suckersgame | (no subject)

(no subject)

The thing about sins you'll never be clean of, no matter how tiny a fraction of your lifespan they make up? Is you get so much done with the guilt.

Case in point was Hob's latest investment. Robbie Gadling had just bought up block after ravaged block of 'Alphabet City' in Manhattan. And he was rebuilding them. He had the technology -- well, the vast amounts of carefully-squirrelled-away money, sometimes involved in buying technology. He could make them better, cleaner, more up to those building codes that were all the rage these days. And sustainably affordable? Oh, he could do that. Not like he needed to turn a profit on this.

Sir Robert Gadling still owed civilization and decency that much. He'd never stop owing, and though he'd moved on well enough most days, the nightmares kept Hob remembering.

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It's as reasonable an investment as he wants it to be. That's Hob's story, and he's sticking to it.

But the kid's help is brilliant. After enough progress. "Don't suppose I could get your number, Lantern?"

After the countless hours he's put in to trying to fix the inner city - and this place as his personal demon... yeah, much as maybe he shouldn't, he'll give his contact information to a guy who is pouring real money into the place.
As far as he's concerned, the progress is not enough, not nearly - he'll be at it a while yet, but its a good start.

"Yeah, contact Warrior's Bar and let them know you need to get a hold of Travis. If I'm in system and not, you know, fighting zombies, I'll get back to you within the day."

"Sounds like a plan. I'm a bit simpler; you can just have my card."

...All of his superhuman contact information comes down to pubs, in the end.

Travis can't help but grin, taking the card, then removing his glasses. "Not quite as simple as it seems, but I can have someone read it to me. Whatever it is you're doing here... honestly, thank you. Travis Grey, by the way."

"You're welc--" Hob blinks. "Wait a minute, is that what's..." he looked at the boy's eyes. "Young man, you've spent the afternoon hauling everything everywhere, and you can't see enough to read a card?"

"I can't see anything at all. I can mostly 'see' via the ring. Better than most people. I can tell you how many bricks are in that stack, how many nails are in those boards, or the depth to the milimeter of that hole..." he replies, all regarding things which wouldn't be in a normal person's field of vision. "But can't do a thing with flat text or images."

"Well. Damn sight handier than a cane."

He reaches into a pocket, getting out his extendable cane. "For the occasional emergency. The dog hasn't taken to the cross country flying thing yet."

Hob laughs. "Can't say I blame him. I'd rather not without a plane, myself. Take it you don't live here anymore, Travis?"

"I haven't actually lived here in a long time, but its one of those things. You never quite escape where you started. I actually live down in the southeast, but I've been making trips back to New York to help out ever since the plague."

"Oh yeah," he says sympathetically. "I bloody well know about things you never quite escape. Well, it's been a pleasure working with you so far, Travis, and... this part probably doesn't need saying, but after the extremely confusing reports about this place that I had to go through with the paperwork, I might as well have it on record. I Don't Scare." Absolutely nothing was clear about that whole situation just before The Whole Mess, but he might as well get it out there. Some of those he'd bought up were shivering even as they tried to gleefully unload toxic assets. But Hob Gadling had ever really changed his mind about one thing, and it sure as hell hadn't been from intimidation.

"Believe me, I understand all about not scaring. Around here, that's a good thing - but so noted. And its definitely been a pleasure working with you. This place has needed this kind of help. If there's anything you want to know, though, I'd be happy to assist."

"Much appreciated... what the hell /happened/ just before the zombies showed up?"

"Its a long story - the short version is that there was a war between different factions of people with different types of rings. There's seven independent corps of ring-wielders now. One of them took me over - I still wanted to fix this place up, like I'd been doing for years, but because of the orange ring's influence, did it in a much more authoritarian ways. On the upside - any of the rings by themselves, like most things, wouldn't keep the zombies dead. Tons of reports on their tendency to get back up no matter how much they were shot and all... but anyway, two rings in combination would. So if I hadn't of had it, the neighborhood might have still been standing, but nothing would have been left alive... instead of the other way around."

Hob listens.

...and listens. "Definitely better this way around, yeah."

"So... now you know at least a bit of my story. What brought your attention this way? You don't sound like you're from around here, but the ring isn't placing your dialect and accent."

"I'm English. The accent's taken a beating from travelling. I'm in the States most of the time, these days. There was a quick shot of this place on the news just as the mood for a new project was striking."

"You've got your work cut out for you, as projects go. If you're going to get any return, its going to take educational and security resources too. Drugs, alcoholism, poverty, gangs, high dropout rates... and much as they claim to, the police don't usually go past the edges of Avenue B. Believe me, I'm not trying to discourage you. I just know the culture here, and how difficult it is to change. But from the sound of it, you've done this sort of thing before."

"Oh, I understand the wet blanket thing is nothing personal. And I've done it, yes, but not in New York, so information never hurts. So security, maintenance, general nuisancery. What sort of educational resources do you suppose the place could stomach, Travis? I've built schools before, but not where there already were some that weren't working."

"The first thing, honestly, is providing some kind of economic opportunity that isn't tied to the drug trade or other crime. Trade school, social programs... anything that gives hope for a different economic base. The schools here are a tough call... but even some new books, or some type of secured computer facility with basic research options... but equipment that's too old to be worth stealing... would help. You might be able to make some headway on two problems by building this up partway - to the point of having some trade options, and try and bring in apprenticeship programs. Invest the capital, then train people to do some of their own plumbing, wiring, repair jobs... as a start."

"Getting to the point of being able to hire local for that sort of thing was just what I was figuring. As for facilities that are well-equipped enough to work, but too old to steal..." Hob smiled. "I've got just the thing. Girlfriend's been wanting me to get rid of my collection anyway." Hob was normally the exact opposite of a packrat, but computers were... just too much; he was never done being /amazed/ by them by the time they were obsolete.

"With something to actually contribute to now, I might be able to find one or two people who might be willing to contribute - and I'll be around now and then to help the work along." And the next bit, while true, might have just a little indication of his own thoughts on the situation. "Having some kind of detox center, possibly with its own educational resources, for the literally captive audience, might not hurt either."

Hob listens, nods. "Give them my card. And ... yeah, not a bad idea to reserve some space for."

"I'll do that. Thanks for everything." He's still curious what this guy's game is... but right now, definitely someone he wants to keep in touch with while he sees how the restoration of his home goes.

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