9082/It's Business. Not Personal: Part 1, The Contract

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It's Business. Not Personal: Part 1, The Contract
Date of Scene: 05 September 2019
Location: St. Molly's, Lowtown
Synopsis: Victor and Rose talk money. Vic sets his sights on Deathstroke.
Cast of Characters: Sabretooth, Ravager




Sabretooth has posed:
It's been a long while since Rose has heard from Sabretooth. That's not an odd thing for the famously hard to pin down Victor Creed. Assassins and murderers tend to lay low from time to time, right? Right. So when she gets a message offering a meeting in Madripoor? Something is up.

Lowtown, Madripoor is a straight up nightmare realm of crime and hurt in every direction. Poverty and Power running side by side in the gritty streets. The famously violent St. Molly's is no exception. Meet at Molly's, he said. Big money, he said. Gauranteed to be of interest, he said. When it comes to blood and money, Victor Creed never lies.

Picking the massive mutant out of the crowd is 't hard. He's white, blonde and two times larger than any of the other South Asian patrons easily. At a table in the back, a pitcher of beer in his massive hand. Half smoked cigar in the other. The brutish killer and famed psychopath, Sabretooth, waits patiently. Watching the door for his future business partner. Rose Wilson.

Oh, this was bound to be entertaining. Or Violent. Likely both.

Ravager has posed:
Ravager walks into the most wreched hive of scum and villainy around. It appears she didn't wear her helmet and her scope and her laser sight and her other stuff that's awesome, but those things are lacking. She just slinks down through the room in her dusty trenchcoat and approaches the Victor Creed, who used to be a contact. Ravager is not completely off the radar, but she's not exactly in the phone book. These assassins and jackasses do have their ways however.

At the side of Victor's table, Rose Wilson says, "You left a message. Don't sound too desperate," she adds the last part with some playfulness and chuckles at him, because she knows what's up or at least thinks so cause she believes she's smart like that. She drops into the chair and leans her elbow back across the head of the chair, parting her mysterious coat, showing that she's not that ill-equipped after all, because she's wearing her stylistic chainmail. "Congrats, I'm here," she adds with her usual tone.

Sabretooth has posed:
Even over the stench of sweat, smoke, booze and blood, Victor can -smell- her as she hits the door. Humid air, still damp from the storm moments before, pushing at her back as the door opens. Amber eyes lift from his beer with a slow, reptilian blink. Watching Rose cross the room, he visually dismantles her to the bones as she nears. strengths. Weaknesses. Targets all the same. He smiles that wicked, fanged grin of his and kicks a chair out from under the table toward her in offering.

"I left two but you haven't found the body yet." Victor retorts with a laugh. Hard to tell if he was laughing at a ioke or laughing because he's a sick bastard. Tough call. Black t-shirt. Clean khaki slacks. Victor cleaned himself up a bit. Mostly due to healing massive amounts of damage. A long shower usually follows. Loosen the regrown muscles. A blond eyebrow arches sharply when she opens her coat. "Shiny. Don't tell me you think that little tin sports bra is gonna slow down my claws, Rosie." A bemused smirk and he gestures for more beer. So much more beer. "Kiddin', sweetheart. No use killin' you when I'd rather pay you. To really, really stick it to your old man."

Ravager has posed:
Ravager taps her chainmail collar, "Double tin," she smiles and then hmms depressingly, pursing her lips, "Actually, it's funny that you say that. Cause you know what, I'm not gonna be the sometime daughter anymore. I'm gonna be f***** Deathstroke. Yeah, that's right. I'm Deathstroke," she says, then taps the table in front of her with her white painted nail, "And guess what? I stole one of his f***** jobs. Yeah, that's right. So pony it up. I'm totally wheeling and dealing and Deathstroke planning, baby. No more sorry ass sometime daughter anymore."

Sabretooth has posed:
"Double tin? No kiddin'?" Sabretooth asks rhetorically, head tilting aside with a spill of long, blond hair. Those amber eyes catching light and glinting a haunting shade of luminescent yellow. He didn't think he could smile any bigger but damned if he did jjst that! A toothy, all to satisfied grin on his scruffy mug. As a little old woman with burn scars and face tattoos drops off more pitchers of beer, Creed pushes one at her. Sloshing foam onto the marred and abused tabletop. "I heard about that, darlin'." Lifting his pitcher for a long drink, throat gulping once. Twice. Empty pitcher is set aside and he reaches for another. "That's why you're here. That's why I'm dropping two mill. Cold, hard cash."

Leaning forward, Victor crosses massive arms over the tables edge. The muscles in his forearm twitching as he drums claws on wood. "I like what you're puttin' down, kiddo and I want to make sure it's well worth your effort. You wanna stick it to the old man?" Victor looks over shoulder at the sound of a jaw breaking in the pit. "God, I love that sound." Clearing his throat, he returns to the conversation. Voice an almost impossibly deep tone that can't help but rumble with a natural intensity. "I've set up another contract. For Slade. It won't hit the table yet because I want you waitin' to take it the second it shows. Total mayhem. No sneak. Straight up carnage. Guaranteed workout and solid pay. I want survivors. I want collateral damage. I want it -sloppy-. The goal is to kick some sand in that grey hairs one good eye. You wanna put on your beach sandles, kid?"

Ravager has posed:
Ravager ppffts and shakes her head, "Yeah, nobody ever says 'hey, I wanna be a badass like Ravager or hey, I wanna take Ravager's f**** job and be like her'. Oh no, it's all Deathstroke is totally awesome no matter what he does. Yeah well, you can guarante that contract done cause /I'm Deathstroke/," she says with emphasis. "I'll have the costume and the helmet and the guns and the f***** bars of boom boom. She fingers her beer and seems stuck on this point or obsessed over it or something, though she does smirk politely at his directions.

"I got steeltoe kickass boots," she reports, apparently not getting the reference or maybe trying to be funny. She has a drink of beer and adds, "When can 'Deathstroke' scoop the details?"

Sabretooth has posed:
If there's anything Victor enjoys, it's enthusiasm in terrible behavior. A single talon curls back, gouging into the table top to leave his mark. He didn't even realize he was doing it. Perhaps some strange, animalistic impulse to mark territory. He listens to Ravager rant and rage, all the while grinning from ear to ear. "Girl, you are -all- fired up. Good. Gonna need that energy. All that hate." Lifting that gun metal black talon, he points to her with a little squint of mock scrutiny. "Tie them laces tight. You don't wanna track sand back after this job."

Lifting one of those large, plastic pitchers of beer, he holds it above the table toward her. Cheers, mate! "Right now since you're all fired up. Four years ago, Wilson pulled a job. Assasinated a sitting senator. The guy who filled that seat? He was the contract holder. You're gonna kill him and a load of his security team. Gonna make it look like Slade went back on his professionalism. Reputation is important to him. You're gonna put a black mark on it. Gonna drive him up the damn wall. Make people think a minute before hiring him. Aaaand if it makes me look better in the process? So be it."

Ravager has posed:
Ravager pauses for a moment and considers what Connor or Caitlin might say, "Deathstroke is, you mean," she tells him as she raps her fingers on the table, "My friends probably wouldn't like Deathstroke killing a buncha people," she states in a tight-lipped way, "I don't think they like him at all, really." She lifts her beer and toasts with Victor quietly, "You know I used to do plenty before I came to New York. Then I worked security at a dance club," she smirks and wrinkles her nose, "Maybe you should do the job."

Sabretooth has posed:
That smile of his finally fades. Fangs poking out past his lips regardless of the disapproving frown. Amber eyes narrowed, Victor leans in closer over the table. Dwarfing Ravager but when has size ever slowed down her sword? "I don't give a flying crap about your friends, Rosie. You're a killer. I know for a fact it's in your blood and there ain't no escapin' blood, girl." Sniffing hard, he clears his sinuses and locks onto her scent. Pitcher collides with pitcher, foamy beer suds sloshing before Victor kills half of the contents in a gulp. "You wanna stick it to your daddy? You hit his money and his pride." Victor Creed snorts once with dismissal and stands up from the table. The man is massive. Shoulders broad as can be. He casts a ridiculously large shadow. "I ain't doin' the job. You are. You already got the costume and if I need to prove you got a killer in you again? Follow me." He says with a growling rumble like distant thunder. A nod to the door and Victor is on his way toward the back. "I ain't got all night, Rosie. I mean, I do but... you know what I mean." Smaller people, no matter how big and bad they think they are, all part from Sabretooths path. Like a murderous Moses parting a sea of degenerate criminal scum.

Ravager has posed:
Ravager leans back in her chair away from Victor and drinks down her beer as she considers all of what he's said, "Fine, whatever," she mutters, "Yeah, I'm Deathstroke alright," she adds, as if not believing it now. She downs the rest of her beer, "I got all the details. I got the costume. I got the guns and the knives. I got it all..." she says and lifts her beer to toast him as he gets up. "Maybe I'll retire after this one. I'll be better than Deathstroke and that'll be it. What do you think of that?"

Sabretooth has posed:
Sabretooth, unseen by Rose, smiles wide and amused. Gotcha. A low chuckle rolls out of him, shaking those broad shoulders. Head bowed, Victor takes a pull off his cigar before he looks back to her over shoulder. "There you go, Deathstroke. You got all the toys but that won't mean a damn thing if you suddenly don't have the stones to use 'em proper no more." Dropping his cigar, he crushes it out under heel and stalks toward... the pit. Clawed hand pausing at the reinforced doorway as two men drag the bloody, broken body of a fighter out. "What I think about that? I think you're about to prove it to me in this here ring, girly. Starting to sound like you went -soft- on me. I need to beat that outta you? Get your head proper in the gig? I will. Better than Deathstroke? Let's see it the , Ravager."