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May 3rd-
Where Clint finds his fridge has spawned magnets in a smiley face. Hey, magnets are useful and now he had a few. Also, his neibour's car had a dent in the hood the side of an adult body.
May 4th
Where arrests were made on the news.
When Clint gets back home the empty beer with the message in the bottle is missing. In it's place is an import beer that's a bourbon stout from across state lines in its place.
May 5th
JP had acquired a few things.
-5 mai
-6:30PM 7
-9 Sulliv
-Lyn
JP had been collecting these little scraps of paper for a while from all over now: Wing Sing, the ceiling at Eight Ball, and even Clint's own fridge when he broke into it again. All because JP was brash enough to ask the Guthries running Atomic that night if he had any messages. JP sat on the wood stool rearranging the little pieces of paper in various orders. It didn't help that his reading comprehension was absolute garbage, but he knew enough in English even to muck about.
His arms stayed folded across the ply covered pool table where he was hunched, heel bouncing as he chewed on his thumb in thought. "C'mon, Jean-Pierre. You might sometimes be a dummy but you ain't no dummy. Think. What are we missing?" The French was murmured out loud trying to sound things out "5-6-7-9?… well one a time. How come this looks like we're missin somethin with an 8 on it. Possum, you see anything?" He looked to the generally vacant second room that served half as storage and heard not a rustle. He murmured in earnest, "Good talk."
Luckily for JP that at least it seemed to be in French. I mean, Mai. May. The rest of it didnt make much sense, but whatever it was suggested that Clint might have tried to make it a little easier on the guy. He was asking a lot.
While JP consulted with his possum, a car pulled up outside and soon following was a knock on the garage's roll up door.
JP popped an eyebrow up and furrowed his brow. He concentrated a moment on Jeanne's view as he was, almost inseparably, tagged to his car remotely. However…the damn door was closed so he 'saw'…the inside of the door. Here was the knock again and that meant move his ass. bare feet and jeans, he didn't bother with a shirt because that's just not how things were back home. And he arrived in time to see… a pizza guy. He looked vaguely confused. He was about to ask when it struck him if 5 Mai was a date… that was… shit today? This might have something to do with that. It's something he'd do in any case. That thick accent rolled in question, "Tha' for me then? What I owe ya?"
The Pizza Guy wore a button down red shirt that didn't breathe at all, with 'Antonio's' embroydered on the chest to one side. Holding a pizza box, he was about to knock again when JP appeared. Startled, there was a look at the Cajun's bare chest and a weird look before he checked the note taped to the top. "Uhhh,nah, paid fer. You, um, Jeen-Pierre?" He pronounces the name wrong, Brooklyn accent thick on his tongue.
JP blinked at the guy casually asking, "Est-ce que ca sonne comme mon nom n'est pas Jean-Pierre?" Did he at all sound like his name wasn't? C'mon man. Still he helda a hand up for him to wait and answered, "Oui, you find the guy. You from Antonio's? Yous guys? Tres bien man." He went and fished out a five dollar bill which was, for the day, sizable tip. He had a feeling the guy was doing him a huge favour and, well turns out he was right. He took the pizza and popped the box open right inside the porch giving a satisfied nod. HA! there is it. What it all meant was another story. "Hey, you remember this stop, Pete. We take care a'you." Aaaaaaaalways treat your delivery guys and bartenders well. They make the world go round faster.
A slow blink from the man with the pizza, trying not to sweat through his shirt. That's…a lot of French. "Uhhh…" he answers dumbly, then recovers when he's asked a question in the proper language. Nodding. "Yeah. What else am I doin' in this bogus shirt?" The five dollar flash, he readily hands over the pizza and his hand comes out for the bill. "Thanks, man. I'll remember. You have a good one." Turning around so he can beat pavement quick and get on his next delivery.
Indeed there it was! Scrawled on the lid of the box was a note with a little bunny scribbled on it, just like the rest.
"an St., Brook"
JP took the pizza back upstairs putting one of the slices in his face biting off a large bite and looed at the pieces. "6:30, 75 mai - 9 Sillivayn St. Brooklyn? Well hell I got me some time then." It wasn't until he was making his way to go sit down that the imporbability of that statement struck him and he realized there are only 30 some odd days in teh damn month. His eyes squinted as he ran that though in his head and the dread hit him. "Merde that a half hour from now!" He folded the pizze in hand and bit off half of as he raced to finish getting dressed. He was really going to have to fight traffic on this one. "merdemerdemerde…"
Finally he managed same painted on worn denim he always fell back on; these washed though, socks, shoes, checked the shirt he had on. Yup. Clean. Disco! He grabbed his coat because it was as much a social statement as it was a flag of who he was: stop at your own risk. DOwn teh stairs he flew. He stopped and rand back upupup the stairs and grabbed the map off the wall where it was pinned and consulted the… aaaaaaaah all these names kinda looked alike. Why didn't he ask the delivery guy? Dammit JP. okay take a moment here and find where Clint's place was first and start out from there…Kay! He crammed the rest of the piece i his face and brought the box with. It was fresh and… who knows, ya know, it really was New York's finest. That was worth sharing.
Hurdling the railing instead of taking the steps he willed Jeanne's door open and pulled the keys out of pocket. He tagged the door in a pass on teh way to teh car to get that open, started the car and rolled out willing the door to close behind him as he pulled out before grabbing the car once more. That…was how someone with a very limited scope power optimised, people. Know your order of processes! Once attuned withthe car he tried to focus on getting there with enough time and not that actually tlking to this guy face to face wasn't possibly the scariest thing he's done in the last two months including getting arrested night before last. "Whaaaat we doin, Jean-Pierre… we changin lanes, an we breathin, and we not runnin over no lil old ladies. Got it."
|ROLL| JP +rolls 1d20 for: 8
Sullivan Street. Brooklyn. An old neighborhood in Red Hook right on the water. it wasn't a great spot. warehouses, docks, boats coming in with shipping containers, rough people with rough names and thick accents, working hard for an honest buck.
79 Sullivan was just one more enormous, brick building among all of the other brick storage buildings in the area. Except this one had a bunch of graffiti which covered one wall top to bottom in an enormous mural which seemed to be allowed to exist. Rather than tags, it was layered pictures, fading with the weather.
JP didn't make good time and was slightly manic from being attached to a car that viewed speed limits more as honourable suggestions. Rough neighbourhood covered in hard working transients? Hell, he was in the right place for something. The gait of his walk changed up a bit out of subconscious habit from walking the 'yard. Pity the fool that mistook him for a mark. It didn't mean he was taking the unknown for granted. Part of the art of being an arrogant cuss such as himself was have your escape plan always at the ready and be ready for anything. Still he happened on the wall tagged with pictures and that was a curious thing to him. That he didn't see so much at home. "N'%<234>tes-vous pas int%<233>ressant?" Ain't you something interesting? he wondered out loud to himself. With a squint and a tilt up of his head he got himself a look around trying to figure the place out before he started kickin in doors. Hell he didn't even know if this was end game or another clue or if he was supposed to stand on the big red X to have a piano dropped on him or what. He wondered to himself looking around, 'Who would waste a perfectly good Steinway?!'
It is, in fact, something interesting. the sun was getting lower in the sky at this end of the time zone, and it bounced off the water in amber hues rather than bright gold. 5PM was quitting time and most the guys had already gone home for the day, leaving the late office crew to clean up. It was quiet. And almost sorta…nice.
The myriad of pictures pieced together were interesting, but no 'X'. Mostly animals iconography and rather surrealist with bright colors swirling around disembodied hands playing a guitar. A brown bear wearing a ball cap chased a squirrel around the neck of the guitar. Larger than life dandilion seeds served as parasols for a couple frogs making out. And…giving it another look, JP may notice the large, cartoon fox spraypainted into one corner of the building. It was running with its ears up and bright red and white tail flagging low behind him, mouth open, fangs visible but looked more like it was panting than outright viscious.
Some asshole had crudely drawn sunglasses on the creature and a lobster tail hanging out of his maw.
JP squint like the sun was too low and catching the dark brown of his eyes. They weren't on teh horizon but the walll. The pictures amused him to no end, but the last one? Two fingers lifted to land on the drawing of the fox and the fainy smile with wonder turned into wry amusement. "Un renard en fuite? Est-ce maintenant ce que c'est? Hmm?" He looked behind him seeing if he could see anything too familiar in teh immediate area. Eh, screw it, he let his car lock and headed on around the building to see what else there was and try the damn door. No sense standing here with his dick flapping in the wind. "We definiately in the right place…"
To be fair, Clint didnt have the idea for these things. Nah. Some guy from the Nelson Paint Company came up with them months ago to mark trees that needed to get cut across rivers, and mark cattle from afar
?rBut they were seriously missing some fun applications!
Three buildings back and laying down flat on his belly, Clint watched from the roof through a scope attached to a modified gun of his own creation. Tracking JP from side to side, a slow smile curving his lips. He looked even better than he remembered.
"Always on the run, Brer Rabbit…" Barton mumbled lowly to himself, reading JP's lips best he could. "Well done, Jean-Pierre." Pleased, he lined up his target before JP could get too far and squeeeeeeezed the trigger.
Back on the ground, JP turns to walk around the building and there's a loud 'POP!' of something beside him hitting the wall at high-speed. A green splotch of paint suddenly covers the brick containing most of the dangling lobster tail. Paint dripping.
JP heard the pop and knew a gunshot from a spatter, but that stopped him not. Immediately he ducked back and there was that pig-sticker in hand. OH Brer Rabbit was wide awake. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked around, paused and his shoulders slumped almost like he was briefly explaining to the dragin 'Nnono, you have t'boil it alive, not shoot it!" Yes, sir, you had his attention, and yes he was going to be using the corner of that building for cover.
Barton stifled a chuckle when JP jumped and took cover. "Yeah…maybe I should've thought about that around a jumpy ex-con, huh, Bunny?" Tracking him through the scope, he waited a couple seconds, whispering impatiently to himself, "Come on, come on…" he squeezed off another shot and re-loded the gun, eyeing the air cartridge. "Gotta talk to Fitz about lifespan on this thing."
SPLOTCH! Another green explosion on the exact same brick.
JP waited. Deep breaths man. Deep breaths. This was a message or else things be hittin you right now. It wasn't his head that came around the corner but his hand folded like a puppet peeking. The hand looked left… then right… He stepped back out and rolled that knife easy across teh back of his hand to now hold it blade down and, fuck it, he was going to take a jab at the brinck and see if it was lose? Hey, say what one will about the Mutant but he handled that knife like a majorette whipped a damn baton around.
*pokepokepokepokepoke*
The knife slips into the mortar around the brick too easily. Far, far too easily. it chipped and flaked away like foam rather than real mortar and there wasn't nearly enough there to hold the brick structurally in place. Green paint squelched out of where it had seeped into the cracks around the brick. It wiggled loose with /insane/ amounts of ease.
JP looked very interested now. "Bonjour, cherie, what'chu got for me?" And with that the brick slid out and carefully the knife poked at the hole after another look around. he carefully pulled out whatever was inevitably stashed behind the brick.
Clint smiled crookedly as JP dug at that brick. "There you go." Flicking his stand down with a satisfied look on his impossibly smug face, the archer packed up swiftly and took off running across the roof. "Paintball gun, bro…"
The brick isn't much of a brick. Just a thin slice of one. A facade held in place with plaster of paris or something. Behind it is a small cavernous space with a manilla envelope folded up. Inside the envelope? A storage locker key with a plastic tag attached that came on it stating the address. And a note written in French:
"Not bad, My Rabbit. I got a little worried for a bit there, but if you're reading this, you pulled through. I hope you had as much fun finding these as I had watching you. See you soon. Maybe. —Your Fox."
JP pulled out the parcel, and the key, aaaaand the note. His head head swam back and forth in that figure 8 wobble of his that seemed to be his way of enjoying a moment like a good score in a song; some beat he could groove to. His back rest against the wall for a moment instead of running staring at teh note. His thumb passed over it a moment; the key after weighed in his fingers. The grin went ear to ear withthe most confused of looks, "Renard, … why would I need a key?!" That made no sense to him but may has something to do with a number.
That Clint bothered writing a note in a manner he could read it? That was a special touch to that. Or, damn convenient and likely had no idea that his English reading comprehension was actually fairly low all things considered. Likely it was jsut a nod to respect the language. Also it sounded better. Just ask JP and he'll tell you. He turned the key over. Okay this one had on e of them numbers on it. That made more sense. Well, it looked like he had placed to be. "Maybe you do, mon renard. Maybe you do. Jeanne, we go." He pushed back with his foot to step off the wall and carefully tucked everything into the upper zipper pocket of his coat. The car on its own rolled up and opened a door to let him in, like she do. Well, on the the address of the station that had the locker in question then!
May 5th: Later at the storage unit
The plastic tag hanging on to the key from JP's envelope has an address and a unit number. Well, may as well! At least Clint didn't make him piece that together.
Rather than sticking around in Brooklyn, the address takes Jean-Pierre and Jeanne d'Arc back across the water into Manhattan and into the middle east side. The M.T. Well, near to it. In fact, it's the nearest of the storage space places to…well look at that. It's the nearest storage space to the garage. It's been here the whole time? Oh man!
The tag leads JP around to unit 107. A small space, so nothing enormous must be waiting behind the faded orange-painted rolling door.
JP couldn't be bothered too much to do any legit driving. He was eating his pizza that some benevolent person got him from Antonio's (best pizza), and examining the key curiously. He was so 12 sometimes and lost in his own head.
Still when the option is to be led to drift in lala land or let reality punch you in the gut every morning with some scary truths? Yeah this was a pretty great option. Fortunately for the car, people on the road, and all of the scenery when he was tapped into the car he had total awareness as the car and kindly refrained from running anyone over.
Looking up he actually said out lout, "Really? All that for two blocks? Vous beau batard." He grinned and let the GTO idle and let him out. He licked the grease from the crust off his thumb, then his ring finger and wiped them on his jeans. Well…here we are. He didn't even try to use the key. He just laid his hand on the door and worked the lock by rote to open the door. He murmured quietly, "Please let me fight ninjas…"
Aw, ninjas, no.
It's a little disappointing if he's hoping for ninjas. Anticlimactic, even.
The door rolls back into the overhead and in the small 9 x 5 space is a proper looking wooden workbench. It doesn't seem to be some large, metal monstrosity, shiny and new from a department store. The legs look like they're heavy and old, sturdy metal for the frame, holding up two thick slabs of wood. A serious looking vice is bolted down to one end. It's not built to be handsome, but highly functional.
In one edge a rabbit is carved into the wood.
A proper workbench.
On top of it is a lava lamp.
JP let the door slide up and he blinked and arched an eyebrow noticing the purple lava lamp first. Okay he wanted the lava lamp… like a lot. It matched the shirt that wasn't his that Sev brought him to get out of jail and change into. So likely… there was a theme.
There was a lopsided grin that immediately hung when his eyes saw the rabbit wood-burned into the surface. This just changed everything, and he coughed, "Quoi?!" No it wasn't the lamp, it was the whole damn workbench. It wasn't elegant but it was sturdy and would bear the brunt of all manner of crazy ideas and live to see them completed. Really, it suited him perfectly in that regard.
Both hands covered his mouth and he took a half step back from it. Woah. This was… This was huge. It was absolutely useful and appreciated, but this wasn't bought, this was built. This he built, with his own time and energy…and personalized.
To that point he was also in that apartment long enough to get an idea of what JP was trying to do and actually reach out to the crux of a need unfulfilled: any semblance of a proper work surface. Shit, even if it smelled like fire and ammonia, Clint had one at his place. He GOT it.
JP held his breath staring at it for what felt like forever before laying a hand on it. Okay, it was real and really happening. Damn.
Damn.
And… Merde, even just laying a hand on it he could tell it was solid wood. Solid wood with a vice clamp! Awww, workbench, yes! But that also meant-
He went to lift the end with one hand with a yank and not only did it not budge but he just risked a hernia."OH yeah… we are getting help… Mere de Dieu…" He sniffled, surveying the entire thing in awe of the craftsmanship. Not the artistry of it, but the care, the stability and sheer functionality. It was perfect. He set a finger on the vice and it 'powered up' unspinning itself without much a fight. The workbench had heft and wear, sure, but it was in good condition. Great in fact.
Palms rubbed over the surface with a wistful grin. He kissed his two fingers and tapped the bunny with them. "Renard vous m'avez. Merci, man. Merci."
You want to catch a rabbit?
Because that's how you catch a rabbit.
Well played fox. Well played.