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Post by bard on Aug 18, 2011 9:41:55 GMT -5
Jason Bard was sleeping behind his mirrored lenses. His head lurched for a moment and then snapped back suddenly as his hands dropped away from this jaw and thrust rude morning song of the breezy summer day. The diner smell was upon him like wolves. A waitress brought an order to the table nearby and the scent raised into the air around him like a fetid miasma. The idea of food was hard to harbor. He wore it around his neck like a iron collar. The mere mention of breakfast had turned his stomach into knotted hell. He could feel his inside drip down his intestines like play-dough. The bile pooled into the base of his parted his lips and focused on not breathing thorough his nose. He slurped nosily from his coffee to get the taste of sick out of his mouth.
He had not wanted to go out drinking last night, but contacts were like cars -- they needed constant maintenance to keep working. A few reassuring Jägerbomb and Frenchi, his bohemian reformed methhead, was built to spill about the pot conglomerates buying up smaller operations in the Bowery. Jason had a name then, but his long-earred patron would be happy to receive something useful for once. The reviere had ended at five, leaving his head throbbing for this morning meeting at nine. She was a new client, introduced to him via feeler email with a familiar reference. Jason sent her a preply with a time and a meeting place; George's Quality Kitchen on 15th and Fredrich, across the street from the Cinco supermarket. As he blinked into the too bright daylight, he was regretting setting the meeting so early.
The figure slipped into room then. He gazed raised to the door briefly and then eh turned his eyes back to the sports page folded on his lap, waiting until her shadow fell over him before he looked up.
"Morning." He said. " Have a seat."
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Post by rebecca on Aug 18, 2011 18:58:11 GMT -5
Rebecca smiled down at Jason and silently took her seat, albeit a little awkwardly. She could tell the man was tired, just from his body position and the tone of his voice. She fidgeted slightly before placing her hands on the table, preparing to talk when a waitress interrupted. She offered her a forced smile, understanding she was doing her job. She wasn't hungry, but she ordered coffee with cream and sugar.
She herself was a little overcome with the strong smells around her. Though instead of nausea it brought back memories of nights in Journalism School at NYU. She took a quick glance at the patrons, also all of whom reminded her of the people who would file in and out of the local diner she had often found herself in the early morning hours back then. She smiled to herself. That time seemed so long ago, so much had changed. One thing of which brought her here. She returned her focus to the man across from her.
“Hard night?” She asked politely. “Thanks for still meeting me.” She quickly added in case her first assumption was right.
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Post by bard on Aug 20, 2011 18:33:28 GMT -5
" Hard enough." He sniffed and rubbed his face, putting his head on the table. Stifling a yawn, he dropped the paper down on the seat next to him and in motion reached to his pockets and pulled out his phone. He checked the time and then put the phone down and reached for his coffee. " How are you? " He asked as he looked down at the small screen to the left of him. He brought up several things on his phones. A quick google of references courtesy of her online resume. A small smattering of her news stories complied in a set of links by an application designed for collecting everything there is to find of a search person. A small section for her social media preferences. An entire life there, ready to be scrutinized.
He scrolled down her qualification as she talked, hands and elbows on the table as he leaned in. He took off his glasses as he spoke. " So what brings you down?" He said.
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Post by rebecca on Aug 25, 2011 19:52:53 GMT -5
Rebecca could tell it had been hard, his actions and voice tell her enough to discern that. She watches him carefully, unsure what next to say until he asked of her well-being. She perked up a little at that and shrugged. “I guess I can't complain entirely I have a job, and despite this craziness going on with the embargo and all, I'm doing alright. Just feeling a little fenced in.”
Her coffee came as she spoke and she picked up, taking a hesitant sip, knowing it will be hot. “In fact that what brings me here. I'm sure you know what I do and I've currently found in my possession some files that well...if anyone found out I had them,” she lowered her voice, “let's just say I'd be in a lot of trouble, they're about the FBI, about P.R.O.T.E.C.T. and about the people running the show here.”
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Post by bard on Aug 30, 2011 12:24:40 GMT -5
He looked at her, his lips pursed. He chewed on his cheek and then sat back, folding his leg underneath the table. The toe of his boot caught the underside of the table and caused the coffee to jump. He caught the mug before it tipped over and spilled all over the sticky, barely polished faux mahogany. Once the cup was righted, he folded his hands on the flat of his stomach and said.
" So, you have something hot in your possession and the first person you go to is a...private eye?" He licked his teeth and then smacked his lips. " Let me ask you something, how do you know that I don't already know? That I haven't been hired by the federales to drag you out of your cubbyhole into the open so they could bust you right now?" He looked around, looked at the patrons had stumbled into the gloomy, eyes crusted with the remnants of last night sleep, the push of the metropolitan work week mornings crushing their self-esteem and their god-given right to sleep until twelve. Men in business suits reading the paper over black coffee so strong it could be used to caulk load-bearing walls. Early bird blue hairs enjoying the boredom of retirement. Spanish stay-home dads, getting their brood fed before heading out to wage tactical warfare at the park. Dull eyed delivery drivers, running on two hours sleep. Bitchy meter maids and traffic cops, laughing into their french toast.
" Anyone in this place could be undercover and yet here you come, waltzing in, meeting me...let me ask you something, what beat do you usually cover? Because for a newshound, you sure aren't showing a lot of deductive reasoning?"
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Post by rebecca on Sept 1, 2011 16:44:37 GMT -5
Rebecca smirked idly, “Now, you see, I thought you knew what I did. I'm an investigative reporter. My beat is finding out the truth, especially when it deals with the government and what Gotham's is doing, however, it seems that they've garnered the attention of the federal branch this time.” She followed his gaze, looking around, but she didn't seem uncomfortable or perturbed.
“I do my homework, and if what my homework says about you is correct, then I don't think you'd do that. Have you been hired by the feds to bring me out of hiding?” She returned to gaze to him and raised her brow while she took a sip of her sip, leaning with her elbows on the tabletop.
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