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WHO: von Hentzau n Saint Lorrant
WHERE: A Heropa museum somewhere
WHEN: Nov 4th
WHAT: That awkward moment when you run into the guy you stole your power from??
WARNINGS: probably none

[ He's planned all of this extremely carefully. He's dug up and memorized the guard schedules, he's found the security office and hub of all the surveillance footage, he's even hacked into their CCTV (security was so lax back in this era). Damian has, as far as he's concerned, accounted for every possibility.

That's why it's with absolute confidence that he stands in front of the temporarily visiting Trojan Gold exhibit, dressed in black leather and a closed motorcycle helmet. There's no need for the outfit, he knows exactly who will be in this building, where they'll be, and has already diverted the cameras, but it's a little bit of extra insurance that he'd never go in without.

Now it's just a matter of collecting his haul. To speed things along, he's already opened several of Rupert's very handy portals, directly into the various displays he intends to borrow from. He's already got two — a headpiece and a golden cup, safely nestled inside the case he'd brought, and his hand thrust through a portal is already working at freeing a matching cup to join the first.

He's not usually one for theft on any scale, but, hell, the world is apparently about to end, so why not. And this is just ... intoxicatingly easy. Who knew? ]

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[ Well, fine. This being no trick, for once, Damian doesn't mind stepping through the portal. And though it does occur to him to slam it shut after himself, immediately portal somewhere else — what good would it do? Even a chase on a globe's scale will end eventually, when either of them can be anywhere.

He leaves the portal hanging open and heads to the bar, leaning to flag down the bartender's attention to order a drink. All perfectly normal and mundane, his body language promises. ]

[ The glittering black holes of Rupert's mask track the other man as he heads to the bar, as does the barrel of his pistol. Only when he's satisfied does he slowly, carefully step through the portal and seal it in their wake with a wave of their hand. There's a confusing mess of empty windows left hanging wide open in their wake back at the museum but Rupert doesn't particularly care right now.

Tucking the pistol smoothly into the holster in the small of his back Rupert realises that the thief must be ordering a round. He snorts behind his mask, hanging back a little as he watches the other man leaning against the bar. ]

Unless you have a very clever little straw system in there I do believe you'll need to remove your helmet, [ He points out, folding his arms. ]

[ That voice synthesizer — which really is quite a good idea, Damian should look into that — really only does so much. Despite the eerily flat voice, the missing accent, the turns of phrase match ... at least, when he knows who to hold them against. Damian cocks that dark, glassy helmet back over his shoulder at him, offers a shrug. ]

I'll be fine. [ And with a gesture to the bar, inviting. ] Nothing for you, then?

Too kind, but not right now thank you, [ He replies smoothly, not moving from his spot. He doesn't need to be able to see through that helmet to read arrogant smoothness in the thief's demeanour, all the way from that cock of the head to the negligent shrug. It's infuriating, mostly because that's Rupert's act. He's the one who should be infuriatingly arrogant and leaning on a bar right now!! This is awful. ]

I'm rather more interested in knowing who you are. [ Warningly: ] Please take note, if I don't like your answer I will kick you again.

[ Damian turns to face him more fully, still leaned against the bar, one leg crossed over the other. He's worked hard to cultivate this absolutely unconcerned nonchalance, and really leans into it now. It's probably not helping, but it sure is fun. ]

Oh, I'm sure you would.

[ His muffled voice sounds amused ... though he has to imagine the bad sound quality really deducts a few points from style. That'll be his next project. His drink arrives at his elbow, an anonymous rum and Coke, but he ignores it for now. ]

What do you suppose you'd give to find out?

Ah - see? This is a perfect example of what I mean by not liking your answer, [ Rupert informs him, standing perfectly still as he continues to be jealous at how this guy gets to play the Unconcerned Asshole. Rupert's favourite role! Damn it. ]

You should know I'm a man of very finite patience. I shan't ask a third time.

[ How far, he wonders, can he take this, before the guy loses patience and just shoots him? It’s not as if anyone down here would stop him, they’re all more than used to this kind of thing. And he doesn’t imagine Josh would have zero questions about healing bullet wounds.

Well. Time to push at least a little more. ]

I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel very satisfying, me just telling you, you know? Like we haven’t earned it yet. We could do better than that.

[ He reaches for his drink, briefly lifts it in a quick, mocking salute, and pops open the visor of the helmet with his other hand. Inside is only bright and cheerful yellow flames, fully covering any face inside, as he tips his head back for a sip. The angle is a bit awkward, but it feels worth it. ]

Oh! Shall we talk of satisfaction, then? Because I know I would find causing you a great deal of pain deeply satisfying, [ Rupert replies with heated vehemence, reaching again for the pistol at his back. He could put a bullet in this man's thigh - as he should have! ten minutes ago, back in the museum! - and see if that makes him any more talkative. And if not, then Rupert's damn sure he can pull a portal before the police can be called. ]

The only one of us who could do better is you, you horrible little shit.

Edited (he asked him a third time by accident) 2019-11-17 18:12 (UTC)

[ The pistol is in his hand again; Damian supposes he'd better start taking a little more care, or else prepare a portal to Josh for healing. He's not quite sure just how far he can push Rupert, he hasn't got a handle on the man's temper yet. ]

Name calling? [ His voice is clearer now, with the visor up, but still with the face accent, pitched a little lower. He rests an affronted hand on his chest. ] That's harsh. You didn't even know it'd been borrowed, did you? You've been getting along just fine until now, and I don't see why that has to change.

You're devaluing my services, [ Rupert snaps, incensed enough by the question to be briefly sidetracked from the all-important question. Those ridiculous flames obscuring the other man's face are damn annoying - there's no gaze to meet, no expression to gauge. Both things that Rupert would rely on in a normal swordfight, as opposed to a battle of words. ]

I've built something for myself here, [ He continues, reining in his temper as best he can. ] I'm the masked man with the power to open doors wherever he chooses. And I refuse to let some amateur waltz about the place with a poor shadow of my powerset...

[ He raises the gun, once more guiding the barrel to somewhere around the other man's stomach. There may be other people in the bar, Rupert doesn't care. ]

It seems to me you're nothing but a copycat, a competitor, and a nuisance. And quite frankly I don't care for any of those things.

[ The other people in the bar glance over, but know better than to stare. Honestly, Damian could probably get shot in here and bleed out on the floor, and one of them might think about calling an emergency line after dumping him in the street outside. Maybe. That's largely why he picked this place.

On the other hand, he really doesn't want to get shot and bleed out, so he had better ramp up the damage control a little more. He lifts a hand, pacifying, calling for a pause. ]

Now, hang on, just so we're on the same page before you go shooting anyone — a copycat does have to know who he's copying. Which I do. Are you one of those gentleman who values his privacy?

[ He doesn't gain much by snitching on Rupert, but it'd be nice to know just how much importance the man would assign to the threat. ]

[ Outwardly the masked man remains impassive, his cowled face fixed in the usual eye-less, staring grimace as he silently processes the gentle threat behind the thief's words. Inwardly Rupert is raging. How many people absolutely and authoritatively know that Rupert is 100% the masked man? Jonas and Guzma, end of list. Others had guessed by nobody else knows. Jonas he trusts, as much as anyone can trust anyone in this bizarre world, but Guzma is someone Rupert trusts about as much as he can spit. If Guzma has sold him out, he'll drop the noisome pest into the nearest fucking volcano. Rupert had warned him as much.

Of course, Rupert always knew that his secret identity will only carry him so far. There will come a time in the future when Rupert will undoubtedly have to come clean to the world (and quite frankly Rupert can't wait). But it needs to happen on his terms. And definitely not now, not with the plans he has for November 12th. This could ruin everything.

But, God, maybe this is another feint. A feint that Rupert can't afford to fall for, not when the stakes are this high. ]

No, you have no idea who I am, [ He states, hoping that he might be right and that this was just some stupid trick. He tightens his grip on the pistol. ]

[ That would be a hell of a bluff, according to Rupert's reaction, wouldn't it? But oh, poor man, Damian is pleased that it's not. One shoulder lifts in a shrug as he half turns, just enough to place his drink back onto the bar. He might need his hands free in the very near future. Anything is possible. ]

Maybe I do, or maybe I don't. [ The passive, whimsical tone works so well with this accent. He's a fan of the combination. ] If I did, I can honestly say I'd have no interest in breathing a word. That is, unless someone shot me. Who knows what might make it out with my dying breath, and into which reporter's ears?

[ So really, please, don't shoot him. Things will get so awkward if he has to go and get that emergency-healed. ]

[ The argument works for Rupert but not in the way that the thief probably intended. Maybe he does know, maybe he doesn't know, and breathing is a bit of a problem, so: ]

You're quite right, [ Rupert agrees and nods sharply. ] No reporters here, I'm sure.

[ He raises the pistol again, not for a gut-shot but to level the barrel at the thief's left breast, and squeezes the trigger. ]

[ It's the sudden swift change in body language that tips Damian off; before there was posturing, angry gestures, a lot of blustering demand to be acquiesced to. This is different. This is intent. His eyes go a little wide behind his visor of flame, and he has just enough time to throw a hand to his chest, calling up an entire curtain of flame to rush toward Rupert. He throws himself to the side at the same time — but not quite fast enough.

Maybe his read was slow, maybe his reactions were slow. Either way, there's a sudden burning pain in his upper thigh, and Damian learns quite suddenly just how much it fucking hurts to get shot. And what the hell did he just say, about giving away his identity? Damian should go find a reporter and whisper into their ear for this.

Bar patrons have leapt to their feet at the apparent sight of spontaneous combustion in the bar, and Damian keeps the fire wild and alive, spreading hungrily. There's still no heat, but it makes an excellent cover as he rolls away from the place he'd been standing. And under the shouts and scrapes of chairs flying back as patrons flee, still in a pained crouch screened by flame, he hisses: ]

Reporters are a portal away, Rupert.

[ The pain and the anger have got him shifting a little, growing dark claws that threaten to split the fingers of his leather gloves, but he ignores it for now. It's under control. ]

[ For the second time that night Rupert finds himself facing down a wall of flames, this time even closer than before. He skitters backwards with a primal surge of fear and tumbles to the floor as a leather boot catches badly only a floorboard, sending Rupert sprawling and his pistol skidding away. The fire feels so terrifyingly close that Rupert doesn't even realise he's lost the gun as he scrambles backwards, swearing beneath his breath under the helmet.

But he'd hit the thief, hadn't he? There's an edge of pain in the voice he can hear on the other side of the flames but the name - and the threat - is unmistakable. ]

I'll kill you, [ he snarls in reply, separated by the curtain of fire. ] I swear to God, I will find out who you are...

[ The roar of fire is not quite what one would expect, and Damian can hear Rupert fall. Good. That's good. He heaves himself to his feet with gritted teeth, a hand slipping into his pocket to clutch his silvery switchblade. A gun might be a better idea, but a knife is so much more personal.

A gun, though, that reminds him — he casts his glance around, and yes, there. Having spun out of the range of Rupert's personal little maze of flame, the man's pistol rests innocently abandoned on the ground. Damian flicks a portal underneath it with a quick hand to his chest, sending it to some mentally bookmarked location for later. The portal reseals quickly, and Damian takes a few steps toward the fire. ]

I might've told you. [ His voice isn't quite so singsong now, and once again muffled as he flips the helmet's visor back down. ] I really had no interest in being an enemy. But then you shot me.

[ He has to move quickly, before Rupert discovers the fire is room temperature. The gleaming blade flicks out, and he circles around behind the fire and the dark figure within. He watches for a few seconds, getting a handle on his movements, his speed. And as soon as Rupert goes to stand he'll lunge forward from behind, looking to slide that knife into the man's side. ]

[ Flanked by flames on all sides, Rupert scrambles to his feet. The gun is gone, the thief is... somewhere... but the walls of fire are closing in. He needs to move, now; he can portal back to the museum and spend the whole damn night feeling out the edges of the thief's portals. He can follow the thread back to its source, teasing out the ugly edges in reality that mark where a portal has been carved out of thin air, like a master weaver fingering through the delicate threads of an intricate tapestry.

But then he hears those words, even muffled as they are, and freezes as he tries to identify the source. The wretched thief is still here, and for a moment Rupert lingers, undecided between ripping a portal to freedom and chasing his enemy through fire and flames.

The pause is a mistake, a costly one.

Damian lunges and the impact sends Rupert tumbling to the floor once more, this time with a bellow of pain at the white-hot searing bite of the blade in his flank. One hand breaks his fall as the other flies to his side, grasping at the thick blood that's already streaming from the shallow wound at his side. Not that it feels shallow - Rupert feels like he's been gutted, actually - and he realises with a thick wave of loathing that this is what Rudolf Rassendyll must have felt when Rupert stabbed him: furious and pretty fucking embarrassed.

And Christ alive, it hurts, it hurts so much more than Rupert realised it would. Rupert von Hentzau, at the tender age of 23 and three months, has never really felt any kind of pain. Perhaps in the future he'll look back on this and laugh, call it character building or something, but right at this moment Rupert very much feels like he wants to be sick.

Adrenaline (and a raging desire to survive so that he might stab this thief in return) grants him energy; Rupert rises like a wounded monster, all savage snarls and fury, and he rips a portal from the air with a bloodied hand. The space beyond it is filled with endless darkness, thick as night and twice as cold, but it's safety for Rupert. ]

You stabbed me, [ He gasps, still not quite over the irony of it all as he staggers towards his portal with a hand clamped firmly against his wound. Nobody stabs Rupert von Hentzau. And he can't help but observe indignantly as he topples through the portal and into the darkness: ] God, you didn't even stab me well...

[ In the flurry of movement and bright flame, Rupert pulls away from him. The knife is wrenched from Damian's hand and goes skittering — but he supposes it's no real loss. He doesn't think he'd wanted to actually kill him, despite how that gun had most definitely been leveled at his chest.

He sways where he stands, in absolutely no shape to go chasing after Rupert as the man opens his portal, to finish the job or otherwise. It closes behind him, and Damian spends a few second staring after it, a little dazed. He resists the urge to clutch at his leg, despite the way he can feel blood washing down his knee. Ugh. That hurts. He's not been present for most of his injuries, only the aftermath of them, but it turns out it hurts a lot more to be around for the full duration.

In a mutter, without the put on accent: ] I did it just fine, asshole.

[ The flames wink out of existence in a single instant, and Damian limps to reclaim his bloody knife. And then Damian is gone as well, portaled out to somewhere safer. To somewhere with a healer, ideally. ]

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