Necroes

Magik Ther Was

At first, Smith was stuck speechless, not by what had been said, but by the resulting inner conflict. Half of his brain wanted to laugh in the mage's face, while the other half wanted to unload a clip of lead into him and then walk away. If nothing else, the guy had broken several basic tenets of a standard business transaction, which meant working for him would be a no-go. For one, he hadn't named a monetary sum as payment. He'd instead mentioned a 'reward', of unknown value, without even a hint at what it really was. For two, he'd framed the job like it was some sort of holy crusade, and that sent up eight different kinds of warning flag. Working for fanatics was always a bad idea, and Smith had learned that the hard way. 'Fanatic' and 'lunatic' were synonyms, as far as Smith was concerned. Finally, he'd used magic to communicate with them, without an obvious reason. While Smith's trinkets kept his mind from being read, it was a one-way filter, and if nothing else, it made him extremely weary to even be around the guy, as people who used magic that nonchalantly put Smith on edge even more than Russians.

He was about to mention of all this, when he remembered something. Something very important, about something the mage had said. He'd mentioned the eleventh hour, and how things would change. Something about it had triggered a memory, and that meant a couple of seconds of Smith standing silent, trying to figure out what was so important about the eleventh hour. While his memories from the sword were flawless, they were still memories, and required a bit of effort to search through, as much as any person needed help drudging up old memories, but even more so because of the shear number of memories Smith had to drudge through.

Something was important about the eleventh hour, but not just because of the time. There was something else, something about the date. What day was it? Smith had seen the date, on the newspaper he was reading. He hadn't picked up on it at the time, but something about it had seemed important to him. That wasn't unusual, though, basically any given date had been important to one of the swords owners for one reason or another, but this suddenly seemed much more urgent, now that the eleventh hour had been mentioned. A certain mage, who had held the sword once, had been doing a study on magic, and how it seemed to slowly change over time, stretching the bounds of reality as it did so, until finally...

"You're... You're talking about the convergence, aren't you? That's what this is about." Smith didn't need an answer, he knew that's what it was. The dates all matched up perfectly with the research notes he remembered, everything falling in to place with the memory as it came rushing back to him, for the first time in this case. The research was old, so the chances were that the name of the event was off, but what it represented had been a cause of concern several hundred years ago, when mages had first started theorizing about it. Now, it seemed that it may finally be coming true, and if that were the case.

"Son of a-" And with that, Smith began a string of curses and fowl language that spanned centuries of history, speaking in tongues that hadn't been heard for centuries, using phrases that had lost their original meaning before anyone there's grandparents had been born, all the way to modern slang, touching on every language from English to ancient Egyptian, speaking in multiple dialects of each, with French and Russian both included at one point or three, and didn't stop until he was breathing too heavily to form words around gasps.

And after all of that, he still didn't feel that he had accurately depicted his level of frustration with how thoroughly boned they all were. If he'd had even the slightest hint of a notion that shoving his sword through the hick would fix his problem, he'd have aimed up and starting from the groin out of spite. The one event in all of predictable history he had taken drastic steps to avoid getting involved in, he had suddenly stepped right in the middle of, and all because he made a single slip and decided to check on a job on the exact wrong fucking day.

"Well, isn't this just freakin' peachy!" He continues after he can finally breath again, pointing a finger at the mage in suspenders. "You've got two minutes to convince me that putting a bullet in you will somehow make me more fucked than I already am, or I'm going to do it just for therapeutic reasons. And don't think I won't. Magic may be about to go wonky, but I've got enough time to activate the Ptolemian Gateway I've got strapped to my thigh, and you've just given me reason to believe that's a reasonable alternative." A Ptolemian Gateway, named after its creator, the Egyptian warlock Ptolemy, was a suicidal spell that sacrificed the life of the wielder at a moment's notice to summon a gate way that momentarily overlapped a thirty foot radius centered on the caster with complete void, simultaneously making any magical defense impossible while tearing everything in the area to shreds.

It was a powerful, complicated, and extremely dangerous spell that was well known among the experienced magical community. The secrets of its creation had been lost millennium ago, and only a few preconstructed versions still existed. Smith had been informed of their existence via the sword, and had actually managed to obtain one. It was presently locked up in a huge safe surrounded by guard spells in the basement of his underground bunker, completely inert and even partially damaged-not beyond repair, but beyond his ability to repair-and Smith knew all of this.

However, the Hick did not, and Smith had centuries of experience in how to run a bluff, and what magical items he did have were more than enough to keep even a level 2 from divining the truth through magic alone. Smith knew all of this, and was bagging on that fact to get a little more information before liquid fecal matter hit the proverbial rotisserie air-circulation apparatus.

Magik Ther Was

We forgive you for the delay, Kiss. The golden rule of the RPG: Be cool, like the Fonz.
It guides us to be cool, and understand that real life always comes first.

That said... Smith will Not be happy. His internal accountant will be bugging him for months over every little expense to compare against the unknown 'compensation' when he finally gets it... to establish whether or not he's made a profit, or course.

Magik Ther Was

Tali replied, makes it Kiss's turn.

I'm so excited! :D

Magik Ther Was

Not at all. The accent was spot on, and it's quite the accurate depiction of the Russian ideology. I admit, I didn't expect he and Smith to be friends going in, but they seem like the two most battle-hardened of the group, so a bit of civility seemed appropriate.

Magik Ther Was

Woo! I was looking forward to this. Incase it wasn't obvious, I'm a fan of the Russian culture.

Magik Ther Was

As far as information goes, Smith has access to literally thousands of years' worth. However, a modern information network, he does not have in spades. He can find things out, between the people he's worked for in the past and the money he can put out towards the task, but it takes time.

Magik Ther Was

So, I posted... >.>

Don't shoot!

Magik Ther Was

'European mix, class 5, three hundred meters. American, class 5, five hundred meters. American, class 4, nine hundred meters. French, class 5, three hundred meters. American, class 5, four hundred meters. Russian, class 3... one mile. American, class 5, four hundred meters.'

Smith ticked this information off as each new person drew near, using his rings reaction as the basic gauge for their power level, based on a rating-system a previous owner had devised. The smaller the number, the more potent the mage. It wasn't a perfect system, as it didn't take into account anything more than the rings reaction, but between that and the general feel Smith got from the person, he felt reasonably certain he had accurately ascertained their respective kill-zones. Need be, that would be the distance he'd take a shot from. Most of them were low priority, and shouldn't need as much range-the class three was probably a huge overestimate, but something about Russians always made Smith weary-but he preferred to play it safe with magic. So far, nothing too dangerous, and none of them were likely his boss. The only weird thing was how many there were.

Then everything went quite.

He looked American, from about fifty years ago and halfway across the country, but that was obviously a disguise. Whoever this was, he was a class 2, and that meant nothing less than a one-mile kill zone, with inquisition rounds. So, the boss had showed up, and he was wearing business-casual. That never meant good things. With the looks of the rest of what Smith had reason to believe was his 'team,' it meant that he was likely about to be sent on a suicide run, or a test drive. Amazing how similar the two tended to be, though the latter somehow had the higher mortality rate. Considering the spell he threw up to give them privacy, though, things leaned more towards the test drive. No need to hide information if the group's expected chance of survival is zero anyway.

Folding the paper and getting to his feet, Smith stood up, looking around. In his leather overcoat and business suit, he tended to cut an intimidating pose when he wanted to, and being the biggest one there, it was unlikely he wouldn't draw attention. But, just in case, he thought it best to make sure he had the spot light. Looking over at the man dressed like a hick, he shakes his head, shrugging. "Not a very bright lot, are they? Некоторые компании исключены , конечно." The last was directed specifically at the Russian. From the look of him, if nothing else, he looked to have a weapon, and again, Smith had a healthy respect for the race of people who embraced the 'scorched-earth' strategy as their primary defense.

"First off, let's get some things straight. I don't come cheap. My usual fee is six digits, minimum, and the first one better be at least a three. That said, I don't work with amateurs. I don't know what you're planning, but two of these kids look like they should be in college, and one of them looks like she actually Is. Also, I don't know how long you've been out of the loop, but your disguise is about fifty years out of date... Or were you going for Huckleberry Finn impersonator? Oh, and one more thing. Who was on the phone? Yea, I saw you talking to someone as you walked up. Someone we should know about?"

The last part was a bit of a stretch. A normal client wouldn't answer, and would probably take offence to the question. Private matters were private, and a hired hand wasn't meant to know about them unless it was deemed necessary by the check writer. However, this guy looked like he was less than normal. Throwing him off would help with the haggling, and if there was a team involved, there were other important matters he would need the benefit for. If Smith was lucky, he'd get an actual answer, and be on his first step to figuring out the larger picture. Just because it wasn't his job to know didn't mean knowing was a bad thing, especially when it kept him alive.

Magik Ther Was

And yes, this new site IS bad about double posts.

Magik Ther Was

If no one else is going to reply for a while, I think I'll just go ahead and post my reply... Though, it may not be until tomorrow. Depending on whether or not a friend shows up when he's supposed to.