This early in the week, Drake also thinks it's something he can avoid -- how many people does he possibly have direct skin contact with in a day? He'll just be careful, this will be fine.
It's really not turning out fine, and the next shop he goes to will be in search of gloves.
This one's mutual -- Hadriel fades out and their home worlds fade in, and Drake is entering a large house. No, not a house, exactly. I mean, it is, but it's also a funeral parlour. Obvious enough by the casket (currently closed) in a viewing room off to the left as soon as you enter. There doesn't seem to be a wake going on, though, and as the door closes behind him a shrimpy guy with a buzz cut wanders by, gesturing for Drake to follow him.
"Bossman's downstairs, chop chop."
"In the chop shop? Fun," Drake comments dryly, following the little guy. Down into the bowels of the morgue, where yes there is a sheet-covered body on one of the slabs... but more interestingly there's something of an assembly line going on. A man with an eyepatch cuts off a chunk of very fresh looking human brain and places it in a takeout container, then slides it down to a woman who seems to be placing garnishes on top, parsley and fancy-cut lemon wedges. She closes the container and pushes it into the shrimpy guy's spot, which he's taking back up now to put on a sticker and put the containers into yellow coolers. A ways behind them there's another guy with curly hair pulling little vials out of a casket packed full of them, slipping a few at a time into a dime bag, and packing the dime bags into blue coolers.
All of this is super questionable. But Drake just looks it over, sighs, and turns to a man sitting at a smaller table with a glass of wine and two books -- one a novel, one some kind of ledger.
"Holloway! And what does my favorite rat have for me today? Perhaps I can rustle up some cheese."
"...screw you, Blaine, I'm not a rat."
"I believe Mr Boss would beg to differ." When Drake says nothing in response, presumably doing that pressed-lip glare he's so good at, Blaine continues. He sets down his novel and opens the ledger, clicking a pen to signal he's ready. "We're getting ready for a push. I want to know his importers, you've gotten those names by now, right?"
"Are you insane? If you keep feeding this much to the DA, you're gonna get me killed. There's like three of us that know those names."
"And only one of you that works for me. Too bad so sad, give them to me anyway."
"I can figure a way out from under your boot, you know. One way or another you won't have me over this barrel much longer, but I'm no good to anybody if I'm dead."
Blaine just smiles, everything about him screaming smug superiority. Drake's voice is low and furious as he spits out the names. Blaine writes them down, unclicks his pen. "Was that so hard? Get yourself a snack, rat. Not the good stuff."
"No thanks. I'm not hungry." Except he is. He just doesn't want to take shit from Blaine, who quirks an eyebrow.
"I insist."
Drake shakes his head, stubborn. "Fuck you, Blaine." And turns away, heading back up the stairs and out of the house, with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach and a sense of creeping dread that maybe he's made a terrible mistake...
memswap memswap agency stuff please!
It's really not turning out fine, and the next shop he goes to will be in search of gloves.
This one's mutual -- Hadriel fades out and their home worlds fade in, and Drake is entering a large house. No, not a house, exactly. I mean, it is, but it's also a funeral parlour. Obvious enough by the casket (currently closed) in a viewing room off to the left as soon as you enter. There doesn't seem to be a wake going on, though, and as the door closes behind him a shrimpy guy with a buzz cut wanders by, gesturing for Drake to follow him.
"Bossman's downstairs, chop chop."
"In the chop shop? Fun," Drake comments dryly, following the little guy. Down into the bowels of the morgue, where yes there is a sheet-covered body on one of the slabs... but more interestingly there's something of an assembly line going on. A man with an eyepatch cuts off a chunk of very fresh looking human brain and places it in a takeout container, then slides it down to a woman who seems to be placing garnishes on top, parsley and fancy-cut lemon wedges. She closes the container and pushes it into the shrimpy guy's spot, which he's taking back up now to put on a sticker and put the containers into yellow coolers. A ways behind them there's another guy with curly hair pulling little vials out of a casket packed full of them, slipping a few at a time into a dime bag, and packing the dime bags into blue coolers.
All of this is super questionable. But Drake just looks it over, sighs, and turns to a man sitting at a smaller table with a glass of wine and two books -- one a novel, one some kind of ledger.
"Holloway! And what does my favorite rat have for me today? Perhaps I can rustle up some cheese."
"...screw you, Blaine, I'm not a rat."
"I believe Mr Boss would beg to differ." When Drake says nothing in response, presumably doing that pressed-lip glare he's so good at, Blaine continues. He sets down his novel and opens the ledger, clicking a pen to signal he's ready. "We're getting ready for a push. I want to know his importers, you've gotten those names by now, right?"
"Are you insane? If you keep feeding this much to the DA, you're gonna get me killed. There's like three of us that know those names."
"And only one of you that works for me. Too bad so sad, give them to me anyway."
"I can figure a way out from under your boot, you know. One way or another you won't have me over this barrel much longer, but I'm no good to anybody if I'm dead."
Blaine just smiles, everything about him screaming smug superiority. Drake's voice is low and furious as he spits out the names. Blaine writes them down, unclicks his pen. "Was that so hard? Get yourself a snack, rat. Not the good stuff."
"No thanks. I'm not hungry." Except he is. He just doesn't want to take shit from Blaine, who quirks an eyebrow.
"I insist."
Drake shakes his head, stubborn. "Fuck you, Blaine." And turns away, heading back up the stairs and out of the house, with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach and a sense of creeping dread that maybe he's made a terrible mistake...
What does he see?