[ Oswald & Silco ]

[paxpenguina]

"We--"

The first word arrives like a fanfare announcing his arrival, emphasis poised and held in place as he hobbles (shuffle-thunk, shuffle-thunk; dragged footsteps and cane), straight-backed through the room to stand before Silco's desk before concluding his overture.

"--have a problem."

The city has many problems, and different ones depending on who one is asking. Big and small, circling in the air and steel and bones of the underground metropolis, thrown down from the overground or grown up from the cracked concrete below. There are, always, many problems.

Oswald knows that and he knows Silco knows that. And if someone had come strolling into Oswald's office with that kind of opener, then Oswald would be spitting a demand for specifics because time wasting is a faux pas among men like them.

But for men like them, indulging in dramatics is also a bit par the course, and were their positions reversed, were it Silco stepping up to Oswald's desk with an obvious but ambiguous opener, then there would be an opening of the reserves of patience and pleasantries; an offering of a seat, a drink, scope for small talk.

After all, of all of them Chem-Barons, Oswald favours working with Silco the most, even when their respective enterprises put them at odds. They're men of a kind and no matter what happens on the streets and in the shadows, Oswald holds a deep respect for the old ways of doing business that many who come to the table have shown impatience toward. But it reminds Oswald of his roots, his mentors, and so, if the tables were turned, he always has more patience for Silco.

That doesn't mean it will necessary be the same in kind.

So Oswald waits, head tipped back slightly to peer over his cheekbones in expectant silence, fingers softly drumming over the penguin-hooked silver head of his cane.

Comments

[zauneyete]

"Do we?" he askes, and it is simple and calm. Faux-calm, of course, and the signs were there in bits and pieces. The tightening of skin around a single eye, the deeper indent in the paper he had been holding, the tightening of his lips into an even thinner line on a scarred face covered with enough makeup that it looked like an old and faded thing, instead of fetid and rotting.

He forced his lips into that smile that was so common amongst equals. A gesture toward the seat. "Please, you don't have to stand, unless it's that dire." Well, he was never going to be quite accommodating, but for Oswald, he would at least welcome him and offer him the usual niceties, because a happy competitor often would turn their sites elsewhere if greed and hunger turned eyes toward expansion.

Maybe he'd make sure Flynn was in his sights next time: two birds, one stone. (hah)

"Oh, help yourself, of course."

A vague second gesture at the carafe, but he doesn't lift a finger. Though he does tap a finger on the desk as he lowers the paper, and levels a look at him, mismatched and unsettling as always. Though he doubted Oswald would drum up the dramatics over nothing, the fact that he was starting to scramble through his mind for a reason there was a problem meant that it could have been something that he had missed.

He does not like the experience of being caught unaware. It had better be something unforeseen, or he was going to have to have words with some of his informants.