Raising an eyebrow under his mask, Grant shook the strange man’s hand, “….Grant Emerson. Great to meet you, I guess.”
“Well, Mr. Emerson,” the air begins to crackle with scarlet electricity and the smile on the strange man’s face widens to a perturbing grin, “it’s been a pleasure.”
It’s so sudden, the explosion that engulfs the Mystery Man in front of him is a concoction of chemical imbalances brewing and stirring like a witch’s cauldron within Grant and a blatant but helpful neglecting of the pesky “equivalent exchange” rule thanks to the small ruby-colored Philosopher Stone sitting comfortably inside of him.
”Truly.” Kimblee murmurs as he dusts his hands off with one another.
“Gimmick..? No. No I wouldn’t really call it that.” Renee shakes her head and brushes past the man at the other end of the alley, before spinning theatrically on her heel and offering him a dramatic point with one gloved finger. “It’s a method, not a gimmick. Methods achieve results. Gimmicks are just for show.”
And then he asks that question about Gotham. … Is this guy a clueless tourist? Not believe for a moment that there is not a man, woman, or child in the country not thoroughly accounted with Gotham’s depravity, at least in a second-hand fashion, she assumes he must be trying to bait her for a reaction, and responds accordingly.
“Gotham? No, of course not. Gotham is hardly full of so-called peculiar people. There’s hardly any room left for them, after all the sunshine and rainbows we’ve filled it with.”
“I’m not unfamiliar to this,” he watches her brush past him and this suddenly invokes the need to adjust the lapels on his coat, “method of thinking.”
Because of the mask that rendered her faceless, he can’t quite discern the way she’s looking at him but from the tone of her voice he probably guesses it’s not necessarily implausible for her to impregnate her vernacular with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“I see.” Kimblee notes briefly with that sly smirk of his.
“Oh, screw you, pony tail.”
“Kimblee,” he insists, “the name’s Kimblee.” Offering out his right hand, greeted with an odd insignia etched into the skin of his palm. A triangle with foreign inscriptions decorating the encirclement along said shape drawn into his hand.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr..?”
“Kimblee,” she repeats, dipping her head slightly once more. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Kimblee? I can’t imagine you wandered over just to compliment me.” Gloved hands link together in front of her, her thumbs pressing together.
“And why couldn’t you imagine that? I mean,” he chuckles, “you are stunning enough.” Shedding off his coat, he draped it over one (out of the two) chairs in front of her desk. Taking a seat in it, he crosses one leg over another and has his arms rest up against the corners of said chair’s spine.
“No, but I am here for a reason,” he continues, “it is in fact in search of employment.
“This is the City of Tomorrow, isn’t it? And you are a woman of veritable stature. Perhaps you are in need of a bodyguard? A right-hand man?”
“Does it now? And what kind of authority are we talking here?” She smiles, enjoying the small flirting. “Such a gentleman, a rarity these days. Pleasure to meet you Mr.Kimblee.”
“I don’t know,” standing upright again, “I thought perhaps you could tell me?” Combing a few stray strands of his dark hair back.
“Pleasure’s all mine and I can assure you, Ms. Delta, chivalry is all but dead.”
“I hate eggnogg. I hate pine trees. I hate the snow. I hate winter.
And no amount of wheedling using Al Pratt’s name is going to make it work.”
“Someone’s certainly not feeling the Holiday Spirit, are they?
“What’s got your, excuse me, panties in a bunch?”
“Here in the North, the law is survival of the fittest. You get careless, and you get dead.”
It’s a veritable symphony of destruction.
((Gonna give Bane a bit of a break and try Zolf J. Kimblee a shot.))