7311/Bound to Lose

Bound to Lose
Date of Scene:	10 August 2021
Location:	Abandoned Subway
Synopsis:	Tim visits his mysterious ally. SURPRISE IT'S ANARKY.
Cast of Characters:	Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

---

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Na na na bound to lose..." Lonnie's hidden underground palace is echoing with music tonight - the whole place is lit with scavenged lighting, powered by an illegal tap into the city's power grid, with everything a young Anarcho-Revolutionary needs to both fight the good fight and have a kickass crash pad all his own. Of course, the sleeping flop-eared mutt and the potted plants under grow lights kind of kill the punk vibe a little bit but they help fill the place with fresh oxygen, and that's important, alright?

Lonnie is currently underneath a motorcycle in the area he's partitioned out into a garage, merrily building a bike from the ground up - by the time he's done, it's going to be a road-chewing monster. He sings along and tightens bolts in time with the beat. "You fascists are bo-o-o-und to lose... all you fascists are bound to lose, you fascists...~"

Tim Drake has posed:
    One lucky hit from some guy protesting the interference into his petty thievery is enough to convince Tim that tonight is just not his night. If he's distracted enough that someone who thinks robbing a convenience store is a good idea can come precariously close to taking him down, then it's probably for the best that Red Robin isn't patrolling the deadly streets of Gotham.

    Not to say he's just going to head back home and take a nap. Which does, admittedly, sound amazing. Naps always sound amazing in an ethereal, conceptual sort of way, because it's been long enough since Tim's had the kind of steady life where he could just decide to lay down for a while because his body wants to that he honestly doesn't even remember what it's like. Is he really fantasizing about a nap right now? Jeez. That probably implies something unhealthy about his lifestyle that Tim knows better than to examine.

    Instead of napping, he touches base with a couple of low-level criminals who are non-threatening enough (and have enough of a moral backbone that he can occasionally take advantage of) that Red Robin doesn't bother to haul in. He doesn't take much issue with victimless crimes. Too many of the other kind for him to really worry about it, in Gotham. And then he decides to make another pitstop on his way back to the Roost, though he doesn't come empty-handed.

    "Did I manage to bypass any of your alarms this time around?" he asks as he makes his way inside, voice raised to be heard over the sound of the music. "Give me enough time and I'll have them all figured out." He holds up a paper bag in one hand like a peace offering.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie pauses under the bike. "You fas-" He begins reaching for his tool caddy, to drop the ratchet set into it. Reach reach reach strrrrrretch *clunk*.
    "...I install new ones from time to time. Can't be too careful, and if you know where this place is, that means Batman could just roll up and then I'd be out on my tuchus -" He slides out from underneath the bike, and holds up his greasy hands. "Towel ...And I like it here. You're getting better, though - you didn't even wake up Yap. He's my most important security system." Cause that little terrier mix is made of bork.

    "To answer your incipient question, I'm not up to *anything* - today."

Tim Drake has posed:
    With a sigh, Tim steps closer, a glance scanning across the garage area before he locates what he's looking for, and then carefully he drops the requested work towel into Lonnie's hands. "I'm not going to say Batman doesn't know where you live because, you know." He gestures loosely around himself. "He's Batman. But he didn't hear it from me, at least."

    He sets the paper bag down--it's hand-stamped with a triangular logo that reads Onion Maiden--and then crouches down to take a closer look at the bike. Out of habit he sweeps his hair from his forehead where it's nearly long enough to get into his eyes (if not for the lenses of his mask, of course) and then he rests his chin against his fist. "My step-mother kept Yorkies. If I can sneak out of the house with a pack of those down the hall...." One of his shoulders rolls into a loose shrug.

    "Anyway. You wanna get up to something?" First Tim points to the food, but then he reaches into and produces from his utility belt a small USB stick. "Got a couple terabytes of juicy financial records to sort through that might have something to do with all of the tech getting smuggled into Gotham."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie wipes his hands clean, and then he snags the bag. Priorities being what they are, he digs through it first and takes an inventory of the contents before he holds out his other hand for the USB stick. "Oho! A treat AND Onion Maiden. Robin, you spoil me so." He sweeps them up and gets to his feet - Tim can remember when he was short enough that he used that fake head to make himself look more intimidating.
    He doesn't have *that* problem anymore. "Also, you're favoring your left side. Took a hit to the ribs, huh? I made a fresh batch of tiger balm, it's in the cool whip container at the medical bay. The one with 'TB' written on it.
    He drops into a scavenged executive office chair and sliiiiiiiides over to his computer rig, which is an absolute unit - and plugs the USB in, and begins to rapidly sift through the data, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's a pretty substantial bag, though it lightens a bit when Tim establishes that "The kale salad is mine.". There's also a container of spring rolls, and the Onion Maiden's take on vegan General Tso's chicken, using tater tots as the base. And maybe Tim looks longingly at all the fried goodness that he bought for not-himself even as he makes grabby hands for his own container of, admittedly very good, rabbit food.

    "Stopped a robbery in progress on 5th and Somerset, perp threw a bag of Doritos at me and then tackled me into the ice cream freezer." Tim presses a glancing hand against his side as he looks up at Lonnie, and then goes to do as bid, already working at the various hidden closures keeping his armor on. "Almost got taken out by a bag of chips. I mean, at least they were the sweet chili flavor, which is the uncontested best."

    He's still talking as he peels off enough of his uniform to get at his side, which involves lifting up the thin undershirt he's wearing beneath to expose-- "Crap." Okay that's already looking like a really concerning shade of black and blue. He smothers on a good layer of tiger balm after peeling off one of his gloves, while only making a few faint gurgling noises at the discomfort, both from the general pain of touching the injury as well as the shock of the menthol. "I ran it through a few automatic searches but none of them pulled up anything out of the ordinary," Tim says as he buckles himself back into his armor and cleans his hand.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie's diet is actually ridiculously healthy, since he once told Tim that food is just one way "They" keep the people drugged and in a stupor to avoid the inevitable rising, because people with healthy food have energy to spare and people with energy to spare are far more likely to notice their less than optimal circumstances - but then again - he's only human. He grabs a pair of chopsticks and picks at the food before he drawls "Pl-ease. ...Chili lime are the best flavor."
    Yap the dog wakes up and walks over - he has one ear up and alert and the other is loose and floppy, as he sniffs around Tim's ankles. Where've YOU been, buddy? Huh?
    Lonnie's Tiger Balm seems to follow the idea that all treatment should at least be as bracing as the original injury, it makes the eyes water and the nose run.
    "The key is to disguise malignancy in mundanity. A really good thief can rob you blind and hide it in a grocery list-" He says, all enthusiasm, as he searches not for what is out of the ordinary, but what is most ordinary.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim is also only human, but he at least gets enough satisfaction from being in the presence of food that he wants to eat but knows don't fit his macros that he keeps to a pretty decent diet himself. Also, the tahini dressing they put on his salad is really, really good. "Excuse me?" he asks, his voice dipping into dramatic levels of derision. "I'm sorry, I thought I said *uncontested best*. I can't believe this. We're not friends anymore."

    Even so, Tim bends down to rub his bare knuckles against the top of Yap's head with a few words of praise for how much of a good boy he is--because he is a Dog and is therefore Good--before he settles himself gingerly against the edge of Lonnie's computer desk. He peels off his other glove so that he can start picking through his salad as he stares at the data scrolling across the screen.

    There's a lot. An entire corporation's worth of financial data going back several months, as well as that of several shell companies that Tim has been able to identify in connection to the recent smuggling operations they've worked together on. Going through it all manually will take days, at least, but somewhere in there is the smoking gun.

    At least, Tim hopes there is. Right now, it's all breadcrumbs.

    "There's something more to this," he says, voice gone quiet and serious. "I can't put my finger on what, but I went back through the import declarations forms for everything that's come through the port in the last few months and I think we only caught onto this operation because they've gotten complacent. They've been bringing in tech for a while now, but I still have no idea what *for*."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well you've punched me in the face enough times that I like to think we have a lifelong bond. And I'm *sure* we'll beat the crap out of each other yet again." Lonnie chews on a chopstick as he flies through data at a truly prodigious pace. Truth be told Tim could do all this himself, but it's probably nice to outsource the work.
    Yap sits there with his tongue lolling out. He's participating!
    "Well I'm not the Question, but I HAVE been called a paranoid nut. Zoom out and look at the big picture. Everything people *take* serves some sort of need, from the concrete to the abstract. Right?" He begins noting which words and phrases appear more than others, and starts running a closer analysis based on those.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim chews through a mouthful of greens as he leans-slash-sits there, fork poking through his salad as he keeps his eyes on the screen. "Probably," he agrees, and then he tips his head to one side. "Maybe next time can wait until after I've recovered from being slammed into the side of a Blue Bunny freezer? And maybe also you can never mention to anyone that it happened?" The wheeze that comes out of him after is mostly just for humorous effect. He's not actually that injured, and half of it is just his pride that's bruised.

    "That's why we work well together," he says, pointing at Lonnie with his fork. "I like to call it detective's intuition but I guess I have to admit it's really just paranoia." After another bite, he sets his salad down and takes a step back, the physical motion aiding him in mentally doing the same thing. Behind the lenses of his domino mask, his eyes close, and he folds his arms over his chest. "The amount of computer chips the GCPD seized at the port suggests this is just a standard black market operation; making a profit on stolen goods. But what if that's not it at all? I've looked into it, and there hasn't really been an increase in tech exchanging hands among the general criminal populace." His fingers tap against his bicep.

    The most sizeable exchange of money in the corp's recent history is all in real estate, and related terms will pop up in Lonnie's search. They seem to be buying and selling industrial lots across Gotham and surrounding areas, making a steady but small profit. Small enough that it doesn't really seem worth the effort for a company that is worth well into the hundreds of millions, otherwise.

    Several moments of silence pass before Tim lets out a slow exhale. "If they're not selling what they're bringing in, why are they going through the trouble?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Simplest answer being the best one," Lonnie says, around a Tso-Tot, chopsticks in his mouth, "Ish that they're building hshomfing." He tilts his head, and then says, "Hsomfing that requiref a lot of computerf." He calls up a map of Gotham City and highlights the sites that are being brought up in red. "Well we know it's not Harley Quinn," He says, "They don't make a giant smiley face."
    He laces his fingers together. "You're a better detective than I am."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate," Tim says. "My ontology professor gives extra credit if we cite the original Latin in our papers. And it makes sense; wherever this stuff is going, if they're not using it to turn a quick profit--easy enough to do with the price of chips these days--then the thing that makes the most sense is that it's being used for something. I'm more worried about what exactly would require the amount of processing power that they're bringing in, or the amount of effort they're going through to get it." He hasn't forgotten about his salad, and he settles back in to continue eating, though now he's mostly just crunching through croutons.

    The map has him stopping, though, so that he can lean in close and inspect it. "What are they, house flippers?" It doesn't make any sense to him. "Maybe I should poke my head into a few of these buildings. Some of them aren't even occupied, maybe they could be hiding something."

    He stabs his fork into the pile of now-croutonless kale that he's left with in his bowl, which just has Tim sighing. "It's not much of a lead, but it's more than I've managed to scrape together. Thanks."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "E causa ignota." Lonnie replies, drily. "I learned it by myself, for fun." He squints. "It's almost like..." He tilts his head, "What would the point of THAT be?" He begins drawing lines between the locations on the map. "Now imagine running fiber-optic cable between these locations. Without telling anyone. You can do it - I've *done* it." He looks around at his computer rig.
    "You didn't think I was *paying* for Fios, did you? Fuck those fascists, they keep you on the phone for forty-five minutes if you want to cancel your service-" He looks over at Tim, and then back. "...It's unjust."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Okay, rabbit food, now that you're carb-less, you're dead to Tim.

    He sets the bowl aside so that he can turn and give the map proper consideration. "Of course you did," Tim replies, like it's not new information to him. It fits the psychological profile he has in his head, because of course Tim is the type of guy to make psych profiles of his friends. For fun.

    Mostly for fun. Slightly for paranoia reasons. He's not Batman but he is often a little bit too like his mentor.

    "Not to mention the stress of having to make a phone call in the first place," Tim quips, as if he deals with typical Gen Z anxieties. "I don't pay for Fios either. The amount of data I use for the feed in my HUD alone would've brought someone to my front door, not to mention the power I need to--."

    Tim goes quiet, and he bites the inside of his cheek. "Whatever they're building would need a massive amount of electricity to run and to keep cool, wouldn't it?" His fingers drum against the side of his leg. "Even if they're using multiple locations, these buildings," he's pointing at the screen now, leaned over slightly, "Were mostly unoccupied before. They'd show a spike in power usage."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Unless you had some on-site means to generate power." Lonnie says, "Think about it like this. What's the big thing? Cryptocurrency. What do you need to mine cryptocurrency? You need a location. You need computers. And you need power. So what if this is a *massive* cryptocurrency generating array?" Lonnie's eyebrows go up, and he leans forward, with his elbows on the desk and his hands folded together under his chin.
    "If I believed money was real - it isnt - I'd be impressed. Intrigued, even." But then he says, "There's just one thing out of place, this is a HUGE resource investment just because you want to mine dogecoins."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Yeah, but if they're running a ton of generators that'll eventually draw attention too," Tim points out. "It's not like Gotham is a great location for green energy generation. Maybe they could supplement with current turbines if they're close to the water?" But he doesn't sound particularly enthused about what is an admittedly unlikely theory. His mouth twists into an unhappy frown, just off the edge of frustration.

    Still, Tim's never backed down from a complicated problem before. If anything, it just makes him want to dig in deeper. "It'd make more sense if they were trying to get this set up a decade ago when crypto started hitting the market. I can't see the returns being worth the investment now."

    He's up and moving now, pacing back and forth, though after only a few rotations he stops to bend down and pet Yap. "I'll take a look at the electricity angle. Pretty sure I've got an in with the power company after that hostage situation at the generating station last month."

    Tim straightens back up and gestures to the screen. "You mind combing through this in the meantime?" he asks.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Yeah sure." Lonnie says, leaning back. "I love looking through spreadsheets. Love love love it." He bites his bottom lip and uses one finger to poke keys on his keyboard. "Love. It."
    Yap follows Tim back and forth across the floor, and then barks when he pets him.
    "I'm only doing this because you brought me a snack." He adjusts his glasses and squints at the screen. "Going back out, then? If you want to grab forty winks, I won't tell."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's face splits into a cheeky smile. "Thaaaaanks," he says, drawing out the vowel sound as obnoxiously as he can manage. "I'll bring you something nice next time to make up for it." Even before Lonnie makes the offer to stick around, Tim's eyeing up the nearest comfortable seating opportunity, and though he says, "No, I'm okay. Just need to sit for a little bit," he allows himself to stretch out. Not without taking off his boots because he has manners and isn't going to get dirt on Lonnie's stuff. Regardless of the fact that they're in an abandoned subway tunnel.

    "Anyone in particular stand out to you on that cruise that you'd like to take down?" he asks. "Henry Beacham's daughter was pretty awful, and that girl we sat across from during dinner that first night has been texting me gossip about her non-stop. Might be able to use her to take down her oil magnate father."

    Snacks are good bribery material, but Tim is a very generous sort with his friends. And spreadsheets really do suck.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Oh, I'm already building my takedown of that guy." Lonnie murmurs, "It's going to be spectacular. I have no faith in the legal system, but I'm not above weaponizing it to take down a scumbag, and Beacham's as greasy as his rupturing pipelines." His fingers fly across the keys. He gives a subtle tap of his finger on the desk and Yap jumps up to snuggle in next to Tim, all warm and cozy and dog-like.
    Lonnie's gaze flicks back up to the screen, "But like I said, you're a better detective than me. I'm good, but you're better. I bet you've got dirt I don't, and I'll happily take it off your hands."

Tim Drake has posed:
    With a quick twist, Tim turns around so that he can arrange himself on his side and give Yap as much room as possible to get comfortable before he starts to pet the dog. "I feel like that's a given for anyone still profiting off the destruction of the Earth's ecosystem, but the whole Beacham family is just gross. If you're going to take him down you need to ruin the whole company along with him; none of his kids deserve that money. They'll just grow up to be new versions of him."

    He rubs at the good spot behind Yap's ear. "I'll see what I can dig up. Indy hates Henrietta Beacham, there's some kind of bad blood there." Indy being the aforementioned girl from dinner. "I think Indy asked her out and it didn't go well? I don't know all of the details but rumors about them dating were all over the society papers for a while and, well, the Beachams are from Texas." He waves his hand with a faint grimace as if to say 'not that I'm implying anything, BUT' and then throws his arm over his face to block out the light.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Oh, the destruction will be total." Lonnie says, with a faint smile. He settles in to go to work, his fingers flying across the keys, the rhythmic clickclickclick of his keyboard and the hiss of the dehumidifier working overtime to keep the damp at bay in here the only sound. After awhile, Lonnie looks up, and experimentally tests by saying "My favorite Robin is the short angry one-"
    And then he gets up and walks away from his computer station on tip-toe. "What do you think, Yap?" He says, sotto voce, "Classic vigilante or a more modern look?" He looks at the costumes conveniently waiting on mannequins and settles on the bulletproof compression t-shirt with an Anarchy symbol on it in vivid red, his armored black leather jacket, army uniform pants, and heavy reinforced boots. And a white neutral-featured mask. The goal is to convince people that Anarky is like five or six different guys.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Lonnie gets a thumbs up in his general direction. Maybe it's not strictly toeing the Bat-family party line to be down with some anarchistic leanings, but hey. Friends support friends in their endeavours, right? Tim's good at justifications, especially in his own mind.

    Besides, Lonnie's nice enough to let him crash here, which is absolutely what Tim does for an hour or so, despite himself. He doesn't even rouse when Lonnie brings him a pillow, just rolls over to shove his face against it and keeps on napping. Eventually he'll wake up and get himself back home, but not before leaving a quick note summarizing Henrietta Beacham's worst habits. Mostly drug use and illegal gambling, but there are rumors that her less-than-upstanding hobbies have gotten her in with some nasty folks (though Tim only lists a few potentials with some of the local crime families). Then Tim's off to do some digging of his own, feeling a bit more put-together despite the bruising on his side.

    Yeah. Naps really are amazing, as it turns out.