[Open] You've got to pick a pocket or two

[versatilehand]

WHO Eames & anyone! Open.
WHAT Arthur and Eames have been here a while now. They're planning on getting to the bottom of their situation through dream-sharing, but the materials required don't come cheap. So Eames is on the look out for some easy money.
WHERE The streets around the Hill
WHEN Tuesday evening.
NOTES Multiple threads welcome! Eames is

Comments

[xprofessor]

Charles might be dressed in nice clothes (a virtue of his hefty inheritance), but, unfortunately, isn't carrying much. A little cash -- not even enough to buy a good gun. He could, of course, step straight into a bank and convince a teller to hand him everything in the vault. They wouldn't even know it was a theft until after it was over.

But he swore, a long time ago, that he wouldn't resort to methods like that ever again.

He grimaces, making his way through the streets. His shields are up, and they're as tight as they can be to prevent the hunger around the city from bleeding through, but they're not perfect. As such, he's far more focused on his mind and its state than the people around him. He's unguarded.

A wonderful target.

[versatilehand]

Eames spots the man a mile off. He's been doing things like this since his teenage years, and he knows a good mark when he sees one. This man, walking towards him down the street now, has all the right things going for him; expensive clothes, a rich boy's way of grooming himself, hunched over and clearly not wanting to be where he is. Eames can tell, just from looking, that the man is barely aware of his surroundings, lost to his own thoughts.

It's hardly any work at all, then, to change his path and jostle the man as they pass. As his fingers slip into a pocket, searching out a wallet, he's talking to keep the man distracted, apologising for his own clumsiness, for not looking where he was going.

[xprofessor]

Charles tenses at the jostle -- a reflexive action, like flinching away from a nasty punch. Touch enhanced his telepathy, to a degree he often found distasteful, and --

-- keep the man distracted --

The thought is just a flash, a brief flicker in passing, but Charles recognizes it. He whirls, eyes tracking to follow the man who bumped into him. He didn't feel the quick fingers darting into his pocket, but now he pats himself down, finds that his paltry amount of cash has disappeared.

Stop! he thinks, eyes narrowed at the back of the man's head. A mental shout, though it isn't a mental command, not yet. Taking control of someone else's mind is a last resort, always.

[versatilehand]

Eames stumbles at the sudden shout in his head. He talks to himself in his mind all the time - he's sure everybody does - and so his own voice is not a stranger in his head. When he's telling himself off, or considering himself particularly stupid, that voice might be Arthur's, or a member of his family's. But never the voice of a stranger. Especially not one telling him to stop, straight after a successful wallet swipe.

It's only years of practice that keep him from doing as the voice says, or pausing and turning back to look at the man he's stolen from. Still, he feels more than a little disconcerted as he carries on walking away.

[takebacktostart]

Camilla is on her way back towards the manor, after a very busy day at work. Her clothes are dark but tidy, nice enough beneath her coat, untied hair flying behind her in the breeze.

She appears visibly distracted as she walks, hands in pockets, then fumbling with her bag, her mind still caught up in formulas and equations.

Of course she doesn't so much as look twice at anyone she walks past.

[versatilehand]

Eames hasn't been waiting long before the perfect mark comes into view at the end of the street. Female, expensive clothing, clearly distracted. She's clutching a bag, too, which doesn't look hard to slip a hand into.

Taking a breath, Eames moves to cut her off, trying to look friendly rather than daunting. "Excuse me!" He calls out, when he's within hearing distance. "I wonder if you could help me?"

[takebacktostart]

Camilla slows, glancing back at the sound of the voice, blinking sharply as she comes out of her daze. She considers the man approaching her.

It's late - she's out alone, and there really is no part of this city than can be considered entirely safe.

But he looks clean enough, respectable, and at least he's not running toward her with a weapon outstretched in his hand. Camilla decides she can at least give him a shot. She stops walking.

"Yes? What is it?"

[versatilehand]

"You'll have to excuse me," Eames carries on playing the role of the charming, if rather stupid, gentleman, even as his hand slips into the woman's bag and closes around what feels like a wallet.

"I'm rather new here, you see. And I've completely lost my way."

[idolstolemylook]

Spike's not exactly a working man. But he is collecting cash, both gainfully and ungainfully acquired, and he doesn't have a bank or anything so he typically has a folded wad of it in one or more pockets. He doesn't take much care, of course, striding down the street in the evening like he hasn't a care in the world.

[versatilehand]

The man Eames sees walking towards him doesn't look like one of his usual suspects. The clothes aren't expensively cut, and the man seems to be walking with a purpose; there's nothing about him that suggests he's in any way distracted, or not completely on his guard.

Still, he's working to a deadline, and at least this stranger doesn't look poor. Deciding to go for a tried and tested technique, he steps into the man's path, holding up his hands in a gesture of submission.

"Excuse me, sir, could you possible spare me a moment? I'm afraid I'm rather turned around."

[idolstolemylook]

Spike raises an eyebrow. Most baddies around here are more straightforward, so he's not really thinking the man's anything but daft.

"You an' everyone else," he says. "S'what happens, when the streets move about."

[versatilehand]

Getting a little closer into the man's personal space, Eames very quickly glances down, memorising the position of the various pockets in the leather coat.

"I'm looking for... the hostel? Does that ring any bells?" He tries to keep things vague, for the time being, fingers slowly pressing forward to search the most likely looking pocket.

[cerealboxbadge]

On the surface, Neal Caffrey looks like the perfect mark. Obscenely expensive suit, meticulously groomed hair despite the heat, casual gait, no apparent destination in sight; a rich man lost but trying to pretend he knows exactly where his meandering will take him.

The truth of the matter is he's actually thinking along the same lines as Eames is, himself, and beyond that he's yet to collect any money to steal. Still, image is everything and until he catches any hands trying to sneak in his pockets, the perfect mark he'll continue to appear to be.

[versatilehand]

The man Eames spots appears to be almost too perfect. He has every single sign of the perfect mark; expensive clothes, innocent face, the signs of being a little on the lost side.

It's the perfection that makes Eames cautious.

"Hello!" He calls out when he thinks the man will hear him, listening to his suspicion and deciding against the quick brush as he passes. "Could you spare me a minute?"

[cerealboxbadge]

Never trust a silver platter, as they say.

The smile Neal turns on Eames is a little frazzled, a hint of relief behind it. 'Oh thank God, an excuse to stop' is the general feel. (He practiced that one for ages, it's a good smile.) "Sure, of course. I'm just taking everything in, anyway."

[versatilehand]

Eames' fingers sneak slowly forward as the man engages him in conversation, being incredibly careful to keep a close eye on the man's facial expression and body language. Any hint of him being more than he seems, and Eames is stepping away and not taking this any further.

"I'm new," he says, sounding meek, apologetic. "And altogether quite lost."