swich01 — Roleplayer Guild

Martin Kirkman & Cordelia Lynn Holmes

“Good, though before we go.” Martin takes both pistols, checking and replacing the safety on both flips them grip out in his hands toward the girl. “If you want em their yours. Both nine millimetre and pretty good condition, I’d say stolen. They’ll fence for a few bucks if nothing else.”

Lynn was very rarely caught entirely off-guard. Martin intervening in the fight had been...surprising, but not completely shocking. This fell into the latter category. If...if he was a narc, then this was...unprecedented. Could they do that? Lynn took the handguns and stared at them for a moment, swiveling them around (demonstrating rather abysmal gun safety and getting a raised eyebrow from Martin) to look at the serial numbers. Filed off. If he was a cop, he was walking a very, very grey line.

Lynn liked that. She tucked both of the handguns into her backpack rather quickly and followed after Martin, her curiosity well and truly piqued.

“Before we go, do you know who these punks are?” Martin was curious, they had a lot of firepower for junkies but they don’t fit most of the gangs round here. “I’d thought maybe Fiends”.

"Yeah, they, uh, could be Fiends. Didn't see any tats on 'em that said so, and they weren't wearing any shit that makes me think they're working for one of the lieutenants, but that doesn't mean shit. Fiends are about as organized as an orgy of blind men. I don't recognize 'em, though, to be honest. If they did they probably wouldn't have jumped us. Or tried to. I got a rep for..." Lynn paused, glancing down at her bloodied knuckles. "Being a little hot-headed."

“Well, that’s that regardless. Since you know the place best why don’t you show me the quickest way back, I’m on Julian Street.” Martin said meeting the girl’s stare with mirth in his eyes and a relaxed stance as he rolled his sleeves up under his shirt and tucked the hood into his vest.

"Julian Street? Huh. Those apartments?" Hope you're not on the ground floor. I broke into there a while back and stole some of the landlord's weed. Hope you can afford some steep-ass rent, Batman. "About three blocks south, just right up here." Lynn jogged after Martin, casting a few leary glances at the disoriented thugs behind them. They were slow to recover, and very wisely feigning unconsciousness until the two were well and truly clear of the place. Lynn was pretty sure they hadn't heard Martin mention where he lived, but figured even if they had, they weren't going to come knocking anytime soon. 

“I’m Martin by the way” keeping pace Martin used the walk to consider how similar he probably was at her age. No parents to speak of, not so much of the state education and doing some fucked up shit to get by. Course the big difference would be the fucken Cross. Snorting he figured she was a fair bit smarter than him on that point alone. 

Well, she figured the guy'd earned her name. "Lynn." It had been a long, long time since Lynn had done the proper introduction thing. When she spoke, her tongue felt rusty, the words coming slow and awkward. "Nice to meet you." She paused, her pride twisting her tongue even further. "And, um, thank you. That...yeah. Thanks." She didn't say any more, because gushing like a pussy was both gay and made you seem weak, neither of which Lynn was. Well, the gay thing was sorta up in the air, she was a bit too busy to worry about that kind of stuff.

“No problem Lynn.” Martin barely recognized the streets he walked though. Not that what the city was had changed but the whole thing seemed white washed. Like people were actually trying to make the place appear normal. Though the wash was running thin with all the commotion recently.

“Damn that was quick” Martin hadn’t even registered his building till he was almost inside. Cesar wasn’t at the desk which in hindsight was probably good though little dark eyes tracked the pair across the lobby. Lynn returned the stares with equal fury. They probably think we're going to fuck. Damn, I must be the tiredest looking hooker anybody's brought back home. And I know that one chick who has mono. 

A considerable number of stairs later the door to 71 swung open. Lynn memorized every corner, every way out, the fire escapes, the floor, the room number. Such was secondhand nature. If she woke up to those fuckers kicking in the door, she wanted to know the first, second, and third fastest ways to get her skinny white ass out of there. Martin escaping was preferable, but not the highest on her list of priorities. A twinge of guilt rolled over her gut, but Lynn didn't let it bother her too much. Yeah, that was cold, but Verthaven was not very forgiving.“It’s been mine for less than a day but mi casa su casa.” Martin’s fastness sat as he’d left it. Lynn recognized the Spanish. She was halfway decent at Spanish, primarily profanities and business-related phrases. Deseas comprar mis drogas o no, puta gorda? Couch opposite the kitchenette with a table and two damn comfortable chairs between. Treadmill and rowing machine in against the far wall facing a TV. Nearby the workbench sat with bits and pieces spread across its surface. Tools arrayed across a back board in perfect condition. Grey plastic crates were scattered around on the floor stacked to chest height. Lynn let out a cat-call at the man's equipment. Dude wasn't loaded, per se, but certainly had money to burn. And he was organized, if he had all this set up in one day. Hm. She was getting a feel for Martin, but...well...the good news was that this place didn't look soundproofed, so if he tried any shit, the neighbors would hear. Those tools were a little worrisome. She didn't see anything that screamed "rape dungeon", so she continued to let her hunger override her common sense.

Walking in Martin threw his coat on the couch sending his holster with it. Lynn stared at him, looking for bulges under his clothes. If he was still packing, it was concealed real well. Cautiously, Lynn let her bag slip off her shoulders, keeping it close to the door.  Looking out the window at the street he shrugged out his shirt and pulled off his vest. Fully revealing the undershirt he’d worn in the alley, white material, long sleeved with a hood. Getting rid of it into the pile on the couch he pulled his vest back on and the shirt over that.

“There’s some MREs in th- *growl* uhhh. I was going to get Chinese before I stumbled across our little friends. You know a good place that’ll deliver?” Martin said turning round 

"Um, yeah, if you're cool giving 10% of your take-out bill to the Triads, there's this kick-ass place called Imperial Palace like, two blocks from here. I can help cover it." Thanks to that guy's wallet.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not hurting for cash. Whilst we’re waiting why don’t you bring me up to speed on the gangs. It’s been years since I had anything to do with any of em and the fiends weren’t shit when I left for Iraq.” He said watching her inspect his apartment with mutual candour.

Lynn didn't reply for a moment. She slipped off her red hoodie, folding it with the sort of meticulous care that Lynn didn't demonstrate frequently. She gently laid it on top of her bag and looked around Martin's crib, perusing his things. It wasn't entirely polite, but Lynn had always been somewhat lacking in that regard. She picked up a hammer off Martin's tool bench and rolled it over in her right hand, making the phoenixes on her arm twist and writhe. She laid it back down, trying to get it the way it was before but pretty sure she messed up. Eh, oh well. Lynn ran her hands through her hair, taking a breath or two to help force the last of the combat high out her system. Her hair had settled into a light red, and while it resisted its mistress' efforts, she eventually got it bound back in a ponytail. "I...no, hold up. I'm not telling you shit until I hear more from you. I can't figure out if you're the world's worst deep cover cop or the dumbest person I ever met. Did you get fucking shot in the head in Iraq? What..." Lynn turned, sizing over the apartment once more. Something this pristine could potentially be set up by, say, the police. The more realistic explanation for Lynn's suspicion was that it had been a very long time since someone had approached her with the respect and altruism that one affords people and not criminals. She stared at Martin, one hand real close to the blade in her pocket. "I want some answers first. I appreciate the help but I could've taken those fuckers myself, I don't owe you anything. I can dig a business partnership much as the next girl but....what the hell do you really want, man? This...you don't do shit like this unless you want something. No, unless you need something." Lynn walked closer, a solid foot and eighty pounds Martin's lesser but showing no hesitation. "You need something, Martin," Lynn emphasized his name, making clear her suspicions it was not, in fact, his real name. "I wanna know what 'fore I get dragged any further in this. I don't take candy or 9mms from strangers. This 'cause you pity me? Or you just need a scapegoat?" Heat rippled off the girl, something entirely unintentional-merely the result of questionable self-discipline.

Martin had figured the girl was meta from the burn on the punk she put down but this confirmed it. He could feel the sweat breaking out across his face and arms in seconds, seems like a lot of heat but the carpet was unsigned and the paper on the bench didn’t move or burn. Selective power maybe?

“What I need? I owe a debt that has to be paid.” Martin said as he walked around her to his coat and dropped his military ID on the table. “And I want to pay it by putting the hurt on the gangs.” Rummaging in a crate he pulled out a battle scared helmet and dropped it beside the ID. “I ran from this city once, all the way to the middle east. It was easier than facing the music but I’m back now and I can’t run anymore.”

“Still need more?” Walking to the wall Martin put his hand there and waited a few seconds. Pulling open the secret compartment he reached in and pulled the AN-94 assault rifle and placed it on the table beside the other things.

“Maybe you think I’m too trusting, taking too much of a risk. See I was an EOD for five years in Iraq. That means it was my job to lie next to bombs with a few inches between it and my face and defuse it. EODs can get killed by a stiff breeze.  Risk is relative.” Taking a seat on the couch he put his booted feet up on the table before continuing.

“I don’t believe you’ll try and kill me so worst comes to worst I have to find a new place to set up. I don’t fear the reaper Lynn; I’m aware what my chances are against the gangs alone. I need all the help I can get. I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give though. I wouldn’t expect you to dive into the line of fire with me. But I do need eyes on. I need to know where to hit and who needs to die first.”

“This ain’t charity its barter and I don’t intend to have anyone but me take the fall for what I do. And since cops don’t have Russian assault rifles in their walls I assume I’ve covered all the bases?” Looking her dead in the eye Martin leant back on the couch wondering what she would make of it all. Perhaps even after what he said he had been too trusting.
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