, I just belong with them all.", a gentle bite upon her lip, pondering, "You know what I mean?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "What about you?", Roxy finally asks, "What's your story? You wander in here, offering me the world, tell me you're a person with all the resources.. but who are you, really?", the woman giving a curious tilt of her head as she considers the man beside her.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Ransom's eyes follow Roxy's gaze, taking in the wash of human detritus around the bar- the ragged, the rugged, the cruel and the pitiful, as compounded as they often are. His eyes have nothing of her warmth. Not hostility, not scorn... just a cool and thoughtful intentness to them. In time, he looks back to the physician beside him. "I am an extremely wealthy man with the jaded tastes that come from age and money," he explains to her mildly. "For twenty years I have brokered matters for people. Contraband, illegal services, smuggled goods, and personal favors. I have earned all the money I need, and that kind of currency has become boring to me. So now I largely trade in satisfactions- that of my curiosity, chiefly. There is so much to learn about anyone, after all. So many truths and secrets they have, so many they don't even _know_ they have. You have a dozen secrets right here in front of me, piquing my interest." A smile, then, at last. A very wide, white, bright smile on his faintly weathered face. "And I do so like secrets."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | A slow nod of understanding, Roxy listening to the description of the rich looking for something more. Her parents were expecting the same of her, perhaps her parents have the same background, if a little less illegal. "Well..", she starts, a glance around her, ".. I don't own this place. If you want to do anything to the basement, you'll need to speak to Dawson. Unless there's somewhere else we can set it up..?", a gentle shrug of her shoulders.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Hearing the statement about secrets, Roxy can't help but smile, shaking her head, "You don't want to know my secrets, some are quite frightening.", she chuckles, "And some could get me into trouble. I'm in enough trouble already.", which is another secret, perhaps. Lifting her glass, she has a small drink, swirls the contents around which has the ice clinking softly, a look out of the corner of her eyes at the man beside her. "I'm sure you've got your fair share of secrets, too. We could trade.", she grins.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Too hot, this place, for work like that," Ransom answers crisply. He's not the kind to steal a glance at Roxy. Indeed, it's as if nothing else in the room exists but her, at the moment. "Too many people around for discretion. If you were to find someplace with four walls and neighbors who don't ask questions, it might suit better. A place you can control. I don't know Dawson personally, and while I'm sure he's a splendid example of a gentleman, I like to keep things neat and compartmentalized." A glance to the barkeep, and a fresh drink is ordered, if only to keep the staff happy. "I don't doubt you've got all kinds of secrets that could get you into trouble, Ms. Keys. You know people who don't like to be talked about. You've done things you don't like to discuss, especially with law enforcement. But let's discuss a hypothetical deal. On my part, I provide funding to secure the operating room, stock it with the necessities, and pay your dealer associates for the drugs you need. I also hire an incurious Mexican plastic surgeon for a few weeks to tutor you, presumably with local whores who want free work while you're learning. Knowing that I have little interest in money, and considerable interest in secrets, what would you bring to the table to make that deal worth my time?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Turning on her stool, Roxy faces Ransom, one arm still resting on the bar with her small shotglass of a drink held in her fingers. "Dawson seems like a good guy, he has his fair share of secrets too.", her glass raising in a toast to Dawson, secrets, whatever else might be on her mind. A quick drink and it returns to the bar.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "You might be making assumptions there, too.", Roxy jumps in at the mention of drugs, "I do have someone in the medical industry, but I'm not asking her to stock anywhere or she'll end up the same as me. If you can get the drugs too, that would certainly take a weight off.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Listening to the last, the final question, Roxy's eyebrows raise curiously, a hint of smile upon her lips, "That would depend what sort of secrets interest you. Personal secrets? Secrets about my past experiences? Or the type of secrets that explain how a person can leave my care after a day, despite being near death when the walked in?", the final question creating a mischevious twinkle in her eyes.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | That light in Ransom's eyes is a familiar one now; Roxy's doubtless seen it before in a surgeon mid-procedure. Delicacy, tension, and perfect focus on his work. That tension bleeds into his voice, there at the bar, the mild basso drawing thinner with his intentness. "There's something there..." he reflects as he studies her. His free hand rises, fingers running over some intangible texture before him. "The remarkable talent in physicking, of course. That's obvious. But that's a secret you're proud of. That's a secret that _defines_ you. But that's not the only secret you have, is it? There's a lot more beneath that, ones you aren't so proud of." A smile, then, still wide, still white. "Those are the ones I want. The ones that don't fit in your life. The ones you wish you didn't have."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | That has her smile grow, Roxy looking down at her drink as if she's somewhat ashamed of her smile, or perhaps shy of showing it. The smile turns into a chuckle, a soft laugh, a shake of her head. "I see. You come in here, offering me the world, but want to know my deep dark secrets. Like murder, perhaps?", looking back up, a tilt of her head in curiosity.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Did Copeland send you? Is that what this is about?", her smile isn't fading, she's genuinely amused by the idea that whoever this Copeland is, he'd send someone on an information gathering mission, "Why don't you go tell him that no, I'm still not guilty. If he can just give me the murder weapon I'll be able to help him find the /real/ killer. The one that isn't me.", she can't help but chuckle. It's all so obvious.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Of course you weren't the murderer," Ransom replies, his tones gently chiding. "That's not your secret. I don't know Copeland. I am very much a freelance, and I would not especially care if you _were_ a murderer. Murderers have been very useful to me before, after all." His fingers fall to the bartop, idle, geometric patterns traced as he speaks. "The secrets that matter most to us aren't the secrets that matter to others. They're not great, glorious crimes. Not fabulous betrayals and dramatic falls. They're daughters that don't belong to husbands. They're money missing from a friend's house. They're inheritances gone up someone's nose and meetings with strange men in parks that someone just can't stop making. It's the parts of our lives that _don't fit_ that help us see what does." He leans in a little, a few inches subtracted from the distance between them. "You're a healer, Ms. Keys. You fix people. You make things better, and protect them, and keep them safe from the consequences of their actions. You're proud of that. The question, to me, is what you _aren't_ proud of."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The humor drops slowly out of Roxy as she realises that perhaps Ransom isn't here to catch her out, but with the drop of her humor and the continued questioning, so drops her smile too. Her eyes lose their sparkle, look down at her drink, swirl around the contents before lifting it up to finish the last. "Yeah..", her voice sounds distant, as if a memory has been released, floating around like a bad dream. Her glass is placed onto the bar, her fingers pushing it away from her.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Well.. we were trading, right?", she says, looking back up to the man beside her, "So, you find a place to work out of, and I'll let you know a few things. How does that sound?". It doesn't sound good to her, her sense of humor has vanished, a light bite upon her lip as she ponders on distant memories.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | One of the many 'Meat' minions emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray with a plastic basket of fries upon it. Taking no time to head to the bar where Roxy and her companion are talking, the man sets the food down before her. "Sorry it took so long," he appologizes and steps away with a polite nod and a smile.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "I like that game," Ransom replies, his smile growing as Roxy's fades. "It's good sport. I'll find you a place around here that you can work in, and you'll tell me something that doesn't fit. The more you tell me, the more I'll acquire for it. Tell me enough, and you'll have your own theater." A pause, then, as those gray eyes study her. "A small warning, however, Ms. Keys. Sometimes we get confused about what does fit. We spend our lives knowing what we are. We put all the parts that don't fit aside. But then, one day, we look at it all and realize we were wrong. We were confused. The part that doesn't fit is actually what we thought was true. It can make for a very bad night." He straightens there at the bar. "But you've got a meal to hand, and my kind of conversation is terrible for the digestion. My card." And his is slid across, next to the fries. It's to a minor art gallery in Prospect. "Messages left there for me will get to me. I'll let you know when I've found something suitable for your needs, and you can think about what you're going to confess to pay for it."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | There's a look of confusion as the fries arrive in front of her, but Roxy isn't one to turn down free food, "Thanks.", she says to the Fresh Meat, quickly dipping into the basket to nibble on a few fries. The napkin is pulled from beneath, given a curious look, before being used to wipe her fingers.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Her attention drifts back to Ransom, there's a wrinkle of a frown upon her brow, something isn't sitting right with her. "I have enough of a history to keep you entertained.", she tells Ransom, though she isn't smiling about it, her history is something she obviously wanted to keep as just that. "I know what you're saying. The bad makes us who we are, as well as the good. I know that.".
| |
| − |
| |
| − | The offered card is taken, a look over, then it's pushed into her jacket pocket. "It's what you're going to do with it that bothers me.". Reaching over, she pushes the basket closer to Ransom, "Why don't you have a few before you go?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | He smiles, reaching for a fry. "I'm going to understand." He snaps up the morsel, precise as everything else the lean man does. "And is there anything else in this world to want more? It's true that the want- and the not-want both make up our lives. We're as much the product of our shames as our glories. But we like to tell ourselves stories, to make the pieces fit the pattern we want. Anything that doesn't, we push aside. Anomalies, accidents, moments of passion... not us. Not us at all." Another fry. "But it is, it is. We just don't want to tell the story that would make them fit. These fries are delicious, by the way."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | There's nothing that she wants more than to avoid the topic of conversation, Roxy instead agreeing with the taste of the food, "The chef here is just amazing.", she admits, "I think he used to be a chef at the prison he was kept in.". A quick pause while she finishes the last of her JD and Coke, the glass placed aside, then she's munching a few fries for herself.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "Maybe one day I'll find something that you want, and I can pull a few of your secrets out of you.", a mischevious twinkle in her blue eyes. "Do you have children?". The question comes out of nowhere, doesn't seem to have any connection to the topic.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | Question for question, answer for answer. Ransom doesn't try to hide from the woman's inquiry. "A vast array of maidens fair, but never a child of any," he replies mildly. "It would be an error to get involved, you understand. That's not what I'm here for. I mean, once you have a child, can you really think of anything else? Can you really do things that would either separate you from them forever or drag them into a life they could never accept? I've envied parents, but never been one myself." The lean man doesn't seem to find the question incongruous, nor out of place with the topic. "And you, Ms. Keys? Or do your tastes run more toward the distaff side, bike-riding hellion that you are?"
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "I'd like some.. two, maybe.. but none yet.", Roxy replies, shaking her head. Reaching into the basket, she grabs a few more fries, munching on them quietly while taking a moment to glance around, to see who else might be here. "I could have had one, six years ago. University, too much to drink, enjoying someones company..", a shake of her head, a soft huff of sad amusement. "You get that one for free. Only my closest friend knows about that."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "It's something worth getting," Ransom replies to her admission, her words attended with his customary focus. "But do you really want them? You're not stupid, Ms. Keys. You can do the math. Is the life you're living the kind that's going to get you children? Time to be a physician, time to make mistakes, years ticking past, company..." a glance goes around the room, "...not exactly the daddy type, unless it's the kind involving issues. Are you going to find your man here? An observer might suspect either that you don't really want kids, or you don't really think you ought to have them."
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "It would be the latter..", Roxy replies, "In a few years, maybe, when I find the right man.", pondering that for a few moments. "You're right about this place, though..", she notes, glancing back at the gathering of bikers, ".. there's no Daddy material here.", her confession causing a little chuckle.
| |
| − |
| |
| − | "I'll be back. If you're not here, I'll hear from you, I'm sure.". With a gentle push, her stool slides back, then she gathers up her slingbag and heads for the nearby bathrooms.
| |
