6151/Branching Out

Branching Out
Date of Scene:	10 January 2019
Location:	Gotham City
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Ventriloquist (Riley), Brutale

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Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Bad news travels fast in Gotham. The recent escape of Scarface from custody might suprise some, as he's a /bloody puppet/, but to others it was as inevitable as time itself. Rumours rippled with Gotham that the mobster had returned, and that some of the smaller games that he was less inclined to condone might have met a violent end.

It's two AM when it happens. Like a police raid, they move fast, but in clear sight. Dock workers conspicuously absent, as two panel vans race through the dimly lit streets. Engines race, and then tyres screech to a stop, and doors slam open. A dozen men spreading out into a semi-circle around the front of the warehouse, an odd assortment of Irish Mob, Italian Mafia and Street Gang Elite hefting weapons ranging from shotguns to the far more desired AK47. A gap left in the middle, and as soon as the last of the movement stops, a higher pitched, far more pleasant note can be heard. Ruby-red, as if cut from the gemstone, an Aston Martin growls through, turning in just a little to make a statement. Headlights still on. Engine still running. Tint darker than dark.

Someone has guests.

Important guests.

Brutale has posed:
Brutale was in the shit, neck deep. It was like he was back in the jungles of Hasaragua, running intelligence back to the capital and El Presidente about local movements of labor dissidents. Gotham City was worse than any jungle he'd ever seen. There were no organizations here, no nationalities, no ciphers he could decrypt among local culture or any sort of uniformity to the streets, the politics, or the faces he met. He was locked into the logic of his non-existant regime forever because of his training, his demeanor constantly dour.

Brutale was fatherless, both literally and figuratively. Being an exile was about standing true to your home, even if your home had collapsed under the weight of Marxist guerillas. Ironically, those men were of the ilk of the strange man who haunted his dreams since he was trained as a secret police agent, the man offering him an orange with a smile and a black mustache, not a hint of threat in his eyes.

The warehouse was occupied by Yardies wearing yellow and white hoodies, the Stripe Yellows, a local gang of intelligence brokers and smugglers out of the Antilles. Most of the crates in the warehouse, operating as a green grocer's produce stock for the East Asian markets nearby, were full of produce and various curios for cooking exotic cuisine, like curry and soy sauce and of course, the legendary tempura recipe available in nearby restaurants.

But much of it was Vampiro Rojo Cartel cocaine, a top ticket item during the depressed times of an economic drought among Gotham City's crime. The common drug dealer could do little but hope for an operation like this to last, just to afford a bag of grass while he got himself through college with a petty advertising degree.

The door to the warehouse, a trundling bay door, rattled upwards, with Brutale and a man in a black suit, from the Amazonas region of Colombia, standing inside. Brutale wore his grey gargoyle costume, bandoliers of knives criss-crossing his chess, the Amazonas wearing snakeskin boots and a narrow sloop cowboy hat.

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
After the door rattles upwards, and the men standing within are revealed, the door to the Aston opens slowly. Red-gloved fingers hold the B-pillar, one stepped heel touches the floor, and with a rustle, silken red fabric nearly covers the pale skin and the footwear. And with one smooth movement, the elegant lady in red rises from the car - Jessica Rabbit made flesh, but absent that teasing smile and indulging in some good-old-fashioned resting bitch face.

As she steps to the side and closes the car door, it becomes obvious that there's something in her hand. A wooden something, wearing a precisely tailored grey suit, with a matching bowler hat. With a toy gun couched in his wooden lap, and wooden eyes that move slowly between the two men, wooden mouth set in a grim line. His handler walks a few steps from his car, and then pauses - And the toy's mouth clicks when it 'talks.' "I ain't figured that none of yas was gonna wait for me to geddout of clink 'fore someone got greedy." The doll raises it's gun, pointed straight at the business man. For anyone who doesn't know about Scarface, it would be surreal. Particularly how it moves.

"So why don't youse tell me why ya thought ya could cut ole' Uncle Scarface out of the action."

Brutale has posed:
The Colombian from the Amazonas watches, for a long, cool, silent moment, before his mouth curls into a grin at how amusing the entire situation is. Brutale, however, has studied Bludhaven, Gotham City, Metropolis, and the other areas pertinent to the capes and masks and stilts and titans very thoroughly. He knows that the corrido has just entered a world of hurt, merely for being cholo in a situation where the normal logic of a high level bastard survivalist fails.

Brutale looks to the cocaine cowboy with a slight tilt of his head, his leathery grey suit curling the stitched seams, as he puts his hand up. It's a subtle signal, reserved for moments like this. The Vampiro Rojo looks at Brutale, quizzically, with a, 'what are we paying you for look?', before he shrugs, and tosses his hands up in a surrender gesture at Peyton and Scarface, wrists together as if cuffed.

Brutale steps forward, out from under the warehouse awning, as the Colombian watches, putting his hands on his square hips where his tight jeans meet his broad leather belt.

"Greetings, sir. My name is Brutale, I am a diplomat between these interests and the luminaries of your beautiful country. It is an honor to meet you, Scarface, I have heard many things from my brief time here. Shall we negotiate inside?"

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Scarface's men are loyal to a fault. Most have seen the consequences of crossing the immortal mobster, and they haven't been pretty - So there isn't a movement amoungst them while the grown-ups do the talking.

"Diplomat, huh? Funny how all I hears when someone says dat dese days is Merc." Scarface takes his time in lowering his gun, while Peyton stands behind him impassively. Surely she's manipulating his mouth and arm though, right? The heavyset doll cocks his head to the side for a moment, "Well den. I guess we gots some discussions ta be havin' in private." He glances at Peyton. "C'mon. Chop chop."

The woman seems a little offended, but it passes quickly. The soft click of heels on concrete as she makes her way towards the building, while their men stand guard in that wide arc, prepared to open fire should the signal be given. Scarface chuckles for a moment, and adds while they walk with a gesture at his handler. "Dis is Riley. She takes me wheres I needs ta go." An odd way to introduce her.

Brutale has posed:
Inside the warehouse, there are rows of short, wide, long crates, each marked with print spraypainted logos to identify the type of item, the stacks each having a manifesto of paper inside a mylar sheath hanging from the shelf they're located in. The warehouse is relatively small and long, with rows of shelves to the left of the loading dock, and a lunch table in the back where the Yardies congregate amongst themselves, smoking spliffs, marijuana ground in with tobacco. A small doorway leads to the offices, where there is a bathroom and computer access, plus the standard door that leads to the official front of the business on the main road.

Brutale pulls out a pair of folding chairs, setting one up and sliding it towards Peyton, and opening the other and taking a seat across from the empty chair.

"Allow me to explain, Scarface, our purpose here, as to allay your fears that we intend a war."

The Amazonas watches all from the background, lighting up a Camel filter in the shadows.

"We are dealing in high grade Colombian cocaine, which at the moment, is in short supply, thanks to the present interference from the rising numbers of vigilantes. This is being sold to university students seeking to trade in our wares, so they may have more stable efforts in procuring traditional cannibas, I believe the technical term is. This gives us a share in the community's underworld, and access to various universities. Our friends in the Yardies are being given the chance to engage the police with our housing and manpower, in exchange for their help as scouts and munitions. We, do not seek to make money, all proceeds are going to the upkeep of our facilities."

Brutale extends his hands, showing his palms, with his fingers splayed to the sides.

"Our aim is politics."

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Peyton follows as she is lead to, and takes the seat offered to her slowly, careful not to let her dress bunch or shift more than it absolutely must. And Scarface listens, his face wooden, as Brutale is kind enough to lay out at least one version of events of what might be happening here. And once he's finished, his unoccupied wooden hand reaches inside his jacket, withdrawing a cigar. It's placed between his wooden lips, and without speaking, Peyton takes a small lighter from his pocket and helps him light the fragrant tobacco.

A few seconds are allowed to pass before Scarface speaks again, the cigar seeming attached to his lower lip now. "Politics. Y'wanna be in Gotham, dis town is pay to play. I ain't gonna give two shits if yas not /makin'/ scratch, ya sell that junk on /my/," It pats it's chest, somewhere between aggressive and adorable, "Streets, and /my/ guys ain't gonna be makin' scratch 'cos of youse." The level of movement it has is beyond strange, even moreso because it seems like it's actually smoking. This close though, one can see the subtle movements of Peyton's throat and the slight movements of muscle beneath her long gloves.

"I ain't a greedy man, Mister Brutale. I only wants whats mine. See, I gots no real reasons ta burn dis place to da ground and ice all of yas, if I'm gettin' what's mine. Y'got ya market, and I's not gonna say no's ta lettin' ya sells there - But dis town is mine. So what I gots ta asks ya is dis. Where's my slice?"

Brutale has posed:
There's an echo of laughter from the Yardies at the break table, who have been eavesdropping, before Brutale looks over his shoulder and barks at them in Patois. A masculine retort follows from them, and they quiet down.

Brutale, without apologizing, returns his attention to Scarface. "If this is a protection call, Scarface, we are at an impasse. I am representing a dangerous client, and although I would prefer to pay you without any hesitation, there are orders of logic here beyond you and I. So, allow me to offer a negotiation."

"If your men agree to offer me peace, I will offer you our clientele base to enhance your sales market. With two exceptions. I do not want Batman or any like minds here, and I do not want my client's intelligence operations toyed with. I am a spy without a government, and you are a gangster without a guarantee. I have orders to avoid engaging the Batman, just him, and I have a purview to protect operatives attempting to alter the political situation in this area in favor of farmland consortiums with narrow political views where it comes to the engagement of the government with local and foreign institutions."

"Do you understand, Mr. Scarface? I will offer you the guarantee of the market, as a gangster, while I cannot ever receive my own government to back me, as a spy?"

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Scarface laughs as well. It's an inorganic sound, harsh and grating, when he receives the counter-offer. "Riley, can ya believe the stones on this guy?" He asks his handler, who manages a smile back at him. "No, lover. I think he's completely misunderstanding you." A gentle shake of her head causes her hair to bounce wonderfully.

"I'm struggling with why you think that phone numbers and names are a suitable trade for money we aren't getting from our dealers." Scarface watches while Peyton speaks, her voice rich and musical. "There are a dozen different ways we can take down your operation within weeks, Brutale. Guns blazing or more nefarious means. You can call it a protection shakedown if it makes you more comfortable, but the truth is that you're in hostile territory here."

The mouthpiece continues, "Financially, you're taking a drop from the bucket. But it's /his/ bucket," Scarface nods, drawing on his cigar, "And unless you want to start losing product and people, you'll come to the table with a better offer."

Scarface sighs then, the puppet indulging in a little bit of drama. "'sides, da Bat and his gots ways of makin' your goons squeal. Ain't ya rather dey scream my name? Long as I ain't losin' green or guns I ain't gonna give a shit." Something like protection then. Pay Scarface, and deflect all blame to him.

Brutale has posed:
Brutale reaches to his bandolier, slowly, after Scarface has laid out the bare bones of his viewpoint. He withdraws one of dozens of fillet knives, and handles it between the dextrous gloved fingers of his hand, holding the handle beneath the hilt and looking down at it as he thinks, observing his demonic face on the reflection of the milk moon metal.

"Do you know, where I am from, Mister Scarface?" he asks, touching the tip of the blade to his opposite forefinger, turning it around slowly.

"Hasaragua was once a peaceful nation, many centuries ago, before the gringo and his minions, the Church, arrived. We were a tribal civilization, south of the Yucatan, a place of deep, lush valleys, beautiful waters, and majestic cliffs. Spanish priests, the devils, do you know what they like?"

Brutale shifts the knife in his hand to a grip, looking down the blade from behind, along the narrow edge.

"They liked our nuts. Cashews, you know? For decades, decades and decades, we were slaves in the jungles, working on encomiendas, harvesting nuts, our men dropping dead and our women married to bastard Spaniards, making us so weak, ever so weak, with the blood of a knight. I never understood a knight, you know? The blood is in my veins, but I never understood one."

Brutale points the knife at Scarface. "All of us in Bolivar's lands, we are knights and we are tribals, and they both weaken each other. Just over gold, nuts, wood, now aluminum and oil and coca. It's all worthless, you know, just like these bullshit dollar bills you want from me. To the priest, it means a little child listening to him, a nice little peanut as a treat. To a conquistador, it means the chance to beat men to death and fuck a woman who watches her brothers die."

"Do you know how I am strong, if I am part tribal, and part gringo? Because I beat men to death, and I fuck women, senor." Brutale slips his knife back into its place.

"So this is what I will do for you, Scarface. I will give you your money, and I will inform my superior personally, while you get paid your money. I am sure he will be interested to know of your curiosity for the reform of the American agrobusiness market in favor of the militia and against the unions."

"Money is not an object, he will have it personally delivered. He is a gringo, you know, but he is his own man now. He is a knight, much like Batman, but more one that I respect because he pays me."

Brutale stands. "And now, I pay you."

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Scarface follows the knife, his expression unreadable. Peyton, like the doll, remains an unreadable mask while Brutale talks. "Y'think I got dis far because I ain't takin' threats, kid?" The mobster allows himself a brief chuckle, but it's empty. "Y'think yer th'first 'revolutionary' what got plans for Gotham? Da business of politics comes down ta jus' one ting. Money. And da only ting worth more'n scratch is respect."

The toy mobster considers his pistol for a moment, "See, when da man finally strung me up, all da bribes I'd paid and all da people I'd helped wasn't worth nuttin' 'cos sometimes I let da little tings slide. Little tings dat some people thought was worth more dan me. Da disrespect. But - All of dat? Dem backstories? Worthless. But when I gots youse comin' inta my turf, disrespectin' me and hurtin' my pocket, I ain't here for da cash - And I ain't takin' it paid outta spite. I's here 'cos if I ain't come down here, my boys is gonna lose heart. And dey're gonna bring hurt or worse 'pon yas - And dey're da little tings dat makes dem tink maybe Scarface ain't lookin' out for dem no more."

"And it don't make no nevermind to me dat you gots backstory, or you gots superiors to keeps happy. But see, what makes me /real/ uncomfortable-like, is dat yas don't seem ta realise youse are in a position where 'cash' gonna solve it and youse is diggin' yaself deeper an deeper in doin' so." Scarface draws on his cigar again, as his mouthpiece takes over.

"We aren't talking a fixed sum. We're talking a cut. Twenty two percent of your profits, before you take into account any seizures or losses of product. And, a points of fact - Indirect threats, thinly veiled or not, aren't taken lightly. Money doesn't appease insults." Scarface turns to look at Peyton again - That small wooden hand grasping her by the chin and tugging her face down suddenly, causing her perfect hair to move just a touch. Exposing some angry scar tissue, high upon her cheek, for a split second. "Gorgeous. You'se here ta look nice and shut da fuck up." And when she's released, his attention goes back to the conversation

Brutale has posed:
Brutale watches Scarface impassively, standing above him, the reflection of the dummy and the Ventriloquist seen in his glossy black goggles. Slowly, he looks to the Colombian in the background, who drops his cigarette and grinds it out under the toe of his boot. The corrido turns about, his boots clicking, and there's the soft thump of the door to the offices clicking closed on its own, after he passes through. Brutale looks back to Scarface.

There's an opium black hush in the warehouse, all the Stripe Yellows watching Scarface and Brutale.

"Very well, Mister Scarface. Twenty two percent, cash, on the third of every month." Yakuza collection day for protection, the third. "The first shipment will arrive, backdated for December, within four days. It will arrive in four duffel bags, within a single vehicle, that we will leave for your men to inspect. We will deliver it to your base of operations. We will discover where it is. And then, you may come to this warehouse, since you have found us as well, to give us any messages you require."

Brutale head shifts to Peyton Riley, the demonic face of seams and gray leather staring at her.

"We are concluded, Mister Scarface?"

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Scarface looks back, with his cigar nearly burned through. "Da turd, huh. Sounds good 'nuff. Don't worry 'bout all dat inspection junk. If I gets ta thinkin' you rippin' me offa my end, we talks abouts dat when we gets ta it." Peyton seems to have been thoroughly chastened for speaking out of turn, twice, and she slowly rises, Scarface still resting on her arm. It's reached out slowly, with the mobster still on the end of it - And he offers a wooden hand to Brutale.

Peyton meets the stare levelly though, failing to balk while business is finished.

Brutale has posed:
"I hope nothing is amiss, tonight, Senor," Brutale says to Scarface, placing his upturned forefinger beneath the hand and lifting it once. "Your lady, she is a temptress, I have acted out of turn. Our blood boils hot in the Latin lands, it is the only way to survive the sun."

Brutale withdraws his finger.

"And to you, Miz Riley, I offer you the kindest return to your family alliance with this gentleman. Should you ever require a vacation, just ask. We fly out of Nantucket, privately chartered. Aruba is my preference. I hate the cold weather."

Ventriloquist (Riley) has posed:
Scarface chuckles. "Ain't she just. Riley's a sweetheart. Gal normally knows her place. C'mon, let's get outta here." And yet Peyton hesitates for a moment, doubt and conflict crossing her features at the offer. A slight nod of her head follows, though. "Thank you for the offer, but I am able to go wherever I please." And with that, she turns, and begins to walk away.

Brutale has posed:
Sometime after the gang has left the premises, and the Yardies have performed a standard sweep, sans colors, outside the warehouse for any police attention attracted by the Riley Family, Brutale sits down in front of a computer in the main office.

"Sir, we have our first Class Beta."

"Who is it?"

"The Riley Family. Scarface."

"Suggested course of action, soldier?"

"I recommend a compliant action, then a directed strike aimed at a soft target."

"What type of soft target, Barerra? We're changing this country, not burning it so the flag pissers can make us eat shit all over again."

"I know your morals, sir. I recommend a personal strike against a retired member of the family. Consigliere."

"Cleared, Brutale. We could've used more kids like you in Kuwait."

"I know, sir. I know."

The computer chat interference clears, and the computer screen displays the encryption mechanism locking itself down again.

Brutale leans back in his seat, and pulls away the bottom of his mask. He pulls a half-skinned orange from a cool, wet cylinder, in a deep desk drawer, and bites into it, staring into his own demon mask.