pleasuretoburn (pleasuretoburn) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2021-03-09 21:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | noah restic, npc |
No Pit Deep Enough
Who: Noah/NPC Oliver (Written By Gazer)
What: Hypotheticals
Where: Las Vegas
When: Present
Ratings/Warnings: Mentions of Violence
The Rabbit Hole was a safe haven against violence. That used to somewhat annoy Noah, even though the interdimensional club facilitated a lot of deals for him. He also knew that while the confines of the place might have been safe, that didn’t mean someone couldn’t follow him out. Thankfully, he wasn’t totally helpless without his powers. He had weapons and he knew how to use them, and the shadow of his reputation was also a form of protection. As long as people still didn’t know that he had lost the fire.
He sat at the bar, putting on his usual aloof demeanor even as he was hyper aware of who came near him. A glass of top shelf vodka sat before him as Noah scrolled idly through his phone. His younger brother Ivan was on a private plane that had taken off from Heathrow, headed to McCarran airport. The pyrokinetic was feeling something strange and unfamiliar at the prospect of his brother coming to Vegas. Could it have been anxiety?
There was a very tall man smoking a cigarette in the atrium of the club while he waited for a place at the bar to open up. The Rabbit Hole was a popular establishment even by Las Vegas standards, and that night was particularly busy. He’d taken off his lightweight jacket, left it in the rental car. It had been how many years since he’d been here?
When it looked like a vacancy was available, the tall man put his cigarette out in the standing ashtray next to the concierge’s desk and waded through the crowd. He was meeting someone, a gentleman who sold what amounted to black market magical items, and this was the safest place for it. He’d wanted a copy of Schrader’s Compendium for a long time, had found a broker who helped him set up a meeting.
“Barkeep!”
A pale hand smacked down on the dark wood of the counter, and when the bartender looked over the new customer said, “Glenfiddich straight, please, and possibly leave the bottle.”
At the mention of a bottle of Glenfiddich, Noah’s attention was captured. He sat up straighter, took an appraising look at the tall stranger. “You sure about that?” he asked. “The markup here is ridiculous.” The bartender shot the pyrokinetic a scowl but said nothing. He took a sip of his vodka, the warmth familiar and bracing.
“I’m celebrating.”
Not that the solemn expression on his face was any indication, but there was a glimmer of something darkly mirthful in the tall man’s eyes as the bartender served up his first drink. Some more space had opened up at the bar, and he pulled out a heavy silver lighter from his shirt pocket before making a perfunctory check for a No Smoking sign. The first sip from the glass was the warmest, lighting a dull fire down to his belly.
“To new acquisitions.”
“Are you a businessman or something?” Noah asked, watching him pull out the lighter. It only served to remind him of what he was lacking. He patted the pocket of his own denim jacket. Since killing Doherty and losing his ‘gifts’, he’d been diving into substance use even harder than before, and that was saying something. That included smoking. He pulled out a black Sobranie and lit it, watching the smoke curl and float up to the ceiling.
With his other hand, he brought the rocks glass to his lips and polished off his vodka, motioning to the bartender for a refill. Maybe he should just ask for the bottle, too. “Let me guess. Real estate?” An ironic smile graced Noah’s lips.
“Investments, after a fashion.”
The man on the other bar stool put his glass down on the coaster he’d been given, considered his options for the next day. He had a room booked at a hotel, but hadn’t seen it yet. And he’d forgotten the night time traffic around here.
“Are you waiting on someone yourself?”
Noah watched the clear liquid pour into the glass as he took another long drag on the gold-tipped cigarette. His phone chimed, it was a text from Ivan. He glanced at it quickly. ’This tin can had better not crash. I’m not dying on a Cessna.’ The pyrokinetic rolled his eyes and slipped the device back into his pocket. “Not for a few hours now. I’m mostly looking for something to pass the time.”
He deposited some spent ash into a glass tray. “Maybe you can entertain me.” The words might have been arrogant, even in character for ‘old’ Noah, but he wasn’t exactly feeling it. The truth was, he was lonely. Him, lonely. It was disconcerting.
The tall man snorted, a mostly undignified sound given the state of his clothes. Custom made shirt, expensive trousers, loafers made out of costly leather. Still, he was amused.
“Strange city to be bored in,” he remarked, using his cigarette as a pointer at their general surroundings. “I live overseas now, but the place hasn’t changed since I did live here. If anything, it’s gotten louder and brighter. Perhaps you’re in the wrong place?”
“Maybe I am,” Noah agreed, his eyes on the Glenfiddich label. It reminded him of his father, Ivan Sr., who always tried desperately to live above his station before finally receiving the windfall from selling out his own eldest son. Since losing his powers, he found himself taking long trips down the mental hallway of memory, wondering how things would have been different if he had just been born into another kind of family.
“But to tell you the truth, I’ve been bored all my life.” Smoke poured out of his mouth as Noah spoke. “Loud and bright doesn’t really do it for me. It’s all just cheap, flimsy distraction. But it sure is easy to take advantage of people here.” And then he smiled.
Something knowing crossed the other man’s face, something perceptive, and he smiled back. “Desperation, my good friend,” he said, ash from the end of his cigarette adding to the gray substance already in the tray, ignoring that they had yet to exchange names. “Desperation is the one thing you can count on. That and greed. Those of us who have the luxury of patience can always take advantage of both. As long as people are venal enough to need, there will always be blood in the water.”
He smoked into the silence for a minute, idly watching a black-vested server pass by with a platter filled with glasses. Some empty, some full, some half-finished. He indicated him with a subtle gesture.
“Twenty dollars says he drops it before he reaches the kitchen.”
Noah snorted, watching the server try to find the right spot underneath the tray to balance the varied weight of liquid and empty glass. “I’m not usually a gambling man,” he told the stranger. “I prefer to make my own luck.” That, of course, had been his philosophy before, before Doherty had drugged him and trapped him in a corner like an undignified rat.
“You know what? Fuck it. Let’s make it forty.” The pyrokinetic extinguished his cigarette.
The tall man took two twenty dollar bills out of his pocket and set them on the bar, smoothing the paper money against the solid surface. He poured from the bottle of scotch into his newly empty glass, half of his attention on the server. He wouldn’t even need to cast for this one, which would leave him with no headache to go with the hangover later.
To the server’s credit, he almost made it past the kitchen’s swinging doors to safety, but once the tray started to slip to the left, the heavier glasses added to the slide. There was a shattering noise, then another, then several more. Glass and alcohol formed a puddle on the floor, and then the unfortunate waiter dropped the tray on top of the mess just to complete the hilarity.
“Well done.”
The tall man clapped quietly, reclaimed his burning cigarette.
“Huh.”
Noah watched this display with a sneaking suspicion that the man next to him was far more than he appeared. He was suddenly a little less bored. He opened his wallet and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. “I don’t have twenties,” he said, placing it on top of the other man’s money. “We’ll just call the extra ten a tip.”
He finished his second drink. “What’s your name? Since I just lost a bet to you and all.”
“Eh, fuck it. It wasn’t a fair bet anyway.”
The money was pushed back across the bar, and he offered the other man his right hand. “Oliver. I take it you’re not a native to Nevada, Mr….?”
He took Oliver’s hand, shaking it with a cryptic smile. The pyrokinetic momentarily debated whether to give his ‘real’ name. “Noah. And I’m not native to the United States in general.” His accent was still present, though diminished after years living away from Ukraine. He could have hid it completely if he wanted to, and sometimes did when completing jobs.
“Ah, an ex-pat.”
Oliver watched the mess near the kitchen start to be cleaned up for a minute, then turned his attention back towards the other man. “Vegas is a good city to start over in, I’ll give it that. You can get lost without losing yourself. As long as you stay out of the casinos for the most part. It’s the lack of clocks.”
Oliver was certainly correct. Noah had lived somewhere with a lack of clocks and calendars for years. When he was finally free, he had been surprised to learn how much time had passed, how many years he had lost. Even if he had been an upstanding citizen, he probably still would have sought revenge against his father. “Are you trying to start over?” he asked, pushing away his empty glass. He was good on drinks for now. Best to keep some semblance of consciousness about him.
“If you are, I know a good document forger.”
“Been there, done that.”
There was another space of silence while Oliver checked his phone, found no relevant texts. He put the mostly-finished cigarette out in the ashtray and said, “So. Warm hands means you’re not a vamp, and I don’t know enough shapeshifters to say for sure. Magic user or something…else?”
“Else,” Noah muttered, staring straight ahead at the various bottles lining the wall of the bar. That brought his mind back to the problem at hand. Doherty had drugged him and his powers vanished. He knew the cop couldn’t have come up with what he assumed was a magical substance on his own. If it was regular drug suppression, it would have worn off by now. So whatever it was, was still in his system and didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. The kind of people he could ask for help were the same ones he didn’t really want to know about his current powerless state.
“I was born with a certain predilection toward fire,” he told Oliver, his voice low. “Don’t know where it came from. All my relatives are boringly normal.”
“Huh.”
Oliver leaned closer, his elbow coming to rest next to the cash he’d put down a few minutes ago. Into Noah’s space, as if he could see the difference, or maybe smell it like it was ozone or gasoline. One shoulder lifted as he pulled back into his own bubble.
“Guess it’s not exactly a party trick type thing, then.”
Noah stared at Oliver with a mixture of bemusement and wariness as he moved in closer. Pieces were starting to add up, gears beginning to turn. “And what are you? Magic user, mystic…?” He took out another cigarette and lit it, just to give his hands something to do. Silver lining, his lighter was starting to find some use.
He blew out a ring of smoke. “Snake Oil salesman?”
“I have been known to cast a spell now and then. Though it’s self-taught, not in the blood.”
The spillage had been swept up, and now someone from the kitchen was mopping up the spilled booze. “It’s not common, but you probably know that. Psychic gifts don’t come from study, they’re in the genes.” Olver cast a vaguely amused look at the lighter in Noah’s hand, turned his glass around in a slow circle on the bar.
“Comes in handy if you get mugged, I’m sure.”
“Can’t say that ever happens to me,” Noah replied, turning the silver Zippo over in his hands. He could see a distorted version of himself on the metallic surface. “People trying to kill me, though?” He turned to glance at Oliver with an ironic smile. “That, I get.” His gaze swept down the length of the bar, taking in the various denizens of the place. The Rabbit Hole was nothing if not diverse.
“What would you do if you woke up tomorrow, and it was all gone?” the pyrokinetic continued casually. “You were just another average Joe.”
Oliver’s mouth drew in at the corners, as if he’d bitten into something unpleasant. He’d been born to privilege, had an abundance of ‘go to hell’ money, and so he couldn’t quite imagine losing all of it. His abilities, on the other hand, the things he knew how to do? Those he’d earned, through stress headaches and days without sleep and the blood from his veins. If he’d added to the scars on his arms for the sake of knowledge, the blood spilled had been worth it.
“Go crazy,” he said after a minute of silence. “Or kill myself. Or go crazy and then kill myself. Depends on the day.”
“Ah.”
Noah looked down at his hands. According to some, he was already crazy. As for killing himself, he hadn’t gotten this far in life only to end his own life. It seemed too anticlimactic. And then he pictured his enemies celebrating. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “You wouldn’t try to fight to get it back?” the pyrokinetic asked, looking back up at Oliver.
“Ahhhh.”
It was a drawn-out noise, an exhalation, and Oliver took his cigarettes out of his pocket to light a new one. He was looking at Noah’s lighter more closely, realizing the question hadn’t precisely been rhetorical. He put the pack down on the bar, his own lighter on top of it. The antique silver gleamed mellowly under the overhead lights.
“Well. There’s lost and then there’s stolen, isn’t there? Theft is usually associated with things, physical objects. Televisions, cars, the watch you left behind in a hotel room and didn’t realize it until you were on the flight home. We don’t usually think of what’s in here as tangible.”
He tapped his chest with the index finger of his free hand, then his left temple. Studying the other man bemusedly before he spoke again.
“There are...suppressants, I guess you’d call them. They’re not common either, but they can be found. Did you make someone angry, Noah?”
Noah snorted quietly, reaching up to brush away a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his eyes. “I’ve made a lot of people angry,” he answered. Fuck it, he was still thirsty. He asked for a refill on his vodka. “I’ve made a lot of people scared, sad. You name it.” He was always annoyed when people misused the word karma. It wasn’t something that happened until they died, karmic retribution. Bad things just happened. Or were caused by people getting paid a handsome sum to do so.
“I ran afoul of someone that I underestimated,” he continued, bringing his now full glass to his lips. “Never drink something you didn’t see someone pour yourself. Or poured yourself.” He lifted the drink in a mock toast.
“I’ll drink to that.”
Oliver tapped his fingers on the bar next to his glass, tried to recall what he knew about antidotes for such things. Which wasn’t much. He specialized in chaos magic, which had little to do with potions. He rubbed his clean-shaven jawline with the back of one hand before clearing his throat.
“I take it the person who did it is no longer in the picture,” he said carefully. “If they were, you wouldn’t have questions about how to fix the situation.”
“No, definitely not in the picture,” Noah agreed. He really needed to stop with the newfound smoking habit if he was going to have the lung capacity to possibly run from the police, because there was no way they were going to let Doherty’s death go uninvestigated. And he hadn’t exactly been careful. That was part of the reason why he had contacted his younger brother. He had experience with things like that.
“I know he didn’t come by it on his own,” he added. “But this guy was straightlaced, not a part of...this world. I need to find out where he got his hands on whatever he fed me.”
“Greed, Noah,” Oliver said sagely. “Whoever said that money is the root of all evil had it wrong. It might solve problems, but it’s transitory. It’s the need for it that solves problems.”
The door that led out onto the street swung open, and a man in an ill-fitting suit and a terrible combover stepped inside and looked around. The spellcaster let out a sound that might have been amusement or annoyance. He picked up the cap for the bottle of Scotch, began to screw it back into place. “Speaking of greed, here’s my guy now.”
Before he took his leave, Oliver regarded Noah with something that was both curious and cold. The forty dollars he’d set down earlier was still there, because money had always been the least of his worries. “You asked me, so I’m going to tell you. If someone stole something from me, something that really mattered? There’d be no pit deep enough to hide in, and nothing I wouldn’t do to get back what’s mine. I’d wish you luck, but I don’t think you’ll need it.”