HeapThaumaturgist
First Post
The Auction
(( I'm going to try this a little differently for this part ... and describe a scene like a script for a comic book panel.))
==Cut Scene==
A ruined, black sedan - front end crumpled against an unyeilding brick wall. Through a shattered window we see a brochure, spotted with wetness from the constant, drizzling rain. The brochure is for a place called "Loveless and Kline", an auction house. The appearance suggested is one of culture, luxury, and expense: Entirely out of place with the dirty, blood-stained interrior of the gangsters' car. One thing stands out in particular on the brochure, circled in a single bold streak from a red marker - an auction of personal items once owned by Nikola Tesla.
=============
Doc swept grandly into the main auction theater of the Loveless and Kline house on Mordecai's arm. Of the four, they were the two who fit most easily into the role as members of Port Marlowe's cultural elite, so they had been chosen to "get all gussied up" and infiltrate the interior of the auctionhouse. Doc Marten looked quite striking in a long, full lapeled faux-mink coat and black evening dress. Her shoulder-length hair had been waved and styled all out of proportion to her usual hat-bedraggled, oil-streaked mop and expertly colored to a deep and burnished auburn. Mordecai was no less resplendant in a very modern-cut, tailed tuxedo complete with hat and pristine white gloves, all of which fit his every proportion perfectly. The completeness of their finery was in no small amount surprising, as Mordecai hadn't worn a tuxedo in several years, and hadn't seen a tailor's tape since before that; and Marten had been quite vocal that she had never, in her days, been under a hairdresser's ministrations ... and would never be so again.
Their evening wear was thanks entirely to their enigmatic butler, Maxwel, who hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow when they asked if he could make them ready for a visit to the haute Loveless and Kline house ... in under twenty-four hours. Maxwell seemed iminently capable of performing minor miracles of logistics and cultural commerce, and had so far never once failed to come through on any request put to him, no matter how rushed or strange it seemed, in the year they had known him ... ...
-----------------------------------------
For, you see, Maxwell was central to how and why the four found themselves working together, as they were, toward common goals. Each had been approached by the liveried spokesman not long after some incident in their lives that evidenced, individually, their extraordinary personal talents and their best intentions toward the citizens of Port Marlowe and the interests of equity and justice within that fine harbor city. Maxwell appeared on those occassions, out of the rainy Marlowe evening, bearing an envelope for each. Within each envelope was an address, a key, a check, and a letter. The letter itself explained that the check, key, and address were an offer of employment or, more exactly, patronage, and was signed only with an ornate calligraphic letter. The address, written on a white business card in the same handwriting, stated "The 88th Floor, Imperial Building". The check was for ten thousand dollars, drawn on a Swiss numbered account. That envelope was how each of them came to find themselves in the foyer of the suite of offices and adjoining penthouse apartment that made up the entirety of the 88th floor of Port Marlowe's most expensive office skyscraper, the surprisingly modern art deco Imperial Building, where they were greeted by the inscrutable Maxwell ... and welcomed "home".
----------------------------------------
John stood across the street from Loveless and Kline, secreted in an alley, out of the worst of the steadily hissing rain. He had to admit, as far as alleys went, it was a rather nice one. Apparently everything was better on the nice side of town. He smoked a cigarette, leaning back under an small overhang to protect it from the rain, water spattering on his brown leather shoes. He kept one eye on the auction house. He didn't envy Mordecai and Marten at all, as this was wholley his element, and he was having fun.
A little less pleased, perhaps, Yan crouched on a rooftop across from the rear of the auction place. He had opted to watch the back entrance, and was quite glad he'd accepted Max's offer of a shiny, deeply-cowled rain coat with a hood. Between its dark olivey color, and the general graying effect of the rain, he was totally invisible on his perch high above his watch.
Inside, Mordecai scanned the crowd for Little Micky Neskovska. They were all quite sure he would be there, or at least some of his flunkies, based on the brochure they had found in the car the night before, and some rumors coming in off the Riverfront. Unfortunately, as far as Mordecai could see, Micky didn't seem to be in the crowd, nor were any obvious Nasa Stvar goons.
"Not seeing the mouse." Doc said under her breath.
"Me either." Mordecai replied.
They had been given dispensation to use up to ten thousand dollars of their patron's funds, according to Max, to purchase items to keep their cover, decorate the penthouse and, if they thought it necessary, to out-bid Micky for any of Tesla's possessions. Not, really, that any of them seemed particularly valuable. The most interesting pieces of the lot were a few journals (having nothing to do with any of Tesla's scientific research, and being concerned mostly with letters to friends and family), an old radio, and a pair of ragged leather shoes. Mordecai's money was on the shoes ... Doc, as a scientist, figured that if Tesla had hidden anything of importance among his possessions, he would have secreted it within the workings of the tall, wooden-facade radio.
The night wore on, items of luxury and richness, and occassionally dubious value, changing hands with the quiet, arcane flickering of formalized auction. Doc found nothing horribly interesting among the other items up for auction, but Mordecai bid on a handful of obscure art pieces and even won a handful rare, exceedingly old books. Finally, though, the Tesla lot was wheeled from the cages in the back room and onto the auction stage; the next lot up for auction. It was as two uniformed guards were wheeling the carts onto the stage that Mordecai happened to notice Little Micky Neskovska a few rows over and two in front of them. They hadn't noticed him enter. Mordecai nodded slightly.
"The mouse." He said, simply.
"Indeed." Doc replied ... but she was looking at the guards. They looked enough alike to be brothers. And they were Serbs.
--------------------------------------
Outside, John turned his head slightly to peer out at the street from under his hat. The only things about him visible from the sidwalk were the tips of his shoes and the cherry of his cigarette. A van had pulled up on his side of the street across from Loveless and Kline, a florist's van with "Ed's Roses" on the side. He grunted under his breath and dropped his cigarette to hiss itself out in a puddle. The van's sudden appearance was suspicious, to say the least. He turned his mouth toward the tiny mic bud under one lapel.
"Yan. Got a florist van in the front, here, just showed up. Keep an eye on the rear. If this is a move, they may hit both sides at once." He whispered.
"I see." Replied Yan.
Just then the rear doors of the van swung open and two men stepped out. John's eyes widened under the brim of his fedora: One of the men swung a portable rocket launcher tube onto his shoulder and went to one knee in a fluid movement.
"Holy sh ..." His words were drowned out as the rocket ignited and roared toward the brick front of Loveless and Kline.
TRWHOOOOOM!!
The front of the building collapsed in on itself; bricks, dust, and glass spraying everywhere.
Inside, the whole room shuddered with the impact of the rocket outside, and the lights flickered and died. Immediately, people began to scream and stand up in their seats. At the same time the guards on the dias began firing their submachine guns in the air, further whipping the crowd into a blind panic. Mordecai stood and began fighting his way against the press, TOWARD the stage. He quickly lost sight of Doc Marten, and so it was that he didn't notice her coat and dress collapse into themselves ... empty!
(( I'm going to try this a little differently for this part ... and describe a scene like a script for a comic book panel.))
==Cut Scene==
A ruined, black sedan - front end crumpled against an unyeilding brick wall. Through a shattered window we see a brochure, spotted with wetness from the constant, drizzling rain. The brochure is for a place called "Loveless and Kline", an auction house. The appearance suggested is one of culture, luxury, and expense: Entirely out of place with the dirty, blood-stained interrior of the gangsters' car. One thing stands out in particular on the brochure, circled in a single bold streak from a red marker - an auction of personal items once owned by Nikola Tesla.
=============
Doc swept grandly into the main auction theater of the Loveless and Kline house on Mordecai's arm. Of the four, they were the two who fit most easily into the role as members of Port Marlowe's cultural elite, so they had been chosen to "get all gussied up" and infiltrate the interior of the auctionhouse. Doc Marten looked quite striking in a long, full lapeled faux-mink coat and black evening dress. Her shoulder-length hair had been waved and styled all out of proportion to her usual hat-bedraggled, oil-streaked mop and expertly colored to a deep and burnished auburn. Mordecai was no less resplendant in a very modern-cut, tailed tuxedo complete with hat and pristine white gloves, all of which fit his every proportion perfectly. The completeness of their finery was in no small amount surprising, as Mordecai hadn't worn a tuxedo in several years, and hadn't seen a tailor's tape since before that; and Marten had been quite vocal that she had never, in her days, been under a hairdresser's ministrations ... and would never be so again.
Their evening wear was thanks entirely to their enigmatic butler, Maxwel, who hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow when they asked if he could make them ready for a visit to the haute Loveless and Kline house ... in under twenty-four hours. Maxwell seemed iminently capable of performing minor miracles of logistics and cultural commerce, and had so far never once failed to come through on any request put to him, no matter how rushed or strange it seemed, in the year they had known him ... ...
-----------------------------------------
For, you see, Maxwell was central to how and why the four found themselves working together, as they were, toward common goals. Each had been approached by the liveried spokesman not long after some incident in their lives that evidenced, individually, their extraordinary personal talents and their best intentions toward the citizens of Port Marlowe and the interests of equity and justice within that fine harbor city. Maxwell appeared on those occassions, out of the rainy Marlowe evening, bearing an envelope for each. Within each envelope was an address, a key, a check, and a letter. The letter itself explained that the check, key, and address were an offer of employment or, more exactly, patronage, and was signed only with an ornate calligraphic letter. The address, written on a white business card in the same handwriting, stated "The 88th Floor, Imperial Building". The check was for ten thousand dollars, drawn on a Swiss numbered account. That envelope was how each of them came to find themselves in the foyer of the suite of offices and adjoining penthouse apartment that made up the entirety of the 88th floor of Port Marlowe's most expensive office skyscraper, the surprisingly modern art deco Imperial Building, where they were greeted by the inscrutable Maxwell ... and welcomed "home".
----------------------------------------
John stood across the street from Loveless and Kline, secreted in an alley, out of the worst of the steadily hissing rain. He had to admit, as far as alleys went, it was a rather nice one. Apparently everything was better on the nice side of town. He smoked a cigarette, leaning back under an small overhang to protect it from the rain, water spattering on his brown leather shoes. He kept one eye on the auction house. He didn't envy Mordecai and Marten at all, as this was wholley his element, and he was having fun.
A little less pleased, perhaps, Yan crouched on a rooftop across from the rear of the auction place. He had opted to watch the back entrance, and was quite glad he'd accepted Max's offer of a shiny, deeply-cowled rain coat with a hood. Between its dark olivey color, and the general graying effect of the rain, he was totally invisible on his perch high above his watch.
Inside, Mordecai scanned the crowd for Little Micky Neskovska. They were all quite sure he would be there, or at least some of his flunkies, based on the brochure they had found in the car the night before, and some rumors coming in off the Riverfront. Unfortunately, as far as Mordecai could see, Micky didn't seem to be in the crowd, nor were any obvious Nasa Stvar goons.
"Not seeing the mouse." Doc said under her breath.
"Me either." Mordecai replied.
They had been given dispensation to use up to ten thousand dollars of their patron's funds, according to Max, to purchase items to keep their cover, decorate the penthouse and, if they thought it necessary, to out-bid Micky for any of Tesla's possessions. Not, really, that any of them seemed particularly valuable. The most interesting pieces of the lot were a few journals (having nothing to do with any of Tesla's scientific research, and being concerned mostly with letters to friends and family), an old radio, and a pair of ragged leather shoes. Mordecai's money was on the shoes ... Doc, as a scientist, figured that if Tesla had hidden anything of importance among his possessions, he would have secreted it within the workings of the tall, wooden-facade radio.
The night wore on, items of luxury and richness, and occassionally dubious value, changing hands with the quiet, arcane flickering of formalized auction. Doc found nothing horribly interesting among the other items up for auction, but Mordecai bid on a handful of obscure art pieces and even won a handful rare, exceedingly old books. Finally, though, the Tesla lot was wheeled from the cages in the back room and onto the auction stage; the next lot up for auction. It was as two uniformed guards were wheeling the carts onto the stage that Mordecai happened to notice Little Micky Neskovska a few rows over and two in front of them. They hadn't noticed him enter. Mordecai nodded slightly.
"The mouse." He said, simply.
"Indeed." Doc replied ... but she was looking at the guards. They looked enough alike to be brothers. And they were Serbs.
--------------------------------------
Outside, John turned his head slightly to peer out at the street from under his hat. The only things about him visible from the sidwalk were the tips of his shoes and the cherry of his cigarette. A van had pulled up on his side of the street across from Loveless and Kline, a florist's van with "Ed's Roses" on the side. He grunted under his breath and dropped his cigarette to hiss itself out in a puddle. The van's sudden appearance was suspicious, to say the least. He turned his mouth toward the tiny mic bud under one lapel.
"Yan. Got a florist van in the front, here, just showed up. Keep an eye on the rear. If this is a move, they may hit both sides at once." He whispered.
"I see." Replied Yan.
Just then the rear doors of the van swung open and two men stepped out. John's eyes widened under the brim of his fedora: One of the men swung a portable rocket launcher tube onto his shoulder and went to one knee in a fluid movement.
"Holy sh ..." His words were drowned out as the rocket ignited and roared toward the brick front of Loveless and Kline.
TRWHOOOOOM!!
The front of the building collapsed in on itself; bricks, dust, and glass spraying everywhere.
Inside, the whole room shuddered with the impact of the rocket outside, and the lights flickered and died. Immediately, people began to scream and stand up in their seats. At the same time the guards on the dias began firing their submachine guns in the air, further whipping the crowd into a blind panic. Mordecai stood and began fighting his way against the press, TOWARD the stage. He quickly lost sight of Doc Marten, and so it was that he didn't notice her coat and dress collapse into themselves ... empty!
