1480/To Faux Pa a Fence

To Faux Pa a Fence
Date of Scene:	02 May 2020
Location:	Paul's TV Repair
Synopsis:	Diamondback and Death Reaper both tried to sell the same fake ray-gun to a Brooklyn fence. It didn't go how they hoped, but maybe they came away with a new bond! A crime bond.
Cast of Characters:	Rachel Leighton, Death Reaper

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Rachel Leighton has posed:
    "C'mon. Don't bullshit around with me, Diamond."

    Nestled away in the heart of Flatbush is a little hole-in-the-wall storefront called Paul's TV Repair. It's the kind of repair shop that still has the same sign it did in 1985, and probably hasn't wiped any dust off of its windows since 1985, either. The kind where the storefront windows aren't any kind of display, so much as just views of accumulated junk, so much so that it blocks any real view of what's inside. 'CRT Sets Our Specialty!' it advertises. No one goes to Paul's TV Repair to get their television set repaired.

    Paul himself is behind the counter. A bunch of televisions in various states of completeness are on a workbench behind him, and loads of bits and bobs besides. The store comes off like a pawn shop, almost; or more accurately, like some kind of graveyard for things the town dump charges money to recycle.

    On the other side of the counter is Diamondback. She's dressed in her civilian gear, a spring-ready t-shirt and shorts ensemble, but she's a six-foot-tall woman with pink hair who looks like she could win any bet related to crossfit. It's Diamondback. "It's not BULLSHIT, PAUL," Diamondback says. "This is an authentic Star-Blazer. You could shoot down a wall of the Fantastic Four's headquarters in one shot with this baby."

    "So why don't you?" Paul replies, snorting. He's a squat, sort of rectangular man, balding up top but with hair as thick as it ever was everywhere from neck to knuckles. He's the sort of guy who looks like he lived in an Italian neighborhood long enough to start becoming Italian by osmosis. "This is a piece of shit, Diamond. Third Star-Blazer I've seen this week. Who'd you get this offa? That one weaselly-faced prick at the Port Authority, found it in a mysterious locker, all that?"

    "Wh--" Diamondback starts to protest.

    "Third one'a these this week," Paul reasserts. "Bootleg fake Star-Blazer from Madripoor. Barely even as much juice as an AIM laser pistol. Less, probably. I'll give you thirty bucks for it, no more. My best hope is selling it to someone even dumber'n you."

    "Thirty bucks?!" Diamondback says, eyes widening in reflexive annoyance. "I can't even buy a /bra/ for thirty bucks."

    "Yeah, well, maybe next time you go to the surgeon, you don't walk in and say 'Hey, two Goodyear Blimps, please.'"

    Diamondback starts to say something back -- something probably starting with an 'Fff' sound -- but catches herself and looks away, blinking away her fury. "Fine. Thirty bucks," she sneers.

    "Pleasure doin' business as always, Diamond. You hang on a sec, I gotta open the safe. Register's a little low." Paul stashes the counterfeit Star-Blazer pistol under the counter, and Diamondback steps back while Paul busies himself opening the safe. She crosses her arms, looking deeply annoyed, though she's far enough back from the counter that anyone entering could just swoop on in.

Death Reaper has posed:
    There remains a certain glamor, in being able to genuinely call yourself an 'arms dealer' or 'weapon smuggler' or 'Merchant of Death', at least at a certain level. Maybe there's a time when one can put those titles away after credibly threatening to plunge the sun into darkness or making the Dread Call to things beyond space and time, but that's all future planning for Death Reaper Sinclair, commonly known as Death Reaper. It hasn't lost all appeal, making a connection with someone that has something to lose if they're found with contraband weaponry - good old, reliable Jim at Port Authority, willing to cut a deal for easy money at no risk - and then finding the necessary continuation of that chain that's looking for merchaindise without much risk.
    Works out great for Death Reaper! She walks into the TV repair shop with a duffel bag under one arm and a dark set of clothing approximating leggings and a short-sleeved camisole top even if it's cold to the touch and may be tapped into this level of existence from a cloying dimension where everything is dark without end. Nice cling effect though, and A+ on replicating a fashionable sportswear logo with just 'shaded' wisps of Darkforce.
    "Hey, I've got a real prize for you." From the bag comes.. a Walkman portable TV, which may be of antique interest. Busted, of course, but she lays that out first while glancing over to Rachel there with a narrowing of her eyebrows, a moue of interest weighted to one side while her free hand taps - ting, ting, ting - at her labret curiously. But Paul's rummage under the counter doesn't leave quite enough time to put the pieces together before she needs to come up with the genuine article. "..and a little something spicier, too." Now the bag is put on the counter, pushed towards Paul and subtly hiding the goods from Rachel there.
    Oh look, a genuine article raygun that draws its energy from the very stars! "Very rare. Kind of.. well, I'm not into that Buck Rogers, Green Manhunters from Mars, astronaut ice-cream junk myself, but still a handy thing for sci-fi geeks."

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    Diamondback remains six feet of solid sulk, her arms crossed under her Goodyear blimps. She gives Death Reaper an upnod, though there's no secret handshake or password request.

    Paul finishes stocking the register tray with bills and turns to find Death Reaper offering a Walkman portable TV. He slams the register tray into its home and shuts it -- he's not going to leave cash sitting out, even to check out an old TV. The portable TV does get a snort of amusement, and the man glances into the duffel bag and snorts again.

    Paul reaches in and takes out an identical Star-Blazer to the one he just agreed to buy from Diamondback. He turns it over in his hands, and says, "Kid, this thing's counterfeit. Maybe you should watch a bit more Buck Rogers until you can learn to tell the difference." The fence makes a noise like he's about to clear his throat, then doesn't. His beady, hard eyes fix on Death Reaper for a moment, and then back to the gun. "Give you five for the portable TV, fifty for the Star-Blazer. Can't do any more than that for a fake."

    Cue Diamondback, off to the side: "What the FUCK?!"

Death Reaper has posed:
    "...yeah, I'll do that, just as soon as I get my phone to plug into telegraph wires or decode smoke signals or whatever you watch stuff like that on." A touch of sulk enters Death Reaper's voice but it's not predominant; it's drawn out into a drawl that's too many accents competing and coming out vaguely Afrikaans in the end in this situation. But while she's starting to raise one hand in a 'stop but also go on' kind of loose-wristed gesture, Diamondback makes her interjection. Cue for Death Reaper to widen her eyes and making a commisserating glance up to the other woman, and then back over to Paul with a decisive nod, "Ain't that right? I know how this works; you're holding the cards here. I'd probably melt my hand off before I got the safety unlocked..."
    That 'stop' hand comes down in a flat thump on the counter now though. "..so okay, you can have the 'fake' Star-Blazer for half a yard. I'm not making this into a road trip." Fingernails, decorated in monochrome polka-dot paint, drum against the countertop, "But, you know, I can't just let you skin me and turn me inside out - not when we aren't even dating, not in front of.." The memory isn't quite kicking in right away but there is something soi-distant yet familiar there; she half-nods towards Diamondback with eyes on Paul, in one of those 'don't make me look like a chump' gestures. "Fifteen bucks for the TV though; that at least covers what I paid in parking fees, and you just know those things are going to be Etsy-fodder kitsch for someone making phone cases or whatever."

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    "Diamondback," Diamondback says, to confirm that she's Diamondback. Her voice comes out clipped, but not quite angry enough to be a bark.

    "And hold on a second here. I don't give a shit about the TV, but you just told me you couldn't do more than THIRTY for the same goddamn fake gun!" Diamondback steps forward, to stand alongside Death Reaper. She puts her hands on the edges of the counter as though she might somehow manifest the strength to pick it up and throw it into space.

    Paul is unimpressed by both Diamondback's anger and by Death Reaper's haggling. He seems like the kind of guy who doesn't 'impress.' "Kid," he says, gaze pointedly upon Death Reaper and not Diamondback, "you wanna make a whole thing about the TV? I don't know what an Etz E-Father is but this TV is gonna get taken apart down to its components for its lead, mercury, cadmium, and all that. That's what it's good for. Me spendin' my time turnin' it into, if I'm lucky, less than a pound of viable bomb-makin' materials. Ten bucks. You don't like that, you can see who else wantsa buy it."

    Then, Paul turns his eyes toward Diamondback. "Yeah. She gets fifty, you get thirty. Because I known you five years, Diamond, and she's a kid. Kids don't know from fakes. You shoulda known better. So for you, thirty."

    Diamondback briefly is speechless with sputtering anger.

Death Reaper has posed:
    It's not too dissimilar from the reaction of Death Reaper, though it's more of a silent smolder. Arms crossed against the counter while she's leaning into it, there's more of the flat-effect look going on with a distinctly unamused blankness. Sure, sure, 'kid' is probably a term used for anyone that isn't ready for a support truss and for special reasons Diamondback certainly qualifies despite the short gap in actual ages. But it's the principle of such a thing. "Nah, that was my of letting you save face for taking advantage of me. Here, look." The sweetly reasonable purr that enters her vocal inflection is scant warning for her sweeping up the 'Star-Blazer' and, despite protestations otherwise, managing to figure out the complicated 'star-shaped bit towards enemy' part and the deucedly tricky 'pull trigger receive prizes' concept.
    She half-turns and aims towards the storefront window which is, blessedly, grimy enough to be nonreflective for the short bZARP of laser discharge with the typical reeking hot ozone and overworked electronics smell to follow typical of Madripoor knockoffs. The blast leaves a neat hole punched through the window though, the glass around the edges melty and blackened, with the parking meter right outside also showing distinct signs of now being nonoperative. At least the charge wasn't heavy enough to also leave melty-burny parts anywhere else in the street.
    So, small favors. 'Star-Blazer' still in hand, she turns back to Paul. "Fifty and ten is fine though. And not in money with ink that gets runny if it sits in my back pocket too long, nuh?" Tapping the 'Star-Blazer' against the crook of her opposite elbow while waiting for the register to open up again, she does look up to Diamondback with a half-shoulder shrug. "And I think he's just intimidated by taller women, so he's giving you the business to feel better. Death Reaper, by the way. ..you worked with Mamba, right? Big into crushing things?"

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    Paul doesn't even blink at the window being shot. He gives Death Reaper's sales pitch a quiet 'mm' and then goes to count some money out of the register.

    Diamondback is more wide-eyed at the sudden display of superior star tech (by way of a shady factory in Madripoor), but quickly settles. "...he wouldn't be the first guy," she sighs. "Yeah. Me and Mamba, Asp, all them. Crushing things was more Anaconda and Bushmaster. More of a thrown weapons specialist." She brushes her ear back to tap one of her big, ostentatious diamond earrings, which, now that one mentions it, are shaped such that they could easily be thrown as darts.

    "This sucks," Diamondback continues. "My lease is almost up and I'm trying to get a new place, but all the brokers want crazy money for even a studio lair..."

    Diamondback's complaint, which seems more directed at the heavens than Death Reaper, is interrupted by Paul clearing his throat and pushing forward a piece of paper. Rather than the cash for the gimmicks, it's an invoice.

    "Bill for the window. Minus ninety bucks. Nice'a you to help out Little Miss Death Reaper with your share, Diamond." The fee for the window is obviously extremely inflated. "You two wanna play games in here, we play my games, with my rules. Two weeks to pay or I get a contract on the money plus a minor inconvenience charge. Or you can work it off. Your choice."

Death Reaper has posed:
    "Of all the.." Putting the Sham-Blazer down on the counter without giving it the irritated slap onto the counter it deserves - so she can fire them, sure, but her phone explodes if treated too roughly so maybe it's better to take it easier with energy weapons - Death Reaper uses the appropriate amount of emotional pique in grabbing up the invoice. "This is some shit, isn't it?" Addressing this to Diamondback, she only gives the bill enough of a reading to be further aggravated by it, with a slight crumpling that eventually balls the thing up into her fist, the one with 'LOVE' tattooed across the knuckles and vory stars around the wrist. "Fine." A thumb sticks up between index and middle fingers, but that's it for acknowledging Paul. Instead, she reaches out to give Diamondback a pull at her waist. "It'll be awhile before we're back in this clip joint!"
    Maintaining that kind of irritation until out the door and with Diamondback in tow, she does hand off the bill over to the taller woman, and then pulls out her phone - screen crackled and glittering but at least still responsive - from somewhere. She does have to rub it between her palms for a moment until the Darkforce chill is off and the battery isn't beeping alarmingly.
    "Haluska. Hey. I've got one for you; window repair, in Flatbush so you don't even have to go far. ..yeah, make this one a special." Covering the phone pick-up with her thumb, she winks up at Diamondback with a little 'click' of her tongue and half-grin on that side. The Full Package, as it goes. "All the trimming. I don't even need that much of a kickback, let's say.." She covers the phone pickup again before looking up at Diamondback with eyebrows raised, "How much are you thinking? I mean I probably can't squeeze a whole first-last week rent off of Haluska's 'fix the window and whoops looks like you need new doorframes' job, but part of it..."

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    Diamondback is pulled along by the waist of her cutoff jean shorts, looking mostly bewildered at the turn of events. At heart, there's a conservative streak, in the way the pink-haired snake-crook handles crime -- she's someone who was trained at and graduated from an underground henchperson academy, after all. She was taught all long that there are rules and systems and ways of doing things. Maybe that's why she only got thirty bucks offered.

    Once Death Reaper is on the phone with her guy, Diamondback rubs the back of her neck and looks at the hole in the window from the other side. Her nose wrinkles a bit at the smell of somewhat-melted parking-meter. "...huh? Oh, I mean... I dunno. I'm not gonna be able to get my own place anyway. ...shit, the Lord of Land was telling me about a loft in East Williamsburg, but I'd need a couple other crooks in on it. Like three grand apiece every month." Diamondback huffs. "Maybe I could talk Mamba into using a room as a safehouse... or that sorceress lady..."

Death Reaper has posed:
    "So about four thousand, all told. Get that done in a weekend if you knock some wiring loose. ..ja. No, your cousin's small-time. Alright." Finishing the call, the phone is slid away to wherever in the unwholesome skein drawn from other realms that's being used for clothing Death Reaper keeps such things. And while it feels good to take part in the natural legitimate business front-legitimate repair company lifecycle, it does leave her short on parking fe- oh wait.
    So the conversation continues while she's crouched down there on the sidewalk, and using the back of her Darkforce-shielded hand to collect as many quarters and as little glass from the destroyed parking meter as possible. "Well, you're looking at my current lair right now." A nod of her head that bounces her hair a bit towards a car that, thirty years ago, would've been antique and is now just the tattered remains of some punkabilly mechanic's weekend project, given how the flame-decal paintjob is kept in better condition than the rusted-shut charger in the hood. Visible through the backseat windows are cardboard boxes and comforters. "All my better references are in jail, on the lam, or no longer minions-with-benefits. So you're going to have to take it on faith."

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    Diamondback's eyes watch where the phone goes, and she resists pulling a slight frown. Darkforce: some people are born to handle it, some people are born to wear it as clothes, and some people might just have weird issues from their upbringing. She watches Death Reaper scrounge for spare change, and rests her hands on her hips.

    "Yeah," Diamondback says, looking at the car. "I mean, at least it's yours. Beats having to be someone's girlfriend just for a place to crash." The crook says it with the weariness of lived experience. "You gimme a ride, you can crash on my couch. No girlfriend stuff needed. I'll call the Lord of Land and see if the place is still open. There's a listing on that RedLairs onion site thing, it's got pictures. I mean, it's kind of a piece of shit. But it's better than a car. Or nowhere." Diamondback rubs the bridge of her nose, as if trying to ward off a headache.

    "Oh, and if there's a freaky Satanic sorceress wandering around my place..."

    Diamondback is quiet for a moment, letting the thought trail off. "Nah. You know what, you two'd get along great."

Death Reaper has posed:
    "Deal. If there's going to be a lot of right turns, there's some twine you can tie the door shut with instead of holding it every time." Collecting a kingly sum that can at least fill out a roll of quarters - the rich man's homemade sap, for those too lofty for humbler rocks-in-socks - Death Reaper stands back up and brushes off her knees mostly to signify that the intensive labor is done rather than any dinginess. If there's nothing else it's good for, the Darkforce keeps a lot of NYC-style grunge from sticking. "And that's fine. I'm not looking to convert, but I'll go along to a black mass to be friendly. As long as they don't have a damnation-band though."
    The door locks are as simple as sliding some of the Darkforce in through a crack in the window and tugging them up, though she does apparently possess a key for it. That's always handy. The inside has a nicely gaudy leopard-print seat cover over cracked vinyl, to be sure, but at least it doesn't have fuzzy dice. "Phew. ..you know, the Serpent Society always did have a good workrate. Are you putting anything together?" Before starting the car there is the necessary tete-a-tete, even with Diamondback's room and board and relationship-free clause is mostly unaddressed aside from a faint click of tongue-stud on tooth enamel. "Penny-ante scams are getting old, really."
    No, wait, there are fuzzy dice. Death Reaper just waited until she was seated before coalescing them together out of wispy shadowy stuff. They do give off a sense of gloom and despair that regular black-flock dice wouldn't, however.

Rachel Leighton has posed:
    "We did, until... I don't wanna get into it. Politics," Diamondback says. She rolls her window down and rests her arm on the bottom edge of the window frame, both to enjoy the sights and smells of New York and also in case she needs to suddenly clamp the door inward with her palm. "Politics and money. So I dunno what's going on with them now."

    Diamondback takes sunglasses that were hung on the collar of her shirt by an arm and slips them on over her eyes. Van Dynes! Tasteful. Luxurious. Expensive. Probably marketed as 'sunnies' on the website. Also, knockoffs that Diamondback bought out of a briefcase on some sidewalk in Manhattan. "Putting something together... shit. I might have to, huh?" Diamondback smirks, turning her head toward the driver. She seems pretty unconcerned with the noises the bottom of the car is making as it travels over asphalt. "Otherwise, everything I've done so far... I didn't do it to get thirty bucks for a fake raygun. And there's always a big score out there... hmm."