REMY'S ELEVEN: Rein In The ADHD, Ya Freak
Dec. 11th, 2004 12:22 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-gambit.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsRemy mets Arcade, and the game is on!
Jacob Lowenstein looked out over the teeming floor of his casino with supreme satisfaction. The city was holiday packed thanks to the cennitenial of Las Vegas' railroad connection with the rest of the country. The town had been a flyspeck, existing solely due to the fact that is was the final water source west until you reached the coast. Even then, it still took almost fifty years for the hotels and moneymen to grab hold of its gambling with both hands and feed it into the engine of the city. Washed up singers became headline acys, hotels became massive complexes, making money became a science, and the mob got its first taste of respectability. It was a giant warped funhouse mirror of the American Dream, and the man people called Arcade loved every minute of it.
"There's a man here to see you, sir." Ms Locke said, appearing as if by magic.
"Send him in." Jacob was still looking out the windows, watching the shoals of people around his gambling tables. A light haired man, with gold glasses over his bright blue eyes walked into the room, and Arcade swiveled his chair around. "You got a name, sport?"
"Eammon Kelly." Remy said, a smile coming to his face. "I'm known to some.
"Are you? I'll bet." Arcade grinned, a smile cutting his face. "So, come sit your little Irish muscle ass down here."
"Right." Remy grimaced. He knew dozens of langauges and accents, and fortunately the week with Terry had put the final polish on his rusty Irish. Eammon was a terrorist; an expert marksman who could turn anything into a weapon. He was also on the level of Gambit, so his identity was mostly guesswork and reputation. Arcade would get the news, but not enough concrete data to compromise his cover.
"So, what can I do for you, Eammon?" Arcade said, jesting.
"I'm working for a group in Europe. A group that is looking to put a non-ferrous bullet through the head of a certain mutant terrorist and his friends. I understand you've got information for sale that can help limit the mutant terrorists of the world."
"If you're looking for a discount, you're in the wrong place, scooter."
"Not at all." Remy held up his hand. "My group fights the genetrash that is involved in all of this. Our intelligence has turned up a lot of information about them. Our deal is very simple. if you're willing to ensure that the information you're selling doesn't get to them, we'll tell you all about how they're planning to rob you."
"Really?" Arcade grinned and took at drink. "Rob me? Junior, this place is wired as far as you can get. Not even a mouse could get in."
"No, but a mutant could." Remy grinned. "So serious mutant muscle is interested in you, Mister Lowenstein, and if you want to survive to sell your information, listening to me is the first step."
"Now, I know think--" Arcade paused as his Blackberry trilled, and his face changed expression as he read the message. "Motherfucker." His eyes met Remy's "Eammon, you're coming with me."
Jacob Lowenstein looked out over the teeming floor of his casino with supreme satisfaction. The city was holiday packed thanks to the cennitenial of Las Vegas' railroad connection with the rest of the country. The town had been a flyspeck, existing solely due to the fact that is was the final water source west until you reached the coast. Even then, it still took almost fifty years for the hotels and moneymen to grab hold of its gambling with both hands and feed it into the engine of the city. Washed up singers became headline acys, hotels became massive complexes, making money became a science, and the mob got its first taste of respectability. It was a giant warped funhouse mirror of the American Dream, and the man people called Arcade loved every minute of it.
"There's a man here to see you, sir." Ms Locke said, appearing as if by magic.
"Send him in." Jacob was still looking out the windows, watching the shoals of people around his gambling tables. A light haired man, with gold glasses over his bright blue eyes walked into the room, and Arcade swiveled his chair around. "You got a name, sport?"
"Eammon Kelly." Remy said, a smile coming to his face. "I'm known to some.
"Are you? I'll bet." Arcade grinned, a smile cutting his face. "So, come sit your little Irish muscle ass down here."
"Right." Remy grimaced. He knew dozens of langauges and accents, and fortunately the week with Terry had put the final polish on his rusty Irish. Eammon was a terrorist; an expert marksman who could turn anything into a weapon. He was also on the level of Gambit, so his identity was mostly guesswork and reputation. Arcade would get the news, but not enough concrete data to compromise his cover.
"So, what can I do for you, Eammon?" Arcade said, jesting.
"I'm working for a group in Europe. A group that is looking to put a non-ferrous bullet through the head of a certain mutant terrorist and his friends. I understand you've got information for sale that can help limit the mutant terrorists of the world."
"If you're looking for a discount, you're in the wrong place, scooter."
"Not at all." Remy held up his hand. "My group fights the genetrash that is involved in all of this. Our intelligence has turned up a lot of information about them. Our deal is very simple. if you're willing to ensure that the information you're selling doesn't get to them, we'll tell you all about how they're planning to rob you."
"Really?" Arcade grinned and took at drink. "Rob me? Junior, this place is wired as far as you can get. Not even a mouse could get in."
"No, but a mutant could." Remy grinned. "So serious mutant muscle is interested in you, Mister Lowenstein, and if you want to survive to sell your information, listening to me is the first step."
"Now, I know think--" Arcade paused as his Blackberry trilled, and his face changed expression as he read the message. "Motherfucker." His eyes met Remy's "Eammon, you're coming with me."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}