2013.03.15 - Winter in Detroit

Northeast Detroit was not the nicest neighborhood to visit. Sure, all of Detroit had it's bad areas, but the particular area was pretty run-down. Gang violence was pretty openly apparent, thanks to the 'street art' that populated the buildings and the litter that dotted the side streets. All of the streets here were narrow, like they were built for smaller cars than what were being driven in modern times, meaning that the entire area had a crowded look to it.

It had been relatively easy to get some basic information on Jocelyn Stream online. Information like height, weight, date of birth...all that was readily apparent, if you had the information the article gave out. A picture was pretty simple to get too, and there were pictures of her in amatuer fights dating back for the last four years.

Some of the lowlifes had already twigged to the fact that someone had been asking about for the girl who supposedly died in an explosion around a month ago, and had either shut up or let it be known that for the right price, all sorts of dirt could be had.

Money is something of a problem for the Winter Soldier; even getting access to a computer to do some research on Jocelyn required blowing a good chunk of his wages from day laboring around New York, but that, he figured, was worth it.

Nobody so young - stranger or otherwise - deserves to be manipulated by monsters; if there's any truth at all to the rumours alluded to in the news, a few hours of construction work was a small price to pay to set things on a better course.

Of course, given that even the cheapest sources of information would mean choosing between eating and intel, continuing the investigation means getting a little creative, which means reaching out for a meeting with one of the parties demanding the highest price for information.

With no money to offer, trying to trade on a lifetime of lethal training is the next best option he can come up with; whether or not he can convince a potential informant of its value, however, is a different story.

The meeting is arranged through intermediary, of course. A squirrely guy by the name of Skinner who has a thick black beard and a mop of black hair on his head that comes down practically to the bottom of his nose. The Winter Soldier is eventually directed through the neighborhood to an abandoned accountant's office. A few random thugs wander about outside. None of them look to be openly armed, at the very least, though their purpose is clear even with the apparent randomness of their walk.

The office itself, for an abandoned building, is rather nice. There is a huge metal safe in one corner of the room, and an oak desk in the center, with a blue recliner set up behind it. Another couple of recliners are set up for guests to sit in.

"Is there anything you would like to drink or eat before the boss comes out to conduct his business?" Skinner asks, rubbing his hands together as though he's trying to clear some invisible grime off of them. "Mr. Trammell doesn't like to be kept waiting". Anyone who knew anything about baseball would be able to guess that was a fake name or a really odd coincidence.

A battered black, leather jacket is draped over the Soldier's uniform, concealing his metal-clad left arm from view. He's armed, but only lightly: a combat knife tucked into one of his boots, and a small utility knife in one of his coat pockets. Skinner, the thugs, the run down surroundings--they're all carefully examined as he's led to his meeting. Likely entrances and exits are plotted, manpower is calculated, possible weapons on hand considered--the routine of it all is almost calming.

"Hh--" he grunts when the go-between interrupts his appraisals. Brown eyes snap to the rodent-like man, and after scrunching his features briefly, he gives a slight shake of his head. "Nyet," he exhales. "I am not such a fan of wasting time myself; your boss and I have that in common." His English is good--flawless, really--but the Russian accent is prominent.

"Good, good, he is not. What name should I give him?" Skinner asks. "He does like to have a name to call his guests by, though we understand that it may not be the name the world knows you by, yes? We all have our little secrets". Skinner continues to rub his hands together, pausing only to go over to a pitcher of coffee and pour himself some thick sludge that apparently passes for coffee in these parts.

The manpower observed is four, and in a town like this, they likely have one or two more off in a back room. Without knowing more about the local gang politics, as it were, it would be difficult to say if they have backup from other gangs in the area or not, though given their apparent 'wealth', they likely can put the word out quickly enough. As for weapons, some people are almost assuredly armed with concealed guns, if not everyone. The theoretical men in the back room likely have bigger guns, since they're not out in the public eye. The only obvious exit right now is the door he came in from, though again, there is probably another exit in the back. There is a small window that someone could dive through as well, if they were truely desperate.

"Also, what can I tell him you are inquiring about? Word has it you're looking for information on the girl. Stream. We have a lot of information; it is what we do around here," Skinner comments as he takes a drink of his sludge-coffee.

"The Winter Soldier," he utters with a slight downward tip of his chin. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets rather than offering one along with his name. "I have heard rumours that the girl had dealings with--" He begins to form the word 'criminals', but with a little pressure from his tongue against the edge of his teeth, he stops himself.

"--gangs in the area; I would like to know who she may have dealt with, and what she may have done for them--if the rumours are true, that is." The Soldier gently sucks his teeth for a moment before quietly adding, "Making assets of the young--it is old trick in my country. Very efficient. Perhaps not so good for the soul--but efficient."

"Very well," Skinner says, taking his coffee and disappearing into the back room. A couple minutes pass, and Skinner returns, still carrying his coffee. He takes a seat in the recliner and sets the coffee down. "So. You wish to know what I know about Miss Stream". Skinner's tone of voice hasn't changed from before. However, he finally brushes a bit of hair out of his eyes, and there is a hint of a more calculating mind behind that body. "I can tell you quite a bit about her. It was rather efficient to use her at times. But we need to talk about price. What are you willing to pay for this information?" Skinner asks.

Another sip of the coffee is taken. "I am sure, Winter Soldier, that you don't need to be reminded that there are people guarding this room who would take exception to violence, and that won't get you the information you seek".

When it's Skinner, rather than the mysterious Mr. Trammell - a lifetime ago, when James still followed baseball, his favorite players were Ted Williams and Dizzy Dean, so the pseudonym is totally lost on him - who emerges from the back room, the Soldier stands a bit straighter; once he takes note of the shift in pronouns, though, his muscles uncoil and he withdraws his hands so that they can be held up in front of him, palms facing outwards.

He's still every bit as ready for action if things do go south, but there's no sense in /looking/ it.

Eyes fixing on Skinner's, the Soldier replies, "Violence is all that I have to offer," in a calm, steady tone. He only lets that statement linger for a moment before following it up with, "A man like--you must have rivals. Enemies; other men who would /make/ themselves like you, da? I do not have money, but I think, perhaps, that there is a deal to be made, if you are willing."

"Indeed. That is a fair offer," Trammell responds, taking another drink of his coffee. "And one that I will accept. I will put you into a fairly dangerous situation. You look like someone who can handle it though". He opens up a drawer in his desk and slowly pulls out a file folder. "I will give you some of the information now. I will withhold some of the information until after you have completed this contract for me. That information will, I think, explain why I charge what I do for this information. Many people have been inquiring about my former...runner".

Yes, he just admitted to employing her.

"She was a street kid when I first met her. Seven, eight years old, and naturally gifted in certain arts that helped a person survive on the streets. Able to knock a grown man to the ground and get away quickly, scrounging, all the usual stuff. I saw some potential in her. So I hired her on to transport small but valuable goods for me. Kids don't make good targets except by other children, and I was confident in her ability to handle those threats".

He pauses to take another drink of coffee before continuing. "Now. I paid her, of course. Some money, yes. Some other substances. She was clever enough not to let me always pay her with the same substance. Then a Mr. Clark came into her life. Saw her in a fight, and decided she had another future". He pauses again. "I do not have an issue with this. She was getting older, and with her height, she could pass for an adult, and that made her less valuable to me. She did not have a killer's instinct, like some of us do, yes?"

He takes a long drink of his coffee before continuing. "But you likely know some of this already. What you want to know is, of course, did she do it. She would not have done it. But there are no gangs who took any issue with Mr. Clark's operation at the gym. It was very morally outstanding, helping kids and all that. I wished her the best, and we parted ways".

Another pause. "Now, I will give you an assignment. Fulfill it, and I will tell you who, I suspect, is responsible for this terrible crime, and why the rumors are swirling that someone is after Miss Stream, and how they are related".

There's a moment - between making his offer and Trammell accepting it - when the Soldier doesn't dare breathe, lest this slipper stranger rebuke him with violence; when the offer is accepted instead, though, he gingerly exhales, and even lowers his hands, gradually sliding them back into his coat.

From there, he just listens, mostly unmoving; it doesn't long before Trammell's accounting of his relationship to Ms. Stream sets his jaw on edge, or makes him clench his fists, but he dutifully suppresses those signs of distaste--and by the end of the story, they're pretty much gone. It's hard to take quite so much umbrage with a criminal who's willing to amicably cut his losses and back away--assuming that Trammell is being forthright, anyway.

Only when the story is finished does the Winter Soldier withdraw a hand from his coat to reach for the file--though if Trammell moves to pull it away, he'll take the hint and draw back. As he reaches, the former spy rather firmly states, "No civilians; too much attention. We would not be speaking, after all, if civilians had not been killed, da?" After giving Trammell a moment to absorb the request, he goes on to add, "Otherwise: I am a man of my word; what is it, exactly, that I can do for you?"

"That file has this information in it. You may keep it," Trammell responds when the Winter Soldier reaches out to take it. "Of course, none of it will point back to me and is very annonymous. Miss Stream, you will notice, is not mentioned, though the descriptions would match her at the time. She has obviously changed since she was twelve or thirteen". Which was only to be expected.

"Now, as for what you may do for me. There is a single man who I wish eliminated. His name is Mr. Sharp". He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out another file, sliding it over. "This contains pictures and information about where he keeps himself. I wish for him to be eliminated. Ideally, I wish for him to be eliminated without his killer being seen, though I understand that is not always possible. Other deaths are...unnecessary, and may cause more chaos in this neighborhood, which is something I wish to avoid. If you wish to have a spotter accompany you, if you are a marksman, I have one who is well-trained that I would be glad to deploy".

The file folder does indeed have the image of a man, somewhere in his thirties, featured in it. He has brown eyes and is bald. His profile shot screams 'Oily Used Car Salesman'. It also contains the address, which is only about a half mile from the building the two were in, and maps, including windows.

"Return to me when he is dead. I will know if you speak the truth. Then I will provide you this information. You seem like one who will do the right thing for my former runner. I would prefer that outcome, given the choice". However, he could also profit, and profit made more sense in this case, at least to Trammell.

The lack of detail regarding Trammell's young runner is noted as the Soldier leafs through the folder, although once the dossier is slid over, examining /it/ obviously takes precedence.

"I will need a weapon more than a spotter," he remarks as he skims the mission details. "A large caliber rifle would be preferable, but I can make do." The corners of his mouth then quirk slightly as he adds, "I am glad the we are on the same page, regarding--others; very refreshing," without looking up from the dossier.

Soon, that vague smile slips, and he shut the dossier for now to meet Trammell's eyes again. "She will be taken care of," he promises with a small nod and an even, ambiguous tone. "I did not come to you on a whim, I assure you."

"You are not from around here. That much is clear. Go five miles in any direction and you will see things worse than here. I hold no illusions to what I am, but I also know what I am not. There is some order here, and it gives those who wish it at least a chance at a way out. Not all neighborhoods can say that. I prefer it that way".

Trammell nods. "One will be provided to you. I will wish it returned, however. They are slightly more difficult to get ahold of these days". He stands and heads back to the back room. Another man walks out, carrying a rifle by the barrel, which is about the most non-threatening way to carry a weapon as there is. A box of ammunition is held in his other hand. Both are placed on the desk before the man turns wordlessly to return to the back room.

"Of course," the Soldier rather flatly agrees. "A man should have a code; very important."

When the rifle is brought out, he has to restrain himself from cracking a smirk at the way it's held; he is, at least, quick to relieve the guy of his burden by gingerly grabbing the the stock so that he can sling the gun over a shoulder. A few shells are procured from the ammo box and dropped into his coat pocket, and then with a small nod, he turns to take his leave of Mr. Trammell, saying, "You will be hearing from me again soon," as he leaves.

Reaching Mr. Sharp is a matter of patience and careful observation; no transportation was offered or asked for, so the enormous gun on his shoulder rather requires that he stick to shadows roof tops on his way to Sharp's address. As for doing the job itself, well.

There's a /reason/ the Soviet Union kept him on ice for so long; given the proper position, it's more a matter of when Sharp wanders into his sights than if he'll make the shot.

Some hours later, the Soldier returns, uniform caked with grime from skulking across filthy rooftops. After unslinging the rifle, he offers both it and the unused ammunition - the number he left with, minus one - out for Trammell or his men to handle.

"It is done," he simply states.

That same thug who provided the weapon is there when the Winter Solider returns. He nods and takes the weapon and ammunition. He does finally speak after inspecting the weapon, much more careful this time than he was when he handed it over.

"Mr. Trammell has left you the information in that safe. The door is open. You may take it and leave. He wishes you luck". The man then turns and heads back into the back room. Mr. Trammell seemed to be either too busy or felt that he should not be in the area when the Winter Soldier returned. He had stayed alive by being smart and not putting himself in the wrong situation.

Inside the safe are a few things. The first is a contract, dated eight years ago, between a 'Victorious Therapy' corporation and an 'U. Skinner'. It indicates that for approximately fifty thousand dollars a year, U. Skinner was to make sure that his most recent employee was to remain intact and in good health where ever it was reasonably within his control, given the job's natural hazards.

The second piece of paper is a brochure for Victorious Therapy, making them out to be cutting edge experts in helping to heal anybody's hurts with the latest alternative medicines and techniques around. It includes an address in New York City for Victorious Therapy.

The third piece is a typed letter explaining to U. Skinner that Victorious Therapy was very disappointed that he had allowed his employee of several years to be released without their consent, and that they would now need to consider future steps to ensure that the employee remained safe for future study.

The final two pieces of paper are related. The first is a newspaper clipping from eighteen years ago announcing the birth of Jocelyn Stream. The article is from the Detroit Free Press. The second is a similar announcement of the birth of Jocelyn Stream from seventeen years ago. The source, again, is the Detroit Free Press.