Logs:Business Prospects
| Business Prospects | |
|---|---|
cn: passing mention of some leftover gore, discussion of drugs & drugs overdose | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-02-01 "I might be able to help." |
| Location
<NYC> Hellhound Bikes - The Hole | |
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. The sun's recently gone down but it's early yet for church, and the garage is quieter now than it will be when Mongrels are streaming in to congregate upstairs. Still, it's not early enough to be much of a surprise when the garage door rattles open, admitting one quiet, sleek, and extremely filthy hoverbike. The little shark atop the bike is in much the same condition, an unfortunate dose of splatter on his cut, blood and other detritus that really should be inside someone now on the outside of him. At least that bone fragment is definitively Not His, being sharp enough to have actually lodged itself into the heavy leathers. Still, he's limping, if only mildly, as he parks the bike, goes to get himself some leather cleanser in a bucket of warm water. Kind of casually set down an extra bucket and fresh rags for the motorcycle itself that -- he is probably not planning to use, judging by how he kind of nudges it towards their prospect before shrugging his vest off and perching himself on a table to clean it. "You ever get sent out with B, bring a fucking splatter-guard." Aforementioned prospect has just finished mopping the floor, but her only outwardly reaction to the bodily fluids dripping off of both the Sergeant-at-Arms and his ride is a very slight widening of eyes. Tian-shin is wearing heavyweight black jeans and an also sturdy red mandarin collar shirt, her still fairly pristine cut identifying her as a prospective Mongrel only. She rolls her sleeves up and stoops to wet a rag for Shane's bike. "I will keep it in mind," she says, very solemnly, as she begins her work. Then, a little less so, "I admit, for a moment there I thought you were B. Who crossed her?" Her brows crinkle, and her tone gains just a touch of incredulity when she adds, "And you, at the same time." Shane's initial answer to the question is just a quick huff, sharp and dry. "You cross one of us, you cross all of us." He's flicking some unidentifiable goo off his cut with a claw before beginning to wipe the leather clean. "8 Trey dicks think Ion gone and shit always crazy up in Freaktown these days means they can roll through here now with their dirty fucking pills. Three kids in the hospital just last week and it's damn lucky it wasn't worse. Like kids around here don't have enough fucking problems." "Thinking twice about crossing any of us means thinking ahead." Tian-shin dunks the rag back into the bucket and mostly manages to keep her expression neutral at the color of the water turns. "Which seems to be a rare skill in that set." She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully as she returns to scrubbing. At a small delay, she ventures, "What kind of pills?" Hastily, "I know it's not my business, but. If it's a matter of needing a safe product supply--I might be able to help." "Well, they thought it was Oxy." Shane's gills flutter sharp and quick, and he shakes his head. "Guess they wouldn't have gone to those assholes if our supply hadn't dried up, Ion would never be cutting --" Here he looks up, though, the heavy ridge of his brow pulling down. "You? Your people haven't gotten into this business, have they?" "My people?" Tian-shin darts a perplexed glance at Shane, but he doesn't have time to answer her before comprehension dawns. "Oh! No, not the tong, I mean…I can help." She turns back to her task, but it doesn't really hide the flush on her cheek or the tightness in her jaw. "Ion would never cut, but even he had supply troubles now and then. Pretty much all the opioids out there still come from poppies, but they can be synthesized. It's just not usually worth it because morphine total synthesis is incredibly tricky, but…" She shrugs. "So is my X-gene. I didn't even realize it could be done, until he asked me." Shane's brow is creasing deeper in thought. "Until he asked --" As understanding creeps in he's lowering his hand, fingers curling tightly in with a slow tear of claws into sponge. "I'm sorry, you --" Another beat before he puffs out a sharp breath. "Jesus fuck and we got you in here cleaning the damn floor." Tian-shin blushes deeper. "I really should have thought to mention it before. It just doesn't usually occur to me that I can...make heroin with my brain, and he asked so rarely." She trades the soiled rag for a clean one, twisting it between her hands. "I guess he had a lot more backup options, even when there were shortages. But if it'll help the Club, and keep people from getting poisoned? Just give me a weekend and a ton of caffeine." She gestures kind of vaguely with the rag. "The caffeine is for me. There's a whole lot of other stuff that I need to make the actual drugs." "Being able to hop over to Afghanistan in two seconds helps with supply, sometimes." Shane still sounds kind of incredulous. Kind of awed. "I'll get you all the damn caffeine you need." His head is tilting to the side now with a deeper curiosity. "How the fuck you even learn something like that. Shit, I'll get the bike, you make a shopping list and -- maybe walk me through this." | |
