11716/Investigating Venom

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Investigating Venom
Date of Scene: 23 June 2022
Location: Richard Stadler's home
Synopsis: Richard Stadler has a new project.
Cast of Characters: Richard Stadler, Cheyenne Brawley




Richard Stadler has posed:
The address isn't exactly tough to find for a person of means; certainly it might be tough to nail down from a report with a first and last name attached, but there was only one entry for someone who had lived in Maryland, like the vet had mention he was stationed, and New York, where he had mentioned he had lived at one point. The address he was at matched a place that he had been at in the early oughts, too, A three story town house in Midtown that probably takes more that enough money in property tax these days to exhust many salaries.

It's not new, having the stately construction reminicent of the 1930s, but /might/ have been affordable 20 or 30 years ago.

The steps lead up to the front door, brown, painted. There's nothing indicating a name for it, just a polite sign at the window next to the door, neatly adhired, in front of glass and curtains and behind old iron wrought bars, saying 'No Soliciting'.

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     A figure clad in all black steps out out of a taxi and into the ill-tempered air; the heat radiating from the sun-baked street wars in turmoil with the cool evening wind blowing in the from the ocean. He takes a long pull from a plastic cup full of tea, ice and all, and adjusts the bill of a tattered old ballcap before he produces a thin, folded stack of paper from a pocket hidden inside his jacket. "This is the place," says Cheyenne Brawley in a thick Texan drawl, as much to himself as the driver, after referencing a few details. He leans in to hand the cabby some cash and shuts the door with a stout slap; then up the stairs he goes.
     The young man reaches a hand through the iron bars to knock and sees the sign, just befor he raps on the pane, and withdraws his hand again. He agonizes for a moment, pacing back and forth on the stoop, resolutely chewing his mouthful of ice while lifting his cap in order to race his fingers through his messy curls. Before long he galvanizes himself, reaches through the bars again, and gives the wooden frame of the door three clear taps. He sets about smoothing an eyebrow, and fussing with the lapels of his coat.

Richard Stadler has posed:
There's a few long moments waiting on the steps there after the rapt on the door. It's hard to tell anything until the last few seconds, some very faint shuffling. It was another second before there's the sounds of door locks being disengaged (more than one, from the sound of it, before the door opens just a bit, a bespecled man in his 40s peering out with some curiousity, and a little more wariness. He looks the man up and down, the black clothing, the chewing, and the face, like he's trying to see if he can place him, before speaking up.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "Yes sir, I believe you can," says the Texan quickly, as if he's afraid of being cut short, but still steadily enough that he can easily be understood, "and I'm willing to let you name your price for it." From a pocket, Buster produces a small vial of a peculiar fluid; it is viscous and oily, the color of absynthe. He presents the glass tube between thumb and forefinger, inviting the older man's curiosity.

Richard Stadler has posed:
Stadler seems a little curious for a moment, his eyes narrowing just a bit when there's the mention of price... but just as he's about to say something, he comes out with a vial of fluid that his eyes are quickly drawn to.

There's the sound of a drawer being opened on the right side of the door, smoothly, without much time to react, and a Glock 23 is pointing out the door at the man. "Here's what's going to happen. You're on my door step with an offer of money, which means you have an idea of what work I do. And you have a vial of an undentified substance in front of me. So. You are going to hold it out. Slowly. In front of you. I am going to take it from you. If you move quickly, I will have to explain something to the police, and I do not want to do that. Are we clear?" He says, calmly.

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "Clear as a diamond, pard," says the Texan with a grin, though there's a measure of ice in his tone and his frame has grown visibly tense. His right hand, vial of green fluid poised between thumb and forefinger, remains outstreched; his left, holding the cup of tea, is slowly brought up to his lips. A load of the sugary nectar flows into his mouth, along with ice and a wedge of lemon, which Buster sets about chewing, noisily.

Richard Stadler has posed:
Stadler eyes the man, reaching out slowly with his free hand. Standard gun safety indicates one's finger should be off the trigger unless you intend to shoot; either Rick isn't very conscientious, or he's very much ready.

All the while, however, he gives a mildly annoyed look at to the Texan in front of him. At least someone like this wasn't expecting a lot of trouble with what he was offering, but you never could tell how crazy were some poeple. His free hand moves to gently take the vial in front of him, gently pulling to place it in his hand, and then placing it off to the side, with another slide of the drawer.

The weapon moves to a two handed grip as he steps slightly away from the door. "All right. Now, what I /should/ do is shut the door here, lock it, call the police, and go back to trying to figure out lesson plans, but I'm a man who beleives in second chances. So. No door to door salesman routine. Who are you? And what do you want?"

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "Name's Cheyenne Brawley; call me Buster," says the Texan. He chuckles slightly. "I want you to analyse that-there venom, come up with some kind of antidote, and produce a whole lot of it for me." Buster takes another swig of his tea, and adds, "Easy now, feller." He displays a palm, points at the coat pocket from which he with withdraw the vial a moment before, and reaches into the shadowy depths of his jacket pocket...

Richard Stadler has posed:
"Slow down." He says, for a moment, keeping his eyes on him, and not the vial that's secured in the drawer of furniture off to the side. "I think you might have the wrong person... Well, that's not going to work, I'm pointing a gun at you." He mutters, almost to himself. But there's a slow nod to him as he reaches into the jacket. Of course, his finger is still on the trigger.

"Let's start with a few questions. You mentioned venom, and an antidote. Antivenom, I assume. Is that a chemical compound, then? Not a biological one?"

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "That's your wheelhouse, cousin, not mine," says the Texan, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, "but if I had to guess, I'd reckon it's biological." Clutched in his fingertips is a glittering, ovoid gem - about the size of a kiwi - rippling with facets along its clear face; this he slowly offers to the teacher. "Call this a down payment."

Richard Stadler has posed:
There's a long moment where Stadler looks at the diamond that's offered, then back to the man, before sighing and making a decision, the weapon lowering down, and the drawer opening again. The weapon goes in, the vial comes out, as he moves it around, grimacing at what he's seeing. "Well, if I had to guess, it's biological, all right. Or maybe it's synthetic. Motor oil?" He says, bringing it close to his glasses, almost going cross -eyed, before shaking his head, and making a small geasture of refusal to the diamond. "I think we need to straighten some things out, at the moment. Can I invite you in?"

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "You sure can, boss," says the younger man with relief when the gun is put away. He runs a finger under his collar, after returning the diamond to his pocket, "I never thought New England would be so hot." Through another mouthful of ice and tea, Buster adds, "Sorry about the junk, doc. Had to scrape it up off the wreckage of a car, after Tiny put Bane through it." He makes a flicking motion with the index finger of his free hand. "Damnedest thing I ever saw."

Richard Stadler has posed:
Stadler points a finger up as he turns and walks down the entryway. "New England's just a bit north of here, though I'll thank you not to call me a nutmegger. New Haven's full of malcontents and villians." He says, a rather simple joke to lighten the mood just a little bit. It's a short entry way, leading to a living room, well kept if a bit sparse, an L-Shaped couch and an easy chair in front of a coffee table. He moves to sit at the chair, extending a hand to offer a seat on the couch to the man. "And don't call me doc. Not exactly licensed to practice medicine, and most of what I know involves using a pen knife and a staple gun. Or close to it."

He moves to look at the vail again, before back up to the man. "That... that might put this beyond my paygrade. But I think I need to establish I'm not a South African sellsword that'll take that as payment; wouldn't know the first thing about turning it into something useful. Why aren't you at LexCorp? Star Labs? I'm sure Stark Industries has a biotech division that'd take something like this."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "Well, I can write you a check, too," drawls the young man, dropping lightly onto the couch and crossing his legs, displaying his brightly polished boots. "Reason I came to you is because them high-falutin' outfits you mentioned - or at least some of the cowpokes on their payroll - might be lookin' to reproduce the venom, and I ain't lookin' to cause more trouble for nobody. I'm lookin' for a solution. Hence, a feller down in Bushwick pointed me in your direction." At last, Buster sighs, "But, if you caint do nothin' with it yourself, I guess I'm back to the drawing board."

Richard Stadler has posed:
"Would you mind telling me who in Bushwick? I generally like to think I keep a low profile, and I don't often head to that down that way. It would help to establish your bona fides." He says, pausing. "And I'd imagine they would have a reason to sell what they find. If it does what you say, I know I'd go for it in the corporate world... but I'm not in the corporate world. I'm a high school teacher. I know this place looks large, but I don't have a mass spectrometer in the basement, not to mention the equipment to filter out a biological sample out of what looks to be half a dozen contaminants..."

There's a long pause, as he looks in front of him, staring into the distance as he considers. "You said you observed... excessive strength. Could be some sort of exotic steroid, but something that could provide what you're saying would have to have more than that. Some... noradrenaline, maybe. I have a few biochemists I can make a few calls with. But I'd need a check. I'd need to rent some lab space, run it through. It's not fall, and I suppose I can use a project."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     Buster visibly cheers, "Well, that's good news, Mr. Stadler." He ignores the question about who tipped him off to the chemist's whereabouts. The Texan rummages in a hidden jacket pocket, produces a checkbook, and jots down a one followed by six zeroes as if he were paying for no more than a candy bar at the corner bodega; this he sets on the coffee table, instinctively weighing it down with a coaster as if it might get blown away, and stands. "Whatever that green goo is, it makes Bane a force to be reckoned with; but it's really his posse I'm worried about. They ran through Mutant Town like Jesse James and his gang the other night, actin' like they owned the place. Threatening helpless folk, women and children - that's the sort of scat I can't allow." Punctuating this with a firm nod, the young man tilts the bill of his cap to Richard and makes his way toward the door. "Thanks for your help. I'll go ahead and get out of your hair. If you need more cash, or supplies or whatnot, just give me a jingle down at The Centinel hotel."

Richard Stadler has posed:
Stadler moves to look at the check, frowning a bit. "They told me this place changed since the oughts. How do people just hand out money like this? There are days..." He starts, before shaking his head. "I'll keep you appraised." He says, moving to collect the check, observing it as if he might be the target of some eleaborate fraud. "But, you seem to have your heart in the right place. I'll do some research on your events. Knowing how they move might be a clue to the biology of it."

He stands up, and nods to the man as he moves toward the door. "I will; just remember that I am a man who values my privacy. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep what you know about me to yourself."

He moves down the hallway, as if to assure that he's exiting, looking back down at the vial, shaking it up a bit. "You have a good evening."

Cheyenne Brawley has posed:
     "Your secrets are safe with me, cousin," Buster says with a grin, shutting the wrought-iron screen door with a rattling clang. "And trust you to keep mine, too. Don't be a stranger, now." With that, he's gone, cowboy bootheels clopping on the concrete.