Johnny always liked that turn of phrase, the kind of line you read in a book with dog-eared pages and a crease down the cover. A halo; a transcendent mystique that trailed the silhouetted form of a client framed in the doorway. A dame with a cigarette hanging from painted lips, filmed in black and white. Really set the scene, he thought, really piqued interest.
‘Course, he wasn’t about to fool himself thinking the same ever applied in reality. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to Johnny like tar, the smog lumbering after him like a dull creature, giving up and dissipating halfway. Its orange tip burns bright as he swings open the office door—private investigator, if he’s got the address right—and the little glow reflects off of dark aviators worn even at night.
There’s not much in the way of a greeting. The heel of his leather boot—dark, like the rest of his clothes, save the silvery glint of his prosthetic metal arm—kicks the edge of the door closed when it swings back. A second to take stock of the place, another second to breathe out a huff of smoke like he were a dragon just having crawled out of his den, balancing the cigarette between two fingers of his organic hand.
[ Resolver is more correct, but people tended to treat him like PI. His talents didn’t stop there, of course. With the right motivation and the right amount of money, he’s been known to stick his muzzle anywhere, from missing persons cases, to bodyguard work, to negotiating peace between rival gangs. He was good at what he did, and was always the one the most likely to pick up the cases no one else wanted, the stuff involving the people who were more machine than they were flesh and blood. People like him.
Juzo’s office has seen worse days – the hole that was blasted in the wall by a rather… troublesome client has been patched up, the paint looking just a little too fresh, too new, against the chipped and time-worn affair on the rest of the walls. One of the windows is newer, too.
If Johnny’s aim is to look like a dragon after he barges into the room, then he pales in comparison to the figure behind the desk. Even sitting, he’s tall and impossibly broad, well defined muscles evident under the black shirt that’s stretched tight over his frame. And, perhaps most striking of all, is his head: a massive revolver, under which sits a jack-o-lantern grin, cigarette clamped in steel teeth.
Juzo takes a deep breath, drawing in a lungful of smoke, and exhaling the same through his barely open maw. ]
Hurts my feelings to hear a client say that.
[ He reaches up to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a bit of ash into the well-used ashtray next to him on the desk. ]
[Johnny’s more of a big personality than a big physical presence — he might stand at 6’1”, but he’s got the build of a rockerboy. A life of too many drugs and too much to drink, late nights of partying after a gig of yelling his lungs out into a mic for a crowd that might not even listen. The look of a man who might’ve been military once upon a time, but ditched that life years ago. Sturdy, but lithe. Athletic, but could probably still be snapped in two by the house of a guy sitting at that desk across from him.
He’s definitely got the right address. Not exactly a lot of people toting around a mug like that, and Johnny tucks away the barb of feeling like he’s always being held at gunpoint for another time.
Right now, he adds to the coiling smoke of the room by taking another long drag of his cigarette, eyes casting about from beneath dark shades. He’s seen worse, actually. Seen a lot better, too. Looks like some pieces are newer than others, meaning that at least this place sees some action.
Promising? Guess he’ll see.]
Could be. [A client, he means.] Got money enough to make people like you real happy, assuming you’re any good at what you do.
[Johnny crosses over to the chair across from the desk, planting himself in it without so much of an invite. And since he can never sit like a normal human being, he makes himself comfortable: leans back, elbow on the backrest, and kicks a leg right up to rest his boot on the edge of Juzo’s desk.]
Are you? [He spreads a chrome hand in his direction.]
[ If one has the right connections, they might have heard whispers about Gun Slave Units. The pinnacle of cybernetic enhancement, living weapons that, together with their human marksmen, changed the course of the war. But for something so powerful and so apparently integral to victory, they vanished without a trace once the war ended. It’s easy to dismiss the sparse rumors as nothing but tall tales, spun by old war vets with heads stuffed full of decaying tech.
But if anyone were to be living proof that they once existed, the man behind the desk certainly fits the bill. ]
Don’t give me that.
[ Flatly, idly, as Juzo takes another drag of his cigarette. His head tilts in the direction of the boot now perched on his desk, though he doesn’t move to remove it. ]
You wouldn’t have come all the way down here if you didn’t think I was capable.
[ Business like Juzo’s thrives on word-of-mouth. It’s not like you can just pick a Resolver out of the phone book. ]
[Johnny’s lips quirk, partly because the other guy is right, and partly because he has a retort loaded and ready to fire back.]
What, not gonna try to sell yourself to a potential client? Wanna hear your own opinion about what you can do, what you specialize in. Helps a man decide whether or not he wants to throw his hard-earned dough at you.
[On the tail of such a claim, it’s telling, then, that Johnny waves it away in the next breath. Normally he can stew in the back-and-forth, let them both marinate in it until they’re sick of each other. This time? This time maybe his patience isn’t quite as thick, maybe this has a sense of urgency to it that the rockerboy hasn’t bothered to let on since the moment he strode in, trailing cigarette smoke.]
How about this, then: you capable enough to find someone missin’ without so much of a trace? Of a sort. The kind of person that usually makes such a splash that they leave some kinda trail to follow, but this time that trail is…
[An inhale of smoke. An exhale. It clouds the space between them.]
[ He seems to realize the guy is just blowing smoke when he doubles down on wanting to know if Juzo is “worth it”. Juzo worked hard to come by his rep, and anyone who walks through his door is going to know it. Whether this dude believes it or not is another story – one Juzo doesn’t frankly care to know, because it’s clear matters are much more urgent than they first appeared. Urgent enough to dispense with the banter. ]
That’s quite the pitch.
[ He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious, but with an explanation as bare-bones ad that, he’s going to need to know a lot more before he commits. ]
[This time, Johnny takes a moment before replying—takes an extra long drag of his cigarette—as though he had already let too much of him unravel via his eagerness to let the problem be known. For all his casual flippancy, he’s always been guarded in everything else. Makes him hard to like sometimes, but also makes it hard for other people to find those cracks in the armor.]
Mean what I said. Tricky.
[Helpful.]
Woman I’m lookin’ for is a big time merc. Made a lot of connections in her time — lots of friends, lots of enemies. Doesn’t take small potatoes work anymore, unless she’s feelin’ particularly soft on any given day. [From that alone, it’s obvious there’s at least a keen sense of familiarity between the two.] But this job? This job was somethin’ else.
[Johnny idly wiggles a foot crossed on an ankle, still hiked up on Juzo’s desk.]
[ “Tricky” doesn’t tell him much other than taking this job is going to be a pain in the ass. Still, he listens, turns the meager information over in his head for a few moments. There could be a lot of reasons for someone like that to go missing - namely the many enemies someone in that line of work tends to make.
This guy seems to think there’s something more to this, however, and Juzo has to admit he’s intrigued. ]
Not much of a gambler, myself. Only room for one vice in my life.
[ Said as he lifts his cigarette back to steel teeth for a deep inhale. ]
Goes by V. The only name anyone’s gotta know her by.
[V was the name everyone knew on the street; the name that anyone called up if they needed a job done; the name known for giving megacorps the big middle finger, and even left one a big pile of smoldering ashes because they did her wrong.
V was the only name anyone needed to work with. “Valerie” was for people of a closer sort, and even then, that name hardly ever rolled off of Johnny’s tongue.]
Not a gamblin’ man, but you’re gonna be. You hear of the Crystal Palace? Used to be a space station, billions of dollars sunk into it all for the military. Back in the day, there were rumors that the most elite assassins in the world would descend from that station, fallin’ straight into their targets’ laps.
[He huffs. Sounds ridiculous. But so are a lot of things in this world.]
These days? Ugly piece of metal still hangs in the sky, but it’s the world’s largest casino now. A playground for the rich and powerful; all manner of fun both above board and under the table.
Last she told me, V had a big job — kleppin’ some datachip or whatever. Had no idea where she’d gone off to, but I did some digging in her apartment. All signs point to the big dollar symbol in the sky.
[ Of all people, V should probably be more used to feeling like his mind's been rattled around inside of his skull. Shaken up like soda and ready to explode; a fountain of foamy thoughts like sludge through a stickily saturated neural network. It's not that he's in a worse position than when he left this world. If anything, his brain's a lot better.
He's just no better off.
People he's already lost once he's lost again. Kerry's nowhere to be found. Johnny might be back in the Net but the merc has no way to know, really. He could still be with Kerry, or maybe he got kicked off to another world too. He's trying to not let how unknown all of this is trip him up, but that first day back it's hard to simply put one foot in front of the other.
It's a lonely existence and that's hitting him hard already by the end of day one. Making his way to Afterlife is all he's got in him, the only autopilot he can really bear to just let run. Truth is it's going to take him time to work everything that's happened through in his head, no less because everybody here's acting like he'd never gone anywhere. Like he hasn't been missing for months and months.
Top dog's back on his patch, apparently, and he's different. And maybe Claire keeps looking at him like she's sorta noticing that, but V's making it hard to really tell. He's never been good at just sitting pretty in some VIP area, so any chance he gets to head on up to the private rooftop landing pad he does.
It's where he can be found for anybody looking for him provided they can bypass security and work out how to make the private elevator go up. ]
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finalflight2021-08-03 07:16 pm
@gunmettle.
Johnny always liked that turn of phrase, the kind of line you read in a book with dog-eared pages and a crease down the cover. A halo; a transcendent mystique that trailed the silhouetted form of a client framed in the doorway. A dame with a cigarette hanging from painted lips, filmed in black and white. Really set the scene, he thought, really piqued interest.
‘Course, he wasn’t about to fool himself thinking the same ever applied in reality. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to Johnny like tar, the smog lumbering after him like a dull creature, giving up and dissipating halfway. Its orange tip burns bright as he swings open the office door—private investigator, if he’s got the address right—and the little glow reflects off of dark aviators worn even at night.
There’s not much in the way of a greeting. The heel of his leather boot—dark, like the rest of his clothes, save the silvery glint of his prosthetic metal arm—kicks the edge of the door closed when it swings back. A second to take stock of the place, another second to breathe out a huff of smoke like he were a dragon just having crawled out of his den, balancing the cigarette between two fingers of his organic hand.
And then—]
What a dump.
[Yeah, hi.]
no subject
Juzo’s office has seen worse days – the hole that was blasted in the wall by a rather… troublesome client has been patched up, the paint looking just a little too fresh, too new, against the chipped and time-worn affair on the rest of the walls. One of the windows is newer, too.
If Johnny’s aim is to look like a dragon after he barges into the room, then he pales in comparison to the figure behind the desk. Even sitting, he’s tall and impossibly broad, well defined muscles evident under the black shirt that’s stretched tight over his frame. And, perhaps most striking of all, is his head: a massive revolver, under which sits a jack-o-lantern grin, cigarette clamped in steel teeth.
Juzo takes a deep breath, drawing in a lungful of smoke, and exhaling the same through his barely open maw. ]
Hurts my feelings to hear a client say that.
[ He reaches up to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a bit of ash into the well-used ashtray next to him on the desk. ]
Assuming you are a client.
no subject
[Johnny’s more of a big personality than a big physical presence — he might stand at 6’1”, but he’s got the build of a rockerboy. A life of too many drugs and too much to drink, late nights of partying after a gig of yelling his lungs out into a mic for a crowd that might not even listen. The look of a man who might’ve been military once upon a time, but ditched that life years ago. Sturdy, but lithe. Athletic, but could probably still be snapped in two by the house of a guy sitting at that desk across from him.
He’s definitely got the right address. Not exactly a lot of people toting around a mug like that, and Johnny tucks away the barb of feeling like he’s always being held at gunpoint for another time.
Right now, he adds to the coiling smoke of the room by taking another long drag of his cigarette, eyes casting about from beneath dark shades. He’s seen worse, actually. Seen a lot better, too. Looks like some pieces are newer than others, meaning that at least this place sees some action.
Promising? Guess he’ll see.]
Could be. [A client, he means.] Got money enough to make people like you real happy, assuming you’re any good at what you do.
[Johnny crosses over to the chair across from the desk, planting himself in it without so much of an invite. And since he can never sit like a normal human being, he makes himself comfortable: leans back, elbow on the backrest, and kicks a leg right up to rest his boot on the edge of Juzo’s desk.]
Are you? [He spreads a chrome hand in his direction.]
no subject
But if anyone were to be living proof that they once existed, the man behind the desk certainly fits the bill. ]
Don’t give me that.
[ Flatly, idly, as Juzo takes another drag of his cigarette. His head tilts in the direction of the boot now perched on his desk, though he doesn’t move to remove it. ]
You wouldn’t have come all the way down here if you didn’t think I was capable.
[ Business like Juzo’s thrives on word-of-mouth. It’s not like you can just pick a Resolver out of the phone book. ]
no subject
What, not gonna try to sell yourself to a potential client? Wanna hear your own opinion about what you can do, what you specialize in. Helps a man decide whether or not he wants to throw his hard-earned dough at you.
[On the tail of such a claim, it’s telling, then, that Johnny waves it away in the next breath. Normally he can stew in the back-and-forth, let them both marinate in it until they’re sick of each other. This time? This time maybe his patience isn’t quite as thick, maybe this has a sense of urgency to it that the rockerboy hasn’t bothered to let on since the moment he strode in, trailing cigarette smoke.]
How about this, then: you capable enough to find someone missin’ without so much of a trace? Of a sort. The kind of person that usually makes such a splash that they leave some kinda trail to follow, but this time that trail is…
[An inhale of smoke. An exhale. It clouds the space between them.]
Tricky.
no subject
That’s quite the pitch.
[ He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious, but with an explanation as bare-bones ad that, he’s going to need to know a lot more before he commits. ]
What do you mean “tricky”?
no subject
Mean what I said. Tricky.
[Helpful.]
Woman I’m lookin’ for is a big time merc. Made a lot of connections in her time — lots of friends, lots of enemies. Doesn’t take small potatoes work anymore, unless she’s feelin’ particularly soft on any given day. [From that alone, it’s obvious there’s at least a keen sense of familiarity between the two.] But this job? This job was somethin’ else.
[Johnny idly wiggles a foot crossed on an ankle, still hiked up on Juzo’s desk.]
You like casinos?
no subject
This guy seems to think there’s something more to this, however, and Juzo has to admit he’s intrigued. ]
Not much of a gambler, myself. Only room for one vice in my life.
[ Said as he lifts his cigarette back to steel teeth for a deep inhale. ]
This missin’ friend of yours got a name?
no subject
[V was the name everyone knew on the street; the name that anyone called up if they needed a job done; the name known for giving megacorps the big middle finger, and even left one a big pile of smoldering ashes because they did her wrong.
V was the only name anyone needed to work with. “Valerie” was for people of a closer sort, and even then, that name hardly ever rolled off of Johnny’s tongue.]
Not a gamblin’ man, but you’re gonna be. You hear of the Crystal Palace? Used to be a space station, billions of dollars sunk into it all for the military. Back in the day, there were rumors that the most elite assassins in the world would descend from that station, fallin’ straight into their targets’ laps.
[He huffs. Sounds ridiculous. But so are a lot of things in this world.]
These days? Ugly piece of metal still hangs in the sky, but it’s the world’s largest casino now. A playground for the rich and powerful; all manner of fun both above board and under the table.
Last she told me, V had a big job — kleppin’ some datachip or whatever. Had no idea where she’d gone off to, but I did some digging in her apartment. All signs point to the big dollar symbol in the sky.
Noct CRAU Shenans!
He's just no better off.
People he's already lost once he's lost again. Kerry's nowhere to be found. Johnny might be back in the Net but the merc has no way to know, really. He could still be with Kerry, or maybe he got kicked off to another world too. He's trying to not let how unknown all of this is trip him up, but that first day back it's hard to simply put one foot in front of the other.
It's a lonely existence and that's hitting him hard already by the end of day one. Making his way to Afterlife is all he's got in him, the only autopilot he can really bear to just let run. Truth is it's going to take him time to work everything that's happened through in his head, no less because everybody here's acting like he'd never gone anywhere. Like he hasn't been missing for months and months.
Top dog's back on his patch, apparently, and he's different. And maybe Claire keeps looking at him like she's sorta noticing that, but V's making it hard to really tell. He's never been good at just sitting pretty in some VIP area, so any chance he gets to head on up to the private rooftop landing pad he does.
It's where he can be found for anybody looking for him provided they can bypass security and work out how to make the private elevator go up. ]