2012-11-01 The Brooklyn Bourbon Conspiracy

The first snowball has taken New York City. Fortunately it was a light dusting, blowing in off the ocean and casting even the ugliest parts of the city with the slightest sparkle. Now that the storm has passed and the wind has calmed, one might consider it crisp but certainly not utterly cold, for without the biting wind, the city has almost become peaceful.

As peaceful as it might be.

Outside an apartment building at the corner of 14th and Berry in Brooklyn, Kwabena Odame leans against the brickwork. There is a lit cigarette in his hand, and his bald head is kept warm by way of a somewhat stylish gray ascot cap. Otherwise, it's the usual look for Kwabena; plain, nothing too eccentric, save for the lengthy trench coat which at the moment helps to conceal the shotgun stuck into the waistband of his pants.

He eyes the smart phone in his free hand while texting a number granted to him not long ago; the one that belongs to Domino.

[Meet me at the corner of 14th and Berry, Brooklyn, within the hour. - KO]

The number is unfamiliar, for his last phone was disintegrated along with the rest of his belongings during the robbery at First National Bank. However, he was a resourceful man, and never kept all of his important information in one place (like a smart phone). And so there he waits, patiently, smoking his cigarette and eyeing the pedestrians, cyclists, and vehicles that pass by.

An unfamiliar number, with a message to meet, initialed KO. Domino naturally assumes this is Knockout sending the message, as the only other person in the area with those initials kind of disintegrated the last time she saw him. All the same, she parks a block away and covers the remaining distance on foot. The only downside is that she's more readily spotted than the person she's trying to meet, looking for the entirely wrong individual.

When she does finally put the pieces together, she greets you not with a smile nor a wave, nor even a cordial nod of her head. No, she hauls off and punches you in the shoulder. "Feel pretty damn solid to me now, what the hell was that back there? Thought you were dust in the wind, jerk!"

Yeah, and good to see you alive and properly materialized.

"Christ, kid. I have no idea what it is that you did but it was all sorts of crazy. So what's the deal, discovering a few missing pieces you need help recovering?"

As he notices Domino, Kwabena simply looks over with a knowing smile. He discards the cigarette into the street then turns to face her, secretly entertained by the reaction that he anticipates.

Only he doesn't anticipate being punched in the shoulder.

Usually he'd have muscled it well, but his clothing conceals the many bumps and bruises left upon him from his last, intentionally pathetic encounter with the drug lord known as 'Slee'. Thus, he's particularly sore already when she punches him, and he responds by wincing and rolling back his shoulder in pain. "Ow," he offers lamely.

"No, Domino, I am wholly accounted for, but I thank you for your concern." The grin comes back to his face and he jerks his head toward the building's doorway entrance, which is secured by a keypad on the inside door. "I am terribly sorry about that. I didn't really expect it to happen, but I understand it helped." He looks back over toward her for a moment as he pauses near the doorway, both to gauge whether she intends to follow him, and also, to judge her reaction to his next words. "Well, it helped to stop the robbery." But not to save the life of that poor hostage. Yeah, his grin is gone now, replaced by a look at could best be described as mixing morose with numb.

Domino's quick to sigh, blackened shoulders hanging in unison. "Yeah..I'd like to think that it helped out more. Truth is, we lost that woman and they made off with the money. Now it's all over the news that the good guys vaporized the idiot with plasma weapons. I'm just lucky they didn't get a picture or a good description of me."

Yep, she's following after you. Not like she's going to drop everything, drive out here, punch you with a few heated words flung your way, then go for an evening coffee. Had she of known it was you sending that message from the beginning, the thought still may have crossed her mind.

"That's all old news by now, let's get to the matter of why you called me out here. Does it involve hurting something or getting smashed? Because I've been having a real shit week." The upside there is, whatever you have to offer probably isn't going to make matters any worse!

"Nobody knows how it could have turned out if we did nothing," murmurs Kwabena once they are inside. He taps his code into the keypad, then passes through and leads her toward an elevator. There upon the wall is a large, stark poster that reads:

KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.

Ironic.

"For all we know," he continues, "the bastard might have killed all of the hostages. Instead, we made him think twice. I'm sorry I wasn't around to see the look on his face."

The elevator doors swish open and Kwabena steps inside, promptly pressing the number "11" once Domino enters. "As a matter of fact, it does involve hurting someone. I have been busy working on our little problem, the one named 'Michael Slean'. There are some few things I have to show you." He glances your way then, and a smirk curls his lip. "And if you want to get smashed, I have plenty of booze. Just don't get busted up with a DUI, that would be a shit way to end up in jail for supposedly nuking a bank robber with plasma guns."

"I don't regret stepping in and acting," Domino admits with a slight frown. She trails along beside you with hands thrust deep into trench pockets, seeming rather lost in thought. "Besides, I'm hardly one of the 'good guys.' I just get things done. What concerns me more is that we were all set up, following an unknown script. It was too ..staged."

Her expression does lighten slightly when you confirm that personal injury toward someone else is part of tonight's gameplan. "Figured out how you want to handle the situation? This should be fun."

Pause. Glance. "So what happened to you, anyway?"

Well, that's a first. Psylocke had neglected to mention that to him, but probably because there were many other things on her mind after she had helped guide him back to corporeal form. He looks over at her with a half cocked eye, as if prodding Domino to go on, but instead he moves on. "I have. I think you'll be impressed with the information I have gathered, but I will need some help planning out how to do it."

Then, she asks that question. He looks back as the elevator slows and 'dings' upon arriving at the eleventh floor. He waits for a moment after the doors open, then begins walking down the hallway beyond. He holds up a pausing hand, for he doesn't want to talk about it when others might listen in from behind closed doors. Five doors down, he stops, inserts a key into two locks, then enters a studio apartment where the Kwadude obides.

Once inside, he walks over toward a cabinet and pulls out a couple bottles of liquor. "Bourbon or tequila. What's your poison?"

He begins fixing himself a glass of straight bourbon, and begins to tell his tale. "The best I can tell you is that I have a mutation, the X-Gene I would imagine. My body turns into smoke when something particularly harmful happens to me. Bullets, knives, whatever, they go right through me. Unfortunately, I've never thrown myself into an energy field like that, so I couldn't possibly have suspected what would happen." He pauses, frowning. "The best way I could describe it would be... it blew me apart. I felt as if I was being ripped into a thousand, no, a million pieces, and then everything just stopped until I came back together."

He's neglecting to tell her anything about the absolutely unfathomable manner in which he did come back together, but there is something about the way he speaks about it that gives suggestion to the gargantua of his untold tale.

"I could go with some being impressed today," Domino admits in a sour tone. But, much as your gesture attests to, any further detail can, and should, wait until privacy is back on their side.

The lone woman steps in right after you, closing and locking the door before shrugging out of her heavy coat and finding a chair to carelessly fold it over. It seems that she's not too concerned about keeping things hidden from you anymore, revealing the glossed ebony finish of her armor and the combat harness that places a pistol beneath each arm, blades at the small of the back and along each forearm and thigh, grenades at her hips, spare magazines across her back and anywhere else she's managed to cram them in, and a few other assorted odds and ends. With room to spare, somehow.

"Let's rock the bourbon," she replies while stretching her arms and neck out. This idle pacing continues as you explain your story, waiting for you to finish. "So you came back together on your own? That's handy. And hey? Even though the deck was stacked against us from the start, I appreciate what you did back there. It may not have helped anything, but it sure felt liberating to squeeze off a few into that asshole."

Finally she wanders over in your direction, more to retrieve her drink than anything. Once the glass is in her hand she raises it slightly, held by middle and ring fingers with the other two splayed outward in the air. "Here's to bein' one of us, I guess. Now what's on the menu for Mister Sleaze?"

With a grin of approval, Kwabena pours a glass of bourbon for you as well, then brings each glass over to his meager table and sets them down. Then he moves away and begins shrugging out of his trench coat as well, revealing a much less impressive arsenal beneath. There is a 'clink' of loaded shotgun shells as he sets the coat down on his small couch, then he pulls the shotgun out of his waistband and sets it on top of the coat, after checking the safety to make sure its still engaged.

"Not quite," he answers. "I had a little help. Guidance, from the psychic. I don't know how she knew, but she came back and helped me find my way." He turns back for the table and grabs his glass of bourbon, then looks back at you with his signature grin. "Hey, at least someone got to do it. I wish I could have seen the look on his miserable face when the force field came down." He raises the glass to meet the toast. "One of us."

After downing the entire glass and pouring himself another, Kwabena sits the glass down and goes over toward his bed. He reaches behind it and withdraws a series of large pieces of paper, upon which he has etched a series of drawings. He begins spreading them out on the table, one by one, and moves them around a bit to maximize the meager space its surface provides. "This is a drawing of the warehouse," he says, and taps his finger upon the first drawing, a schematic that though rough (he's no artist) has quite a bit of detail. "Room by room, floor by floor. He stations his guards here, here, and here." He motions toward the main garage door style entrance, then points out a series of elevated catwalks within the warehouse, and finally, taps his finger three times next to the office. "Pretty standard stuff, the man is no genius. I hope you understand what I mean."

The sight of you hauling a shotgun out of your trousers is ..well. There's a horrible joke to be had there, somewhere. "Damn, kid. You got a permit for that thing?" Dom teases in her typical deadpan manner. "I could get you three dozen better alternatives if you're looking to protect yourself, any one of them will be a helluva lot easier to draw."

From a psychic, huh. Somehow, Dom's managed to not have any psychic contact with the individual in question, despite bumping shoulders with her twice now. Luck of the draw, perhaps, but she doesn't yet draw that connection. Her response is merely to take a hit off of her drink, swirling the amber fluid around her tongue to the familiar old burn. That sensation alone is practically a physical cue for her that she's finally able to unwind some.

Hand-drawn maps. "Quaint," she mutters as you spread out the drawings. Everything is looked over in detail, at the same time that your words are absorbed into her thoughts. "The office," she points around the lingering contents of her glass. "Bird's eye view of the entire facility. Even then, with the placement of the warehouse guards, only an idiot would risk taking a shot inside where Slee's hiding out." Glancing back up at you, she pointedly asks "Are you still in okay standing with the Big Cheese? This layout confirms my original idea, but it won't work unless you can convince everyone involved that you're doing what Slee wanted you to do, right up into his office."

"A permit?" asks Kwabena, shocked. "Hell no! How can you have a permit for something you obtain illegally?" He momentarily eyes your arsenal with a mixture of loathing and greed. "It looks as if you are pretty well set. I could strike you a deal, assuming you still have that fancy gun I tossed your way before taking down that force field." He smirks knowingly, for he doesn't at all expect her to hand that one over.

"I didn't have time to break into the records department and dig out the old blueprints," he points out.

Kwabena comes up alongside, eyeing the schematic while you speak. He lifts the glass and sips now, after taking the first one in one gulp as he's used to doing. "Well, I allowed Slee to rough me up a bit." Okay, a lot, but his clothes are hiding that fact so lets move on. It was necessary. "He still thinks I am his bitch. He has no idea what we're planning here. The proof is that I have ten grams of dope in that jacket and I intend to push it tomorrow evening. You can't imagine how many junkies hide out in this city." He smirks. "And they used to say the Big Apple was all about coke." The smirk goes away, and he taps again at the office. "Here's the thing. Slee doesn't like to make a mess of his office. When I bring you there, he's going to want blood, and he's going to want it spilled on the warehouse floor where they can mop it up. The bigger question here is not how we're going to do it, but what we're going to do." He leans away, lifting his glass to take another nip. "Slee may be a pretty low level kind of guy, but he is on the up and up. We make him our bitch, and we may develop some pretty strong connections, even overseas. What we want to avoid is killing any of his top people. The guards, whatever, fuck 'em. But as for Slee and his besties, we have some few things to show them, and we will show them why they will never want to screw with us again. That means getting them all in one place." He tap-tap-taps the main warehouse floor again. "What we can do is draw them here. Do you see what I mean?"

Finally there's a bit of positive emotion edging into the merc's expression. "Yeah, keep dreaming. That 'fancy gun' is the only connection I have to two groups which should by all counts be wholly independent of one another, and that doesn't even begin to take the third variable into consideration." What that third variable might be she isn't going to say. So there.

"So we work with what we've got. You sure this is all accurate?"

Hmm, touche. "He's looking to jump right into the fun and games, huh." Alright, that messes up her previous idea. "How about your friend..Monroe, was it? Is she available for fire support on this run? Slee's the primary target, but he's also not the target. We hit him fast and hit him hard, get him to yield. Once he falls, everyone under his employ will in turn. No one wants to risk hitting the boss or facing his wrath. However." She considers things further while emptying her glass, setting it off to the side with an audible *thunk.* "We also need to make a point right off the bat. Let him, and all of his lackeys, know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we're taking over and we'll plow over anyone that tries to get in our way."

Dom taps the side of her jaw before pointing back to the central area of the warehouse. "He'll make a display, have all of his boys circle the arena for a free lesson on why he's not to be screwed with, yadda yadda." She stops herself once more then slowly turns to look at the shotgun that you left sitting there, then back over to you. "How much hardware can you hide in your pants, kiddo?"

There's something different about Kwabena. The experience at the bank, his disassociation, and discovering a new level of his talents at the hands of Psylocke has changed him. One might describe him as now having purpose. He's no longer the street thug; he's growing. Into what, that remains to be seen, but he has confidence and intent now. He eyes you as you speak of two groups, and of course, the ambiguous third variable, then motions toward you with his glass of bouron. "You should tell me about that some time."

Turning back to the drawing, he nods. "It's accurate. The scale may be a bit off, but it's close enough."

Another sip of bourbon. He's going to need a refill soon. "Still, we need to make sure Slee is still 'The Man' behind his operation. Give him just enough to make him think he has at least some level of control. Otherwise, we might push him too hard. The last thing we need is for him to go suicidal. What he needs is a healthy dose of fear, but he also needs to be rewarded. He is a dog, so we will treat him like a dog... but abuse a dog, and he will bite."

Looking back over at his jacket, Kwabena then gestures toward his bed, under which are hidden some knives and a trio of pistols. "All of that. Only the thing is, my mutation has its... limitations. I almost lost my pants trying to break into the bank. If my entire body goes, there's nothing to hold up those guns. So, once we're in, we have to avoid anything ridiculous happening to me. I mean, if I get shot, no problem. But if a car falls on me, or a grenade goes off, you can count on me turning into a cloud of dust for a few moments. Last thing we need are a bunch of guns falling on the floor and discharging at random. We might want to play it simple as far as I'm concerned."

He finishes his bourbon, then begins to pour fresh glasses for each. "Now we get to the particulars of the crime. As far as Slee knows, I don't know how to find his warehouse; except I do. I scouted it out before paying him a visit yesterday, and he had no idea I'd been snooping around. So, we don't go the typical route, which involves contacting one of his goons and letting them take us in, blindfolded. No, we take out the guards out front and walk right through the door. That'll piss him off, and throw him off balance, which should play into our favor. We will play it that I'm pissed at him for beating me up, let him confiscate my guns, hide the rest on you. It's a gamble, but he thinks I'm stupid." He throws his hands up in the air and begins to act, letting a tremor fill his voice as if he's scared. "Slee, you son of a bitch! I've brought your prize, but I'm tired of these games! Don't fuck with me, man, don't fuck with me!" He lowers his hands and goes back to normal with his mannerisms. "See what I mean? Distract him from even considering that you've got an arsenal under that trench. As for Monroe... I'm not sure. The psychic may be a better fit for this. It would be helpful to have a little surprise in store for him once we're in position." He taps the center of the warehouse again, indicatively, then circles his hand around the rest of the warehouse. "She's silent and quick; we can have her hide out on the fringes, then move in when the time is right."

Domino gives you a level stare when you mention talking about the third element. "Maybe sometime." Not likely, though. That one was a job. A solid-paying, covert-op sort of job. That it might somehow be tied together with all of this, however... It's going to take further investigation, but that path she gets to walk alone.

The next time she glances at you it's with narrowed eyes, irritation evident once more. "This is really starting to sound like a lot more trouble than it's worth. I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to keep puppy treats in one hand and a rolled newspaper in the other. I've got more important things to worry about. If he's going to be high-maintenance then to hell with him, I'll put two in his head and call it a day. If he 'bites,' he goes down. It's just not worth the effort."

Suddenly Dom's head rolls back on her shoulders, her expression almost pained. "Idiot... Should have seen this a mile off. You don't want him under your thumb because he's useful, you want him there just to spite him. This is all about getting your revenge, isn't it?" The refilled glass is swiped and slammed without a second thought, dropping it right back down where it had been a moment ago. "All of this, the planning, the organizing, dragging other people into this mess, it's pointless, kid! I could solve this whole problem with one bullet, on my own, quick, clean, final. Now you're talking about putting my life on the line, and this psychic friend of yours, because you won't get injured when shit goes sideways."

Domino drives the tip of two fingers down onto the center of the map, glaring at you as she does so. "Bottom line, this jerkwad is putting drugs out onto the streets. Coerced or not, that's not the sort of person I want 'working' for me. He doesn't deserve to keep breathing for what he's doing to the city, because we both know the instant we'd turn our backs on him he would go right back to pushing that crap all over the state. You want my thought on how to take care of this? Seven millimeter at eight hundred meters. All of the guards on the planet aren't gonna do jack against it."

"You want to put a bullet in his brain?" asks Kwabena, quite pointedly. "So could I. I may not have the experience you have, but if I wanted to, I could go in there with two pistols and take them all out by myself, because you're right, I won't get injured." He points his glass of bourbon at you again and adds, "He's no use to me alive. But to you? He could be useful to you, as a source of information." He draws the glass away and shrugs his shoulders. "It's your call, Domino. He is a worthless pile of shit, and I would be happy to get his drugs off the street."

He means it, too. Having so much heroin in his possession has been an impossible challenge. The term 'once a junkie, always a junkie' does hold some proof, for it was the worst of the worst. One never quite has the experience one has had in that mystical first time, and Kwabena will always be haunted by it. If it weren't for the unexpected and fascinating things happening in his life, he'd have undoubtedly relapsed by now.

He studies you for a moment, before doing the same with his glass of whiskey. Down the hatch it goes, and he slams the glass down in similar fashion, before walking over to his trench and ruffling around for a moment. Out he comes with a handful of small bags in his hand, each filled with a slightly off-white powder. "Ten grams of dope," he says. "You can get, oh, six thousand dollars for this in New York, ten thousand if you work the right neighborhood." He says this while walking, and approaches the sink, where he begins opening each package and dumping it into the drain. "Am I doing this for vengeance? No. I'm doing it to get the bastard off my back."

He walks back over to the table, where two empty glasses and a bottle of bourbon sit atop the parchments like lonely pieces aboard an empty chess board. "Fine then, we don't tame him. We spook him until he pisses himself in front of his scum friends. We work him until we get what we need, then we put two bullets in his head. Maybe sooner, if he steps out of line. How's that?"

There's a similar conclusion coming to Domino's thoughts before you ever offer an alternate option. She pinches her eyes shut then hooks a chair leg, spins it about, and drops herself into it backwards with her arms folding across the back. Soon after her chin rests upon them, staring down at the map. Thinking.

"He's managed to get hold of at least one plasma rifle. The design's identical to the ones used at the bank. If he was dealing with them in any quantity then there would have been more than one. Maybe his goon picked it up on his own, capped the right guy and got himself something fancy. We don't know if Slee really is connected to any of this. First, I want to find out if he is. If he is, then I want to know everything that he knows. And you're friends with a psychic, aren't you," she states in a cold tone, slowly panning that icy blue stare back over to you. There's a dangerous note in her voice when she asks "What are the odds?"

With a brand new plan in motion, she starts laying it down. "We catch him on the streets. Blow a tire, immobilize them. A couple of his best will be a crapshoot for us. Slaughter them all, knock him out, throw him in the trunk. Any quiet place will do, I know several. A few minutes in the company of your little mind reader pal and I'll have everything I need. Then we remove the bastard from the game, let that be our message to the others. No screwing around. Let them realize just how out of their league they are."

Following his somewhat charismatic display, Kwabena seems a little worn. He's not given to shows like that. He joins you at the table, though for his part, he just sits down on the neighboring chair, reaching again for the bottle of whiskey. Two more glasses, check.

"It is remarkably coincidental," he murmurs in response, while meeting your icy stare with a mismatched glower of his own. The weight of what they are plotting is sinking in. While he listens to your plan, his face doesn't move an inch. No frown, no smile, no moment of clarity or rejection of doubt. It's all in his eyes. There are two distinct emotions, and oddly enough, each one seems to manifest differently in brown and silver. Probably a trick of the eye. However, his brown eye seems to carry doubt, as if there was no need to carry out such violence. It's the silver eye that seems drawn to the idea, however, as if the power they have been given should be used in this way. The ends that justify the means; cleaning a bunch of thugs off the streets; gathering information in the process. Though it involves vigilante murder and a complete bypass of the American Justice System (tm), it is, at the end of the day, a thing that will improve the community and help others.

At long last, he nods his head slowly. "Then we burn down his building to send a message to his friends. Let them wonder who Slee screwed with, and pray they never screw with the same people." He raises the glass of whiskey, as if to toast again, only to this new and developed idea.

And there the monochromatic merc sits, brooding over the ideas that she helped bring to the light. Usually this sort of job would come with a huge paycheck, the balance of power that's suddenly going to shift once the trigger gets pulled is nothing short of substantial. Apocalyptic, even, to the underground world. To go forth with such a high profile move, for the chance of earning some information that may or may not exist... Neither of them are going to make many friends by doing this. Then again, there's probably lots of other drug lords that would be thrilled to see a sudden gap in the market for them to rush in and fight over.

She's still silent when she retrieves her glass and clacks it against your own. "It's settled, then." Kidnapping, interrogation, murder, arson, theft. Minimum. With someone she barely knows and has yet to properly work alongside. A rookie, an actual novice. When she next looks at you her hardened expression has changed slightly, as well. "This is a dangerous path, kid. Once you go down this road you can't turn back. You sure you're ready for this?"

Of the many changes taking place in Kwabena Odame, one of them is quite marked. Kwabena used to be the hoodrat who, while secretly well educated of his own volition, through the various hours upon hours he'd spent studying and reading in libraries from coast to coast, was little more than a petty crook and vagabond. Now, he is very quickly turning into something volatile. A man with such unique power, finally positioned to actually do something with it; for good, for ill, or a little mixture of both.

His answer is quite simple, and comes after he downs the glass in one fiery tilt.

"Stop calling me kid."

That, right there. That's enough to earn yourself a tiny smirk from Domino. "One. You're probably younger than I am, and a hell of a lot less experienced. Two. I call everyone kiddo. It's sort of my thing. Don't ask."

She sits upright with another lazy stretch, the motion belying the more turbulent thoughts still duking it out in her conscious mind. "Don't forget some rubber gloves, it's gonna get a little messy. If you have a schedule or any info on when and where he'll be on the road, we'll need that. Don't worry if you can't get an exact headcount, we'll have it under control short of taking on a convoy. I'll line up our ride and bring the rifle. You any good at driving stick?"

Kwabena's eyes flash slightly when she smirks. "Fair enough," he answers, and leaves it at that.

"Slee makes his drops every Tuesday and Sunday. Avoids the weekends. Too many vice pretending to be buyers out then. Tuesday is Queens, about 11:30pm. Sunday is Harlem, 10:00 sharp. The Sabbath and all. Great cover." He begins to rustle the papers together, then casts them aside. They'll be useful, but later. "He shouldn't have more than six, two cars deep, one riding back to keep an eye out for him. He doesn't like to draw too much attention, it's why he's good at what he does." He studies you for a moment longer, then points out, "Before we burn the warehouse, let's make sure we give ourselves some time to crack his safe. There must be at least twenty grand in there." He smirks slightly and adds, "Could buy us a hell of a lot of rubber gloves."

It's funny, in a way. Domino's watching the birth of a killer, and you seem more than comfortable with the idea. You seem like you're ready to jump in head-first. But, it's also kind of scary. What is she doing here, this isn't the sort of thing to drag anyone else into..! Her rational mind is screaming at her for what she's about to do. Her conscience is going to keep her awake for many nights to come. But when she throws logic and rationality out the window, she can see that glowing ember of revenge that's slowly burning a path through you. It's not the sort of thing that can be contained forever, one way or another it's going to surface, and it's never a pretty sight when it does. Wouldn't it then make more sense to give it that moment of birth under controlled conditions, properly guided by one with the experience to see things through? Her life would have been drastically different if she was never allowed her moment of revenge, though she can't honestly say that it would have been a better one.

That's just the game we play.

"Your friend can pull the combination from him as well, a little compensation for our time never hurt. Two cars, simple. We'll hit them on their way into Queens next Tuesday, they'll never get the chance to make the drop. I'd like you behind the wheel, if you think you can handle it without wrecking us."

Then she stands, going to retrieve her coat then slipping it back on. "You'll have your moment. I hope it's what you really want."

That said, she sees herself out.

It's the fearlessness. When you've spent your life having no reason to fear bullets, knives, even dropping from the roof of a twenty story building, fearlessness sort of has a tendency to develop on its own. He's never had to face the moral challenge that he's rushing into, and he has no idea the danger in which he is putting his very soul.

"Stick shift is no problem." It's quite poetic, really, how he answers the question without even thinking about the weight of the situation he's rushing into. "Tuesday it is. I will contact the psychic."

That's all there is to be said. He doesn't say anything as you grabs the coat, he simply watches.

Then, you drop those last words.

He's left alone, with two empty glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Is it what he really wants? Well, he'll certainly have time to think about it... before and after the heist.

Landlord and rules be damned, Kwabena reaches for another cigarette and lights it, no longer wishing to step outside and be seen by the world. No, right now, he simply wants to be alone.