2010-01-22: FB: Pistolwhipped



Date Set: June 3, 2009


Tori and Brayden try to take Ackart's cargo for revenge…

Eight Months Ago…


Shipyard (docks) — Cork, Ireland

Despite it being summer, the night is chilly, a fog coming in off the water and swirling like some creep cemetery in a B movie. It's the kind of fog that seeps into one's clothes and hair, and leaves a damp sheen on the skin, the kind that takes a long soak in a warm tub with a glass of port or brandy to get out of the bones.

But, the fog is good. It will help cloak their entrances and exits, so Tori doesn't mind. She follows Brayden along the docks. Dressed in a charcoal grey sweater on top of black jeans with black Doc Martens, her only nod to personal style a thick cuffing of the hem in Rockabilly style. She's probably extraneous for this kind of gig, her first with Brayden — after all, they have wire cutters to make short work of padlocks and chains and the like — she has no qualms of doing such things, but her ability is only a boon when it comes to combo locks, keypads, that sort of thing.

Creeping along the outskirts of the docks, Brayden is dressed in black jeans, a black sweater, and a black woollen cap over his head. Lurking along the edge of the dock, allowing the fog to be their natural cloak, he glances between cargo holds, examining each in turn; he's looking for one in particular. And finally he finds it. His glove hands touch the back side of the hold, while he waits for his partner in crime (quite literally) to show up, smirking all the while. This is the hold that belongs to Ackart and his men. And regardless of what they're shipping, Brayden figures him and his fellas are due in light of the recent attack on the Wandering Rocks Pub.

He keeps his voice to a whisper as Tori nears, "This is the one. There doesn't seem to be anyone guarding the backside." Which could be good news for the pair. Of course, there's no way to tell if there's someone guarding the front side from here. No guard means an easy take.

"This better not be a bin full of tea cozies," Tori murmurs back with a playful smirk and a shake of her head. Her cheeks are rosy with the chilly night, her eyes sparkling with a touch of excitement and probably fear. She isn't fond of violence — she's much more of a fan of the easy take, so she really hopes there is no one around the front. She gives a nod toward the front. "You go first!" He's given her a gun for the gig, but Tori's hoping if they have to pull them, it's just a scare tactic.

Brayden can't help but grin at the comment. Quietly, he unholsters a large knife from his belt as he creeps up the side of the cargo hold. He's not particularly fond of violence either, but can cope should the need arise. And as he peeks around the front corner he sees a single thug reading a book on a chair. Taking a deep breath, he turns around and presses a finger to his lips, indicating that Tori should stay quiet. And then he sneaks around the corner, aiming to knock the thug out from behind.

Unfortunately, shortly after he rounds the corner, he steps on a stick which snaps, drawing the attention of the thug and bringing him to his feet. In general Irish-fashion, the thug is currently unarmed although his hands ball into two fists and he likely has a weapon of some kind on his person.

With a grin, Brayden sheaths his knife and also balls his hands into two fists. At least this kind of violence doesn't result in a bullet to the brain.

The slim brunette crouches and stealth-walks behind Nathan, her own approach silent even if his isn't. In fact, she saw the branch and opened her mouth to silently try to warn him, but silence doesn't quite take the place of alert klaxons. "Shit," she says, when the thug turns and comes toward Nathan, though she is hiding around the corner and mostly invisible. She makes a face, not sure how to help, or if she's wanted. She stays quiet for now, almond-eyes widening as she wonders yet again what the hell she's doing with her life. Seriously. The cargo better not be tea cozies.

The thug in question takes a swing at Brayden, which the American manages to dodge, still grinning. Yes, life really is that much of a game to him. The pair circle each other before Brayden takes a jab at his opponent, managing to strike, of course, this is countered with a punch to Brayden's stomach, eliciting a loud groan. He doubles over in pain before he straightens again, for just awhile before he takes another hit to his jaw and a jab to his nose (he neglected to cover his face). With one last hit, Brayden is down for the count. Groaning quietly, he shakes his head as he tries to stand to his feet (and fails miserably). His nose is now bleeding as is his lip, and one of his eyes will be a shiner tomorrow.

"Sloppy there, Calvert," the Irish man says in his thick accent.

Tori went to an all girl's Catholic prep school — the most they ever did was pull one another's hair and call each other slut. She has no clue how to fist fight, so when it looks like Brayden's going down for the count, she swears again, glancing around. Her hand falls on the branch that gave away their approach, and she sneaks up behind the Irishman, lifting the branch and swinging it like a cricket bat at the man's head. Too bad it's not as thick or sturdy as a bat. She squeals when the man turns to face her, growling as he rubs his scratched head, sending her scurrying back a few feet, fumbling for the gun she's not used to grabbing.

And while the thug is distracted by Tori, Brayden dizzily rises to his feet, unholstering his own pistol from his belt. He sneaks up behind the thug and pistolwhips him in the back of the head, effectively knocking out the pair's troublesome problem. With a smirk and a single hand compressing his still-bleeding nose, he swallows, and whispers, "Thanks for not leaving me for dead." It's a good humoured whisper as he motions towards the cargo hold. "Work your magic."

"Oh. Note to self: Hit big scary man on the head with the gun, not the twig," Tori says, watching the thug slump over into a stupor. She chews her lower lip a moment, then turns dark eyes to the locked door to the cargo hold. Big, long, thick padlocks their little wire cutters won't work on. A saw might. She doesn't carry one on her though.

Well, she wasn't expecting keypads, was she? Not on the docks. "I think," she muses, "this is a case for old fashioned methods, rather than sorcery." She hasn't told him how she gets in to places, just that she has a knack. "Don't let him grab me," she tells Brayden as she nears the sleeping thug, bending down beside him.

Tori's pert nose wrinkles as she reaches into the man's pants. "Don't get excited now, mack, I'm not that kind of girl," she tells the poor molested thug before coming up with a key ring and tossing it to Brayden.

"One smart cookie!" The key is met with a broad grin as Brayden catches it. Even with a bloody nose and lip, he's grinning. Yes, nothing keeps him down for long, especially during a take. He walks over to the padlock, key-in-hand as he unlocks it. The padlock comes off easily (thanks to the key!) and he pops it off, letting it fall heavily to the ground.

Brayden opens the door with a loud clank and exposes…

Rows and rows of bobble head Geisha dolls. Well. That isn't a particularly good take. "DOLLS?! He was sitting here guarding dolls?!" Yes, it's preposterous and confusing. His eye now bruising, he reaches for several of the dolls and tosses them aside only to find a row of boxes behind the dolls. Greedily he opens one before extracting it from the stack, "…aviator sunglasses?!" He frowns. But there's even more behind the boxes of sunglasses.

"Don't you watch LOST?" Tori demands, climbing into the hold and grabbing one of the dolls, turning it over in her hands, before finally pulling its head off. Disturbing. She must have been a frightening child! She peers inside the doll's hollow body, and pulls out a clear plastic packet of a white powder. "Shiiiit," she says with a little bit of a frown. Sure, she can rob a bank, but drugs are bad, mm kay?

"The glasses, I think are just glasses," she says, moving over to the crate and peering in, picking a pair out and putting them on with a grin. "What else, Santa?"

Even though he'd frowned at the box of Aviator sunglasses, Brayden slips a pair onto his forehead — it's too dark to wear them now, but he'll love having them later and feeling like some pilot from Top Gun. He frowns, however, at the drugs before shaking his head, "What's LOST?" Maybe he watched it before he lost his memory. As he tosses a box of sunglasses aside he sees something more of interest: guns. Lots of them. "Alright. We need to prioritize here. A box of guns?… I can probably mange two boxes stacked on one another…"

She shoves the glasses up onto the top of her head as well and frowns at the guns. That's a lot of guns. "Guns and dolls. Sounds like a crappy American musical," she quips, as she thinks. "I can grab one. Leave the drugs, or take that, too? It'll be light if we get rid of the bobbles, first." Drugs equal money, even if she doesn't believe in the hard stuff. "Or maybe there's a place nearby we can hide the rest of the boxes, come back for them later. We just wouldn't want any one else to accidentally come upon them, would we." The last two words are not lilted upward into a question but rather just the British verbal tick of adding questions tags to the end of their statements.

The drugs are a good take so Brayden nods. "Yeah. Let's ditch the dolls and then lock it up again. It'll get them in trouble if they ship only dolls to their client." Whoever their client may be. At this he issues the girl a lopsided smirk as he begins to frantically pop the heads off the dolls. "Hmmm. We don't have a cargo hold here right now. BUT Yuri has a boat not far from here. He's one of the gang. We could move some boxes and leave them there and then decide where to take them tomorrow after we connect with Ricky…" Brayden knows Ricky's going to be pleased with the take and the more they screw over Ackart's crew, the happier he'll be.

Popping heads off and on and tossing the plastic baggies into an empty crate, Tori peeks out to keep an eye on the dozing thug outside. "LOST's an American show on the television. In one episode, drug smugglers had drugs stuffed in Mary statuettes. Heroin, I think," she says. "I'll take this crate and one of the gun boxes, if I can manage it. If a bobby comes along, I'm dumping it all in the water though and it'll be the Cork Coke Party instead of the Boston Tea Party, though," she says, pulling really hard on one stubborn doll head. Suddenly, it gives, and she hits herself in the eye. "Ow. Bloody doll."

Brayden chuckles as the bobble head pops her in the eye. "Yeah. Do what you gotta do. We got it in the bag, luv." He winks as he pops the heads off of several of the remaining dolls. "Alright, we'll get 'er done." At this he beams. The drugs from the dolls are collected. And now it's time for the guns. Carefully he stacks several boxes. Today their gang wins and Ackart's loses. In every way tonight has been a good night.

Now, if only his eye doesn't turn into a shiner…

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