closed || nothing sacred, all things wild

[exsecutus]

WHO: Nikos, Caspar, Nell, Carla, Max, Kitty, Marisol, and the letters of Ilias Fabria
WHAT: the assassination of Grand Cleric Agathe of Cumberland
WHEN: mid Cloudreach
WHERE: Kirkwall, Antiva, and the long and lonely road to Val Royeaux
NOTES: part of the mod plot

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[exsecutus]

Nikos grunts, which is something halfway between agreement and dismissal. He doesn't easily do we. He doesn't easily do collaboration. Then again, he is interested, despite himself. Wherever this next leads, whatever they would use this PH for--it interests him. There's a competitive instinct in him. Always seeking the next step.

"If no one else is doing it, they can't be looking for it, either. It buys us nothing. If it could somehow prove useful, it might be worth it. What would be needed, to do the work of creating it?"

[wont_be_me]

It's certainly not her enterprise. Maybe one day she would feel differently, but here in this moment it's all just throwaway. Little projects to amuse her lest she light this whole fucking town on fire for the fun of it.

"You would create a custom litmus test," she answers with distraction. "They're made with plant dye that's sensitive to acidity. They turn certain colors depending on the acid level."

She looks up then, and seems to realize it might behoove her to explain herself. "They test for it, in paint. You won't fool any inspector with a counterfeit painting if the chemistry is wrong. Counterfeiting can be as much a game of organics, as appearances."

A little hint of a thing: that she faked more than just signatures. That one, Isaac, had asked her are you sure you're a good liar? Yes. Yes she was.

[exsecutus]

There is a lot to pick apart in there. As it does, actually, pertain to Nikos' interests, he pays closer attention than he might otherwise. Interest also grants him the patience to wait for the rest of the explanation, without interjecting something sharp as likely to end the conversation as it was to prompt more out of Carla.

Counterfeiting. His interest piques that much more. A little smirk twists at the corner of his mouth.

"Is there any ink-based deception you aren't gifted in."

It's rhetorical. Mostly. How many other ink-based deceptions are out there, outside of forgery and counterfeiting? More seriously--

"Who do you work for, where you are from?"

[wont_be_me]

Is someone inviting her to flatter herself? She almost laughs, chokes it off, and just smiles instead. "I haven't worked for anyone since I was an apprentice."

A nasty, prowling teenage girl looking for something, anything to sink her teeth into as she realized that the world disappointed her and there was only so much joy she could out of wrecking the people around her. She'd found Cotnari because he was the type to keep teenagers around, clever or not. He was disgusting in that manner, but he'd had something she'd wanted. Knowledge and finesse and contacts.

"I'm a contract worker. Smugglers, drug runners, art dealers..." she makes a lazy twirling motion with one hand. He gets the idea. "I'm also a con artist, pick pocket, embezzler, hacker, bounty hunter, and when I really can't find anything else to do I, a mechanic."

Perhaps that resume sounded disjointed, but in Carla's mind it all centered around a few key concepts. Details and mechanisms, understanding systems of finely granular nodes that one leveraged to create results. As for the question he'd asked though:

"Organic materials -- inks, paints -- they're much more difficult to fake in the future, the challenge is most of the fun."

[exsecutus]

He did ask. Sort of. But the list starts to grate on Nikos as it goes on. Useful, all of them, or at least those that mean something to him seem to be. But like his initial objections, how does he know anything about her? It's word alone. The word of a braggart, or the word of someone truly skilled, and it would only be by contracting her that he would find out which, probably.

He lets himself take a generous sip of wine and stares down into the cup. Gives it a swirl, half discontent and half thoughtful.

"This--" The letters; he lets the swirl of the cup indicate them-- "will not involve fake ink, or anything but the forging. But there may be more. What we do will change the outcome of this election, if we are successful. And much will change with that. We will have the opportunity to do more, and contract workers could benefit. And help the cause."

More important is the second part. Nikos' mouth twists a little as he admits it. Ardent speech still doesn't agree with him, unless he's in an argument. Then it comes almost naturally.

"If you don't work for anyone, what do you work for. Money," and while that's a guess, most bounty hunters work for bounties, so it can't be too far off. "Chaos. Does anything else make the list?"

[wont_be_me]

Her lip curls, irritated by this question. She has been working for nothing more than survival for a long time and she taste it in her mouth. Being stuck in that cramped shuttle scavenging forgotten cargo and ship parts out of graveyards when there weren't any bounties to drag down. Even before the ship, she had been clawing at the labyrinthine politics of the space stations looking for opportunities and footholds where she might find the comfort and agency she'd had on Oscyria.

She had tried to remake a life that was dead in an ecosystem that played by different rules. She worries the very tip of her tongue against the point of one sharp tooth. She's changed since then, in subtle ways, the damage of escaping her homeworld's destruction has blossomed in her over time and experience. Her indolence now wears a shade of rage.

"Does it matter?" she finally decides, quirking one of her full eyebrows.