"Are any of you licensed to carry a concealed firearm in Sweden? (pauses) The blank stares on your faces tell me the answer is no. The good thing is that Jakob is...and like I said, he'll be coming with us. You're all big boys, and I won't tell you that you can't carry one. I'm just saying that I only have limited pull with the local police department and I'd hate to see you serve a jail sentence for just being paranoid. I must tell you again, It's very safe here. Oh, it looks like we are here."
The SUV pulls up to a large rowhouse overlooking the water.
"Jakob will unload your bags and then we will pick you up right here at 11pm tonight. Again, welcome to Stockholm, gentlemen...and lady."
"If you're really that interested, you're the information specialist, you figure it out. And let me know, too, will ya? I'd feel too much like the slow kid at the party without a gun. Maybe Jakob will carry mine for me..." Gavin pauses and scratches the stubble on his chin for a bit, recalling all the vibes that he'd since recieved from the burly Swede. "Then again, maybe he won't."
"Say Harry, I think I could do with some noggin-toppin' as well. You've got decent enough taste in the hats; would you mind helpin' me pick something?"
While he's waiting in the lobby for Gavin, who's using the facilities, Harry manages to finagle a copy of Rolling Stone from the news stand, and begins reading. He comes across an article on The Hives, a Swedish rock band he likes for some reason, perhaps the tight, stripped-down sound.
International Noise Conspiracy, Soundtrack of our Lives, The Hives-- how in God's name did swedes learn how to rock like that? I wonder if anyone like that is playing tonight...
Gavin and Harry head over to (roughly translated) Hanna's House of Hats.
The store is about two blocks away from the Agency house. Walking in, a cavalcade of hats are seen hangin and sitting about the place. In the back of the store, sitting behind the counter is a raven-haired woman of striking beauty.
Harry and Gavin look at eachother.
The scenery around here gets better and better by the moment!
She says hello in Swedish and begins making small talk...also in Swedish. Her dialect is a bit tough to decipher, but Harry manages to pick it up in a few moments.
Gavin smiles at the woman, but keeps his mouth shut for the moment. Better to keep silent and be thought the bumbling foreigner than to open your mouth and prove it.
As best he can, he tries to communicate that his friend wants a panama hat with some style, probably in a 7 and 3/8 inches, or it's closest metric equivalent.
Through the conversation, Harry is sizing her up, his curiousity piqued by the accent.
(ooc: Sense Motive and Mark, the skills being Bluff, Forgery, and Profession(hat-seller-type lady)
Harry stumbles a bit with the hat measurements, his accent coming out here and there...especially when trying to do the metric conversions.
Crap, I knew I should have taken that extra elective in Nordic languages.
Harry notices that the woman (think Lara Flynn Boyle) is also beginning to pick up the "you're not from around here" vibe as well. She speaks again, but this time in English...most likely a New England, probably Boston-area accent.
"Your Swedish is very good for being an American. Let me think...definitely from the East Coast. I'm thinking perhaps Philadelphia? I believe I have something in your size. How about your friend...or is he just the tall, silent type?"
"Very good. Do you do palm readings, too?" Harry smiles. "As for my friend, he speaks worse swedish than me. I guess he didn't want to be embarassed. Anyway, I'd like a white straw fedora in 7 5/8, if you have it."
"Sorry (grins), call it female intuition. Hmmm, a white straw fedora in 7 5/8...let me check the back."
(OOC: You're picking up a pretty friendly vibe off her, but her sly look could be a bit misleading. However, the look is hot enough to melt frozen butter.)
Artis finds his room quite nice. Big TV, king-size bed, with a terrace overlooking the busy harbor sidewalk below. He was on the third floor, so the noise from the pedestrial traffic wasn't too bad.
Man, if this is what it's like at 7pm...it's going to be pretty crazy later tonight
Taking a quick shower, Artis settles in for a nap. About an hour into his slumber, Artis is awakened by a knock at the front door.
A female voice comes from the other side of the door.
"Erm....uh...sir, I don't mean to disturb you, but I noticed you when you walked into the hotel this evening. I believe we have a mutual friend and was wondering if you could talk for a moment?"
"Yeah, we can talk." I scribble down my scramble phone number on a scrap of paper and slide it under the door, then quickly back away. "Call that number from a pay phone."
The footsteps on the hardwood floor of the hallway begin to fade. Artis inches his way towards the balcony, checking for a possible ambush from outside. Peering around the balcony with a hand mirror, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. Seconds later, the phone rings.
"That's ok, I'm glad you didn't decide to bail on me. It's been a long time since last we met."
(cue cut scene music and image of a figure dropping in from the balcony above Artis' room, doing a martial-artist-type roll into the room.)
The door that Artis had been paranoidingly watching is kicked in as figure enters the room. The figure's face is concealed behind a black ninja-like hood, wearing black cammies, and sporting twin silenced Berettas in both hands.
(OOC: Adam, since you pretty much were ready for this, I'll give you a free half-action to react. We'll begin initiative after that with the bad guy going first)
Artis takes aim at the ninja and fires a burst of .40cal slugs into center mass. The shots seem to do some real damage as the ninja grimaces from the multiple GSW's.
The ninja responds in kind with a barrage of twin 9mm's.
Fortunately, between the trauma of the gunshots and the wild nature of obviously untrained akimbo action, only one shot rakes Artis in the shoulder. His armor protects some of the blow, but he definitely felt it.
Dieter
