2527/Playing With Matches

Playing With Matches
Date of Scene:	20 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Batman comes to St. Molly's in his Matches guise, meets Carl, and tries to talk Molly in to work during the Darkseid crisis.
Cast of Characters:	Molly Millions, Phage, Batman

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Molly Millions has posed:
It wasn't that long ago... maybe a couple of hours... that Molly was fighting Furies, but she's managed to crawl into the hole known as her bar again, with the drone parked out on the bar and her behind it, currently sluicing out what's left of her left arm with one of the cheaper bottles of vodka. Because surely it's lethal enough by itself to hopefully kill off whatever the hell has been making her wounds burn since Bernadeth's blade cut her.

It hurts. A lot. She's not immune to pain, by any measure, and for anyone who knows her physiology the tell is in the fact that the cyborg's stationed herself at a spot where she can spit into the sink, and that as much vodka is making its way into her mouth as on the wound. There's also a dozen or so of her own bloodied darts that have been fished out of the bone and metal inner workings of her arm and left abandoned in the sink. She's stuck with legal-grade pharmaceuticals, though, no need to give the nanites even more things to try and deal with right now.

The bar... owing to the invasion, is largely empty, which all things considered is probably just as well. Her shotgun and the odd pistol with the checkerboard grip are left in easy reach for the moment. Just in case one of the local gangs decides to get froggy under the cover of alien invasion.

She's clad... well, in usual Molly gear. Jeans. Wife-beater. A bandanna left loose about her neck for the moment that from the amount of dust on it hasn't been changed since she took the magic door back to Madripoor.

Phage has posed:
Speaking of alien... the experience of walking through one door one place and randomly coming out of another is a little alien. So is the symbiotic costume he wears. So is the city he wandered. So familiar in so many ways... and so alien in others. He's starting to wonder if it's the city, country... maybe the whole world's passing him by and, try as he might, he just can't keep up with the changes. So the world has took his world away from him.

Moving into the bar itself he calls out "You ther-" Then he sees Molly. Moving round to where she's stationed he says, "Huh. You look like you've been in a bit of a disagreement with someone. How are you holding up?"

Molly Millions has posed:
The spider drone alerts her to the arrival, and because it's... well, him. There isn't a gun to greet his entrance, just an upnod of her head. Stiff for all it's attempt to be casual, those usually pale cheeks splotchy with color that's only partially the result of blood splatter. She doesn't elect to raise from her seat or offer a hand in favor of going,"You'll have to grab it yourself. That scotch you like is in the cupboard on the left there." the nod of her chin in the direction roughly 'under the bar'.

"Been in Metropolis. Kid got it in her head that she wants to play hero. So the fewer of those things out there, the less likely she's going to get hurt." at least... that's the excuse she's going with. She leaves her arm palm up resting on her thigh, not moving is super awesome right now. She does lean on the palm of the other hand with a quiet sigh,"Figured you were probably pulling triples keeping Lexcorp safe."

Phage has posed:
Mach salutes the spider drone as he passes, giving due respect to the cyber soldier. Always on point. Always working... He smiles. At least someone's got it all worked out. Maybe there's hope for everyone else. "I've been all over lately..." Mach admits and decides mentioning he's being ghosted by the company and... yeah. Whatever. "... but you know maybe I didn't see as much action as you were busy breaking everything in sight." He looks over the bar and says, "I'll get something in a minute. Meanwhile anyone had a look at you? As, no offense, I wouldn't say you're in peak fighting condition right now."

Molly Millions has posed:
"Or maybe you heal better." Molly points out drily, stifling a grimace and rolling her neck as she tries very hard to resist the urge to scratch... or, y'know, cut off the arm as she forces herself to just breathe through it. It's obvious, with her arm flayed as it is at the moment, where metal has been grafted to bone and natural tendons reinforced with synthetic materials to control those hidden blades of hers,"Weren't me. A bunch of alien chicks decided to try and destroy the Hall of Justice. Mostly I just tried to get people out of the way. Lost a fight with a flying knife, though." she manages with a tight kind of smile.

"The nanites." is the second explanation,"They'll restore it with enough time. Doesn't... make it hurt less. But it's days like this that I really, really miss Chiba. This 'd be done and dusted in an hour. Granted... not sure that Chiba would have survived what happened. You're welcome to hang out and scare off the locals, though."

Phage has posed:
"It's not just the locals I've been scaring off lately..." Mach starts and corrects himself. "... but. Think your nanites would mind a consult?" Now is the time that he moves behind the bar and looks at the bottles and drinks before saying "Okay. I know you're not into a tropical rainforest with a drink somewhere underneath it but this is seriously functional. Since a pick-me-up's of the table how about some of the old fashioned, low tech, approach. Old Doc SawPhage here helps my healing in many different ways. Some of them are more move this back into place here, disrupt conductivity of some pain nerves there, release a cocktail of helpful things into the bloodstream in the other... Point is... they're all things not specific to my genetic template. So Captain Showoff could help as long as your nanites were okay with an assistant there."

Molly Millions has posed:
"You terror you." Molly deadpans drily without prying into whom he might have been scaring off, for all she knows it's a girl and that goes in the basket of 'stuff she doesn't wanna know about',"This will burn most of them out." she admits,"At least it's flashing all kinds of pretty colors in here." she leans back a little on the rickety stool she's perched on, she's not going to try and move it.

"I like it. Sort of reminds me of a place in Nighttown. Less chrome and neon though. Maybe eventually." there's a vague attempt at a pained smile,"Pretty sure you could pour napalm on it and maybe I'll be lucky enough to pass out. So. Not going to say no."

Phage has posed:
"If I thought there was a better way than letting it show off and gloat endlessly I'd have done it already." Mach readily admits. "We'll handle this easily enough..." The gloved hand of Carl Mach guided by his other and allowed to get to work, "We cannot judge your tolerances. You are not our host." Phage borrows Mach's vocal chords to say. "So, should the numbing sensation last an... excessive period of time. It was outwith our control. Phage works quickly and almost dully. As one form is very akin to another in most respects and the more basic functions of what needs to be connected where, what to release into the bloodstream, where blank symbiotic cells can be teased into stimulating growth where division is possible... it's newly spawned's play.

Meanwhile Mach puts the arm that's not under his others control at Molly's back, giving support, and saying, "Easy now. No blacking out on me yet. I've got money riding on you lasting for a few rounds yet." He looks in vain for something non alcoholic to offer her but he has to rely that Phage is the tiniest fraction as good as it claims to be.

Batman has posed:
The door to the bar swings open, momentarily admitting the hubbub of Lowtown in a wash of difficult-to-differentiate sounds, the symphony of the derelict and downtrodden snuffed as suddenly as it began as the old door shuts of its own accord, too forcefully, behind the man who enters. He's tall, built, but moves with a slouch, and a glance will tell one he's aged somewhat out of his prime, but maintains strength despite the potentiality of old wounds and chronic pains.

The newcomer sports a well-groomed, slowly greying moustache and a mop of greasily styled hair combed into a wavy flourish, its mass somewhat tousled by his trip here, and the removal of an old leather cap that previously shadowed his brow.

The stranger is dressed somewhat archaically, and without a sense of high fashion to be sure, in a plaid jacket and dark, black shirt, a lighter blue tie rounding out the ensemble alongside matching, slightly wrinkled slacks. A matchstick twirls deftly betwixt the fingers of his left hand, and he paces steadily, unhurriedly to the bar, up-nodding to Molly and Carl with a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Molly Millions has posed:
"Tough life." Molly offers drily. She's seated behind the bar... perched, really, on a rickety stool, with a bottle of vodka that she reaches for as she leans back to let Carl at the other arm. Or at least... what's left of the other arm. It's all so much meat. Bone and metal and synthetics interlaced with flesh. And in the nearby sink a collection of bloody darts. Pistol on the bartop's not a local special, from the pepperbox muzzle to the checkerboard grip it doesn't even try to pretend to be something normal... granted, neithers the shotgun leaned up behind the bar.

Given that Carl's got one hand wrapped around the raw meat and the other making sure she stays upright, it's the drone that pays the most attention to the door opening. Spider shaped, about the size of a backpack. But the tone that comes from behind the bar at least doesn't sound like some kind of immediate action chime.

Still, it takes a moment for Molly to stir, longer than she'd like, by half, to turn her attention towards the new arrival and inform the drone,"Shadow, acknowledged." Carl at least can tell that really it's probably best he has his hand steadying her because although there's healing going on it's definitely an adjustment to the system right now,"Think you just got.. dubbed bartender." is added after a moment, for Carl, though there's a terse kind of smile and brief nod of acknowledgment for the arrival.

Phage has posed:
If he could move either hand he'd have done the accompaning salute to go with it he would have. Still he says, "Yes, ma'am. Bartending ma'am." With the complete lack of seriousness she's likely grown to recognise in his voice. Looking over to the newcomer with a friendly smile he says, "Carl Mach. Acting bar staff... as it turns out. What can I get for you there sir?"

Mach's simple black suit and glasses, complete with yellow tinted lenses, might not be anything so special at first glance. Sharp lines, yeah, each fold carrying a razor's edge, needlework so on point it's impossible to tell if the suit was stitched together or if it's something else. Despite his readiness to fetch drinks he doesn't seem to be moving at this point.

Phage is long since disinterested in concerns past proving its effectiveness. A lot of mess has been purged. Systems reconnected. Graces observed to the nanites. All part of what is plainly apparent to it is an electronic form of symbiote. Using Mach's voice, taking care not to give its presense away Phage turns Mach to Molly and asks, "How are your levels of discomfort? Are you relieved any?" It doesn't know if that sounded more natural. Nor does it care. It tried.

Batman has posed:
The stranger plops himself down heavily on a barstool down only a short span from the pair and draws a deep breath subequently released in a relaxing, weighty sigh. "Malone." He introduces himself after Carl does, nodding from him to Molly and taking some moments eyeballing the injuries, eyes widening ever so slightly; like it's -not- something he's seen often enough before.

Malone's own tinted aviator shades are removed after a momentary scan of the bar, and its inhabitants, and even if that device's surreptitious information gathering yielded little, the man -does- notice the abrupt dichotomy of Mach's demeanor-- though there's no sign it's registered on his sternly hewn, slightly wrinkled face.

Freshly revealed eyes of intent sable scan from Molly back to Carl, "You can call me Matches." His voice is deep, thoroughly infected by a thick Jersey accent, somewhat out of place in this part of the world. Those with knowledge of the underworld might know Malone started as a for-profit arsonist in Gotham and NYC-- and has kept clear of the downfalls of many of his peers to become a key information broker, fence, and fixer for a much broader criminal community.

His trademark matchstick is popped between his lips, chewed absently as those dark eyes scan the bar's offerings. "Got a whiskey that won't burn out my gut? Ulcer." Which means he shouldn't be drinking-- but screw that, right? Right. A glance is paid back to Ms. Millions, "Rough night?"

Molly Millions has posed:
"Thank you." is at least offered by her, a rusty chuckle offered for what's probably the best customer service offered in the bar in the short history of her tenure at least,"Better." is offered without a blink when Phage turns her way,"Thank you." even gets added.

"Molly." she elects to add into the introductions,"Matches. Heard of you. New York mostly." there's a slight nod towards the lower cupboard,"The funny shaped one with the jockey on the cork." Blanton's Original Single Barrel Bourbon, definitely a better whiskey than anything showing above,"Blanton's." she offers towards 'Matches',"Or something cheaper?"

"Rough day." she corrects,"Not so bad here, but your stomping grounds have a bad case of alien invasion."

Phage has posed:
Mach concludes some internal discussion with his on board partner. Keeping steady he waits then realises he's not serving quite yet. "I'll stand a round so I wouldn't be worried about the cost." He says to Matches, "Good to meet you in person. Your reputation does precede you. All good." He notes. Turning back to the third party patient in his sort of care once some of the math and complex diagrams are worked out then given up on... he says to Molly, "So. I'm told you're close to done here. Able to do without me while I do some serving?" He still doesn't move. As, yeah, all's great and good but irony dictates assuming it's safe to move will result in a bad time for someone. While awaiting an answer from Molly he returns his attentions to Matches and asks, "Sightseeing? Or is it business rather than pleasure that brings you this way?"

Batman has posed:
Malone allows himself a somewhat sardonic smirk, "Takes a bit to make Madripoor the safe place to get away to, doesn't it?" the broker inquires rather rhetorically, appending, "Conquering alien armies are well outside my area of expertise." Of course, this is a bold-faced lie, given the man's true identity-- but his acting would be worthy of an Oscar, if indeed the master of disguise gave one or two craps about such fame and glory.. Or had the time to make movies.

"Good bourbon is perfect." Matches concedes with an easy nod, "Especially when it's free." Not that he lacks for income-- but the profit-driven criminal element is often a bit miserly. All those delicious numbers to hoard. "Thanks." He offers, even before anyone moves to actually /provide/ that drink.

"Staying clear of facehuggers, chest-bursters, and whatever the hell is coming next." Matches offers a touch sarcastically of his purpose in Madripoor-- if somewhat within the same ballpark as the frightening reality of it all. "Figured we might do a little business while I was in town." he adds, shifting his focus to Molly, "Unless you're retiring here, instead of just findin' a new home base. Earning a bit of a name for yourself, too."

Molly Millions has posed:
"It's a dull roar now and we've got mostly orange now." Molly reports drily, no use pretending like she's 'normal' when there's still bits of exposed metal, for all that Carl's 'passenger' decidedly sped things up without burning out her own on board helpers,"Not going to pass out. Promise." she adds with a scarce flicker of a smile and a nod in the direction of the cupboard.

"Oh, Hightown's still having fun, but apparently Lowtown is content to eat its own." and she? Is sticking to vodka that could definitely be used as paint stripper... even if that would probably bring this particular locale down around everyone's ears. There's a brief turn of her head Carl's way, but whatever crossed her mind to say ends as she opens her mouth and then clicks it closed again as her attention ticks back towards Matches and the vodka's tipped up briefly.

"What sort of name is that?" it's a neutral enough question, as neutral as she can make it at least, but given that Carl knows her, and the Bats skills, the microexpressions and flatness of the tonation is definitely on the side of wary, in the very least.

Phage has posed:
Mach's interest is clearly present on his face at the jovial remark. Okay, so in many respects he's hit the same wall again of being out leagued by many recent revelations... but at least there's still some semblance of the world he thought had left him behind.

His attention returns to Molly before doing anything else. "Don't fall of your chair either. I just got this sorta job and I know the boss'd kick me in the everywhere if I screw it up." Mach says jokingly as he, tentatively, releases his grip on her.

Turning to the bar and momentarily preparing drinks for both he says to Matches, "Safety and sanctuary. Seems to be in short supply these days. That's been at the head of my problems. If you were in a business mood anytime... I'd cut to the chase and see if we could thrash out a few points." He finishes serving two drinks, one requested, one not, for Molly, in slience. Old style negociating. At least some things aren't forgotten arts these days.

Batman has posed:
"You're a freelancer, right? A merc? Doin' your own thing but preferring to get paid for it?" Malone wagers, without certainty. Like he's going more on what he's heard than what he knows. "It's a familiar feeling, see." He slides the offered drink back and forth on the bar before partaking, eyeing the swirling dark liquid pensively. "From what I've been able to tell, you're the right kind of operator. Not big on the collateral damage, usually lookin' out for the people you're not trying to hurt."

Linking Matches at any point in his career to atrocity or widespread mayhem is an uphill battle, to say the least-- it's just not his style. Much as some of the nastier elements of the world may value his intel and connections, there's a certain type of agent -he's- interested in herding. Perhaps one such as Molly? "The way I see it, it's simple. You burned out most of your savings on this place, if not more. You need work, you need a fence, you're gonna need intel and connections and the right expertise to keep refreshing those funds clear of the wrong attention. Figured you might be happy to see me."

If Malone's chagrined that she's -not-, or notices the trepidation, it doesn't show. It's probably par for the course, to be fair. A slight smile creeps onto his moustachioed face as Carl pipes in, and he nods. "Safe places are a speciality. What points did you have in mind?" Hey, two for one-- definitely makes any trip more fortuitous.

Molly Millions has posed:
"We pay in sarcasm and alcohol." Molly grunts for Carl, but she's not falling out of her seat, and with the wounds closing over in her arm she gives it a small flex to test whether or not there's enough tendons rebuilt to move the fingers now. Sort of. It's a start at least,"But watch the regular bartender, he's got six arms."

There's a whiskey set near her, and from the way her head moves, a look cast towards Carl, like, are you trying to say that I should lay off the rotgut? Instead she elects to set the vodka aside to remark,"You forgot a glass. I think I'm going to have to tell the boss. Might as well leave it out, too"

She collects the glass poured for her carefully with her uninjured hand, the tilt of her head in Carl's direction subtle but distinct before she elects to respond to Matches,"Your contacts would be wrong." she's a good liar, the average person wouldn't pick up on the tension of her body or the coolness of the answer, but that there's a 'generous' furl of that hand with the glass to indicate both that he's welcome to pitch Carl, and maybe the latter wants to take a seat's probably dead obvious that she's listening even if her proverbial hackles are up.

Phage has posed:
"Well. If I said I was a Security Consultant at LexCorp what's the first handful of roles that actually entails, asides from glorified sales excutive?" Mach starts to Matches, "If you don't know already I'm sure you will. I'm good at what I do. The record I don't have is immaculate. Something changed though. The world kept turning. I was getting older and slower. As it turns out I caught a break. A... company perk of sorts courtesy of Luthor himself."

He reaches for the remembered bottle of scotch and takes a hit straight from the bottle, with a grin and aside to Molly, "Put it on my tab." He's not forgot she's not let him have one. Yet. He does leave the bottle as requested. Turning back he continues his tale... "We always have to know which way the wind is blowing and I'm suddenly becalmed."

He sighs and shakes his head. "I expected it... just not as fast and hard as it happened. I'd taken some steps to protect my interests but... that perk? Not like a stapler or a letter opener. Can't just give it back if you choose to leave. Which got me thinking. Is it rigged? Tracked? Worse?"

He draws each word from here as the blade scraping and clawing across his very soul is. "I... can't check without using company assests which might as well be suicide... or finding a way to be checked over by someone I can trust'll keep confidence about it. As high tech and low staff medical checking as there is." He takes another hit from the bottle. "And if there's work going... there are conditions. But I could be tempted towards freelancing while I cut old ties."

Batman has posed:
"Ah, that's unusual. And too bad." Matches observes of Molly's denial. It's an old enough approach in the business, not forcing the issue... while simultaneously subtly intimating that he is indeed aware it's probably -not- true. Polite of him. Just your typical cyborg bartender hiding out in Madripoor; nothing to see here. Rather than inquire as to -which- aspects of his information are allegedly false, Malone turns his attention to the somewhat more forthcoming security expert, that sly smile returning as he chuckles softly. "I'd say any and all aspects that entails demand a great degree of discretion, if you were working directly with Luthor."

The broker's educated guess is measured, discrete in and of itself, even with its layers of implication. "I'd also be willing to put money on the fact that you're right to be concerned about any kind of.. built-in accessories that they... gifted to you." Lex isn't the type to graciously let his investments walk away from him; or to see valuable company assets as independent individuals with a right to chose their own path.

"Let's say I have expert associates who might be able to delve unique technology and its failsafes--" which, let's be honest, the broker clearly does. Or at least seems to think he does. "What kind of conditions are attached to -your- operations?" This curiosity is important to him on several levels, as well.

Molly Millions has posed:
Molly shrugs slightly, with all the indifference she can muster. The lenses help in terms of concealing her own truths. The injured arm is still stiff for all that it's... well, an arm now, instead of a mass of raw meat and metal, and she flexes it testingly while she listens to the pair.

Most might miss the slight grimace for Carl's words about LexCorp, or assume it related to her drink, certainly she doesn't offer any kind of verbal surprise or commiseration in favor of tapping the screen of the odd 'cell phone' set on the business side of the bar. Commands, evidently, for the drone, given the way it raises on it's spindly legs, drops from the bar and scuttles out the door much like the creature whose shape it's based on.

Phage has posed:
Mach takes another hit from the bottle before taking a moment. In that moment a pack of cigareets allowing a swift swap of one vice for another. After geetin lit he explains... as best he can. Looking up from the small ember, through the clawed cloud of his exhale, he says to Matches, "You know part of it as well as I do. Certain roles need to come with certain reputations. Nothing's ever verifiable in a court of law, say, but, for those of us in the community, there's proof enough to have an informal resume. It doesn't do to take credit for someone elses work but, to be approachable... by the widest client base... it doesn't hurt to have a diverse portfolio."

"You also know the other part. The one we don't usually speak about. I've made sure the reports read the way the client wants. Easier when nothing's on paper. Doesn't mean I compromised my sensibilities. I don't have the resources or the huge waiting list to obfuscate things like I did. So my condition is control. I don't do anything to add to the chaos. I'm no angel, yeah, it might be a fools hope that it all adds up somehow, but I get refusal, no harm, no foul on any job that comes my way. Best I can put it... there are people who signed up for this. There are people who didn't. I only deal with the former on an op."

He takes another draw or two. Yeah. It's easier to sell something you don't care about. "Coming back to the point... I need as few eyes on checking out my situation as possible. None'd be a good thing but... you do what you gotta. It cuts deep, down to the bone, and my innermost secrets are something I want to keep as close to me as possible. No backups, printouts, samples, or anything kept after the fact. Anyone looking better know how to unsee it once I've been given the all clear. I'm not the only one I need to think about when it comes to this..." He ends but doesn't elaborate further.

Batman has posed:
While the art of throwing back a shot without actually imbibing the alcohol is an old magician's secret, the nod that comes with Carl's conditions is purely emphatic; sincere. "I'm a broker in Gotham who hasn't been on the wrong side of the law since his young 'n stupid days burning shit for the insurance." Matches intimates meaningfully, before further clarifying, "Not a feat many accomplish, and fewer still without a well-earned rep for the right kind of discretion, on a few levels at that."

Not spreading the chaos is as good a way to couch it as any. Not pulling in the innocent, all the better. The words are for Phage, Malone's attention focused-- but perhaps meant to convey some assurances to Molly as well; in her own time, of course.

"I know a place with the expertise you need and no reason to be told who's even the patient." the Broker assuages Phage with clever, but cooperatively worded assurances. And in fairness it seems to be no lie-- superscientists are just part of said resume.

Molly Millions has posed:
Molly's listening, she is, but there's a chime from the cell-phone like device set up on her side of the bar and the woman rises to her feet. It's not hurried... well, not for her at least. Even if it only takes her a few long strides to cross to the door leading out to the street and fling it open. Like she was expecting someone.

Like, from the lack of surprise when a thin and lanky teenager comes skittering through it bare moments later, she was expecting him. The threadbare clothes, Asiatic cast to his features and the fact the kid navigated the alleyways without getting himself mugged, or worse... all suggest he's a local. And he doesn't stop to grab his breath before he starts talking at her in the Madripoorian patois... take some Mandarin, add a dash of German, and mug English in alleyways for flavor.

"Slow down." the door is let go slowly with a frown,"Who?"

"Fourth Street Dragons." comes the response.

"Did they see you?" Molly asks of him even as she gives him a small nudge in the direction of the kitchen.

"Yes!" the terrified kid responds,"They say we owe more money. Told mom if we don't pay they'll take me instead."

"Not happening, Bao. Go on. Go make yourself some oolong. Stay out of sight."

Phage has posed:
Mach listens and offers a hand to shake as his first response. "Sounds good. Just let me know where and when." he takes another draw of the cigarette, then another, masking his real reactions. Relief chief amongst them. On a slow exhale, aimed away from Matches, is when he notices the new arrival, not to mention Molly's readiness to meet him. He can muddle most languages if he's front facing but, usually, on an op, he stuck to hand signals and radio silence. Most of it's missed on him. Mach stands, and asks, "You okay over there?"

Batman has posed:
If their mysterious guest is some sort of polyglot, versed not only in world languages but in the obscure and strange dialects spoke in various corners farther removed from 'modern life' than others, he shows no sign.

Instead, Matches nurses another drink and watches the exchange with some quiet concern, making a good show of simply guessing from context, "Kid in trouble? More'n usual, that is." It is, after all, Low Town. A certain measure of trauma is par for the course.

Molly Millions has posed:
"Opportunistic pricks love an excuse to get blood out of a stone." is Molly's grunt, mostly for Carl but with a side-order of Matches,"Alien invasion's just another payday for them." shoo, kid, kitchen, she waits for the teen to head off with a turn of her head that suggests she's looking at Matches briefly but, well, fixer, the way he's discounted obvious in the look away once more as she makes her way back to the bar to collect the device and shove it in her back pocket.

"Short version... local gang is about to coming visiting. They probably have his mom with them. It will probably get violent." there's a dip of her head Matches way, warning as much as anything else before she takes up her seat again with a slow expellation of breath,"Hua's priority."

Phage has posed:
Mach moves towards the door, the fabric flowing into a one piece, surprisingly smooth, bodysuit and facemask combo. Through it Mach says, "Just confirm who the target to be taken to safety is and when to go..." And, from a standing leap, staying stuck to the rafters above he adds... "They will not see us coming. She will be safe." If anyone's still looking up they'd notice the patterns on the suit changing until, even with the best eyes, you not see the nearly, now, seven feet of Mach there. There were several points he missed out on. He has a plan but, really, it relies on not being second guessed. Can't do that if no one knows what they will do...

Molly Millions has posed:
"She's five-foot nothing and wears a coat that smells like thirty years of whiskey and old cigars, can't miss her." the quirk of Molly's lips suggests she's not surprised that Carl's opting in. She elects to toss back the rest of her drink, picks up the shotgun from behind the bar and actually stashes it underneath before flexing her hand. Still a little stiff, but apparently it will have to do.

There's the chime from her pocket, again, more than one. She doesn't pull it out to look but turns her lenses towards the door, leaving the empty glass in her hand like she wasn't expecting the two guys in the lead with the guns. The obvious mouth behind them with his slicked back hair and sunglasses (at night, sheesh). Three of the random mook variety, a couple of trainee's that couldn't be more than sixteen at the outside trying to mimic their older companions, and one tiny little woman, as promised, in a coat that would look like a technicolor yawn if not for the decades of wear worked into its felted wool.

The setting down of the glass is as deliberate as the spread of her hands as she rises, not interfering in the scan of the room or the demand of,"Where's Bao?" from the ringleader.

"Who?" Molly asks, slower steps this time, she doesn't want them getting too far away from the camouflaged man in the rafters, after all.

"I saw him come in here!" one of the trainee's insists.

"No idea who you're talking about." the cyborg insists straight faced, stopping when the gun from one of the front pair is aimed her way as she spreads her hands further,"Look, you're Dragons, right?" she barely waits for the nod,"This place? Is in Snake territory."

"Snakes." the jeer can be heard in the tone, the low laughter and glances between the group. It buys Molly another step before the leader goes,"Snake's are gone, lady."

Phage has posed:
Not yet... Mach pads silently and unseen to look outside the door. If the target's out there, up to a mile away, he'll see her. he doesn't venture too far, just enough to look, just enough to assess where she is. Then... when the moment is right he'll strike. However. He's got half the picture already. Augmented man thinks he's the big man, two guns are the lieutenants, and they'll be the first to be taken once the objective's met. Just not yet. He needs a little more time. He can't risk moving until he's found her. Until he can get her to safety. The moment called, he answered. The objective must be met. It's all that matters.

Molly Millions has posed:
The little old lady is the second to last to come through the door, pushed by the mook behind her. Molly's still talking, too many, too close, and given her refusal when it comes to kids and the presence of the little old lady... she doesn't want to take the risk of someone unexpected taking a bullet. Molly mostly sticks to English, some Mandarin and German, she's obviously not a native in either. It's a simple enough discussion; we don't want trouble, maybe you should leave. Maybe you should pay us so that some kind of horrible 'accident' doesn't happen to the place in response.

Yes, she's giving them the chance to reconsider the wisdom even as she edges closer, buying herself some longer moments for her hand to finish healing up. It's her place, and she doesn't particularly want people getting shot up in it, or to pick a fight with the gang as a whole... but well, she's not paying them off... and clearly, she's not letting them keep the old lady.

Phage has posed:
It is time. As the camoflague drops so does the smooth suited figure which is still, mostly, Mach. His arms hammer a blow on each of the two holding the lady, forearms squared, as he crunches into the shoulders of them. He's not even done. Just starting. He says to the lady, "You are safe. No harm befall you. Get behind me."

While he reassures tendils torrent towards the guns weilded by the two gunmen with the untempered fury and full might commanded by the symbiotic pair. Aiming to envelop them and their weapons, forcing them into the far wall. Four more, taking less care to suppress the blades that naturally form from Phages symbiotic matter for maximum effect stream straight at the leader, taking both arms and legs and lifting him aloft.

Striding towards the leader, now incapacitated for the moment, Phage says to those who can stil move, calm as the cold stone marking a grave, "Leave this place... or death will be a blessing that never comes." The unfettered gang can take the first and only warning he'll give. Advancing and letting the full monstrosity of Phage form on his front they then say to the leader, "This is your choice. No one persues these people again. From your or anyone else's.." He spits an acidic glob to the side on the floor. Ironically the floor'll be fine and unscratched but the sizzle and smoke adds to the effect "... organisation. Betray me and you will not see me. Even after it is too late. Or... They say cutting off the head is the way to deal with a group. We disagree. So the other choice is... we pull your arms and legs off right here... right now." He pauses and tenses the matter holding him. Just enough to press his point. Just enough to dislocate and warp structure. They speak again. "Choose..." The alien mask flies forward growing in size until the mask is bigger than the man who's held and tolls the bell of words to forever leave an impression in the man's mind... "CHOOSE!" As quickly as it was there the mask whips back over his face.

Molly Millions has posed:
Molly's whip fast, but well, this time she's the distraction. With Hua out of sight behind Carl the others barely have time to blink before the tables are turned, by one,"Now you understand. We don't pay protection here. And the lady and her boy... they're with us. We'll take the guns as compensation, this time. Next time... not so much." really, there's a big part of her that would be okay with just killing them, it's the safer option... and she doesn't bother hiding the press of her lips as guns are dropped and they start to look nervously between the pair.

"You lot can back up to the left. Hua... come around behind him and head on back. Bao's fine." she opts for, waiting for the old woman to move just in case they decide they want to pull something before she's safe.