11174/Not That Kind of Bar

Not That Kind of Bar
Date of Scene:	10 March 2020
Location:	Random Bar, NYC
Synopsis:	An assassin and a soldier meet in a bar. No one dies. Mores the pity. OOC: Language! Bad words are used.
Cast of Characters:	Copperhead (Diaz), Flash Thompson

---

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
Cheers it is not.

The bar happens to be one that is frequented by the worst sort of people. Bikers. Thieves. Murderers. Lawyers. The y all spent time in this bar where people made deals, contracts were signed, apple-tini orders were grounds for being tossed by the super-powered bouncers.

Larissa was there, in her Copperhead costume. She had a smear of black makeup around her eyes, her version of a mask. She had a bottle of beer on the table in front of her. There were three empty bottles there as well. Her gauntlets were in place on her hands. She had already finished up her deal and was just wasting time, until she would head off to her next order of business.

A glance at the clock on the wall near the bar, in a lovely neon yellow with a Corona ad incorporated into the face. Two hours before her target would be avail. So she had plenty of time to just sit and relax.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    The world had changed for Sgt. Thompson. Everything seemed more rich, more vibrant. Some of it could be the way he viewed things now, with the suit connected to him, subtly aware on the edge of his senses. Maybe it helped his vision as well in some ways, things did seem sharper, more precise. Colors 'popped' and everything seemed more vivid. But then again some of that... could just be his mood. Or maybe it was a chicken or the egg thing? Was that a right metaphor? Am I using the word metaphor correctly?
    Such thoughts were what flitted through the blond man's head as he just enjoyed the walk through the city. Gotham wasn't his burg. New York all the way, Yankees baby. And that much was clearly on display with the baseball cap he was wearing though it was an old and worn one with the 'Y' in the 'NY' emblem sort of having fallen off. But he didn't see what people had against this city.
    Sure it was dreary, and the architecture is tall and gothic. But he hadn't had anyone hassle him the whole while he was walking the street. There was that one homeless guy, sure. But at least he didn't try to give him a sob story. He took the buck and left. No muss, no fuss.
    Flash did, however, stop walking as he reached that intersection and frowned. The street sign had been torn down for some reason, and he checked his phone's map app. And... no signal? That causes a hint of a grimace. Then concern. But then an overriding feeling took hold as a voice growled in his mind.

    << Thirsty. >>

    And Flash nodded to himself and agreed, perhaps not even realizing what he heard. "Yeah." And with that he moved to the front door of that bar. And through...

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
As expected, heads turned toward the door to see who was entering. Friend. Foe. Guy that owed them twenty bucks. Cops on a raid.

Upon seeing that it was an ordinary guy who really didn't seem to be one of the sleazy lawyers passing out discount cards, more heads turned that direction. Most of them were curious. A few were sensing prey.

Copperhead was one of those who turned. An eyebrow was quirked up as she stared at the stranger. He was didn't fit. Yet he didn't seem intimidated. That was interesting. Most came in, saw the crowd, turned and left. This guy didn't seem concerned about it.

She watched his movement as he made his way inside.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    To be fair something about Flash definitely screams /COP!/ since he's wearing what basically passes as undercover chic that all of the prominent law enforcement agencies use. That baseball hat, the blue jeans, the work boots. Only thing is that most cops use a windbreaker or something that they can tear away to reveal their FBI or DHS bulletproof vest for when the bust goes down.
    Instead Flash is wearing a peacoat of grey with deep pockets to help protect him from the chill. A chill that he lets inside for a little bit as he gives the place a once over.
    "Shut the damn door," Hortense said there from his booth, even as the door hadn't swung shut quite yet. But he was more trying to see how the newcomer would react. Most of the time someone would blink and apologize and rush to help the slowly closing door to shut, that is if they were a likely mark.
    But that guy there at the door just sort of looks at Hortense's big brawny mass, and sort of stares at him with a quirked eyebrow as if asking the room, 'this guy for real?' which, unfortunately, the answer is yes.
    Then the door finally whispers shut and he strolls on in. To the bar, to the most open spot a few stools away from Copperhead since well... lots of folks there know not to be too near her and those claws.
    "Corona and lime." Flash says simply, to which the bartender nods.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
There was a sort of self-enforced rule amongst the regulars at the bar. Three empty barstools to either side of Copperhead. No matter how busy, how full, standing room only. Three barstools around her were always open unless it was a person she was dealing with directly. Then they were allowed to sit on the second stool from her.

The fact this stranger took that second stool over from her, leaving an empty to either side of himself, had the others in the bar paying less attention. Must be someone with business for Copperhead.

Except Hortense and his crew over at the table. They knew she didn't usually meet up with another client so soon after one left. Bad form. So this guy likely wasn't a client and instead of someone who didn't know the rules.

He was about to find out. "That seat is taken," came the words from the blonde. She spoke English with an accent, Santa Priscan to be precise but to the unfamiliar it sounded Hispanic of some sort. "So are the others. Fuck off."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    Sea blue eyes that guy has. They're nice in that rough mug of a guy who's seen a lot and likely is gonna see worse. Though something about his features hearken to that All-American kid next door. You know the type. The one most likely to be quarterback. Or the one to kick the crap out of a recent transfer student from Jersey just because he's making time with his girl at the beach party. That kinda face.
    But as the bartender saunters off, and then she turns her head to look at him to say her piece. He sort of gets a furrowed look to his brow that has him shooting a glance over at Hortense and then back to her. "I don't know what people have been telling you, lady. But you look fine, and your ass ain't that big." He nods down to the extra seats, then back at her as he adds, "Diet's working."
    And then the bottle is brought to him and he takes in hand to take a sip.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
Three barstools clear out around him as do two tables. It is like the parting of the Red Sea in thug-form instead. They scramble for any location that isn't near Copperhead and the stranger with the giant cajones. At least they have to be giant for him to say that to Her of all people.

An expression that can only be called a snarl appears on Copperhead's face as she pushes off her barstool to a standing position. That makes those silver gauntlets that cover her lower arms and hands more obvious, the two extended points like fangs that line up with her index and middle fingers on each hand. Her movements are sinuous, flowing, like there is no effort to movement. Muscles ripple and shift beneath her skin since there is very little fat content to her body. Just enough to give her that feminine shape.

She takes the single step to where he is sitting, reaching out a hand to his barstool and turning it to face her. She stares him in the eyes a moment, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. It is forked.

Bets are being made on whether the guy will live through the night. Not whether he might win the fight. Not a single person bets on that. Just if he lives or dies for his audacity.

Then suddenly Copperhead smiles. "You have guts. Unlike these pendejos." She waves one of those gauntleted hands toward the people who cleared the area.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    Those sea blue eyes get a swirl of deep inky ichor only for a moment as he meets her gaze, something about him but it's barely visible and in this lighting chances are it's just a reflection of that giant poster with the eight ball on it. When he's turned to face her, he actually gives her a look over, the knives or claws? The slitted eyes, the tongue. He can't help but hide the initial look of 'yeeee' that flickers over his features.
    But then she tells him he has guts even as she's staring him down. And she can just /see/ his gears shift mentally.
    "Well..." His mouth closes as his nostrils flare, those enhanced senses taking in his surroundings, the people nearby. But mostly her and that slick scent of oiled steel that perhaps is the strongest as the symbiote might prioritize that as a threat. Though that scent is second only to the... blood that still clings microscopically to her ski and clothes.
    He gives the place a once over and then tells her as he leans a little closer and his lip twists up a little as he murmurs. Tone quieter but still able to carry, "Don't think that's exactly a high bar, now is it?" Which might cause some of those nearby to grumble.
    But this is the time to try and mollify, defuse. So he says with a gesture to the side, "Get you a beer?"

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
That earns a real laugh. Heartfelt, full on, outloud laughter. "Si, es la verdad!" She glances around at the group being discussed and the grumbling immediately stops when her gaze is upon them. They all find their places again now that it seems there is not to be a killing. Yet. The night is still young.

"Gracias, a beer would be good." She returns to her barstool, leaving that empty one between them that they will have to talk across. Not that it matters in this place. They aren't going to be revealing any deep dark secrets after all. Unless they are insane. These two not so much. Others in the place? Most definitely.

Once on her stool, she spins to be able to face him as she finishes off the bottle she had in front of her. Wouldn't do to waste it since there will be a new one in a moment. "You lost? This does not seem your type of place. Perhaps the cop bar down the street would be more to your liking?" Since he does have that undercover cop aura thing going on.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    "Ahhh," Flash grins a little as he catches the bartender's eye, even as he downs the last of his own beer quickly, thumping the empty on the bartop with a glassy clink. "Barkeep. Dos cervezas por favor?" He holds up two fingers and the bartender, Old Grimmy Hogan gives a nod to him and then toward Copperhead before he pops the top to two more Coronas and slides them down the bar each on their own napkins. With limes.
    The blond guy slides the other beer the rest of the way toward her and then says, "I wouldn't say lost more..." He shakes his head a little and lets his eyes lift upwards. "I like to walk around sometimes."
    But then she can see something weighs on him, like he isn't exactly telling the truth. "I mean, I got this whole story. Fucking Lifetime Movie of the Week shit." He tells her with a small laugh at the end as if to dissuade her from inquiring. Maybe doing the opposite.
    "But what about you? Looks like you get some good respect here." He nods with an inclination toward the tables nearby, perhaps trying to shift the focus onto her. Probably failing.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"Earned." Simple. Not something she was given just for being here. She isn't just a pretty face. Well, she might have been pretty before the changes that happened. In honesty, some still liked the 'freak' factor. Didn't mean she liked them though. Yet, she was content with what she was now. Others might have bemoaned their fate but she was raised to survive at all costs. The gifts she had now? Just something to help her continue doing just that. It was strength, power.

When she relaxed, the pupils on her eyes seemed to go more normal. Yet there was still something about her that was off putting. Maybe just the knowledge that she was 'other'.

"I hate those movies. So sad and predictable. I would rather shoot someone in the face than suffer through another in my life. So you can spare me the sob story, unless you can do a condensed version that will not make me want to vomit."

She picks up her lime, squeezing it into the neck of the beer then poking it in with the tip of her finger so it plopped into the liquid. A little swirl around then she took a long drag from the bottle.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    "Ehn," Flash takes his two limes and squeezes one into his beer, then casually bites the other. His face scrunches up at the tang of it, but then smiles as he sets the rind down. "Year ago I was in a wheel chair fer life. Now I'm not." He then gestures with the bottle around the room, holding it up and down up and down, as if he were making it walk around the room as he looks through it with one squinty eye. "So sometimes. I take walks."
    His smirk is there, and she might see the stubbly blond beard he wears, though it's a bit hard to see unless one were this close. Might even hear it as he scritches at his cheek with one fingertip.
    Then he smirks and says, "So if yer gonna vomit I get the rest of your beer." He says matter-of-factly.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"If I vomit, I have room for more beer so it does not work your way. Did you not study the Romans?" Larissa asks with another amused smile before taking another drag off her beer. As she sets it down on the napkin there, she gives him a long look.

"Wheelchair. I see why you would go for walks. Often. Something you no longer take for granted, like most of us, si?" A long silent moment then she speaks again. "You are stronger than I gave credit. I am unsure I could continue living in those circumstances."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    Outside the snowflakes continue to fall, Gotham's winter still held at bay by the warm inside, and finally he takes off that pea coat, as if deciding... he's going to stay a while. Once it's down on the seat between them he'll meet her curious eyes with his own gaze and then nods.
    "Mmm," Flash looks away towards the mirror and himself there in the reflection. Then he looks back to her and he smiles with a little sardonic twist to it as he lifts the beer in her direction. "Well. To be fair, ain't like I didn't think about it right?" Suicide. And as he makes that confession to her, perhaps sharing that small touchstone, he'll extend his hand to her and says with a wry smile.
    "Any case, my name's Flash. Flash Thompson." A glance at the long blades on her hands, then he's like, screw it. And doesn't withdraw his hand.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
That earns an arched eyebrow as she looks at his hand then extends her own. Cajones grande. She slides her hand into his and there are calluses there. Obvious to anyone with a clue. A fighter, as though that wasn't obvious from where she hung out and how she was dressed. Those extended points on the gauntlet so very close to his arm as she shakes his hand. So easy to have given him a dose with just a scratch. Her grip is strong and firm. Two pumps then she withdraws. Nary a nick on him.

"I am...." For a moment, she almost uses her codename. To be honest, it isn't as though her name is hidden. Arkham has it on file. The authorities from her many arrests. Yet, she usually doesn't lead with it. Yet this time, she does. "Larissa Diaz."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    "Larissa," The way he says it is as if he were discovering it, trying it on, seeing if it fit her. Then he nods with a small 'hnh' as if it passed some sort of test or seemed to fit. He swivels on his seat a little to face her more directly, arm resting on the bartop and fingers wrapped around the bottle. His head tilts to the side as he looks to her.
    "You present yourself like a closed book with a ton of chapters, you know." He leans forward a little and looks at the blades she wears, the tight leather strips and straps that enhance the vest she wears and those tight pants that cling to the supple curves of her form. Not even to mention the subtle physical differences of her. "A lot of questions. A lot of places to start."
    He scratches the side of his head thoughtfully and then adds, "When there's part of me, the part that just likes, you know walkin' around on a snowy night. But that part of me is just glad to be talking to a beautiful gal." Sea blue irises flick to the blades, then back to her eyes as he grins a little. "Though a scary one, ta be sure."

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"Though I am a closed book, I will share this. There is not much to know. Lifetime movie I am not. More horror or suspense perhaps," Larissa muses with a slight tilt of her head as though considering. "Like many, my childhood was difficult. Bad things happened. I got stronger from it. The end."

Truthfully her childhood was nothing like what most people would imagine yet that sums her up and she is fine with it. It is the past. It is not who she is today or what she has ahead of her. It made her. Built those foundations that she took and created Larissa Diaz out of. After all, that wasn't her real name. That was her own, her secret.

"Your face did not think me so beautiful when you first saw my differences," she says with another soft laugh, followed by purposefully sticking out her tongue at him and flicking the two tips opposite directions before withdrawing it back in. "In truth, I am the most dangerous person in this building." Having no idea his secret, she might have a different opinion if she knew. Her tone isn't bragging. A statement of fact. No more, no less. "You need not lie and call me beautiful."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    Flash replies with a nod, "Yeah ain't that the way of it." About childhoods, and pasts. Though assuredly hers was much worse if they ever end up comparing. Yet to him Flash's father, his difficulties, the drinking and all seemed pretty difficult.
    Though he doesn't look away as she talks, listening and when she busts his chops over that initial reaction his lip twists as he murmurs, "That was more surprise, to be fair." And then she sticks her tongue out at him, almost hearing the soft hiss or perhaps just imagining it himself as they waggle and then withdraw. "Just differences."
    "To be fair when I was a kid..." His features twist up and for a brief moment he thinks about lying about it, then just goes with the truth since lately that's worked for him. Then again might not here.
    "When I was a kid, I was a little shit. And I woulda probably given you a hard time. But..." He shakes his head and looks across the way, to that snowfall that gives just a faint haze to the old dirty windows of the bar. "I've been to one side of this world and then the other. Usually where people are shooting at each other a lot." His lip twists up a little as he looks back to her. "And in my old age, I can recognize beauty where I see it. Even if it's in the eyes of a woman that makes her living doing what she has to."
    He looks toward his bottle and takes it up again, then smiles a little with a hint of 'so there' in his gaze as he adds, "So I'll appreciate you to not call me a liar, Larissa."

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"Lo siento," Larissa says automatically with a dip of her head. She finishes off her beer then motions for the barkeep with raised index and middle finger. It looks a little off to be fair with the 'fangs' on them, the sharp points aimed to the ceiling.

"I am used to the negative. The surprise. The disgust. The few that find it appealing generally are in for the freak factor. Not truly complimentary either. I am...unused to such things."

A moment of truth, vulnerability perhaps. It is quickly gone as her walls return. "It used to be what I had to do. Now, it is what I want to do. I have a skill set. It is specialized. It is in demand from time to time with those willing to pay the price." Then she realizes she's talking too much about herself. She turns the focus of conversation away from her again, deflecting with the best of them.

"Around the world with people shooting. Soldier then? Or mercenary?"

Flash Thompson has posed:
    Over his shoulder Flash waves a hand, letting the barkeep know he's fine with another round. But he keeps his other bottle for now, still taking a sip now and again as he murmurs, "S'alright." Likely meant to dismiss any negativity she might think lingered about the whole liar thing. Instead he nods along as she speaks to the negative, the surprise.
    "I had to work with a lot of people, gifted and different. So maybe I'm not quite as on edge about those things." He offers that as a possible reason, but doesn't explain it beyond that. Instead he says with a nod when she mentions doing what she does because she gets paid.
    "Soldier." He answers the latter question. "For a time with everything, I thought about makin' more money in the private sector. Even put some feelers out. Then I ate an IED and my plans were for shit." Considering everything he lost he grimaces a little and then downs that beer. Even as he nods to the bartender once the next round is brought on up.
    "But since, now, with things fallin' out as they have? Uncle Sam is still willing to foot the bill. So here I am." He looks toward the door and adds, "Though, technically still on leave."

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"Ah." The soft sound at the mention of the IED. That explains how he ended up in a wheelchair. She sees the shift in his expression and the quick finishing of the beer, a momentary lapse of his own thinking back to all he head to deal with.

"You will return to duty soon since you are recovered? Or had they already discharged you officially? Could you rejoin if you chose?" Curiosity. Does she really care? She's not sure. It is an interesting story though and she does find herself wanting to hear the end.

"Or to explore those private sectors. I do not know your moral stance or I might know some people who could use skilled support personnel."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    "Ah nah, I'm sorta obligated now. But hey..." His blue eyes meet hers and he smiles a little wry thing, perhaps the beer affecting him a little though she doesn't see the flush of color to his cheeks or earlobes from it. "Thanks, I appreciate you puttin' that out there. That's a kindness."
    He turns his seat a little so he can lean a little closer, resting a hand on that large pea coat that sits on the seat between them. "But not like a palooka like me could afford the procedure they had to use to fix me up. So, I'm sorta stuck with 'em for the next few years. But it's slow for now. Mainly they call me in, have some job or other, or worse they just want to scan some of my reactions to things while I wear those..." He holds up a hand to the side, trying to create a sphere with his fingertips. Failing.
    "Those weird motion tracking things? So yeah. It's a cush gig. For now at least."

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
"That is...odd." Larissa's mind spins, trying to understand why they would want to trace his movements to that extent. Though a procedure to make someone walk again after being told they never would? It reeks of experimental. She can relate in her own way, though hers was not by choice.

Perhaps in his circumstances, she would have chosen to do so.

"For now. Until they decide to use you for more. Always know you can get out. There are ways." Spoken like she has experience. She picks up her newest beer, adding the lime to it then taking a sip before glancing up at that clock behind the bar. "Time for business. I must go." She motions to the barkeep to come take away the rest of her beer, and all the empties around in front of her. The barkeep carefully puts the bottles from her in a special bin, away from others. They are too dangerous potentially to go out with the regular recycling. Yes, he recycles! They are bad asses, not animals.

"I would have offered the rest of my beer but it is not safe," she says with another smile as she hops off the barstool. The barkeep passes her a brown leather trenchcoat that matches well with her costume. "It was nice to meet you, Flash."

Flash Thompson has posed:
    A nod is given as she gets of her stool and then gathers her trenchcoat about her. He tilts his head to the side and nods. "It was good meetin' you too, Larissa." He says, tilting his beer up in salute and starting to turn back toward the bar...
    But then he glances at her in the mirror, then back at her seat, then over toward her again. His eyes widen slightly with a mental shrug as if to say, 'why not?' and as he says that he turns back toward her. "Hey."
    And of course the people around them are sort of looking sidelong at them, is this the point she kills him. She seems in a good mood. Weird.
    "You uhh," He reaches into the pocket of his coat on the bar there and withdraws his phone. A brush of his thumb is there as he swipes it to life and then extends it to her as he then asks, "Wanna keep in touch?" Because why not. Not like he's seeing anyone.

Copperhead (Diaz) has posed:
That causes her to pause. Her brow is furrowed in confusion.

The people gathered around seem to be holding their breath, wondering how this is going to go down. He isn't dead yet and she was being chatty with him. She's been chatty before and an offense led to something special in the guy's drink for him to enjoy later on.

"I do not believe you will wish to do that," she says simply, giving a shrug of her shoulders in an almost boneless sort of motion. "I am not the nice girl next door who waits for her soldier to come home. I am not nice at all." Truth again. She's been sharing that. After all, it's easier than lies. "But...if you wish to speak again." She takes his phone and quickly manages to type in her number, using her fingers that do not have blades attached. Somehow she makes it work. Obviously years of practice. Then she passes back over the phone to him.

Flash Thompson has posed:
    "Thanks," He says and gives her a nod as he takes his phone back, then he turns back to the bar. He lowers his eyes to his beer, takes a sip... and then /forces/ himself to not look at her again as he thinks to himself.

    << Play it cool, man. Play it cool. >>

    But then once she's out the door, if she lingers she'll hear his voice with a /roar/ of aggression though still sounds like him as he snarls, "ANY OF YOU FUCKERS GOT SOMETHING TO SAY?!" And, to his credit, the bar just goes back to how it was. Apparently he may be considered one of them now. For now.