Vincent Coyle
Character
( Art by: Clinton Crumpler )
-
"Ne saurait faire d'omelette sans casser des œufs."
"You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs."
- François de Charette
-
In an instant Vincent was teleported back to reality, the world around him entering his perception bit by painful bit. First his face, his right eye and jaw. Then, his wrists, torso, shoulders, and the bright light shining in his face. He sat, arms twisted behind the high back of a metal chair, wrists bound by a set of metal manacles. Lifting his chin brought the speaker's own face into view and his memory slowly began to recoup. "Dagza," Vincent spat out, a mixture of saliva and blood hitting the floor. The man standing in front of him held a metal pipe in his hands, dark eyes and long black hair somewhat concealing his thin features. "I thought we lost you there for a minute, trying to take a nap on us?" the man chuckled. "Now, tell us where you hid the money and maybe we can let you get back to whatever it is you do." Vincent sighed, grimacing as he pushed his left shoulder lower in an attempt to stretch. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed two more men standing behind him near the door. "You absolute imbecile," Vincent muttered, shaking his head. "I told you I don't have the money, you think I'd be just waltzing around town if I had the money in hand?" He watched the man's eyes narrow, obviously attempting to discern whether Vincent was lying. "It's a missive only, the instructions biocoded - you idiots clocked me for nothing." He winced again, the pain in his jaw flaring. With a quiet grunt and a shift of his weight, Vincent bit the inside of his cheek as he popped his thumb out of socket. "But.. No, you have to have something." The man's voice wavered, realization of their mistake finally getting through his thick skull. Vincent's disbelief was written plainly on his face. He was still trying to piece together everything but his mind was still in a fog. At least he knew what that was, his eyes resting on what appeared to be all of his belongings thrown in a pile on a table to his left, his hat resting just beside his personal datapad. "You saw my things, read it yourself," he tipped his head towards his things. He was going to need to act soon, once they fully realized they were boned it wouldn't be long before they decided to do away with the evidence.
"Maybe I will," retorted the man, Dagza. Stepping over towards the table he rifled through Vincent's things, pushing aside the hat, a set of sunglasses, and a leather holster which held Vincent's weapon. That was all he needed to see. As Dagza reached for the datapad Vincent made his move. Gritting his teeth he pulled his wrist free of the restraint, pushing off the ground with his feet towards his captor. "And what is your code, Mister Coy..." he began, eyes widening as he realized what was happening. The two men behind Vincent were too far away to react quickly enough, a mere second and Vincent had lowered his shoulder straight into Dagza's midsection and the two went flying. A moment more and Vincent had quickly scrambled towards the leather holster on the ground, the table forming a temporary obstruction between he and the other two thugs. Dagza's hands had somehow managed to retain his pipe weapon, eyes now wide with terror as he tried to gain his footing. What had been complete control had devolved suddenly and now.. there was truly only one outcome.
Managing to get to his feet, Dagza roared, raising the pipe above his head as he lunged towards Vincent before sending it crashing downward towards the man's skull. Vincent rolled just in time, the pipe swinging through the air and his fingers tightening around the familiar grip of his weapon. A fraction of a second later the barrel was pointed upwards. A flash of light followed by a loud report echoed in the small room, Dagza stopping in his tracks as the pipe fell from his hands. Surprise flashed across his features and remained there as if etched in stone as he tumbled to the ground. One. Spinning like a top on his back, Vincent pushed against the ground with his feet and raised the weapon once more, this time leveled at the his other two captors. Two more flashes, two more reports, then silence; save for the ringing in his ears. Vincent could feel his heart beating in his chest, the smell of burning powder, the smoke rising in the neon lights of the room, ragged breathing coming from one of the two men he'd just laid out. The adrenaline heightened his senses immensely. The pain in his face and body were forgotten for the moment, his mind urging him onward. "Gotta go," he muttered. Rising to his feet he gathered his things, datapad tucked into his vest and glasses tucked at the neck of his shirt. Taking a step towards the door he reached down and snatched his hat, depositing it upon his head. "Wouldn't want to forget that," he said aloud. Stepping over the bodies he carefully peeked out from the room, opening the door. No one else in sight, for now. "Fat lot of trouble this is," he complained. Stepping outside the room he made his way through what appeared to be some kind of convenience store, neon lights only brighter out here - they were in the slums. "Figures."
Two days ago he'd woken up to a private comm message, sender unknown. It had contained instructions for delivery, a physical description followed by a name, and a few hundred credits with the promise of a significant amount more upon completion of the delivery. The data had legal markers all over it - perhaps a will of sorts? Vincent wasn't a slicer, hell he could barely navigate his datapad as was - so without anything further to go on he accepted it as a matter of course. Besides, he could really use the credits. At least, that's what he'd thought. Had he known what would happen he would have rather forgone the trouble but it was too late now.
-
Three days, mountains of paperwork, and a stern scolding about conducting personal business on company time later and Vincent had finally tracked down the supposed recipient of the data packet. One Sybil Shepard. The name hadn't meant anything to him but as soon as he'd run the name through the database he had set off red flags. Flags that caused his query account to lock up and resulted in a near full blown inquiry. Of course, after it was all said and done there was nothing criminal about it but his superiors hadn't been too happy to find out he'd been working a side gig - the bodies might have had something to do with it too but what were they anyway? More riff raff trash that frankly, they were better off without. On the plus side of the entire ordeal, he now found himself with a few days of personal leave.. well, technically administrative but potato potato, right? Besides, from the intelligence he'd managed to get a hold of one of this Sybil's haunts was a local place. Pretty low class for someone who stood to inherit the amount of wealth indicated by the missive but who knew, maybe they just made really good drinks? Vincent found the place well enough, neon lights and loud music assaulted his ears the moment he approached the doors - yeah, it had to be the drinks. After getting the customary glare by the venue's security he flashed his ID, a satisfied smile stretching across his lips as they let him pass. Yeah, that's right. You have to let me in, don't you. Stepping into the main venue he stopped short, taking in the view. Hmm. The drinks, or maybe the women, he conceded. Around the room several dancers clothed in light reactive material did their thing, flashing lights and music forming a surprisingly classy atmosphere. Vincent had definitely been to less reputable establishments. Stepping off to the side of the room he let his eyes scan the room, trying to match up the description with any of the patrons. There were other rooms, other places, he'd have to wait and see. Might as well get a drink while I wait, right? Heading the the closest bar he ordered a bourbon, neat. "Coming right up," said the tender. All that was left to do was watch and wait.