jason todd. | red hood. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tirejacked) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
overjoyed_logs2017-02-23 01:11 am
tirejacked) wrote in overjoyed_logs2017-02-23 01:11 am
Entry tags:
[closed.] all the right friends in all the right places
Who: Lavi & Jason
Where: space!!!!! some shady ass weapons dealing cruiser outside the quad
When: W6D1? ish. when are evals, why did ari let me post this
Summary: Lavi's LV4 RAC eval. masterful attempts at infiltration, maybe. taking out turncoats for fun and profit, definitely.
Restrictions/Warnings: lying, sarcasm, violence. eventual killing of npcs.
[It's something of a flight out to the Market, a big old cruiser that operates as a literal mobile black market for anyone looking to up their firepower, circling the fringes of the Quad and other nearby systems. A real neutral-ground melting pot where dirtbags of all sorts can come and turn a profit. They've got plenty of reason to believe that their target will be present—he was last dispatched to go infiltrate a vary particular Leithan dealer who's been making waves about moving cargo out here.
His name is Guy Kovar. RAC agent gone deep undercover into the thick of the arms dealing biz and then gone suspiciously off grid not long after. And while there are a number of reasons something like that can happen, the smart money is on the simplest one. (Either he made a stupid mistake and got himself killed, or he just liked the business a little too much and decided to stick around. Since they've had a sighting in the past few days, option numero uno looks like a wash. Which is where the warrant comes in.)
As of now, Jason's got his feet propped up on the edge of his ship's console while they finish their approach. Despite the recent rukus of the riots, he's made it through the past few weeks—apparently—largely unscathed. But he's a little quieter than usual during the flight, as if distracted. The recent upheavel in the quad is more than enough to keep anyone occupied—and his sleep these days tends toward brief and restless, and the vivid dreams leftover from the week of the epidemic seem to stick around too long after the fact. Echoing back with sneaking scraps of nagging nonsense like an earworm when his attention wanders, only to vanish as soon as he tries to chase it down. Like while he's rapping his fingers restlessly against the arm of his chair and watching the cruiser they're headed for slowly approach.
(—and Karanov's got problems. He's part of the Ivgene clan. They've got three police task forces and Interpol crawling all over them. Hell, MI5 has opened a file on them. No arrests, but they are really screwing up their business. Makes me wonder why they need a bomber—)
The ship chirps a warning as it starts docking procedures so they can get boots on the selling floor, and he shakes his head like it'll rattle his focus back and his headache away and swings his feet down from the console onto the deck so he can get his hands back on the controls. Since it's about time to get this show on the road, he calls over a shoulder at Lavi—]
T minus five to showtime. Why don't you run me through this again, boss.
["Boss" is, of course, both largely and loudly ironic. If true on a technicality or two—Lavi's supposed to be running point on this one. Jason's a guy who largely prefers working alone, picking up partners willy nilly isn't much his style. But he's going along with the motions of the evals to keep himself in the RAC's good graces, for the time being. Given the fraught political climate, covering his bases to keep them off his back can't hurt.
That it gets him an excuse to have a look around the dirty dealings out here in the process is just convenience.
So: what's your plan, bud.]
Where: space!!!!! some shady ass weapons dealing cruiser outside the quad
When: W6D1? ish. when are evals, why did ari let me post this
Summary: Lavi's LV4 RAC eval. masterful attempts at infiltration, maybe. taking out turncoats for fun and profit, definitely.
Restrictions/Warnings: lying, sarcasm, violence. eventual killing of npcs.
[It's something of a flight out to the Market, a big old cruiser that operates as a literal mobile black market for anyone looking to up their firepower, circling the fringes of the Quad and other nearby systems. A real neutral-ground melting pot where dirtbags of all sorts can come and turn a profit. They've got plenty of reason to believe that their target will be present—he was last dispatched to go infiltrate a vary particular Leithan dealer who's been making waves about moving cargo out here.
His name is Guy Kovar. RAC agent gone deep undercover into the thick of the arms dealing biz and then gone suspiciously off grid not long after. And while there are a number of reasons something like that can happen, the smart money is on the simplest one. (Either he made a stupid mistake and got himself killed, or he just liked the business a little too much and decided to stick around. Since they've had a sighting in the past few days, option numero uno looks like a wash. Which is where the warrant comes in.)
As of now, Jason's got his feet propped up on the edge of his ship's console while they finish their approach. Despite the recent rukus of the riots, he's made it through the past few weeks—apparently—largely unscathed. But he's a little quieter than usual during the flight, as if distracted. The recent upheavel in the quad is more than enough to keep anyone occupied—and his sleep these days tends toward brief and restless, and the vivid dreams leftover from the week of the epidemic seem to stick around too long after the fact. Echoing back with sneaking scraps of nagging nonsense like an earworm when his attention wanders, only to vanish as soon as he tries to chase it down. Like while he's rapping his fingers restlessly against the arm of his chair and watching the cruiser they're headed for slowly approach.
(—and Karanov's got problems. He's part of the Ivgene clan. They've got three police task forces and Interpol crawling all over them. Hell, MI5 has opened a file on them. No arrests, but they are really screwing up their business. Makes me wonder why they need a bomber—)
The ship chirps a warning as it starts docking procedures so they can get boots on the selling floor, and he shakes his head like it'll rattle his focus back and his headache away and swings his feet down from the console onto the deck so he can get his hands back on the controls. Since it's about time to get this show on the road, he calls over a shoulder at Lavi—]
T minus five to showtime. Why don't you run me through this again, boss.
["Boss" is, of course, both largely and loudly ironic. If true on a technicality or two—Lavi's supposed to be running point on this one. Jason's a guy who largely prefers working alone, picking up partners willy nilly isn't much his style. But he's going along with the motions of the evals to keep himself in the RAC's good graces, for the time being. Given the fraught political climate, covering his bases to keep them off his back can't hurt.
That it gets him an excuse to have a look around the dirty dealings out here in the process is just convenience.
So: what's your plan, bud.]
no subject
Actions, of course, speak louder than words, and in this case, even argue against them. For all that he's been playing around, he's also checked and rechecked his weapons, thumb idly shifting the safety on his sidearm from stun to lethal in a sporadic clickclick. He's examined the rest of his gear--his clothes, his in-ear comm, his stitches reinforced with surgical glue in case the mission goes south because they always go south.
(Momentarily he pauses to ruminate on the origins of that phrase; he's never heard anyone refer to something "going north" to indicate a positive outcome. Curious. Something to consult the libraries for when he gets back.)
When Jason calls over his shoulder, Lavi is studying the tread on his boots, a slight furrow and frown in place. They'll have to be resoled soon. They should survive this warrant and probably a few in the future, but he adds it to his list of immediate errands anyway. It never hurts to be too careful. ]
Huh?
[ Head jerking up, he murmurs about time slipping away before heading to the front of the cockpit to Jason's side. Arms slung low over his chest, Lavi grins at the senior agent, idly noting the vibrations in the floor. Airlock must be engaging.
He has a great plan. Well. A decent plan. It's still a little nebulous until he can read the (black market) room. ]
It's genius, right? You're my terrifying right-hand man and I'm the punk kid of a cartel boss operating out of Telen. My last contact with the markets is our lost 'friend'. We have a shipment of black tech weapons that we want off our hands but we won't work with strangers.
[ The obvious flaw: they have no such shipment. Before that can be pointed out, he reaches down to his thigh, a small hammer--almost small enough to be a chisel--strapped there. Long fingers tap at its sharpened point, a suggestive smile hinting that he plans to use this remarkably tiny little thing to sell their story.
(And it'll work, provided he can control it enough not to puncture the hull and send them all to fiery death.)
Another chirp resonates in the cabin, the docking procedures complete. They aren't asked for any call signs, which means they're probably going to need to make their pitch within about two steps outside of the airlock.
Chuckling, he turns on his heel, heading towards the airlock. ]
After you, Reddie. Meatshields first and all.
no subject
Briskly, without looking back over—]
You're gonna have to take me out to dinner before you get to dip into the pet names.
[But flattery will get you everywhere. (No.) He finishes going through the motions of docking, leaning over to flip a switch or two to settle the ship into standby before standing up to join Lavi on the deck. Nothing about the ship will ID them as RAC, of course, and he probably cuts a "terrifying" enough figure to do his part, assuming Lavi does his. So he ducks past Lavi to open the doors and take point.
As expected, the welcome wagon is heavily armed and watching losely. Showtime.]
No need to roll out the red carpet, fellas, we can take it from here.
no subject
Laughter still light on his lips, he waits for Jason to get a few steps ahead before proceeding, expression and posture melting away and reforming into the given persona. Someone brash and arrogant, someone without the slightest sense of paranoia because do you know what his father will do if someone harm's a precious hair on the prince's head?
Cocky smile and confident stride in place, Lavi comes up behind Jason, casts a derisive look over the assembled peasants. ]
Ugh.
[ He rolls his eye, chin tilting to the side as he sizes up one of the meaner looking individuals in the entourage. The man is slightly taller than Lavi himself and at least twice as wide, spotting some nasty burn scars down his hulking arms. ]
I told them to send someone nice to look at. What do they give me? This? Where is Kovar? My father will have his head.
[ This, naturally, earns a sharp glare and a loud growl--while Lavi is definitely bluffing, NPC #2 is not.
Lavi waves a haphazard hand, ignoring the imminent sense of danger beginning to settle in the atmosphere. A rich brat doesn't back down just because of something like common sense. ]
Show them what they want, Red. I have important things to do, you know. Maybe they can tell us where Kovar went. Idiot man.
no subject
The muscle doesn't seem happy about it. Jason gives the request a scoff and jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd instead. With no small measure of (hardly faked) disdain—]
I told you you're wasting your time with these bottom-feeders. If Kovar's still hanging around in this dump I'd be surprised if he's in any position to be buying. Tech like this won't go cheap.
[A quiet mutter flits through the crowd. They're paranoid. But even more than that, they're greedy. It doesn't even matter what Lavi's carrying—make it sound valuable enough, they'll want a piece of it before someone else can snatch it up.
From the back of the crowd, one imposing woman slips her way over and waves off the security. Tall, dark-haired, thickly accented.
Forget Kovar, I've got a shipment of plasma rifles fresh off the J. Company grade. Untraceable. And plenty more besides, if you'd like to make it worth my while.]
no subject
Ah, so far from pure, so easy to pull and twist their strings taut.
The redhead turns towards the approaching woman, his expression scathing and irritated as he scans her from head to toe. He considers making a joke at her expense, but sides against it--it'd be too much effort to play a spoiled brat who's also a reckless idiot.
So instead of a biting comment about I said someone nice to look at, he huffs, waving a hand as if to dismiss her like one of his many house servants. ]
No. We don't know you. Only Kovar.
[ Lavi tips his head down, smile cutting into his face full of sleaze and confidence. A prince of his stature is used to getting what--and who--he wants. ]
But I'd be happy to pay for your services once I'm done.
[ Her eyes narrow, lip twitching in what's surely a curse waiting beneath her tongue, but the woman says nothing legible, turning away with a sharply spit sound he'd wager is another language's version of "fuck off".
"Just what kinda tech we talkin'?" the hulking man interjects in the wake of her disappearance, his voice still a low growl but his eyes roaming the two of them with a sentiment Lavi can only describe as hungry suspicion.
(Good. Get curious and then get greedy.)
A sigh, put-upon, while he pinches the bridge of his nose. ]
Do they always employ the deaf here, Red? I said only Kovar, didn't I?