Mach2 — Roleplayer Guild

Collaboration Post - Raid/Mach2

Minutes passed after the fight ended. The unconscious fighter, Spike, was carried out unconscious on a gurney. Vander cast the slightest glance of concern in his direction, but her mind was too focused on other matters to worry too much about him. If she didn't want her evening to end in the same way, she needed to secure a fix before she left the Spit. 

Her eyes travelled back and forth across the bar. It was a big place. Rowdy. She wondered how many wallets must go missing a night here. It had to be a handful. Maybe more. And yet, the chances of her getting lucky enough to be the first to spot one seemed so ephemerally slight. 

But as observant as she was, there were other things she saw. A woman in a red dress, impossibe to miss, escorting Darth to the bar across from Vander and proceeding to take a seat on his lap. She gave them a few seconds of her interest, and then glanced away uncomfortably as the hands began groping. Her gaze swept the building again. No wallets. But people were getting tipsier. A group of girls who barely looked old enough to be here were laughing obnoxiously a few tables over. She put a mental flag on the table. A few more drinks, and one of them might forget to bring their purse along to the restroom. Behind them, a balding man with an impressive beard was yelling something about the bet he had placed. There was a definite slur to his words. Vander took note, and then let her gaze travel elsewhere. 

Her eyes found a crowd near the bottom of the stairs leading up to the VIP section - just in time to see a punch thrown. 

She might have glanced away again. But a few things caught her eye. Though the peak of her high had faded, there was enough drug in her veins to keep Vander's vision sharp. From across the bar, she could see nondescript cudgel's tucked in belt loops. And she could see the face of the man who had thrown the punch. The Librarian. Whatever had been cause for that punch, it was more than a petty fight. It was gang activity. 

Wariness kept her still in her seat, but curiosity wouldn't let her eyes leave the scene. Not about the finer details of whatever turmoil the Library was dealing with. No, Vander was focused on the details of the gang's lead member. She hadn't kept up on the politics of Ancora's countless gangs for months - not since the days when it was more relevant for her to know whose toes not to tread on. But to see the Librarian now, it was beyond clear that something was amiss. He didn't look like a leader. He looked like he was wasting away. Even across the bar, she was sure she could reconize the tired stance and hollowed cheeks. Someone who had lost significant weight in a very short period. 

It didn't take more than a few moments for the majority of the group to finish their discussion and proceed towards the exit. A group of men, and a woman in a white shirt - the Tyro? Vander didn't look too closely, she was still focused on the Librarian. 

She got up, the curiosity finally outweighing the wariness now that most of the group had left. Moving along the wall, she made her way closer to the two remainders. Closer now, she tried to be as unassuming as possible. Another punk rocker in a bar, pressed up against the wall, hiding in a too-large leather jacket. But she was definitey close enough now to get a good look at the Librarian. The thinness, the dullness in his eyes, the tired slouch. Those traits were all too familiar - she saw them in herself every day. He was on something, that was unquestionable. But Lucid? 

Maybell's uniform drips with the vodka he threw at her. He doesn't drink like the Librarian, anymore. No Jameson's or Irish coffee nightcap. Wilson grips onto her bulging arm. He threatens her, tells her what trash she is for protecting Marsh. His grip won't bruise. Not anymore. His muscle whittled down to cells laced together to assist him in crawling from one den to another as he sniffs, injects, drinks his way through the myraid of drugs offered in the Beta districts. Her eye throbs as the lid swells shut. Meghan's pat on the back made it easier to stand there and distract the Librarian as his wife walked away. Maybell will take the punishment this time around. 

"Well, whaddya have to say for yourself you festering cunt?" he slurs. His grip tighten and loosens as the drug pulses through his body. 

"Nothing that will excuse me in your eyes," she says, eyes looking to the side. The crowd fills in where Billy's guards had kept the majority of onlookers hoping for a fight back. Some brush her back. Her hand drops to her cudgel. 

"Good, bitch." He collapses back into the booth. He taps on the table. "Damn, where'd all my friends go? A man can't drink alone. Hey, you, wanna drink?" He points to a hussy with wrinkling skin around her eyes. 

The woman brushes passed Maybell and leans over the table, inspects the remains of addiction. "Just a drink?" she asks. 

He sneers. "You looking for something stronger?" 

"Oh, always." 

The guard steps back to the side. He'll remain distracted enough until he decides to go somewhere else. 

He curls a finger at the woman. She grins. Her teeth are as bad as his. "You got friends?" 

She puckers her lips. "Why would I need friends why I've got you?" 

Wilson laughs. "Whada greedy snake! Maybell, don't look like such a grump. You're scaring away all the people!"

She tucks her chin down. 

"Come on, don't ya'll know who I am? I'm the Librarian! Oldest fucking gang in Beta and I'm the leader," he shouts into the crowd. He coughs and spits on the ground. Maybell can't tell the color. More people trample closer, some sliding into the booth other hovering at the edge of the table. 

Maybell weaves on her feet from the heat. She wore body armor beneath her black button up. It adds an additional twenty pounds to her weight and keeps in any sweat. It causes her to break out on her back and chest everytime. She thinks about Wilson as she knew him as he greets other users and ordering drinks and slipping discrete chips to be passed along to a dealer who will drop off another round of whatever drug he requested. 

Vander had watched from her perch near the wall as the Librarian invited the woman to his table. Their words had been barely audible, but she still caught enough. There were drugs there, without a doubt. But Lucid rarely made it into the bars. There was a massive leap between your run-of-the-mill LSD, and one of the toughest drugs in all the Beta districts. Nevertheless, though, this could be her connection tonight. By the looks of things, Wilson was just giving things away. 

She had nothing to lose. Without a second of hesitation, Vander joined the small crowd that was beginning to clamber around the table. For a few moments, she couldn't get close. But people came and people left. She saw drinks clutched in hands, and tiny tokens hidden between fingertips. Slowly, with a few bony elbows here and there, Vander managed to worm her way close to the table, and to the Librarian. 

"Why hello there friend!" Wilson says, throwing a bony arm around the skeleton and pulls her down next to him. Maybell doesn't bother to check the addict for weapons. She wouldn't kill her ticket to getting a possible score. 

His voice lowers into a mock whisper, "And what be your pleasure? Name it. I'm in the mood to please the woman in my life."

She was startled by the unexpected friendliness, but Vander's demeanor didn't waver for a second. Lady Luck was favouring her thus far, and she answered without delay. "What's the most those chips are good for?" she asked. If she hadn't been sitting right next to him, her voice might have been lost in the noise of the bar. Vander had never been a loud person. 

"Oh we got a highballer here, Maybell," Wilson says, grinning. She loved him for that grin. "If you're like me, missy, then these will only dull you for a bit. Whaddaya say? Wanna go on a ride with D12's gang leader? Not too worried about the trouble I bring?"

Now came the hesitation. Vander's smile flickered, barely noticeable. Her eyes took in the details of the Librarian's face. The unnaturally-sharp cheekbones, the bags below his eyes, and the blackness of rot creeping in at the roots of his teeth. 

Any involvement with the biggest gang of the city could mean trouble. A whole mess of trouble, far beyond anything she had the connections to sort out. But then again...You're gonna die anyway. The thought passed through her mind before she could will it not to. What was the worst that could happen? Whatever the mess would be, it wasn't as though it could last long. "I've got plenty of troubles already," she teased, the smile back. "A little more can't hurt."

"And that's the spirit!" he says, jostling the woman by the shoulder. "Maybell, we're leaving for Charles. We'll need the ca'."

Others at the table are distracted by the drinks brought over by the waitress and the drop off made by a dealer. Maybell pushes back the overeager customers so the Librarian and his guest can squeeze out between the bodies. "Will anyone else be joining you?" she asks. 

He hacks up more of his deteorating lungs, but swallows it back down this time. "These pussies wouldn't know a real high. Not like this little missy and I." The woman is taller than him. He calls all women taller than him little missy.

Maybell shoulders inch up, but she nods before it comes off as indifference."Would you like to drive or do you want some onboard entertainment?"

Wilson slaps her in the same place he hits her. She blinks as he talks. "Don't be such a cow. Our guest gets to choose." He sucks on his lower lips. A habit he developed after the four bottom teeth rotted out. "Whaddaya say little missy? Woud you like to do some pre-gaming before we get to Charles' den?"

Though it was Maybell that got slapped, Vander gave the slightest of flinches for her - instinctive, tiny, but it was there. 

She had no desire to 'pre-game'. There was still Lucid lingering in her bloodstream, and it hadn't yet given way to the burning want of withdrawal. She hadn't touched any other substances in a year. And even then, she had only ever dabbled. 

She gave a one-shouldered shrug as they exited the Spit. Music blasted through the door, audible outside, but it was quiet enough now to clearly hear her softspoken voice. "I'd rather hold out for the real stuff," she answered, skillfully declining.

Maybell signals for the chauffer, a skinny teenager with his eyes, nose, and mouth scrunched down to the size of her fist. She hands over their token and he bounds away to bring the car forward. 

"Ah, eye on prize, eh? I think I'm beginning to like you little missy," Wilson says as their convertable rolls up. 

Maybell hates driving it. The seats are torn and haven't been replaced. It smells like the top has been left open during a rain (it has, many times). The power steering is shot so mauvering across lanes of traffic was like muscling between two fighters. But then again, as long as Wilson wasn't driving, she thinks she'll survive. He leads his guest into the car, jabbering about Charles' den, and they're off.
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