1813/Weapon X: Domino

Weapon X: Domino
Date of Scene:	04 August 2017
Location:	Gotham City
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Domino, Sabretooth

---

Domino has posed:
Alone in the back of a dive bar too run down to have an interesting name, a woman sits alone in the farthest booth, back to the wall, eyes towards the door and everything around her. Most of the time, people don't want to sit next to the door leading to the bathroom. Most of the time, people are more concerned about getting hammered than they are with the position of every exit and entrance into the building.

The booths are aligned to the left of the entrance door, with bar and stools to the right. The facility is as narrow as the namesake of the place it resides. It's a long box corridor smashed between brownstones and brick storefronts that have security shutters and bars on the windows thicker than wrought iron fencing. Smoke obscures the air, and neon signs within and without cast odd colored shadows over the already moonlight-dimmed interior. Bodies are lined up along the bar, a few in the booths. Bottles clink and thump against wood. Conversation is soft and not often given to laughter. Guns are openly displayed on tables.

Music from an old jukebox plays songs that were popular thirty years ago, right next to a small alcove with an atm and nearby video gambling. The band playing sucks, but they'd take that as a compliment. ( https://youtu.be/wqkJyClG_S0 )

Ice blue eyes, one encircled in a gray-black oval, stay on the window front of the bar, as black gloved hands pour a shot of cheap tequilla. No lime, no salt. It's just for the warm-up as she waits, the apex predator of the room.

Sabretooth has posed:
The woman might be waiting in one of the world's smallest bars, but if Sabretooth could see her right now he'd probably be pretty envious of all the room that she has. She's got her own booth, after all.

By contrast, the giant blond Canadian is stuck in the back of the same black van they used in every single eighties spy movie. Unfortunately, even more tech junk has been shoved into the back since then, leaving very little room for Sabretooth and the rest of his team. He looks disdainfully at the touch displays and equipment packed in all around him. None of that tech is going to help them find their subject now. That's what they've got him for.

"Lessee what we got here, Subject 831992... or do you prefer to be called 'Priscilla?' Or maybe 'Luisa?'" With a clawed finger, Sabretooth carefully opens the giant manilla folder marked 'Top Secret', managing to rip the paper only slightly.

A bunch of scents waft from the envelope immediately. Aged paper. Envelope glue. Staples. Early 2000s printer ink. Steel dogtags. An... engagement ring? But only one of the scents is of any use to him right now.

Reaching into the envelope, he pulls out a tattered piece of clothing. It looks like it might have been part of a sundress, years ago, or possibly some leggings. Whatever it used to be, it's barely big enough to make a rag out of now, with some long-dried blood on the edges.

Sabretooth holds this scrap of fabric up to his nose, and takes in a few long, savoring sniffs. His eyes close reflexively, and a smile spreads across his face so wide that it exposes his oversized canine teeth.

"Delicious. The blood. The sweat. The... fear. Better'n any perfume."

In the back of the van, the rest of his team watches the catlike man with looks of awkward concern.

"You, uh... have the scent, sir?" Someone finally gets up the nerve to ask, his voice cracking slightly.

"Damn straight I got the scent, boy. Now it's time for me to do what none of ya could figure out with all them fancy computers. And all I gotta do is my best impression of the family labrador."

Several minutes later, the black van is driving through the streets of Gotham, near the subjects last verified location. Sabretooth is up in the front now, with his head hanging out of the window. And his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Fortunately, the trail hasn't gone cold yet, and the tactical team is setting up on the roof of one of Gotham's narrowest bars, waiting on the word to pull a shock and awe on the poor, unsuspecting bar patrons.

Domino has posed:
Domino looks down at her phone.

The schedule is absolutely packed with meetings and agendas. Bruce hasn't been in the office for a little while, something about a mini-vacation and a meeting. Nevertheless, he's dumped more work onto his new 'security analyst'. If it weren't for the fact that Batman had seen fit to set up this line of above-board work for her, she would have quit already. She had to pass the inspection of the local homeowner's association of Gotham, after all. She was trying to prove herself to be a good neighbor and an upstanding member of the community. She had come to Gotham to tag and bag Batman for a hefty sum, but had come to respect him and back him in the process.

It made her feel like a sap in hindsight. Batman had probably just dumped Bruce off on her to get that headache out of his way. Bruce was going to run her ragged with his work schedule and demands. She'd determined to name her first ulcer after him.

And then there was the Bat's 'Luigi. Fun to tease, but he was keeping tabs on her as well. The locals were very vigilant about maintaining their little costume-infested territory. Were it up to her, she'd have just walked into Arkham and started fitting repeat offenders for pine boxes.

Thusly, unable to openly get away from collecting money on those that deserved to die, Domino had taken post in the worst parts of town, now that the Bats were cloistered in their belfries, and had set up honey traps to bait criminals. 'They're coming right for us!' had been a legitimate excuse. She had to defend herself from being killed, and bullets were the only answer, after all.

Another shot of tequilla is poured and swallowed fast enough to skip the taste. Her core was warming up, and her senses were sharpened. Just enough alcohol to speed up the neurological processes, but not enough to dull them. She was ready for business.

She had no idea who would show up as her first customer.

Sabretooth has posed:
With a glorified mutant extermination team posted up on the roof, and others rapidly stacking on all of the exits, anyone who was observing from outside would probably think that the firefight of the century was about to go down. Those people may still be right. But perhaps they wouldn't be expecting one lone man to leave the black van and head toward the bar's public entrance like any other customer.

Unlike everyone else in his outfit, he's not wearing anything that could be considered 'tactical gear.' If anything, he looks like he's going to his trailer to get drunk and beat his wife. Seriously, he's actually wearing a wife beater t-shirt with a large whiskey stain on the front. So it's either the trailer, or possibly a Kid Rock concert.

The similarities to white trash mostly end there. At least the type of white trash we're used to seeing. For starters, this guy is about six and a half feet tall, has no beer belly, and generally looks like the kind of guy who'd be able to pull off a nickname like 'Sabretooth.' The unruly mane has apparently been shaved off recently, but it's growing back with a vengeance and can't really be considered 'short' anymore. His obvious 'nonhuman' status is easily discernible even under the bar's crappy lighting, which along with his size keeps anyone from giving him too much eye contact as he makes his way up to the bar.

There aren't any spaces at the bar, so he just grabs a biker by the back of his leather jacket and yanks him off of his seat. It's a bit awkward, because the guy had his tongue down the throat of a busty (fake), tan (fake), blonde (fake) biker groupie. But she doesn't seem disappointed when her man is yanked away and Sabretooth takes his place. Not that he's paying any attention to her.

"Whiskey."

It's a simple request, and the bartender moves him up to the top of the queue. However, there's more than one way to drink whiskey...

"Um... sure. How do you take it?" The bartender is used to dealing with rough customers, but usually not ones who are staring back with cat-like eyes.

"Just bring me a whole bottle of whatever's fanciest, son. I'm dehydrated."

All the while, Sabretooth's nostrils are working overtime to pick through the scents in the crowded bar. Most of the scents are pretty vomit-inducing, but Sabretooth seems to like most of them. There's blood. There's sweat. There's even some fear. But none of them is the scent he came here to find.

Domino has posed:
Neena smiles a little to herself, watching Sabertooth come in. He's recognizeable enough. The name carries weight and has something of a pants-wetting factor. The reputation in certain circles is not an undeserved one.

She rocks the empty shot glass back and forth between her fingers as she observes his behavior. Gotham seems to be attracting more and more of the wrong crowd. The Bat is not going to be happy, that's for sure. There goes the neighborhood, you can almost hear them say.

Her free hand goes without conscious thought to the gun holstered at her hip, fingers tracing over the grip, brushing over the safety. It's routine. It's practiced. It's reassuring.

So far, he's not doing anything disruptive, but she knows that kind of peace won't last forever. She watches the exits once more, catching sight of a quickly moving body. She listens as much as she can through the music for the conversations going on, and, sitting back, presses herself up against the booth and wall, to feel for vibrations above, below, behind.

Her eyes never leave Victor, as she slides further back into the booth, obscuring her appearance just a little more. The vinyl beneath her crackles ever so softly.

Sabretooth has posed:
The bartender hands Sabretooth one of the bottles from the top shelf. It's not technically the fanciest one in the bar, but he probably doesn't think that Sabretooth will be able to tell the difference. But when you're worried that a customer might have a problem paying his bill, you generally don't give him an entire bottle of your best whiskey.

True to form, Sabretooth doesn't seem to notice. He rips the foil and the stopper off with his teeth and gives the bartender a relatively friendly nod. "Put it on my tab." He doesn't have a tab, but the implication is pretty clear that he intends to pay for it. Someday.

But as the smells of sweat and leather fill his nose, one scent finally cuts through everything. Still looking at the bartender, Sabretooth smiles broadly enough to flash all of his teeth.

To his right, the very fake barfly is rubbing his hair-covered arm. Politely, but firmly, Sabretooth removes her hand. Not from her body, just from his arm.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm meeting someone tonight. And... I think I can smell my girl now."

He leaves the crowded bar, letting her wonder for the rest of her life just what he meant by that. Hopefully, she'll get drunk tonight and forget all about it. The man he tossed moments earlier reclaims his seat, looking both pissed off and embarrassed. He won't do anything about it though.

Making his way through the place, people tend to get out of his way or they get bumped into. It's clear that he's heading toward the back of the bar, right in the general direction of the bathrooms. Only when he's within pouncing distance does he finally make eye contact with his intended prey. After his eyes make contact with all the other visible parts of her first, of course.

Domino has posed:
Some of Dom's best parts tend to be at least halfway visible, at that. It's like she can't find a working zipper. Her left hand is under the table, her right, still holding the empty shotglass. She is leaning back against the wall and booth. She gives Sabertooth a flirty smile out of the corner of her mouth, eyes comfortably half-lidded.

"I'd offer you a drink, but you don't look like the type to swallow the worm," she quips. "So. What brings you to this charming, upscale establishment? Is it the craft microbrew or the ambiance?"

The material of her suit crackles softly as she shifts positions. Victor's keen senses will likely notice muscles tensing.

Sabretooth has posed:
"You smell different."

As opening lines go, it's probably not the most charming. But it's original. Sort of. However, Sabretooth's tone of voice when he utters the cryptic sentence makes it pretty clear that his mood is way less flirtatious than Domino's.

Of course, most people's moods are usually way less flirtatious than hers, if the legends are meant to be taken literally...

Still, with a bottle of whiskey in one clawed hand, and a smile on his hair-covered face, Sabretooth looks passably friendly, if perhaps not as charming as she might hope. No doubt he'd be way easier to get a read on if he were simply here to hit on her.

He seems to be aware that he didn't answer her question as he joins her in her booth, but he doesn't seem to feel like he owes her an answer. Shifting his weight with an audible creak, he sits across from her in a slightly cramped fashion. It's a small booth, after all. "From before. I mean. You smell different from what I was expecting. It's nice though."

He... doesn't appear to be drunk?

Domino has posed:
"I attribute my success in that matter to regular baths," Domino replies. Yeah, she complains about Wade's inane ramblings, but she's not exactly laconic. She sets the glass down, and pours herself another shot with the same hand, setting the bottle down. She doesn't seem to mind that the hulking beast-man has settled himself and physically blocked her means of escaping the booth. She's cornered - but apparently unconcerned. There's no fear smell to be had here, just caution.

"So what brings you to my little corner of the world, 'Tooth? You're not into social calls." She presses the issue by rephrasing it.

Sabretooth has posed:
"Never had much use for baths myself. Cats don't like water." Let's all hope that he's kidding, but at any rate he doesn't smell like someone who hasn't taken a bath in a hundred years. So he must be getting clean every now and then, right?

"You don't much smell like you need to waste your time with bathing either. Everybody else in this dump smells like piss and shit. You smell more like orchid blossoms, with a little vanilla. Really cuts through the room, which I take as a kindness." So far so good. He's still pointedly avoiding the 'why' behind his visit. It's true, he's not known for making social calls. There's only one thing he's known for, really, and so far he hasn't done it. In fact, he's still smiling in a way that might be disarming if he didn't have such a sinister reputation.

"Tell anybody I said that, and I'll rip your pretty white throat out. Then you'll mostly just smell like rot and maggots." He says it in a matter of fact way, a smile still on his face, his cat-like eyes still making frequent contact with hers. That's probably more in line with the type of thing she'd expect him to say, but the implied threat seems to be almost a joke. Almost.

Domino has posed:
Domino doesn't take it as a joke. She's worked with enough rough customers to think otherwise. "Office policy not to smell like piss and shit. Bad for morale, you know," she replies, taking her third drink. She sets the glass down on the table with a soft *thunk*.

Her left hand comes up with high caliber handgun, fingers laced around the grip with one finger behind the trigger. She rests it on the tabletop, on its side. The barrel is casually aimed just narrowly away from Sabretooth's midsection. This is not the kind of gun carried by someone who wants to wave it at a would-be rapist or mugger. This the kind of gun you carry when you buy ammunition in bulk through underground dealers.

"C'mon honey, I appreciate the foreplay but I think it's time you dropped trou' and let me know what you want from me," she smoothly retorts with the faintest edge in her tone. Razor blades under perfumed silk. Her eyes lock to his and stay there.

Sabretooth has posed:
"Normally I don't bother with foreplay, but when you're with such a classy frail you can't just bend her over behind the dumpster." Okay, now he's definitely avoiding the question, just to be a dick. Leaning forward, he makes his target silhouette just about as big as possible. There's literally no way that she'd be able to miss him at this range, and he seems almost excited by the idea.

"Smells like you're already all warmed up for me though. Far be it from me to leave you in such a state." He leans forward just a bit more, both to get closer to the source of her scent, and to keep from having to talk so loudly. It's a crowded bar, and all that.

"Like I said, you smell different. Not just different from everyone here, you smell different from how you did. Or at least, you smell different from the sample they gave me. Somebody did something to you, and it made you wrong. And I bet you've got no idea who it was, or what they done it for. Must drive you to drink... Right, 'Beatrice?'"

Domino has posed:
Domino's eyes narrow.

"Keep it up, -Vic-. You might just lose one of those nine lives," she purrs. Her finger moves from behind the trigger to in front of it. She doesn't back down, doesn't retreat. Her hands are as steady as a surgeon's, and her heart rate hasn't bumped up at all.

"I know bullets aren't going to stop you any more than they'd stop Shortie, but that doesn't mean I can't make you wish someone would turn your cock inside out to relieve the pain."

The safety is flicked off. "Do this classy frail a solid and give me the g--damn reason you're here."

Sabretooth has posed:
The sinister grin on Sabretooth's face morphs into something truly diabolical. He can count on one hand the number of women who aren't terrified of him, and it's always fun adding another digit to the group. It's almost enough fun to make him forget that she brought up 'Shortie.'

"The way I see it, when someone doesn't know where she's from, she tends to go squirrely. I know I've had fun watching the Runt chase his tail the past few decades, trying to find answers. But I hate that puny little shit, so I get off on his misery. You... you I don't hate, so maybe I'll give you a little piece of mercy?"

He leans back a bit, almost as if he's submitting to her threat. One of his giant hands is placed on the table, where she can see it, and with the other he brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips and begins to guzzle it the way most men would guzzle a beer. Or a diet soda, depends on the man, honestly.

When he slams the bottle back down on the table, there's another (smaller) whiskey stain on his dingy wife beater t-shirt, and he wipes his mouth on his hairy arm.

"What if I told you that I got a folder that has the answers to everything you ever wanted to know about yourself, and all I wanted in return was for you to join me in the back of my sketchy van?"

Domino has posed:
"I'd say you'd better have a f**king ton of candy in that thing, and half of it better be chocolate." Domino watches him chug the whiskey like water. Damn regenerators. Life just isn't fair.

She slides her liquor bottle over to Victor, having no further use for it. "Terms and conditions. We spell it out now. I'm interested, I'm sure you can tell, but you aren't doing this out of the goodness of your sweet little heart." Her eyes still haven't left him and she still has that safety off. She's ready to shoot at a moment's notice.

"You keep dancing around the issue and if you don't give me a straight answer I'm going to see how long it takes for you to regenerate half your brain."

Sabretooth has posed:
"Terms? Conditions? Do I look like I gone to lawyer school?" Sabretooth occasionally makes valid points. This is one of those times. The copious amount of whiskey he just drank is enough to make his words slur ever so slightly, but he's back to normal by the time he's finished his sentence. Damn regenerators, indeed.

"This is how we'll play it: I'm gonna finish off your bottle of girly liquor, and then I'm heading out to my ride. If you're not curious about what's in my folder, you'll stay here in this Gotham shithole and hide from all your problems. But if you ARE curious, you'll follow me and think about the consequences later."

He wraps his hand around the tequila bottle and raises it to his lips. Huh, looks like he is the type of person who finishes the worm.

Setting the bottle down next to the empty whiskey bottle, he wipes his mouth on the other arm and slowly gets up, keeping his yellow, slitted eyes on her the entire time. Then, with another sinister smile he turns around and heads toward the door.

Domino has posed:
The look on Neena's face has to be priceless, somewhere between 'wait', 'I want that information' and 'you bastard'. Savor it well, Victor, you've won the game. You found the handle and pulled, and all Domino's witty defenses have fallen out like an overstuffed closet.

"It is NOT a girly drink!" she shouts as he gets halfway to the door, keeping up a thin veneer of protest for the sake of saving face.

As he keeps walking, keeps looking at her, she wrestles with herself internally; time is running out and he'll leave, and God only knows if and when she'll see him again. His words hit targets she didn't know were painted on - she'd come to Gotham looking to clean up the local mess and make a profit before moving on, but what was really keeping her here? An offer from Batman? She was beginning to question his motives. She knew how to play that game: Move one piece on the board to keep another in check. She'd been turned into a rook and castled at Wayne Industries. She was no longer capable of running the board with the freedom of a queen.

The fingers of her right hand drum against the tabletop irritatedly as Victor seems to move in slow motion. One foot in front of the other. Time is running out, Neena. He's almost to the door. Make your choice.

"... f**k," she mutters under her breath.

Domino stands up, holstering the weapon. She pulls a fistfull of dollars out of a side pouch and slaps them on the bartop. "His and mine," she brusquely explains, covering Victor's tab with more than enough for the both, as she tries to hurry up and follow him out.

She knows it's probably a trap. Somehow, that makes her okay with it.