Summary:A gem exchange turns into a fun time. Log Info:Storyteller: Able |
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Life has many quirks, especially for those who have no official identity. For Able, that means no bank accounts. Large quantities of cash are surprisingly bulky, so he's long since moved over to precious metals and uncut gemstones as his primary form of hoarding wealth. Equally untraceable, but takes up far less space.
That brings us to Oxford Assaying, Refining, and Exchange. It's a one stop shop for anyone who would like to convert cash into physical assets, or vice versa. Like most operations of its type, it's based in a small, nondescript building that's marked by a simple sign and an abundance of security doors, cameras, and reinforced windows.
The lobby is fairly austere. A few display cases for new shipments of gems or customized rings and watches. A spread of krugerrands, maple leaves, pandas, and other minted coins from a variety of nations. There's a single, sleepy security guard at the door and another behind the counter for customers, along with a young, tousle-headed man at the register who's probably someone's son or nephew.
Having already conducted his business, Able is already browsing the various display cases and planning his next set of purchases. A small bag of unpolished sapphires sits heavily in one pocket and a roll of kruggerands in another. As always, the doctor is dressed in a sharp, dark suit, matching tie, and a white shirt. His coat is threaded through the handles of a leather velice that never leaves his left hand.
It's not that the pair needed funds. They had more than enough, stashed here and there - but the thrill of it was just as important. Locations like this were often easy, too. Who in their right mind would go against the set up and security of the building. That, too, was something to consider - few knew what the building actually was, or where it was. Thankfully, lips speak in the shadows and allows a few thieves to roll up and test their skills.
There was some time taken, the girl studies and her partner does his own prep work - doughnuts are delicious. And fried chicken. A shift, a phase, a sneak and walk to certain sections of the building, the girl in blue and black snip-snaps some wires, killing systems and camera feeds. Being seen wasn't an issue, really, but it made it funnier when watching people panic.
"You hear me, hot stuff?" She asks, speaking over her commlink to the lug left within their getaway car. "A couple of guys at the front. Sleepy dolts. Easy for you. Knock out the kid, too. He's young, try not to hit him too hard, hmm?" Before long, she joins him again, smiling and motioning for the front door. "Lets go old school. Have some fun."
Another donut stuffed in his face, the man in dark colors and a pair of reflective goggles held in hand. "I'm sure he'll be fine," he shrugs between bites, awaiting her return. Of course this sort of plan was the kind for making more of a splash than truely taking a whole horde of loot. Sometimes it was really something one did for the thrill of it and the rush of the chase.
And that sat perfectly well with Mick Rory.
"Shouldn't be in the job if he's so soft anyway." It's a last moment addition, but the man grins and pulls up his mask, checking his 'heat gun' over yet again and then grinning down to the woman. Have some fun? "After you baby."
Within, things are calm. Locations like this are known not only for their automated security, but for maintaining a positive relationship with local law enforcement. It's unlikely that either of the guards has seen any action more potent than a couple of customers squabbling over a watch. The one behind the counter doesn't even seem perturbed when the cameras cut out. He just slaps the receiver box a time or two, then shrugs. "We lost video," he calls out to his counterpart.
"Give it a minute," the sleepy guard replies. "If it doesn't come back, I'll call someone."
On the other side of the lobby, Able pauses briefly while inspecting a tennis bracelet. A rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, then he hands the piece back to an attendant and adjusts his grip on his bag.
"Such a gentleman." Lena muses, her gloved hands hooking the mask around her throat and pulling it up and over the bottom half of her face. She, too, has eye protection, her own being a sliver of silver and azure blue. Hood up, parka ready, she walks in with a heavy, solid thump of her solid soled boots, she steps up and settles her gun within her hands. It was a beautiful thing, sleek and triangular in barrel. Thankfully, though, it was not active at the moment.
"Wakey-wakey." She says, leveling her weapon at the first sleepy guard. "Drop the gear, don't make a sound. Heat? Get the door for our friend here. We're moving in."
Masked, but their M.O. was well enough known the story was probably going to be heard well enough. Moving through the space up behind the woman and then heading towards the door to pull it open. Keeping his weapon held at his side, the big man grins behind his mask and yet somehow still manages to offer the impression of the menace intended.
"Bruises or burns," he speaks and gestures for the guard to move through. "Your choice."
When things start getting exciting, Able pulls something small from a clip at his belt and palms it beneath the coat that's been slid through his bag's handles. Then, for all the world he looks like another innocent bystander who's been caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Meanwhile, the security guard at the door is on the floor before he can have a first thought, much less a second. The other guard has time to pull his service pistol, but quickly thinks better of it and drops the weapon with a loud clatter. He stands with both hands raised, but the rest of the employees and some of the clientele have already had the good sense to get down on the ground. This is New York, after all, and places like this are insured fir a reasib. Notable exceptions are Able, who appears to be politely curious, and the clerk at the register who has opted to freeze in place as if being motionless will also make him invisible.
Guns down, hands up, Snart smirks behind her mask and glances Heat's directly. "Round'em up." She advises, gun at the ready and following after the pair of guards and the register-watch boy. "Move it. Don't want me to ask him twice." As they move along, she walks forward, well aware of who was behind her and the thug shadowing close behind. "You all know what this is." She calls out. "Everyone keep their cool and follow the big man's instructions. You'll get out alive, unless you're stupid."
Yanking at the strap of the bag on her side, she moves toward one of the cases filled with rough cuts of gems. "Fill it up." She demands from its keeper. "Now."
Punctuation came in the form of a roar of flame, a deliberately adjusted tongue of heated air that flared but didn't ignite anything. Yet anyway. "Listen up! Anyone who thinks they're going to be clever and try and stop us here? They get to die first. Anyone else who likes to be smart and keep on living? Get real cozy looking at the floor for the next few minutes."
Lena was moving, but the man trusted her to be doing her thing while he kept an eye on the crowd. Cut wires and a cellphone jammer would delay things, but even they couldn't keep things completely unnoticed forever. Soon enough the cops or some 'heroic type' would be on their way. At least they could start with the priciest and prettiest stuff!
Admittedly, Ambrose isn't paying very close attention to where he's walking today in his meanderings. Exchanging uncut gems is something he's intimately familiar with, having spent many decades doing this very thing in various countries and eras in his demi-immortality. With a small number of uncut rubies and one diamond in the back-pocket of his jeans, he takes a moment to glance down at his phone as it pings.
A scoff, and the brunet in a simple light-weight zip-up sweatshirt and tank-top beneath it manages to text back to the person, muttering to himself, "Then do not eat all of the gods-damned peanut butter in one sitting, Sterling, bloody hell."
A hand lands on the outside handle of the door and the Jackal glances up to see what appears…to be…
Well, he does declare: it's a stick-up. The man freezes outside, fingers still wrapped around the vertical handle, wondering if he's been noticed — and if simply staying still won't bring attention to him.
Smart people know that most heroes die quickly in real life due to not being indestructible or having a good support team. The employees here are acutely aware of that. No one voices any arguments and the counter attendants are all too quick when it comes to handing out prime merchandise. At this point everyone has their belly on the ground and most people have gone so far as to put their hands behind their head.
Not Able, though. He waves to the closest bandit, the one doing the collecting, then indicates a egg-shaped ruby nearly the size of his thumb. It's uncut and untraceable. It has a few imperfections, but it's difficult to beat as far as portable loot goes. "Over here," he calls, blithely comfortable with his surroundings. "But do me a favor and leave the black opals in the back row? I'm fond of those."
A side-glance behind her visors and Lena finds that odd figure not doing what he's told. He waves, he has her attention, her body turning so that no one is in her blind-side. No one she can see, anyway, the idea that Ambrose is there is still a mystery to her. She eyes the ruby, then a glance toward Rory, and back again. She smirks, and chuckles. "Keep going," she advises the employee as there was still a good bit of space left in her bag.
"Heat, we got a cheeky one here. Get Pretty on his knees."
Of course someone moving around was going to get spotted eventually. Of course, it was a fair bit quicker if they started talking and waving around precious gems. Lena instructs, the brute was moving with his gun raised. "Toss it here smartass," Rory nods, gesturing with his free hand for the sun. "And try not to wrinkle the suit as you start kissing the floor. Today isn't about what you like, just be happy I'm not taking your wallet."
Even through the glass and wood framing of the door, Ambrose can hear the voices. His eyes flick from person to person, noting weaponry and attempting to identify their make and model — no such luck, both guns appear to be modified as is. But that voice in particular, the woman…? It's the nickname of 'Pretty' that springs his memory.
A slow, thoughtful curl of a smile brings the Jackal's lips to lift. "Well, well…" he murmurs to himself, squinting at Lena through the glass. "Brazen little chit after all…" His cerulean-blue eyes slide to Mick now. "And that must be the thug she mentioned."
His tongue curls up around his canine tooth beneath his closed lips thoughtfully before he drops his hand from the door's handle. A slow set of steps back, to the nearest lightpost, and he takes up an easy lean again it.
The very next time one of the bandits looks up beyond the front door? There's Ambrose, one arm comfortable across his body, and the other lifted in an insouciant salute of two fingers off his temple.
"I wouldn't point that at me if I were you." Able holds his free hand out disarmingly, then sets his velice down and shows what he's been hiding. It's a spherical object, olive drab, with the letters 'V-40 MINI' stenciled on the side in yellow. It's a small grenade, but a potent one. The pin has been removed and the arming handle is being held in place by light pressure and wishes.
"I don't kneel. I like your style, though. Very dashing." The bag is switched over to his other hand while the grenade is held between the doctor's finger and thumb. "Go on, fill up your sacks. You've got another two or three minutes before the police get here, but I'd suggest we leave sooner."
It was a weapon. Nice trick, but a threat. One that fire wasn't well suited for. Growling, Snart stalks closer to Abe and moves her head in a quick motion. "Heat, grab the loot." Gun up, lights connecting within the triangle like shape as they glow a vibrant white-blue. "You don't threaten my thug, Blondie. There is no 'we' only 'us'." With that admission set, Cold pulls the trigger, not aiming for Abe himself but for the grenade instead.
The light flares off, filling the room with brilliance and an odd creeping weight in the air. It was getting colder now, but not so much ice just yet. The world within the scope of the beam was slowing down. "Heat! Get the loot and go!" She barks out, an off glance allowing her eyes to catch…
"What the hell…"
A swap in motion. Mick moves quickly. After all, his gun could literally work to cause the molecular reactions that would fuel an explosion…or at the very least fire didn't tend to make igniters less volitile. There's a smirk despite himself, but he's quick to round on the poor attendant who'd been packing and raising his gun. "Keep at it buddy, lady didn't say stop."
Clearly, he trusted his partner to deal with the grenade, but he's probably hoping to get some shots in on Abe in principle.
Oh, look, Miss Cold has noticed him. Ambrose gives her a twinkling smirk, flashing just enough white teeth, and then makes a grandiose miming of looking down at his wrist. A tap-tap of it is accompanied by a shrug and then a spinning of his finger as if to imply they'd best hurry up, he's got things to do.
Or the cops are on their way, either option.
In fact, the Jackal makes a point of pulling out his phone, all while Lena's looking at him and lifts his eyebrows as he appears to input some numbers. It goes up to his ear and he smiles benignly at her, even making a point to cross his ankles in his lean against the street pole.
Able seems entirely too amused up until the point his grenade becomes a large, decorative ice cube. That's when things start getting interesting. Still holding his bag, he vaults behind the counter and curses under his breath. "I'd really prefer it if we could be friends," he singsongs as he draws his oversized revolver. Almost as an afterthought, he slaps the transmitter pinned under his lapel. "Hammer, this is Anvil. I need a civilian vehicle for evac and overlapping fields of fire along 110th street. Make sure the vehicle seats four. If you don't hear from me in… 90 seconds, target my location and fire for effect."
When he stands, he levels his sidearm with the confidence of a tall man who has shot much taller men. "Will you please put all the shiny things in your bag so we can get the hell out of here? You have talents I can use, but only if we don't kill each other in the next minute or so." To prove his point, he raises his weapon until it's pointed toward the ceiling, then releases the hammer and lets it fall softly. "Or we can fight and the authorities can arrest whoever's still standing when they get here."
He wasn't wrong about a number of things. The cops were probably on their way, whatever the pale man outside was doing wasn't in their favor, and she'd be damned if he made her lose out on two scores. Another growl behind her mask, the girl waits to cradle-catch the bag of loot and sling it over her back. "I usually like friends with guns but…Heat! Give him a warm reception." A slap on the man's back and the Cold girl is backing up, turning to bolt. They had to get out of there.
"Two-Minutes, make it count!" She informs the hot-head, her lean limbs moving quickly and in the direction of their get-away car.
Mick wasn't generally a people person who'd make a friend easily, at least not without a little (or a lot) of alcohol and the occasional fist fight. This one wasn't on him though. Slinging one bag for himself over his broad shoulder, the arsonist gives a little joyful laugh before shrugging. "With pleasure!"
Raising his heat gun, the man squeezes the trigger and the very air warps before igniting in a controlled stream. Now things were burning, including the top of the counter the man was hiding behind. It did tend to make it harder to aim a revolver at fleeing criminals! All going well, they'd be gone before Abe's backup came to massacre them and the would-be 'incidental casualties'.
Ambrose is speaking to someone on the phone at this point, it's not all escalationary mimed jack-assery on his part. He's currently scuffing at a twig on the pavement with the toe of his shoe and attempting to scoot it as he directs to the other end of the line,
" — no, no, Kazimira, listen: there is a bottle of Immodium in the bathroom cabinet of the master bedroom downstairs. Yes, downstairs, «Babri», with — yes, that is the label. Give him the entire bottle, he will need — yes, all of it," the master-thief grouses.
"I miss the Cold War," Able mutters to himself. "People knew a good deal when they saw one."
Then he's busy dodging and trying not to die. "Hammer!" he yells into his lapel. "Don't kill me yet! I have two targets about to exit this building. I need eyes on them. If we have incoming police, put them down. Gently."
Just to remind people he's still alive, he slides down a dozen feet, then pops up and fires two poorly aimed shots from a portion of the counter that's still intact. His beastly sidearm is chambered for the .577 Tyrannosaur round, presumably named for its intended target. He's gone a step further and added an explosive charge packed into the hollow point. Still, his fire is a diversionary tactic to buy himself some room to breathe. As the Thunderbolt's middle manager, he's in charge of scouting talent, and these two are nothing if not talented.
"Heat!" She calls back, exiting the building and starting to sprint toward their get away. She was good with what she did but no one was as good at crack driving than Mick Rory. The waiting auto was opposite the direction of the leaning Ambrose, but something within the Cold girl seems to light her own fire. In a smooth pivot, she moves and charges toward the lean Brit. Clacking her weapon back onto her thigh-holster, she flows with her motions and crashes a right hook across Ambrose's face.
"That's for screwing up my heist!" Black-eye pending, she crushes the man's phone, killing the conversation he was having under her boot. A shift back and she's running again, tossing her bag of goodies into the backseat of their waiting SUV and slipping onto her seat. "Let's go!" She calls to Mick.
"Heh." He'd kinda wanted to make that punch…but it was almost as satisfying to watch Lena beat him to the literal punch. Next time then. Holstering his own weapon, the man was headed towards the getaway vehicle they'd stashed earlier. It had been picked to handle the cargo while still getting through the narrow streets…and potentially ram its way through if they weren't quite quick enough.
By the time Lena was buckling up? Mick already had the engine roaring and was tearing way while he fished for the coke bottle he'd left in the cup holder with a smirk.
"Good times!"
"«Babri», he will be fine," the Jackal continues to reassure into the phone, now having turned his shoulder on the store and its incipient gunfight. He doesn't catch the sound of the first firearm going off (pun fully intended in Mick's case), but the sound of the rounds intended for a large, extinct creature blowing the counter's glass merrily to kingdom come has him flinching. "I need to go now, keep him near the bathtub."
As Ambrose is turning, he sees the duo of robbers exit the store out of the corner of his eye —
— the very eye catching the worst of blurring knuckles. A firm slam of Lena's fist into his orbital socket has him stumbling to one side by several steps. Poor phone, we knew ye well, your broken screen and bent outer shell we will mourn. With a palm held to his face, Ambrose straightens and stares at the retreating figures.
"Bloody fucking pissants…?! …augh!" Yep, that was a good punch, but he won't admit it to himself until far later, after his vision clear up on the right-hand side; right now, things are semi-black and twinkly with stars. Stooping to snatch up the broken phone, lest it be used to track him somehow, the Jackal bares teeth at the retreating vehicle. "Run while you can, yellow-bellied curs…you'll regret this," he hisses before turning tail and loping away down the street, very certain that he too wishes to avoid any cop's interest.
Once the thieves have made their escape, Able stands again and surveys the lobby. What was once a fine display of near-priceless objects is now aflame, packed with panicking civilians, and is in general a very messy place to be. Thoroughly grumpy, he tags his transmitter a final time. "Stay on them," he grumbles. "I'm going to be pissy if I went through all this for nothing. Excuse me, sir."
Having bumped into Ambrose, the doctor offers him a quick, steadying hand, then moves on. "And next time get me a bigger car. What is this, a Hyundai? Come on, guys."