“Puesta del Sol isn’t in the top five list of my choices I’d go to even if I had to.” He pointed at her accusingly, “It was your insisting on sticking out like a sour thumb that has us boxed in here.”
The Courier waved her hand dismissively and settled on the opposite side of the counter, sliding through the silent dealer. The holographic head played shadows and left quickly diminishing imprints on smooth surface of her black helmet – like a fake, always smiling face. It was needlessly creepy, and Dean had the guts to admit it to himself. “We’ll use the rooftops,” she said, “I’ll get you to your stage in time for the main event. It’s not like Elijah can start the show without you.” Black helmet tilted to the side as she leaned over the counter and watched him.
“I suppose don’t have anything to worry about then, do I? Oh, except several hundreds of Ghost People swarming this roof in droves once the band starts playing,” he snapped spitefully but when he looked up she was not there at the receiving end of his complaint.
“I hardly doubt there are hundreds of Ghost People out there,” her voice, muffled as it was, came from bellow. She was, in long respected tradition of any wastelander, rummaging through the cupboards under the counter. “They can’t reproduce, and from what you’ve told me more people die a safe death out here,” one hand peeped up, gesturing vaguely at the front door, “than get dragged away by them.”
“Now there’s optimistic for you.”
Some junk food along with something else was plopped on the counter, interrupting him.
“So unless the empty suits have mutated to the point they can breed I don’t think you have too much to worry about.”
“Is that so? Sure glad one of us knows what you’re doing.” ‘Thick with sarcasm’ didn’t even begin to cover the tone of his voice. He knew she was deluding herself because experience had taught him otherwise. What she had said might make sense – or indeed, would make sense, were they in any other place but here. But they weren’t. They were in Sierra Madre. And Sierra Madre had a life of her own, a rhythm one had to follow or die. The tourist had better learned to tap-dance to it fast or his head will be up for grabs along with hers.
“Now, how about making some of that famous martini of yours?” She shook a foul smelling jug and there was something of a grin in her voice. He assumed so since he couldn’t see it. With a downturn of his lips he pulled a cigar hanging from the corner and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray, before taking the offered pitcher.
“I’ll have you know, I don’t make a habit of serving drinks to others,” he said in a flat tone.
“I won’t cross the line and try to abuse your generosity.” Courier’s voice, tingling as it did, didn’t exclude the possibility of a ‘much’ following that statement. One exposed muscle under his right eye took a moment to tic. This was already the longest heist of his life, and Dean was confident that he could endure a little more of this tag-along game, before the vault laid sprawled open before him.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 1c
Date: 2013-03-01 08:56 pm (UTC)The Courier waved her hand dismissively and settled on the opposite side of the counter, sliding through the silent dealer. The holographic head played shadows and left quickly diminishing imprints on smooth surface of her black helmet – like a fake, always smiling face. It was needlessly creepy, and Dean had the guts to admit it to himself. “We’ll use the rooftops,” she said, “I’ll get you to your stage in time for the main event. It’s not like Elijah can start the show without you.” Black helmet tilted to the side as she leaned over the counter and watched him.
“I suppose don’t have anything to worry about then, do I? Oh, except several hundreds of Ghost People swarming this roof in droves once the band starts playing,” he snapped spitefully but when he looked up she was not there at the receiving end of his complaint.
“I hardly doubt there are hundreds of Ghost People out there,” her voice, muffled as it was, came from bellow. She was, in long respected tradition of any wastelander, rummaging through the cupboards under the counter. “They can’t reproduce, and from what you’ve told me more people die a safe death out here,” one hand peeped up, gesturing vaguely at the front door, “than get dragged away by them.”
“Now there’s optimistic for you.”
Some junk food along with something else was plopped on the counter, interrupting him.
“So unless the empty suits have mutated to the point they can breed I don’t think you have too much to worry about.”
“Is that so? Sure glad one of us knows what you’re doing.” ‘Thick with sarcasm’ didn’t even begin to cover the tone of his voice. He knew she was deluding herself because experience had taught him otherwise. What she had said might make sense – or indeed, would make sense, were they in any other place but here. But they weren’t. They were in Sierra Madre. And Sierra Madre had a life of her own, a rhythm one had to follow or die. The tourist had better learned to tap-dance to it fast or his head will be up for grabs along with hers.
“Now, how about making some of that famous martini of yours?” She shook a foul smelling jug and there was something of a grin in her voice. He assumed so since he couldn’t see it. With a downturn of his lips he pulled a cigar hanging from the corner and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray, before taking the offered pitcher.
“I’ll have you know, I don’t make a habit of serving drinks to others,” he said in a flat tone.
“I won’t cross the line and try to abuse your generosity.” Courier’s voice, tingling as it did, didn’t exclude the possibility of a ‘much’ following that statement. One exposed muscle under his right eye took a moment to tic. This was already the longest heist of his life, and Dean was confident that he could endure a little more of this tag-along game, before the vault laid sprawled open before him.