thatsmyjonson | Don't Shoot The Messenger

Most days, Dane hated his job. He would never tell anyone that, but he really hated it. Even the handsome paycheck and prestige of being one of the staff members at one of the most elite clubs in the city could make up for the actual tasks of the job. More specifically, it couldn't make up for his boss. James Carmichael was a snake of a man who practically ruled any underground operation in the city. Somehow, he'd earned the nickname Osiris, though calling him that to his face was said to be a death sentence. Dane hated the days when he was stuck in the club pretending to be the world's scrawniest bouncer. He hated knowing his boss might be watching, or having to deal with his creepy assistant Dimitri. But what he hated more was actually being called into the boss's office. He had the scars to prove why that was to be avoided.

The one thing Dane did not hate was what his actual job was. He was Osiris' primary messenger, because no one else in the club could be quite so effective. He knew how to get someone's attention and could get out before he got hurt. He was sure there were quite a few police reports with his description and the tag of "vandal" attached to him, as these messages usually involved a lot of broken windows and smashed property. Usually once he was caught by the owners of said property, he'd merely state that Osiris sends his regards, and hopped out of there.

Today was one of those good days, with a message to deliver. He had an address, a name, and instructions to get inside but otherwise it was standard. He didn't even know anything about the target, other than her name was Lady Rosetide and Osiris had some beef with her. But he had a beef with half the city, so that wasn't anything special. He didn't even know if it was her home, her base of operations, or just a place she could be found.

Strolling up to the door with a hefty crowbar resting on his shoulder, he calmly rapped his knuckles on the door. If there was no answer, he had a means to get inside.

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There were few motivators in the world quite like fear, and boy did he fear what his boss might do if he didn't get this simple job right. Then again, he had no idea what sort of woman this was, nor did he know that Osiris hadn't intended him to return. He just knew if he didn't do the job, there'd be hell to pay. Fear and familiarity with the job allowed him to shove aside any hesitations he had, now that he was at least somewhat certain that he had the right person.

He put on a slightly awkward smile. When needing to get inside, feigning a lack of confidence tended to earn trust. Well, at least this time it wasn't faking it. "You're Lady..." he cleared his throat and lifted his chin a bit higher. Only then did he lower the crowbar like he was self conscious about holding it, gripping it with both hands at waist level. "I've...I've got a message to deliver. Could we...maybe talk inside?" He cast a cautious glance behind him, as if they could be overheard.

Adrianna's stepping aside, staring at her hard. She might not look incredulous, but Lucy's known the woman long enough to recognize when she is.. Her smile doesn't waver, despite the fact that this guy's holding a crowbar and playing timid. His awkwardness tastes bitter on her tongue, and the tinge of fear is like ash in the back of her throat.

"Must be an important message," she says, tone light. If he's this keyed up, it's probably not a good one. Her gaze flicks up, over his shoulder and to the darkness behind him. And then, with a shrug, she gestures for him to step inside.

Adrianna gives a derisive snort, slamming the door shut behind him once he does step in. "Cough over the crowbar, kid. Then you can go talk with the boss."

The door slamming behind him made him flinch. It was actually quite subdued to the lurch his heart gave, or the way his stomach sank. Only now was it starting to sink in that this may not be as clean cut as most of his jobs. Usually, he was tasked with wrecking some rich guy's house or car. He'd be outside, smashing windows. Even before his eyes darted around the place, he already knew there wasn't an easy exit. Clubs like this were meant to be completely separated from the outside world. There should be at least one door at the back, but what could would that do him once he was through?

Pushing the fear down, he cast a glance back at Adrianna. "But she's already invited me in," he said with an almost convincingly cocking smile. "Besides, what's a simple crowbar against what we all know you ladies are packing?"

He had no doubt they would fill him with bullets before he could break so much as a table. He was already revising his plan. He could just talk this one out. But if he got back to Osiris without property damage, there'd be something worse than bullets waiting for him. Maybe...he could talk this through, then just bust up stuff outside. That would count, right?

His smile faltered. "I mean, if my boss wanted to actually hurt anything, don't you think he'd have sent someone more..." With his free hand, he flexed, miming someone huge. "...robust?"

"Crowbar, or your ass makes itself scarce," Adrianna says. Judging by her tone, she won't be compromising, and her patience is thinning. It doesn't take having psi talent to make that deduction. This is why the woman is so useful.

If the newbie even so much as looks at her for help, she's going to lift her shoulders in a shrug.

"Being hospitable is one thing. I never said you could talk to me armed." She's not an idiot. With an incline of the head, Adrianna's crowding into this guy's space from behind, a gun pressed to the back of his skull. "It's just the way of business, babe. You understand."

Actually, if his boss wanted anyone hurt, he very well might be sent to do the hurting. Size doesn't mean much of anything in a world like this. Being cocky? That means everything. That's how you find yourself either demon-possessed, or dead, corpse rotting, the whole shebang.

"Let's do this quickly, hmm?"

Crowbar gripped tightly in both hands, Dane was already calculating how to do the most damage. Hell, he could step onto a table and leap onto the stage, knock out the pole and jam both through the floor boards. That would be enough to cause a disruption to business to send the message home. And he could do it before anyone could get hands on him.

But then the gun pressed to the back of his head, and he released the grip on the crowbar instantly. It smashed into his own foot, but he bit down on his tongue to keep from flinching too hard or crying out. Instead, he let out a pathetic whine, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

"Done." The word came out as a high-pitched croak, afraid to do much more lest a bullet end up in his head. He could handle blunt force trauma, even bladed weapons. But bullets? Couldn't block or outrun that.

Pathetic. That sort of response is pathetic, and Adrianna's disdain for the cry is well mapped on her face. She practically begs through one look to send a bullet straight through this guy's skull; if she were less celebratory, she might've allowed it.

Still. He came here for a reason, however stupid his moves so far have been. With an incline of the head which makes her second scowl, then make to shove Dane into a back room, she sighs. It's going to be one of those nights, isn't it?

Two glasses in hand, she slips into the back room, past the storage room, and into a small office. It's nothing fancy, which is to be expected since this isn't her primary haunt, but it's enough. A glass of whiskey's thunking against the desk she's soon circling. After that, she's reclining in the chair, kicking her feet up on the desk as she sips her own drink, watching him. Adrianna stays for as long as it takes to get Dane settled and behaving.

"So a crowbar, huh?"

I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die this is it this is how i die murdered in a cheap strip club is how i die. The thoughts ran on rapid repeat as Dane was led into the back room. He tried to twist it into a joke, something sarcastic, to just break the loop. But panic gripped him far too tightly to wriggle free so easily.

Only when he's seated does the set up of the backroom make any sense to his fear-strangled brain. Of course. An office in the back of a club. Full circle. It's how the job started, it's how his life would end. He tried to find an exit, his eyes sweeping quickly around the space. But if they had guns and he had nothing, how could he get anywhere without being shot a thousand times?

To the question, he just nodded dumbly. "I uh..." his tongue felt heavy and clumsy compared to the speed of his thoughts. "I'm not s'posed to hurt anyone. 'Least not kill 'em or anything." He fumbled his words horribly, slurring them together, trying to talk faster than he was capable. "Just send the message. Boss can't collect if people're dead--" he cleared his throat, lowering his gaze to her desk. "Just...just a messenger...ma'am..." What was he even supposed to say?

Don't Shoot The Messenger

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