pleasuretoburn (pleasuretoburn) wrote in birthrightrpg, @ 2020-08-10 21:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | noah restic, ~phanuel |
Best Out of Three
Who: Noah Restic, Phanuel
What: Mistaken Identity
Where: Nevada, Bar
When: Present, Day
Ratings/Warnings: References to Violence
’Someone oughta burn this place down.’
Noah lifted the rocks glass filled with whiskey to his lips and gave a silent toast to his reflection. A strip of mirror lined the bar, double-displaying bottles of liquor with all the subtlety of a police lineup. Somewhere in the recesses of his faded denim jacket, a phone buzzed. He pulled out the device, checked the screen.
Will be 15 minutes late. Don’t move.
Annoyed, he set the phone down on the sticky-topped fake wood. Noah didn’t enjoy waiting, least of all not for getting paid. His fingers buzzed in a similar fashion, though not due to any kind of incoming message. The sensation was familiar in the truest sense. It knew every nerve ending of Noah’s body. The fire. It sang.
Someone needed to ram a foot into the guts of the jukebox. ‘The problem with music’, Phanuel ruminated, as she stepped into the dive bar, ‘is the lack of passion. Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, Cobain. These were artists. This was manufactured pap played to the lowest common denominator.’
She scanned the bar, looking for a seat without passengers. Like an airplane, it felt glorious when you got a row to yourself. Not that she flew in a tin can when she could help it. The Angel still had enough juice to pop around the continental United States; however, if she wanted to go trans-atlantic, well, that’s when she needed a little help. Thankfully there was only one other occupant at the bar, and Phanuel was able to take the seat furthest from him. She motioned to the bartender, and ordered a vodka tonic.
Noah looked over at the newcomer, then checked his phone again. The timing of his presence at the bar had been strategically chosen. The drop-off would occur with an associate entering the watering hole and taking a seat. The pyrokinetic was then expected to utter a code phrase. Since being made aware of the tardiness of said drop off, not even five minutes ago, Noah began to think a mind game was being played here.
He stood slowly, approached the other end of the car. Surveyed the woman seated there with barely concealed confusion and distrust. Noah sighed slightly before speaking. The code phrase had not been chosen by him.
“Thirsty, huh?”
’Seriously?!’ The Angel intentionally went out of her way to grab a drink, outside of her double-wide (which was becoming all too popular with not one but TWO visitors in the past couple of weeks). Hell, she even travelled outside of Searchlight, in hopes no one would recognize her. She intentionally left as much distance between herself and the only other person seated at the bar, and still she was being hit on.
“As a camel in the desert,” she chimed in, then took a slug of her drink. Phanuel kept her silence after that minimal response, hoping the stranger would just go away.
Noah’s eyebrows furrowed. That wasn’t the correct response. He would try one more time; maybe they had just sent an idiot who decided to go off-book. The dark-haired man laid a hand on her narrow shoulder. “Well, it’s your round.” The pyrokinetic gestured with his half-empty glass, ice cubes rattling.
He needed this money. The last job after Katherine’s capture had depleted him, and Noah hadn’t even slept yet. If he had to make a fool out of himself to get the cash, so be it; he would pay the employer back later in kind. He could play the humiliation game right back.
Contact.
Phanuel attempted to block it, but her barriers were down and a few images flooded in from the man’s psyche before she had a chance to block them.
Noah (he literally screamed his name, the man was so vainglorious) was looking for someone in particular, and mistook the Angel for his meet-up. She thought about setting him straight, as well as bending that hand back until it snapped and he screamed in pain, when she accidentally muttered, “These pretzels are making me thirsty…”
Reassured, he settled on the stool next to her. “They told me you would need to see proof,” he muttered. Noah glanced up to make sure the bartender was occupied; apparently he had wandered off to the restroom or somewhere. He took out his phone and held the screen so that she could see, and flipped through the photos.
A man was tied to a steel beam, burned unrecognizable if not for the previous images of him untouched and obviously pleading for his life. It had taken quite a bit of work on Noah’s part. A sustained fire. He didn’t like to cheat and use accelerants. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
“Is that acceptable?”
“For the Salem Witch Trials,” she retorted. Phanuel sifted through the download, garnering more information. Clearly he thought the blonde was there to meet him, and would be impressed at seeing what amounted to some as torture porn. “It lacks… originality.”
A piece of the puzzle fell into place as she put the jigsawed memories into place. “You’re a pyrokinetic.”
He took the phone back from her, looking at her bemusedly. “Is this some kind of game? This is exactly what was requested.” There was a barely contained note of anger in his voice. He was exhausted, had shit to buy, and now he was being dicked around?
The curious thing of it, however, was her last statement. He didn’t exactly go around advertising himself. His work spoke for itself, and his bosses didn’t care or ask why he was so good at it. Fire bug, was the term. It was insulting, but Noah didn’t correct them. He was the fire. Usually, an arsonist played with the element like it was a child that didn’t know its parent; it could circle back and turn on its maker with little thought. But he could make it dance for him.
Pyrokinetic. Almost no one knew of that. And yet, here she was. “The job is done. Where is the money?”
“Ah. You’re expecting payment.” Phanuel threw back the rest of her drink. “I’m not your bag man. Frankly I’m amused that you think so lowly of me as actingt as a go-between with your employer. Do I look like I’m carrying a briefcase full of money? Or do people pay in bit coin these days?”
She was taunting him. Noah looked around the bar. No visible security cameras of any kind. The bartender was still off somewhere. This would hurt him later.
He put his hand flat on the bar, palm down. After a moment, a small string of fire ignited, almost as if following a miniature trail of spilled gasoline. The flame reached her glass quickly. Noah dug deep, his head swimming, but sustained by anger. The glass shattered, and the vodka tonic spilled out.
“Now, that’s just rude.” The emphasis on the last word was directed at Noah. Phanuel put her hand on the flame, allowed it to consume, but not burn, her hand.
“You know what they say. Play with fire, and you might get burned.” The Angel puffed her cheeks and blew on her hand, dousing the minor blaze.
Noah felt better from using the power alone. The result was incidental. This, however, was growing ever more curious. He watched her skin remain untouched, unblistered. She reminded him of a trickster god that he had once encountered on a trip to New York City. Showy.
His expression neutral, he threw back the remaining contents of his whiskey. The bartender emerged from some back room, whistling foolishly to himself. He paused in his tracks when he spotted the mess of glass and liquid. “Oh, whoops. Let me help clean this up.”
Noah turned to him with a glare. “Busy yourself somewhere else.” He turned back to the woman beside him. “Okay, you’re not the bag man. Would you happen to know who is? Because I’m tired of waiting.”
“Probably the person who just walked through the door, carrying a bag of which, I am assuming. Is cash.”
Noah stood, watching the newcomer enter the bar while looking around idiotically. His own hands balled into fists as he looked down at the blonde woman. She was something. He needed to find out what, but not now.
The pyrokinetic approached the man with the bag. “This was not 15 minutes late,” he whispered through gritted teeth. He roughly grabbed the guy’s arm and hauled him outside. Fuck the code phrases.
“Exhibit A. Why I hate humanity ninety-nine point eight percent of the time.”
Phanuel ordered another drink. “And someone turn off that fucking jukebox.”