We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end

[caveatwalls]

Who: Sherlock Holmes and Bruce Wayne (...as neither Sherlock or Bruce)
When: September 29th, briefly before sirens
Where: Any given shifty bar
Summary: Badasses in disguise cross paths. Zaniness ensues.
Warnings: Violence, maybe? Will update if needed.

Comments

[kingofrooks]

Floyd Layton is a tall man, though you usually couldn't tell, given how much he slouched and hunched. His hands were usually shoved into the pockets of his too-big pants, which were as dirty as he had picked them off a dumpster truck - which, given how he looked, was likely, especially with the rope that threaded through his belt loops. His shirt was almost clean though, and fitted him better. His straw-liked hair was shoved under a baseball cap, the AGI logo faded enough for it to be another dumpster gain as well; it didn't hide the ugly burn down the right side of his face.

It was all good that he looked like that - after all, he was merely a lowly runner. Out of his luck, out of jobs, looking for some sort of work - any work - that would give him proper food at some time. But really, it was difficult for him, a conspiracy theorist who hated both companies and the Newcomers. But he was a beacon for people like him - people who believed in their own innate goodness without much to show about it, and who wanted to prove it to everyone.

Hence. Xaylein. Hence, a drug runner. He ambled into the room, looking around for his prey. There were enough over here, though- that man. In the corner. Layton slopped over, hand slipping into his pockets and thumbing out a tiny box of tictacs.

"Want one, Mistah?" he drawled, low and sharp, his grin distorting the burn.

[caveatwalls]

John Carter doesn't notice the man approaching him until the little plastic container is practically under his nose. His bleary eyes come to life for just a second, until he just blows smoke on them with an air of caution.

"Lemme guess. First one's free. Like I haven't heard that before."

The voice is gruff, absent of all polish and even has traces of a true Canadian yokel. He punctuates his speech with a loud snuffle, while clearly tantalized by the offer.

"How much?"

Sherlock, unlike his trusty little facade, noticed Floyd as soon as he flounced in. He looked like any other bum that filled the Sector 10 Darkness shelter at night, so when he turned out to be a dealer, it was only a slight surprise.

There were pros and cons to having the down and out sell your product. On the upside, they were desperate for cash and would do more or less anything to turn over a profit. On the downside, statistically many of them were junkies themselves, so there was no such thing as a one hundred percent guarantee to ever see anything of your drugs or money again.

That and there was something funny about that burn. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it just yet, so his healthy skepticism simply matches that of Carter's.

[kingofrooks]

Oh, this was a smart one. Layton rarely met these - usually they just started leaning forward, all eagerness and drooling lips, asking how much, how much because this was the salvation they sought. They had been waiting for him, their hands held out. Except this one... maybe Layton had misjudged? The look in his eyes was a little too sharp for a habitual addict. Maybe he's new to this.

He shrugged fluidly to himself, dumping a single tictac into Carter's hand.

"First one's free, yeah, you a smart one," he drawled out the words, his elbows landing on the table. If Carter took a deep breath, he would probably smell the alcohol, thick and over-sweet, in Layton's breath. "Next one's fifty." It was lower than the usual price of Xaylein. His speech was a Canadian yokel, rather like Carter's- but tinged heavily with a bad (probably faked) Harlem accent.

"Ya sayin' that you ain't found this before? What kinda rock 'ave ya been livin' under, eh?"

If he haven't... well, there's no use, was there? Layton needed to find another supplier - his last one's busted.

[caveatwalls]

Sherlock doesn't have to fake the look of eagerness when the pill falls into his hand. Finally, a proper sample. Now, the problem would be getting out without having to consume it.

A pained look painted itself across Carter's features, turning the pill in his fingers while he kept his cigarette clasped firmly between his lips.

"Yeah, well, good to know I didn't get a high school diploma for nothing. Fifty bucks a pop?"

Like the burn, the accent was definitely something unheard of for Siren's Port natives. It sounded more like someone who'd been watching too many movies with scenes exactly like the one they were currently playing out. Police entrapment? Unlikely. The narcotics department was good, but rarely did plants carry actual samples of the drugs they were pretending to sell. This could, of course, be a fake pill, but there was still something far too elaborate about it to be SPPD work.

"I mean, I heard that this shit turns people crazy. I don't want to end up on a bad trip around my kids, you know? I just... need a little edge taken off."

The bleary eyes turn as pleading as his voice. Desperation that just needed a little sugar coating to tip him over. Do go on. Really sell it.

[kingofrooks]

'Around my kids'. Either that was a real plea for his children, or... something else. It was common for men like Carter (and Layton himself) to claim to have children in order to gain some sort of sympathy. This man looked a little too young to have any- but then, what would Layton know? It wasn't as if he was an expert on people or something. That, he left to the shrinks and the cops.

(There was a part of him, hidden deep inside, then quirked his lips upwards. Oh, there was something different about this man alright; something about him that was almost too polished, too believable. The sugar-coating- oh yes. There was a desperation in him that wanted the drug.

But not for eating. Was he a cop? He hadn't heard of any undercover missions within this area.)

Layton shrugged slightly. "Ya won't 'aveta worry 'bout it. The ones with the bad trips? They're the nutso, ya know?" He reached up, and coarsely turned his finger beside his forehead- suggestive, rude. The grin on his face was almost lascivious, hiding depth of meaning.

An inside joke with this man he just met.

"Ya and I, we normal folks- we've got nothin' ta fear from it." He waved a hand. "That one's free. Ya can try it, if ya like."

[caveatwalls]

Damn, the kids line was spreading it too thick, wasn't it? Move on from the subject. Back to the matter at hand.

"God, who even makes this kind of shit?" Carter says it flippantly, but Sherlock really wants the answer. Someone this low on the chain probably didn't know, but they had to get the drugs somewhere.

Part of him was tempted to try it. For scienctific reasons, really. To test it. He could only really understand the symptoms if he experienced them firsthand. But no.

"Nah, I got caught smoking some shit in the bathroom here once and nearly got banned. Don't wanna risk that."