[WOW WHAT AN UNSUSPICIOUS COINCIDENCE, BEING SO CLOSE BY...
Richie hustles loose from his pad, coat on and a bookbag slung over the shoulder. Nothing much he could think of to bring save a pen and paper. He's got no weapons outside of a swiss army knife from Steve Trevor, and the most damage he could do with that is pull the cork off any wine they might find. No relevant texts either. Lots of stuff on Olympian history (he's so damn tired of being baffled at every turn, consider it a late education), but nothing pertaining to the wizards of Wyver.
Here's hoping Alan's got the goods there.
He strolls up to the bar counter, seeing no one familiar at the moment. Perplexed, he orders scotch on the rocks, retreating to a booth to wait.]
[ Bruce is there waiting in the corner, disguised. He gives it five minutes of observation, reading the room, then slips out quietly from a side door. Ten minutes after that he's walking through the front door of the establishment, looking properly like Alan Foster. ]
[Richie's never been good at sitting still. In those ten minutes he's ordered another drink and blew a little time chatting up the cute bartender. He's only just sliding back into the book when Alan makes his entrance, and he hails him with a broad grin.]
You blow a tire on the horse and buggy? [Richie folds his arms on the table.] Have a sit. The bourbon's half-decent here.
[Aw, that's cute. Richie props his chin in his hands.] New love, how sweet.
[He'll take that note though, eyes darting over the scrawl, finger touched to his lips. Richie pulls his lips in until they disappear, tucked under his teeth and leaving a Muppet line of a mouth behind.
Finally, he speaks.]
Incapacitating, huh? I think I can pick up the natural Wyver accent easily enough, maybe make some baloney speeches and baptize a baby, but the manhandling isn't my thing. You ever smuggled before?
He misses home, quite suddenly. Nice, raucous Los Angeles. Sure you met some strange folks, but they were all putting on airs for the entertainment or the drugs, or both. The Orbiters had instead gone and plucked up every high octane justice junkie with the power of lightning at their finger tips and a fifty page dissertation on the history of magic to justify it.
Whatever Alan's deal is, he supposes the mystery will cease being mysterious shortly.]
Well shit, here's hoping trouble don't find us. I've had enough of bad surprises. When do we start?
I'll hop right on it, hoss. [Richie clucks his tongue and shakes out the paper, adjusting an invisible monocle.] I'm a quick study with character, that much I can offer ya.
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Richie hustles loose from his pad, coat on and a bookbag slung over the shoulder. Nothing much he could think of to bring save a pen and paper. He's got no weapons outside of a swiss army knife from Steve Trevor, and the most damage he could do with that is pull the cork off any wine they might find. No relevant texts either. Lots of stuff on Olympian history (he's so damn tired of being baffled at every turn, consider it a late education), but nothing pertaining to the wizards of Wyver.
Here's hoping Alan's got the goods there.
He strolls up to the bar counter, seeing no one familiar at the moment. Perplexed, he orders scotch on the rocks, retreating to a booth to wait.]
yikes I thought I replied, soz
Sorry I'm late.
never 4give
You blow a tire on the horse and buggy? [Richie folds his arms on the table.] Have a sit. The bourbon's half-decent here.
no subject
[ There's only the hint of wryness to it, pretty girl, bad habit. He doesn't need to make waves or headlines here. ]
Here's what you asked for.
[ Folded carefully within those notes is a post-it with Bruce's handwriting, detailing the full mission. ]
no subject
[He'll take that note though, eyes darting over the scrawl, finger touched to his lips. Richie pulls his lips in until they disappear, tucked under his teeth and leaving a Muppet line of a mouth behind.
Finally, he speaks.]
Incapacitating, huh? I think I can pick up the natural Wyver accent easily enough, maybe make some baloney speeches and baptize a baby, but the manhandling isn't my thing. You ever smuggled before?
no subject
[ isn't he the shadiest bastard, how does he have friends ]
I can extract us if there's trouble.
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He misses home, quite suddenly. Nice, raucous Los Angeles. Sure you met some strange folks, but they were all putting on airs for the entertainment or the drugs, or both. The Orbiters had instead gone and plucked up every high octane justice junkie with the power of lightning at their finger tips and a fifty page dissertation on the history of magic to justify it.
Whatever Alan's deal is, he supposes the mystery will cease being mysterious shortly.]
Well shit, here's hoping trouble don't find us. I've had enough of bad surprises. When do we start?
no subject
[ Smoothly. Like he does this every day (he does) but it's the appearance of confidence, the sense of control. It goes a long way in persuasion. ]
no subject
((Aaaand zooming this over here))