<br/><div class="floatright">(http://i.imgur.com/mDV66ep.jpg)</div><strong>Character:</strong>Oscar Valdez<br/><strong>Location/Time:</strong>Before 1100 Hours.  63 Wall Street, New York, New York.  Penthouse. Armory ---> Kitchen<br/><strong>Attire:</strong>Blue-grey business jacket and slacks.  White dress shirt.  Black shoes.  Black sunglasses.<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open to all.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>"I'll do my best to save something for the rest of ya." Oscar commented.<br/><br/>Everyone seemed so uptight, so rigid and stiff.  Stern, keeping to themselves and the matter at hand.<br/><br/>It could have been just jitters.  Oscar knew himself the nervous fluttering of butterflies in his stomach before an operation.  It was hard to not feel such a way, when your mind runs through the different variables, the various scenarios, thinking of every little thing that could go wrong in such an easy way.  Maybe they were all nervous, anxious about such an operation so soon after meeting and coming together.<br/><br/>That's what Oscar hoped for, at least.  Working with a bunch of stiffs proved to be so dull sometimes.<em>If I had a flame thrower, we could liven this party up a bit.</em>He thought to himself.  Everyone loves a flame thrower.<br/><br/>But, getting the sense from the others...  If he were to come marching out of the armory with a flame thrower and a few punching dummies from the gym, asking for directions to the roof, they were all likely to have him snatched up by some men with black cloth masks.  He wasn't in any rush to trade his penthouse digs for a lovely, tropical cell in Guantanamo.<br/><br/><em>Get to work, before one of them tattles on you...</em>He told himself, forcing himself to focus on the op at hand.<br/><br/>The Armor seemed to have just about everything he could need for the operation.  Along with the fine selection of handguns, there were more than a few silencers that seemed to fit just about anything he could find.  After looking around, admiring some of the pieces and tech that had been brought in, a decent collection of syringes containing a variety of chemical compounds was discovered.  Everything from poison, to truth serum, and high power sedatives.<br/><br/>“Not bad.” Oscar thought, though a tad disappointed to not find any old LSD hidden away.  “Not bad at all.”<br/><br/>It seemed as if everything he would need was there, laid out for his perusal and disposal.  All around him, there seemed to be more than enough hardware and ammo to take over a small country.  All except a flame thrower...<br/><br/>That was the first item on the list.  As he stood in the armory for a few moments, Oscar began to scribble away at his little notepad, taking notes of the various items he would need.  Most of it wasn't for the op at hand.  A simple wish list of items he'd like, if he didn't get killed, or sent back for another long term prison stay.<em>Flame thrower...  Vodka, the good shit...  Frozen stuffed crust pizza...  Basil, thyme, sage, rosemary, all fresh...</em>And so on and so on, until his shopping list resembled a quite literal grocery list than anything else.<br/><br/>But there was more to be added to the notebook...  Oscar walked around the armory, seemingly inspecting the various weaponry on hand, occasionally making a note here and there, as if writing down modifications that would be needed.  Instead, the simple ruse was to cover his tracks, make him look like he was doing something productive, other than writing down the names of all of his “compatriots” and everything he could remember about the entirety of the little cool club he found himself a member of, as well as their mission at hand.<br/><br/>A simple insurance policy, something to keep fresh in his mind an to do more research on, should he ever need to ensure some mutually assured destruction.<br/><br/>From what he had heard, the discussion after the little breakdown of their night's objective, it seemed as if there were some mutual distrust among the Angels about good ole Charlie.  He certainly shared in their thoughts, but his own discomfort went to those around him as well.  There was no telling who those people were, no telling what sort of people they were.  So far, they all seemed a bit stiff and guarded.  Uneasy about the whole situation.  A part of him felt that way too, he supposed.<br/><br/>But Oscar liked knowing who his new BFFs were, especially when running operations.  It was a matter of comfort, knowing the people he was working with, knowing their personality, their tendencies, what made them tick, what made them happy.  Such knowledge was often the difference between success and failure.<br/><br/>Dinner, maybe?<br/><br/>After leaving the Armory, Oscar made his way back to the kitchen.  His blazer removed, folded away upon a chair, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as he turned his attention to the fridge and variety of cabinets.  Maybe a good dinner, before or after, would break the ice a bit, get them talking about things unrelated to the mission.<br/><br/><em>If only the CIA still believed in LSD...</em>He thought with a tinge of disappointment towards the armory as he began to pull some ingredients out and laid them on the counter.<em>Now</em>that<em>would make dinner interesting...</em>