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"... Your Lucky Day"
Rplog-icon Who: Remy LeBeau, Neena Thurman
Fred Dukes, Mortimer Toynbee
Where: Hôtel Parieur, Mutant Town, New York City
When: November 13th, 2015
Tone: Social
What: A heavily-armed, melanin-deficient mercenary arrives at the Hôtel Parieur with an offer. Thieves and Assassins don't get along, but can Thieves and Bodyguards work together?

One of the hotel staff has gone to complain to the manager. There's a woman in the main lobby who has been sitting there all morning, cleaning guns.

A lot of guns.

Domino has been told that this is the place where she's to meet with some of the other contacts in the area. She's decided to make herself at home, and that means that she's going to put in a little time making sure her ordinance is clean, accounted for and in perfect working order. It's also a calculated move intended to bait a reaction.



It doesn't take the manager long to round up some of the Hôtel's security. One would think they'd have taken care of the problem themselves... but... when one of the security staff's 'Mutant Powers' is 'Being Morbidly Obese' one perhaps shouldn't expect too much from them.

Still, even though they're a bit slow, it doesn't take the security staff long to realize that the woman in the lobby isn't just some nutjob who needs to be tossed on her ear. Or, at least Mr. Dukes is able to recognize her...

Sitting in the monitor room, the oversized security guard tries to wipe pizza crumbs off of his gigantic shirt. But he watches the lobby's video feed with a bit of consternation. "That's the girl? I don't know... I think The Boss is gonna be mad if we ain't nice to her. We should probably go get him..."

The manager doesn't like the idea, obviously, but he has to acquiesce. After all, who's going to try to argue with The Blob?

"Fine, we'll get Monsieur Parieur... but if he gets angry I'll recommend that we fire YOU, Monsieur Blob!"

Apparently, the Hôtel manager is French... classy choice, right?

It takes a while for 'Monsieur Parieur' to get roused from his sleep, and it takes him even longer to put on pants and stumble down the stairs. But when he finally gets to the lobby, he's clearly glad that his security didn't try to handle the problem on their own.

"Okay, Blob. I take back all the mean things I just said. You did the right thing calling me. That woman could have killed you all and burned the building down before any of you laid a finger on her. Send her our nicest bottle of vodka, straight from the deep freezer, while I put on my Sexy Shirt and find a breathmint."

And so the Hôtel's grimy, semi-illustrious owner leaves the manager with the unenviable task of buttering up one of the world's most dangerous women, while he freshens up a bit. It's a dirty job... but the manager shows up at her table fairly promptly regardless.

"Mademoiselle, on behalf of the staff of the Hôtel Parieur, I wish to welcome you and your... collection. Our owner, Monsieur Parieur, finds your eccentric habits highly charming, and I have been informed that I find them highly charming as well. Please accept this bottle of Iordanov, with Monsieur Parieur's compliments."



Domino smiles pleasantly at the hotel manager, nonthreatening as can be. "Oh that's very kind of you. Sorry to cause a fuss, but I'm a little picky about making sure nothing's going to go off unexpectedly. A girl can't be too careful these days, and sometimes these safeties have a habit of just flicking themselves off without warning."

She begins to load the ammunition back up, and slide cleaned guns into their holsters, sighting each one and checking chambers. "Just set the bottle down there on table next to me, thank you. Thanks to your Monsieur Parieur, too." She clicks a chamber close, and slides the gun into its place on her thigh. "Will he be joining me soon?"



"Ah... Monsieur Parieur is..." Oh, the quandries inherent in working for Gambit. The poor manager's main job seems to be coming up with excuses for the shifty, unwashed thief. However, hecan't very well say 'My boss is trying to freshen up because he wants to seduce you.' So he has to pick something from the List of Excuses....

"Monsieur Parieur is in a meeting with some of our vendors, presently. However, I'm sure that if his schedule permits he'd love to welcome you in person. After all, he's the only hotel owner I've ever worked for who insists on visiting his guests in their rooms..."

Okay, so maybe the hotel manager is kind of bitchy... but we'll forgive him. After all, working for Gambit is a thankless job.

"In the meantime, perhaps I can recommend our casino? I've already been instructed to give you a thousand dollars in Hôtel Parieur chips. I highly recommend you try our craps table, you look like you've got the sort of... delicate touch that the game requires."

Upstairs in his room, Gambit is busy running some floss through his teeth. If he knew what was going on downstairs, he'd probably be running down there right now, screaming at his manager not to let her anywhere near the craps table...

Domino puts away the last gun, her smile getting wide. "The craps table, hmm? That's terribly generous of him. Fine drink, free money to start on the tables... the bill for staying here must be enormous." She stands up, reaching down to grab the bottle of vodka by the neck, and straightens her suit, zipping it up just a little more in the front. It became inappropriate two inches ago.

She has some pity on the manager, and reaching into a front pocket, pulls out a roll of hundreds, handing it over to him. "I appreciate good service," she explains with a wink, before turning and sauntering easily towards the casino.




"I mean... it's not that I personally find her all that attractive, you know? But when you travel in the circles I travel in, you start to hear things. Let's just say she's got a reputation for being good at... well... everything. Maybe reputation isn't the best word... she's practically a legend. So, what kind of man would I be if I didn't sleep with her?"

With a (clove) cigarette in one hand, and a toothbrush in the other, Gambit makes an honest attempt at getting his mouth minty fresh. Of course, it'd probably be more effective if he weren't taking puffs from his cigarette while brushing, but this is the most he's cared about his 'natural aromas' in years, so we'll take what we can get.

But why is he talking to himself about his Grand Plan to seduce the mercenary who's no doubt cleaning out his casino? Well, he isn't talking to 'himself' exactly...

"Sure Boss, you gotta protect YOUR rep too, right? After all, everybody knows you sleep with all the ladies, because you're so handsome and charming, and your thigh muscles are so well-developed. But I'm just worried that you're putting too much pressure on yourself. After all, what's so special about this chalky bitch? Surely she won't understand you the way... we do." It's clear from the man's inflection, he was about to say 'I' instead of 'we.' But fortunately Gambit seems a bit preoccupied to notice.

"Look Toad, this is why I don't pay you for your advice. I just need you to finish licking the lint off of my coat so that I'll look respectable."

A few minutes later, after his overcoat has been thoroughly licked by Toad (the Brotherhood's very own laundry expert...), a relatively dashing version of Gambit slides down the bannister and into the lobby proper. It's a staged display of his athletic prowess, but the object of his affections is nowhere to be seen.

With a frown, he waves his manager over. "Where'd she go? You didn't scare her off, did you?"

In response, his manager just points toward the casino, with a pained, almost cringy, expression plastered over his face.



And there's the approving roar of a small crowd of individuals gathered around the craps, at which Domino, in her black leather bodysuit, is standing.

"Three times in a row! Can she keep going, folks?" the boxman calls out, as Domino chuckles, scooping up the dice in her hand. "Pff! I'm just having a run of good luck! I've never even played this before!" she replies, laughing oh so innocently. She's already got a decent pile of chips next to her.

With the flick of a wrist, the dice bounce against the back of the table, tumble forward with one die landing /just on top/ of one another. The group holds its breath as the uppermost die slips off and turns to the exact face it needs to win the bet. Another roaring cheer goes up from the crowd.

"And that's another fifteen thousand for the lady!"




"Please tell me you didn't set the World's Luckiest Woman loose in MY casino with a bucket full of chips and a bottle of vodka..."

Gambit is staring at the carnage that's being wrought within his casino, but he doesn't seem to be able to fully process it. He even puts his hands over his eyes, as if doing his best Blindfold impersonation might make it all go away. But, sure enough, she's still there when he takes his hands away, and her pile of chips has gotten even bigger.

But the crowd around her is already getting excited, and so is her dealer. "ELEVEN! Looks like somebody's been drinking our Pinch of Luck cocktail, available right now from one of our lovely waitressess..." Okay, so the dealer is always excited. Still...

Gambit has to act fast, or risk being completely cleaned out in one evening. But he can't very well make a show in front of all of those guests. Or can he?

His french-tinged Cajun accent can suddenly be heard over the building's (newly-installed) PA system.

"Good evening, Hôtel Parieur guests. In celebration of our second month anniversary, drinks will be completely on the house for the next thirty minutes. Come by the bar and order a flirtini on us, as a way of showing our appreciation for you patronage."

Predictably, the casino floor starts clearing out pretty quickly, allowing the man with the red eyes to slip in virtually unnoticed, and sidle up to the craps table, replacing the dealer.

"Bonne soirée, ma chérie... it seems luck is with both of us this evening. You're winning piles of money, and I get to see you in that... I'm sorry, is calling it an 'outfit' too bourgeoisie?"



This is a guy who wears a trenchcoat regardless of the weather, so it's a fair bet that he's sweating. Whether she's the cause of it or not... well... that remains to be seen. Whatever his opinion of her though, he seems to be eyeing her chips far more than he's eyeing her. Greed is such an unattractive emotion.

Still, he's not entirely immune to her charms. After all, he DID have Toad lick his laundry clean to try to impress her. So maybe he does look slightly cresftallen when he gets the implication behind where she sets the bottle of vodka.

"Oh? Not a vodka drinker? I'll have to stop getting all of my information about mercenary women from the internet. Though, in my defense, all your Spacebook pictures are of you passed out on bar stools with vomit on your chest."



"Body armor," Domino gently corrects, pushing a ridiculous number of chips together into neat piles. "I'm sorry, was I making you sweat?" She picks up a stack of blues, letting them slowly slip out of her fingers down onto the rest of the pile in a rhythmic rattle of plastic on plastic, her eyes fixing on his. After a few seconds, she breaks the stare and allows herself a little smile. "Don't worry, I wasn't planning on keeping all this. I was passing time, waiting for you to get done with whomever was keeping you occupied."

She picks up the bottle of vodka, unopened and still cold, walking over to Gambit's station at the dealer's place, setting down the bottle on the NO PASS space. "Still relying on the classics, I see," she offhandedly comments, turning the bottle with one hand by the top idly, looking at the label before setting it back down straight. "I am both complimented and offended at the same time."





"Sour grapes don't become you," she states, unruffled and still in good humor. She fixes her gaze on Gambit once more. "I'm here on a matter of business, and I've found that mixing business and pleasure never has good odds in the end. We should probably find somewhere less open to talk."



"Sour grapes? I guess that means I should have sent you a bottle of wine... But you're right."

The trenchcoat-wearing mutant motions one of the dealers to take over for him, and motions one of the waitresses over. "Take our guest's chips to the pit, I get the feeling she's going to want to cash out..." He doesn't outright say 'Domino is banned from the casino', but that definitely seems to be pretty obvious from his tone. Better to cut her off now, but he's at least gracious enough to let her keep her sizeable winnings. Business must be very good if he's able to be so generous. Or maybe he just wants her to THINK he's generous.

"After you turn her chips in, tell our sommelier to pick one of our best bottles and send it up to my room. And tell him to hurry, since our lovely emo fan seems to be immune to my charms without the aid of alcohol."

The waitress giggles as she scoops up the chips and heads off to do her job. Like most of the waitresses in the hotel, she's an obvious mutant, complete with tail and scales.

Although he's a bit demanding when talking to his staff, Gambit is as smooth as ever when he offers his (freshly cleaned...) arm to the mutant mercenary. "Come on, walk with me. I promise to keep the conversation restricted to business. At least until the wine arrives..."



She takes Gambit's offered arm. "Keep the winnings," she asides as she follows Gambit towards his chosen destination, content to be lead for the moment. "Even when your employees switched in the loaded dice, it still barely counted as a game."

Once they're out of earshot, Domino feels comfortable enough to talk. "You're doing well for yourself here. Never thought you'd be the type to settle down in any one place for long, Gambit. Planning to make this your retirement home?"



Perhaps it's telling that Gambit doesn't deny her accusations of running a rigged dice table. She's likely either onto something, or he simply enjoys being viewed as a scoundrel, even when he's not. Either way, he seems more interested in leading her away from the gaming tables than engaging in conversation right now.

As the pair walk out into the lobby, arm in arm, Gambit does his best to lead his very distinctive guest away from as many onlookers as possible. With any luck, they'll just think she's another mutant hooker, catering to a very specific fetish. Being seen with a mutant hooker isn't really a scandal in Gambit's hotel.

Being seen with a mutant mercenary, however, especially one with Domino's list of enemies? That might require Gambit to do some explaining. At any rate, it's best for all involved if he keeps their meeting as private as possible.

"Are you implyin' that I'm 'old?' You wound me, Domestic Violence Victim Morticia Addams.... I've still got plenty of wild oats to sow before I'm ready to retire, and I'm still far from settling down. I just realized that Mutant Town is a place where a man can be free to be himself, and commit all the sins he can afford. I don't know that I think of it as a 'home' yet... but it's definitely got the makings of a vacation spot."



"Good. I'm thinking of setting up a summer home here, myself. Thought I'd come and meet the neighbors. Sorry I didn't bring a tray of cookies." Domino waits for that realization to sink in, and all the potential problems her residence might cause.

As they move further away from listening ears and prying eyes, Domino allows herself a little smirk. "Tsk. Looking for the low hanging fruit tonight, I see. I'll raise you my one black eye and see you two of your own," she quips, followed with soft laughter.



The elevator from the lobby to the upper floors is a grand, if somewhat scary, antique contraption. A lot of expense was required to get the elevator back into operation, while avoiding replacing parts or disturbing the lustrous veneer that had built up over the decades. But even that expense probably pales in comparison to the amount of money he's probably paying the scantily-clad mutant woman who serves as the elevator's operator.

As she slides open the creaking antique gate, she gives Gambit and his guest a smile. "Top floor, Mister Parieur?"

Not only is Gambit paying her salary, but by the familiar ease with which he tucks a casino chip into her bustier, he's also giving her frequent tips... "Yes, top floor Felicia. I need you to get a good look at my guest though, in case you have to serve as witness. You heard her threaten me, right?"

As he leads Domino into the elevator, 'Felicia' giggles and closes the gate, then operates the lever to lift the creaky elevator up to the top floor. Gambit continues to leave his arm linked, and turns briefly toward Domino. "New neighbor or not, you'd better be nice to me, ma chere... Felicia here just got her blue belt in Krav Maga, isn't that right, Fel?"



Cue the big smile from Snow White in Black Leather. "Congratulations, that's a fantastic achievement. How often do you have to use it?" Dom questions the other girl pleasantly. "Monsieur Parieur must be a real handful to look after." She doesn't have anything to say about Gambit's tip method; her eyes are on Felicia and the answers the girl might have to give. Case the security quietly while she's here? Of course.



There are only three floors in the building. After all, it's pretty old. But it still takes a lot longer for the elevator to get to the third floor than it would have to simply take the stairs. But.... where's the ostentatious display in taking the stairs.

When they reach the top floor, Gambit leaves 'Felicia' with a parting joke, and the sounds of her giggles last after the gate is closed behind them. The upstairs isn't even remotely ready for guests, and a few constructions workers are hard at work renovating the top floor. However, all the way down the hallway one of the rooms has been renovated enough to be liveable, although it certainly looks 'spartan.'

"And here we are..." Gambit opens the ramshackle door to his room, revealing the bare brick walls, the cracked tiles, the holes in the ceiling, and the exposed wiring. Apparently, his personal Presidential Suite is going to be the last part of the hotel to be renovated. Which makes sense, from a business perspective.

"I know. I know. Now that you've seen my bachelor pad you're going to want to take off your pants. But try to refrain, please. After all, you came up here to make some sort of business proposition."



He's already a step up from Wade, at least, the last time she'd seen that crazy afthole. Domino steps in and folds her arms across her chest, standing in the middle of the room, away from any furniture. "Shooting the sh*t aside, yes. Mutant Town is going to need beefed up security, sooner rather than later. This place is getting noticed by the wrong individuals."



"Well, you definitely raise a valid point... mon amie trop blancs. If someone like you is planning to move to Mutant Town, we should definitely consider setting up some kind of neighborhood watch, or maybe a homeowner's association."

The floor is littered with trash and clothing, not all of which is Gambit's. But fortunately he's more than acrobatic enough to navigate his way through the discarded brassieres, takeout boxes, and cigarette butts that clutter his floor. In short, it looks like an especially popular frat boy's room, although most frat boys probably don't have so many playing cards, gambling chips, and gold coins strewn about amongst the garbage and dirty laundry.

Making his way over to the other side of the room, Gambit motions to the only piece of furniture in the room (apart from his bed): a black leather bean bag chair with matching bean bag footstool. Surprisingly, the 'chair' and the area around it are relatively clean, though it probably wouldn't be a good idea to inspect it with a UV light. But whether she takes the seat or not, he's too busy to notice at the moment, with his back turned toward her.

After all, he's busy pouring himself a glass of Remy Martin.

Wait, make that two glasses of Remy Martin...

"But surely you aren't suggesting what I think you're suggesting? After all, it's costing me an arm and a leg just to keep Blob as beefy as he already is. Are you really saying I oughta start feeding him MORE?"



If Domino has anything to say about Remy's messy situation, she keeps it to herself. She remembers well that some people are anything but tidy, and some simply aren't in one place long enough to spend time putting their dirty socks in a hamper.

She moves with catlike grace through the mingled belongings, and chooses a fortunately arranged section of empty wallspace to lean against for the time being. Bean bags are a little too low to the ground for her present comfort level.

"No, I imagine your personable, -charming- head of security's food costs are roughly the equivalent of stocking the fish buckets at Sea World. How you're managing to keep in the black is, frankly, an eighth wonder of the world," Domino muses. "No, I'm talking business. I don't need to be on your payroll. Speaking with Pietro was enough to tell me that this town is where I need to be, and you're the man I need to stay in contact with."

"I know about the Brotherhood, LeBeau. I'm here to help."



"Actually, Blob thinks that fish meat is basically a vegetable, so he never-" Whatever it was that Gambit was about to say, he suddenly decides that the sentence really isn't worth finishing. After all, a heavily-armed woman just said his real name, and offered to join his little Island of Misfit Mutants.

"Pietro, hm? I don't really know anyone who goes by that name. To be truthful, so many people come and go around this dumpy hotel.... and they start so many rumors... that I really just can't keep track of them all."

At least he doesn't deny his own name. But it's clear he's not willing to commit to giving her any specifics.

"I s'pose this 'Pietro' guy is right about one thing though: Not much happens in Mutant Town without me hearing about it some way or another. I know, for example, that the scaley prostitue who hangs out on Hine Street absolutely refuses to do anything involving her rear end, no matter how much money she's offered."

He picks up both glasses and makes his way through the casual chaos that covers his floor, sipping carefully from his glass as he meanders toward his guest.

"I also know that the Brotherhood has been doing a lot to help turn this ghetto into a liveable community, but that they don't like for anyone to poke around in their business. Even if her body armor adds just the right amount of extra padding where it counts."



"I'm a mutant. I've got as much right to be here as anyone else," Domino states. "More if you count the fact that I still have a barcode tattooed on my body from the time when I was registered as state property instead of citizenry." She folds her arms over her chest, brushing aside potentially pointed remarks, her goal in mind. "If you know everything that goes on in this town then you know who Pietro Maximoff is, and who he's related to. I'd prefer to skip the betting and go straight to the part where we show our hands. I have something to offer, and it's more than the desperate girls you've got turning tricks downstairs."



Sometimes the truth stings a bit, but Domino apparently knows how to make it cut. Fortunately Gambit's able to play off the wince on his face as being a mere result of the alcohol he's gingerly sipping at.

Wordlessly, he hands the other glass to his extremely pasty mercenary friend, holding his own carefully so that he can stare quietly at the contents.

With the liquid swirling in his glass, he takes a deep breath and exhales the scent of clove cigarettes and mid-grade cognac.

When he finally speaks, he doesn't bother denying that the girls in his casino are essentially being pimped out to drum up business. He'd argue that it's a bit more complicated than that, certainly, but that's not the main issue at hand.

"If you know who Pietro Maximoff is, and who he's related to, I'm not sure why you think 'I' am the guy you should be talking to. But you've definitely piqued my curiosity, ma chere. Let's hear this 'offer' of yours, and be sure to explain the part about why I should be interested really carefully. After all, I've been drinking since right after lunch."



Domino takes the drink, holding it in one hand, ice-blue eyes fixed on the Cajun thief. "You were left in charge here. You -are- improving things, much to your credit, even if I don't exactly agree with how you're getting funds."

"The long and short of it is that the attacks on this ghetto are going to continue, and they're going to get worse. I can -sense- it. I'm willing to put my considerable skills in security, tactics and killing to good use in defending the mutants that live here, and I'm asking nothing but the chance to have enough information to do just that."

"If that's not good enough for you, I'll walk. No harm, no foul."



"I guess that's fair. After all, it's only natural that Thieves and Assassins wouldn't approve of each others' occupations. But since we're being so upfront and all, you should know that I think that thieves, gamblers, and prostitutes are all pretty decent sorts."

He's close enough that she could probably put a blade or a bullet in him pretty easily, but while he's been talking to her one of his hands has slowly drifted to the inside of one of his coat's many pockets.

"But I've never met a hitman, or a hitwoman, that wouldn't collect a bounty on his grandma. So I'm having a hard time buying that you're just here to help the poor downtrodden citizens of Mutant Town. And I won't sign off on ANYTHING that ends with you building up a body count in my city. But... much as I hate admitting this... I think you might be right. If the news I'm getting from my sources is right, the Purifiers are up to something nasty behind closed doors, and I can't help but think they might do some kind of demonstration soon."

He finishes the rest of his drink, and looks at the woman with his diabolical irises, making solid eye contact for the first time since he brought her to his room.

"Now, I'm not saying that they have a secret sub-level inside their mega-church in Upstate New York, but if they DID have a secret sub-level inside their mega-church in Upstate New York, I might know a guy who'd be able to get you inside. Provided, of course, that you were able to watch his back."



"There's where you're wrong, LeBeau. I'm not an assassin. I'm a bodyguard."

Domino matches Gambit's gaze, unflinching. She holds her glass without the slightest hint of a nervous tremor; she's got the kind of fine motor control a neurosurgeon would die for. "And from the sounds of it, that's just what you need." She allows herself a little smile.

"Guess it's your lucky day."

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