ʀᴀғᴇ "ɴᴏᴛ ғᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ" ᴀᴅʟᴇʀ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chardismastic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2016-08-22 06:34 pm
chardismastic) wrote in entranceway2016-08-22 06:34 pm
( audio )
[ Audio clicks on to the shuffle of papers and a considering hum before Rafe speaks. His voice is mild. Sincere. Level in the way one can only sound when one is way too used to having things work out the way he wants them to, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs. ]
Well. Isn't this interesting.
[ When some people say interesting, you can tell they mean something entirely different. A professor reading over a test that clearly hadn't been studied for as he reaches for a red pen; a girl at a bar at the hearing how you just never have enough time to work on your novel; a cop flipping over your registration to find it's expired. It's one of those catch-all words but when Rafe says it? Nah. He just means interesting. ]
I always appreciate being prepared, and gotta say. This pamphlet? Good stuff, clean design, very to the point. Credit where it's due.
[ Arriving like a babe in the woods isn't really Rafe's scene. After all, a wide variety of factors have suddenly been yanked out of his control; the few he has remaining to him become all the more important to take advantage of. So although he's still learning the lay of the land, he's doing so after availing himself of a room, a shower, a fresh shirt, and this handy dandy pamphlet. ]
Although... You know, not to brag or anything but I'm a guy with a couple of talents. Architecture, for one. Anybody else checking this place out? I mean, here I am walking around those gardens and one minute I'm thinking 18th-century French, fantastically preserved, then there's some Gothic elements peeking round a corner— Jesus! Lloyd Wright, right there. [ You'd think the guy was watching a match at Wimbledon, and politely un-invested in who the winner turns out to be. ] Phenomenal fenestration, when it decides to stick to something longer than a minute. I suppose I'll have to get up higher for some bearings on this whole thing. Might even be a little fun with the right equipment.
Well. Isn't this interesting.
[ When some people say interesting, you can tell they mean something entirely different. A professor reading over a test that clearly hadn't been studied for as he reaches for a red pen; a girl at a bar at the hearing how you just never have enough time to work on your novel; a cop flipping over your registration to find it's expired. It's one of those catch-all words but when Rafe says it? Nah. He just means interesting. ]
I always appreciate being prepared, and gotta say. This pamphlet? Good stuff, clean design, very to the point. Credit where it's due.
[ Arriving like a babe in the woods isn't really Rafe's scene. After all, a wide variety of factors have suddenly been yanked out of his control; the few he has remaining to him become all the more important to take advantage of. So although he's still learning the lay of the land, he's doing so after availing himself of a room, a shower, a fresh shirt, and this handy dandy pamphlet. ]
Although... You know, not to brag or anything but I'm a guy with a couple of talents. Architecture, for one. Anybody else checking this place out? I mean, here I am walking around those gardens and one minute I'm thinking 18th-century French, fantastically preserved, then there's some Gothic elements peeking round a corner— Jesus! Lloyd Wright, right there. [ You'd think the guy was watching a match at Wimbledon, and politely un-invested in who the winner turns out to be. ] Phenomenal fenestration, when it decides to stick to something longer than a minute. I suppose I'll have to get up higher for some bearings on this whole thing. Might even be a little fun with the right equipment.
no subject
The temptation to continue playing dumb is there, certainly, but while Rafe isn't about to shoot the gift horse he's presented with that doesn't mean he has to gape at it like it's the first one he's ever seen. So he makes an executive decision. ]
From the remains of crews off the lost fleet in Borneo. [ Nate can't see but Rafe is lounging out on a couch right now, one arm pillowed behind his head with a grin as he can't wait for the reaction he's bound to get. ] Yeah. I remember that.
[ Past tense, but conversationally so and wholly unimpressed as he doesn't so much reluctantly pop Nate's proud little bubble but brandishes a fistful of pins. ]
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Wh- how did y-
[Harry Flynn? Nate didn't think they knew each other, at least not personally. Lazarevic? Warmongers seem kind of outside Rafe's wheelhouse, particularly when they're 100% Grade-A psychotic material.]
How the Hell did you know that? How could you possibly remember that, we only just found the-
[The quiet reminders from hospitable residents to new people trickle back in now that they've earned their keep with usefulness Different times, different places. Shame he never planned for this possibility (not that he would have followed a plan, at any rate).]
What year is it?
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There you go. I knew you'd catch on eventually, Nate, even if it took you just a little while longer.
[ It's not every day he gets to pull a fast one on Nathan Drake so you'll have to pardon if he relishes the experience. Not that he's about to ignore the question because after all, where's the fun in that/ ]
2016. Which puts you... Hell, almost seven years back. [ The tone turns knowing, almost a well-meaning scolding. ] I know you've always hung behind the times, Nate, but you didn't have to be so literal.
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This is the Rafe Adler he remembers, a patronizing, businesslike air to his insults, prodding at a distinct disadvantage as though it were overripe, low-hanging fruit.]
Oh, you're a real comedian. Glad that hasn't changed.
[Nate snaps, partly out of confusion, partly out of anger for being strung along. So much for familiar faces providing him with anything outside of mild anxiety. The sudden and violent desire to hang up the phone twists in his side where Flynn's bullet sat several weeks ago. It's easy enough to play off when he's spent the better part of his youth lying, but it doesn't make the news shock any less.
2016. Seven years from now. He switches to the defensive almost instantaneously.]
So are you stalking my jobs or is future me a lot more lax with giving out details?
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Stories get around. [ Which is answer enough. Even if Rafe weren't meticulous about tracking the competition — which is what Nate is, no matter what he says about giving up on Avery or getting out of the game — there are no shortage of rumors about Nathan Drake.
Unfortunately.] Unless you think that shootouts with known war criminals over historic goldmines are low profile.[ That was always Nate's weakness, all reaction without forethought to guide it. It was true fifteen years ago, an hour ago, and right now which somehow manages to be in between the two. It's almost comforting to know how unchanging Nate can be and Rafe can't help pushing a familiar button. ]
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In the underworld of illicitly-acquired antiquities that's how it always goes, a grapevine hanging on a wide trellis that stretches well into the social circles where most of the people involved have another life, a day job, a mild-mannered alter ego. Having never had the luxury of a second identity to fall back on - kinda hard when the one you've got now was unscrupulously adopted with no formal paperwork - Nate does find himself talked about, gossip curling back around and tales made taller.
What the fuck kind of stories has Rafe been hearing?]
Y'know, this might come as a surprise to you, but I don't go into a job expecting some loaded jerkweed with a boner for heavy ordnance and an army of hired thugs to show up, indiscriminately blowing holes in every building within a five-mile radius.
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[ Save me, Nate, a drug dealer wants to kill me after he broke me out of prison. Seriously, what a line and yet Nate managed to fall for it hook, line, and sinker. And that's just the latest — what else could explain the fact that for all the stories, all the supposed glory, what did Nate have at the end of the day? Sullivan and his likely prescription for Viagra, Fisher and her puff pieces for whatever rag hired her out, and whatever garbage had sunk in the ass-end of the Mississippi. All of his so-called triumphs and he was still nothing, went nowhere... Well. Except for in front of the muzzle of Rafe's pistol.
Compared to the ending Nate wrote for himself, Rafe would hardly worry about the quality of stories going around. ]
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It strikes him deeper than Rafe perhaps expected, pulled back into a nightmare he still has. Nate hadn't thought much before Panama, a few consequences and drawbacks, doubts smoothed over by Sam's more experienced hand and a don't worry, little brother, it's gonna be a piece of cake. Of course, exterior factors were variables. Wildcards.
There are reasons why people in the business tend to vet each other if they're reliable. Or if they just happen to enjoy turning Panamanian prison wardens into shish-kebabs. Maybe if he'd pried more into the job beforehand he'd still have family.
He's entertained a lot of "maybe" since then.]
Well, I see you've still got that stick shoved way the Hell up your ass, so how about you just let me know when you're through rating my performance on a scale of "street mountebank" to "master swindler." I'll wait.
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[ Point out the flaw in his argument, prove that you're not still some recklessly gung-ho moron who doesn't just forget to look before leaping but laughs as he does. Do it and have one Adler-brand apology right here and now.
But after a moment, Rafe takes a long, deep breath and lets it out in a somewhat self-deprecating scoff. The bitterness is justified— At Nate's naivete, at Sam's deception and betrayal, at the fact that after fifteen years people still have the gall to say he doesn't deserve something he's devoted his life to, something he's sacrificed everything for. But justified as it is, it doesn't serve him here. Not now. Recalculate, adapt, move on.
When he continues, his voice is tamer, less anxious to give Nate some of the treatment he'd doled out Sam. After all, this isn't that Nate. There are more options now than a good old-fashioned pistol-whipping. ]
So I'm a little prickly tonight, sue me. I don't know about you— [ A beat, before he corrects himself. ] Well, actually I do but that's besides the point which is I was actually right about to get something I've waited more than a little while to get.
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He doesn't reply. Rafe knows his question was rhetorical.]
Oh yeah? What's that, a moral compass?
[Also rhetorical, also bitter, and also hypocritical. Coming from a professional thief it isn't much of a retort and Nate is perfectly aware, but being at a distinct temporal disadvantage has him tetchy.]
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More than that, he doesn't bother with. Doesn't need to. All he says is one word, spoken with all the satisfaction only gotten after fifteen years of searching. ]
Avery.
[ True, he'd never stopped but the difference is there in the way he says it. There's certainty, as always, and something more. Relief. The finish line in sight and goddamn if it ever looked sweeter than this—
Right before being snagged into Wonderland, but eh. Minor setback in the grand scheme of things. ]
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Wh-
[He sits down, perched on the edge of a worn couch with the phone pressed to his ear, chewing seconds that feel like hours.]
You found him? [Nate asks as he finally drags his voice back into his chest, breathy and a far cry from the sharp, accusatory edge he'd employed moments before.] You found the Gunsway haul?
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Oh, [ comes the low drawl. ] No, no, no. The Gunsway haul's just the tip of the iceberg. It's more than we ever thought. I mean it — huge. Avery left behind something bigger than... Shit, Nate. You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
no subject
Avery's greatest heist, and the horrific price both parties had paid for Long Ben's gain. Nate still remembers, even if he hasn't looked through those files in years.
It doesn't take a genius to realize that Rafe is milking the moment for everything it's worth. With the advantage in time and knowledge - and the rock-solid grudge he must still be nursing - he's counting on Nate to beg for the information.
Nate obliges.]
What the Hell could be bigger than four-hundred million in Mughal treasure?
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That was one of the reasons he kept abreast of Nate over the years. Part of it was that he couldn't not, thanks to fat mouths and idle gossip that were inherent parts of the treasure hunting circuit (everybody knew everybody and had at least three opinions on the bastard), but part of it... It'd only been a matter of time before Nate got back in the game. Sure, Sam had expedited that reentry but Rafe always knew better.
God, with this new development? It almost seems meant to be. Head to head with Nathan Drake and if that wasn't a fight for the history books then Rafe would quit here and now.
Never mind who would win that fight is obvious. The getting there is half the fun and Rafe will enjoy the victory even more for it. ]
If I were to say to you— Pro Deus Quod Licentia. [ He's learned his Latin in the last decade and change, Nate. Be impressed. ] What would you make of that?
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Once again, it does come as a substantial relief to Nate that he has Rafe over the phone. The words sink in like a hot knife through butter, the fingers of Nate's free hand curling into his palm as he concentrates on something in the middle distance, cogs and pistons moving rapidfire over the implications of such a simple statement.]
For God and liberty.
[He says to himself, practically inaudible when his heart stops and kickstarts again into adrenaline-charged excitement. They're here, he knows, he can't leave and neither can Rafe but it exists, holy shit, it exists.]
Wha- no, [Nate huffs, the sound light, almost disbelieving.] No, I can't believe I didn't think of it befo- for God and liberty, Jesus, Rafe, that's-
[Already on his feet again and raking a hand through his hair Nate resumes his pacing, the movement facilitating his theorizing, wearing a grin that only the inscrutably mad or overly thrilled could wear.]
You know what this- the rumored pirate colony, Charles Johnson wasn't just blowing smoke out of his ass, it's...and you were there? You were there, in Libertalia?