Log Title: An Exchange of Favors
Summary: Winter needs something a little questionable. Acorn is all too happy to help.
IC Date: Sun Mar 24 15:32, 2381
OOC Date: Sun Mar 24 15:32, 2019
Related Logs: None
acornwinter

 

 

"If you tell me why, I will name you a price. If you don't want me to ask questions, then this is in trade for a future favour."

* OOC Time: Sun Mar 24 13:32:54 2019 *

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There is a time of day when it's just generally known that Acorn is holding court at Liquid Air. That's usually earlier in the evening, around 9 or 10 PM. Arriving later than that and talking business could be risky, as that's usually a time when the gangster is either relaxing or dealing with scheduled business. But he's the king of this particular neon hill, and this is the time when petitions can be made.

He's in his usual sunken booth opposite the dance floor with an excellent view of the club proper. DJing hasn't started and the light level is a little higher, so it's more of a lounge atmosphere than a club. That will change before too long. The blond gangster is flanked by bodyguards and lackeys. He's wearing a gold jacket with a slightly feminine cut, a blue v-neck t-shirt and black slacks with boots that have a faint heel. It's rather androgynous clothing from a man who isn't the least bit androgynous himself.

* * *

Winter can occasionally be found at Liquid Air, though usually a little later in the night, at the bar or a small table, having a drink or two before departing again. If they've spoken to Acorn before at the club, it's mostly been pleasantries and easy words of little substance. Tonight, however, the psychosurgeon arrives during the hour when Acorn is more likely to be receptive rather than annoyed at requests ('the bitching hour' some call it, tongue in cheek), and instead of heading to the bar, they make their way over to Acorn's sunken throne. They're in loose, free-flowing black pants and a fitted black vest with a soft lilac turtleneck worn underneath. Their hair has been styled back from their face in soft, gelled waves. "Room for one more?" they ask Liquid Air's proprietor with a glance toward the seating around the table.

* * *

Acorn tends to default into something of a power pose when he sits in this particular booth. Arms lying along the top of the seat, legs crossed, slightly slouched. Someone just said something funny before Winter walks up, so there's a moment when the laughter peters off. The gangster lifts an eyebrow at Winter, then cants his head. "As long as it's not about my mental health. By all means." He motions. One of the lackeys gets up and steps out of the booth. She gives Winter an up-and-down look before she crosses to the bar.

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"Not remotely," Winter assures, regarding the lackey that regards them before heading to the bar, "but it is something I would like to discuss in private."

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Acorn presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. There is the sense that this is the kind of request that he would normally refuse. Maybe it's in deference to their sessions, or maybe it's because he's in a good mood. It's hard to say. He stands up and straightens his coat. His ONI flutters, and he says somethign quietly to the big man beside him. "Come with me."

He crosses to a door just to the left of the bar, where a bouncer clad in black holds open the door for the gangster in gold. Beyond, is a narrow, nondescript hallway that turns a corner into stairs. It opens up to a space directly below the dance floor, and equally circular, with another sunken couch and a small bar. A private suite. He crosses to pour himself a drink. "What can I do for you, Doctor Tau?"

* * *

Huh. Interesting. Winter follows after Acorn and considers the room they step into, what it is, and what it would be like to occupy said room at the height of Liquid Air's open hours. They wait until the door has closed before letting a soft breath out. "I need access to an anonymous terminal." There doesn't seem to be an question in the doctor's mind that this is the sort of thing Acorn or his underlings would have on hand somewhere.

* * *

It would be loud, certainly. There's baffling, but even now the thud of the bass heartbeats through the ceiling. Acorn doesn't offer Winter a drink, but there is another glass on the bar, and he leaves the bottle there as he steps away from it. He smiles. It's not a very reassuring smile. "You want access to a black site, hmm?" he sips, considers. "If you tell me why, I will name you a price. If you don't want me to ask questions, then this is in trade for a future favour."

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Winter considers the alcohol on offer and then Acorn's predatory smile. They opt to leave the empty glass untouched, dipping their head in a small nod of understanding for this arrangement. "Then, I'll owe you a favor."

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Acorn salutes with the glass, then sips. "How long do you need it for, and how soon?" One hand slides into the pocket of his jacket.

* * *

"Two hours. As soon as tonight, preferably. But within the next few days, otherwise," Winter replies, arms crossing loosely over their chest.

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Acorn seems…amused by the whole scenario. And with him, that's not a good thing. He seems…pleased? that Winter is coming to him with such an illegal request. "Go to your office. When you get a message from me, remove your ONI. An aircar will pull up. You will be blindfolded. You will have one hour and a half, and then you will be brought home." His words are calm, measured. "Yes?"

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"If those are your conditions," Winter replies, "I'm hardly in a position to refuse."

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"We have a bargain, then," says Acorn. "And it does not have to be said that if this brings any heat on me, I will be quite displeased. Though the site is very secure."

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"I understand," Winter replies with another small nod. "I have no expectation that it will. You and your organization won't be affected."

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"Good," says Acorn. "Is that all?" There's amusement in his eyes as he looks at Winter. One might even think he's enjoying this tip in the power dynamic of their relationship. When one reveals themselves to one's doctor, the doctor is in the place of power. But now, the doctor owes the patient a favour.

* * *

It is, in medical lingo, suboptimal. But, needs must. A corner of Winter's mouth quirks in a smile that's a little wry, so perhaps they are not oblivious to the flip in their usual power balance. "I think so. Seems a poor plan to mix my work with yours, unless there's anything pressing."

* * *

"No," says Acorn with a little smile. He finishes what's left in his drink and sets the glass down deliberately. He motions Winter to the door, in a not-so-subtle request to vacate the inner sanctum.

* * *

It's possible Winter makes a note. Inner sanctums underneath dance floors may be worthy of discussion in psychosurgery sessions. For now, however, they lift two fingers in their own small salute before heading out of the private space, up the stairs, and towards the neon-lit night.