The box reeks of accelerant and ash, and it creaks as it’s opened; it’s a nice touch, carefully considered, artfully executed. From within, a black, twisted item lies in a bed of cinders and scorched earth, its sightless eyes staring, it's heat-snarled mouth gaping, at the dark-clad figure disturbing its eternal rest.
A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low, desperate rasp: “Is it real?"
“Dunno, mate,” says a young man, lighting a cigarette, hands barely shaking. He inhales deep, and exhales slow. “Search your feelings and all that.” That earns him a glare, or so he imagines, as the masked figure turns toward him. He smirks broadly, running a hand through his dirty blond hair, and leans, casually as he can, against a large storage container. “As requested, chief. Fresh off the Forests of Endor,” he says. “Well, ’s fresh as you can get, robbin’ a grave and all."
“Thousands have searched for this, all across the galaxy. And you mean to tell me that you, of all people, found it on Endor?"
The young man shrugs, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“How?” the figure snaps; the soft, persistent, almost subconscious tendrils of influence that have been curling around him from the start turn, abruptly, to knives.
The young man grins, and wiggles his fingers at the figure. “Good magician never reveals his secrets, sunshine.”
Another intake of breath, more thoughtful this time, and the lid to the box is eased shut.
“We got a deal then?” the young man says, conspicuously bored. The masked head sinks into the dark nest of cloths draped around the figure's neck, and then it rises: a slow, significant nod. The kind of significant he’s not too eager to have clarified, but needs must and all that.
“Excellent,” he says, and pushing off the storage crate and walking over toward the box and the buyer. He offers his hand, hoping for payment. What he receives, of course, is heavy silence. He rolls his eyes, takes another drag from his cigarette, and sighs. “There a problem here, mate?"
“The Force is strong in you,” the figure intones.
The young man snorts, too loudly. “Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.”
“And there’s a darkness,” the figure continues, as if not expecting the interruption, and not willing to acknowledge it. “Deep, within you. Not controlled, but somehow—”
“Well,” he smirks, leaning in, and throwing a long, sweeping look at the black-draped creature before him. “What’s a bit of darkness between friends, yeah?"
The gaze that he feels meeting his is less cold than it is searching; the question pressing against his haphazard mental defenses is almost plaintive this time. He lets it slide off anyway, clears his throat, and holds out his hand again.
The figure’s head shakes, as if being cleared of some strange, momentary delusion. The word “Indeed,” is rasped, with a clear sardonic edge, and a small, metallic disk is pressed into the young man’s hand. Hopefully, it contains the wildly overinflated payment for the item in the box; even if it doesn’t, he thinks, this may not be the time to stay and find out.
“Right, then,” he says, pocketing it, and takes one last deep, steadying drag from his cigarette, before letting it drop to the floor. He makes something of a show of stubbing it out with the toe of his boot, like he’s in no hurry at all. “Pleasure doin’ business, and all that.” He throws off a mocking salute, turns on his heel, and strolls away, as if he’s got no care in the galaxy.
Which, of course, he doesn’t.
Not like he’s just sold a bill of goods to a strange, desperate wanker with more power than sense, or anything like that.
Yeah, he thinks, quickly turning a corner toward the loading docks, and stifling a laugh as he gives in to the urge to jog back to his ship. That’d’ve been truly bloody stupid of me.
FILL: “Aivela of the Hardsell” [NBC!Constantine]
A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low, desperate rasp: “Is it real?"
“Dunno, mate,” says a young man, lighting a cigarette, hands barely shaking. He inhales deep, and exhales slow. “Search your feelings and all that.” That earns him a glare, or so he imagines, as the masked figure turns toward him. He smirks broadly, running a hand through his dirty blond hair, and leans, casually as he can, against a large storage container. “As requested, chief. Fresh off the Forests of Endor,” he says. “Well, ’s fresh as you can get, robbin’ a grave and all."
“Thousands have searched for this, all across the galaxy. And you mean to tell me that you, of all people, found it on Endor?"
The young man shrugs, taking another drag from his cigarette.
“How?” the figure snaps; the soft, persistent, almost subconscious tendrils of influence that have been curling around him from the start turn, abruptly, to knives.
The young man grins, and wiggles his fingers at the figure. “Good magician never reveals his secrets, sunshine.”
Another intake of breath, more thoughtful this time, and the lid to the box is eased shut.
“We got a deal then?” the young man says, conspicuously bored. The masked head sinks into the dark nest of cloths draped around the figure's neck, and then it rises: a slow, significant nod. The kind of significant he’s not too eager to have clarified, but needs must and all that.
“Excellent,” he says, and pushing off the storage crate and walking over toward the box and the buyer. He offers his hand, hoping for payment. What he receives, of course, is heavy silence. He rolls his eyes, takes another drag from his cigarette, and sighs. “There a problem here, mate?"
“The Force is strong in you,” the figure intones.
The young man snorts, too loudly. “Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.”
“And there’s a darkness,” the figure continues, as if not expecting the interruption, and not willing to acknowledge it. “Deep, within you. Not controlled, but somehow—”
“Well,” he smirks, leaning in, and throwing a long, sweeping look at the black-draped creature before him. “What’s a bit of darkness between friends, yeah?"
The gaze that he feels meeting his is less cold than it is searching; the question pressing against his haphazard mental defenses is almost plaintive this time. He lets it slide off anyway, clears his throat, and holds out his hand again.
The figure’s head shakes, as if being cleared of some strange, momentary delusion. The word “Indeed,” is rasped, with a clear sardonic edge, and a small, metallic disk is pressed into the young man’s hand. Hopefully, it contains the wildly overinflated payment for the item in the box; even if it doesn’t, he thinks, this may not be the time to stay and find out.
“Right, then,” he says, pocketing it, and takes one last deep, steadying drag from his cigarette, before letting it drop to the floor. He makes something of a show of stubbing it out with the toe of his boot, like he’s in no hurry at all. “Pleasure doin’ business, and all that.” He throws off a mocking salute, turns on his heel, and strolls away, as if he’s got no care in the galaxy.
Which, of course, he doesn’t.
Not like he’s just sold a bill of goods to a strange, desperate wanker with more power than sense, or anything like that.
Yeah, he thinks, quickly turning a corner toward the loading docks, and stifling a laugh as he gives in to the urge to jog back to his ship. That’d’ve been truly bloody stupid of me.