3020/top kek

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top kek
Date of Scene: 30 October 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Comedian, Phage




Comedian has posed:
Sacred Martyr Church, Gotham.
AGENT EDWARD MORGAN BLAKE, CODENAME: THE COMEDIAN
MISSION: ELIMINATE FATHER O'BRENNAN.

When the order came down the wire from Washington, Blake could hardly believe his ears. He's more than used to bumping off journalists, political dissidents, humans right activists, troubling ex-girlfriends, POWs - the whole nine yards. A Priest, though?

Ah, well, a new challenge for every day it seems.

Finishing up in the rear of the Church, Blake hefts the limp body of the Priest over his massive shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort - the middle-aged man still maintaining the physique and exercise regimen of a man years his junior. Carrying the carcass to the Confessional Booth, Blake props the door open with a foot and then carefully places the old man on the stained wood.

"Well, Hail Mary and all that shit..." grumbles Blake through the end of his unlit cigar as he does the sign of the cross to the Priest - who is looking very much like a man who simply passed away of natural causes while waiting to hear Confessions.

Making his way over to the Baptismal Font, Blake dips his hands in; the water washing away the bloody from his gloves and, hopefully, some of his sins along with it. He takes a look around the darkened, empty church. He notices he's neglected to lock the front entrance on his way in. But he's only been in here a few minutes, hardly enough time to get caught in the act -- and anyway, does ANYBODY in Gotham go to Church?

Pulling a silver and brown-leather flask out of a pocket in front of his bulletproof vest, The Comedian - in full gear, including eye-mask - takes a seat on the front-most Pew. Unscrewing the cap from the flask, he looks up high at the statue of Jesus on the Cross - raised a dozen feet or more into the air at the front of the stage - and raises his container of whiskey.

"Cheers, you miserable fuck."

Phage has posed:
Appearances can be decieving. Like when shapes swirl, forming new and, up to now, an unseen figure stepping out of the shadows... or somewhere at any rate... from possibly behind the pulpit. Definitely not just down from one of the walls. Nobody does that. At first the man quicks a brow as he moves towards and dips a gloved finger in the font running red.

Then he sharply turns his attentions to the other man and says, with a disdainful nod towards the desecrated receptacle, "You know... I wonder what they teach you kids. Dilute deoxyribonucleic acid is still dna. What's that gonna do? Guy offed himself and washed up after? Sure he didn't scratch you on reflex? Even after? No setup? I mean really making it look like kids robbing the place was too much effort?"

Rookies. He's getting far too old for this. Only reason he decided to make his presence known. Not the job or any implications of involvement in the same... more if you're going to do it... do it right. "Still. Not too noisey. I'll give you credit for that. Still. Always leave a trail. Leading away from you. No trail or a random one both point at you all the more."

He stops speaking to sleight and light a cigarette, plumes of white smoke leaving him on his exhale. Looking disinterested... but looking... as he's made the approach, told the story, now it's time to get a read on the other guy. See what he says or does.

Comedian has posed:
The sound of a metal against holster leather and the click of a hammer being pulled back are Comedian's immediate response to the unexpected new arrival. His Colt M1911A1 now in his right hand, Blake chews the cigar butt thoughtfully as his methods are critiqued by this strange character. "Where the fuck did you... Christ, what the fuck is it with this city, anyway..." he grumbles, without a hint of irony.

"You must be new around here," he says, lowering the pistol slightly as the man seems to casually light up a cigarette - though he still keeps it trained at knee-level. "This is Gotham, pal. Cops around here ain't gonna have the time, or the motivation, to do any of that CSI forensic shit." He stops for just a second, and flashes a wide, chessy grin, "You know, after they see what those KIDS done."

The Comedian leans forward in the pew, propping the butt of the pistol on his knee. His eyes narrow slightly at the face of the individual standing in the middle-distance; problem with being hooked up to Intel from Interpol, the CIA, leaked SHIELD files, the DoD... hard to tell one file-picture from another.

After a few moments, he shrugs and leans back in the stiff wooden bench - raising both his arms and resting them on the back of the Pew, while still keeping his wrist angled, barrel of the gun constantly pointed at somewhere on Carl's body. He holds the silver and leather flask firmly in the other hand, cap screwed back on while Carl was speaking.

"Buddy, I can goddamn guarantee you, and I should know; I was in this game back when you were still livin' with mommy and daddy... Nothin' has stuck to me yet, and I don't think it'll start with this bullshit. Certainly ain't gonna be brought down by the fuckin' GCPD, of all people," he says with a guffaw, "And I think that mental case in the bat-suit might have some bigger fish to fry than some nobody Priest."

Phage has posed:
"Strike one." Mach says holding up a single finger, advancing, "No ID on the contact. Otherwise you'd know my name. Know my legend... as the truth behind the printed paper is long since lost. You'd know I had no-one or nothing to find in any case." He takes another draw of his cigarette and says, "Also. No worry about the domestic level law enforcement. Even those with people in pocket care about how much out of pocket they're gonna be. So you're either one of them or, more likely, one of the other abbreviations as you all, more or less, gotta respect the chain of command."

"No tombstone special." He doesn't elaborate. Either someone's trained enough to know some operatives rig themselves with explosives, chemical weapons or other booby traps to make sure, should an op be compromised that all on an atlas need to be conserned with said operatives survival. "Cocksure and casual, almost blase, so not a strict suit. Likely a contract killer."

He still advances, "So... good at what you do, no doubt, as people take your crap whilst giving you your fee, hell, that's the only reason I stuck around to watch the show." Again. Doesn't need said. When all is said and done... doesn't matter how well trained, adaptable or self sufficent an operative is... they always need good support that's always hard to come by. Be it a cleaner, accountant, armorer or a hitman... there's far too many people someone needs to be on call.

Comedian has posed:
"Or for the love of..." grumbles Blake, groaning as he has to deal with yet another stuffy CIA type - though Blake knows most of their employees, even the top-secret ones, by name.. He thought getting back into part-time vigilante work would at least keep the 'cool professionals' the hell out his business for a while. Who the hell IS this guy exactly? He knows the face, vaguely, but he's seen thousands upon thousands of file-photos and dossiers in the past year alone.

And all that whiskey doesn't exactly make for a photographic memory, although he's hardly as dumb as he might try to appear. Speaking of which, he holds his index finger up from the handle of his gun in a 'one second' gesture as he pauses to take another long gulp from the flask.

"Contract killer, heh. Dime a dozen in this town, y'know. Priest must've fucked with the wrong people," he says with another shrug - in fact, that's precisely what he did, the order being a favor to the Vatican from some of Blake's handlers in Washington. Though he hardly cares about the reason - anything to get him out of New York City for a while. That place is going as crazy as Gotham, and it being his home - well, it's hard to sit and watch happen.

"It's a fucking joke, alright pal? Nobody is gonna care. Nobody is gonna look twice, even, to find a REASON to care. You wanna play the uptight professional, that's great - I've met my share of 'em in the business. A real fuckin' pro, right? Yeah, cool as a cucumber, there's a couple hundred guys in Langley right now who MIGHT be impressed."

Raising the barrel of the gun slightly, Blake's eyes narrow again, trying to get any read on the man's motives. He's used to cryptic meetings with spy-types, but this guy is downright CREEPY. "So, somebody send you to have a chat, or were you just in the neighborhood and thought you'd drop in to confess yer sins when you decided to, erm, 'watch the show'. Heh."

Phage has posed:
"Me? I don't care. Never did. Never will do. I'm not wired that way." Mach says, still advancing. He respects there's a guy who has a loaded weapon. He never cared about that before either. Even harded to fell the same when, now, there's not enough ammunition in the world that'll as much as slow him down out of that thing.

"Never worked for a flag, me, but it's nothing to do with anything either." Another draw, another exhale... he's taking the piss. After all. He might not get another chance. "Nor do I care about some flag following agency that doesn't officially operate on their own sovereign soil."

He stops. "No, whatever words you want to put to it... whatever you are... whatever you do... you might be useful. Since we've no prior contact or association... if you can deliver... then you can pick up another pay packet. If not... or I think you're not up to task..." He shrugs, "C'est la vie." It is the way. Whether that's walk away or disolve the man into biomass... he didn't say. Or with think which he's more in the mood for.

Comedian has posed:
"Heh. Yeah, well, you might've heard of The Comedian, pal," Blake finally says, after a long moment of consideration - he's almost certain this man is just stringing him along, seeing how much he'll talk, how much he'll keep quiet... and Eddie never had the taste for these kinds of things, best to cut to the heart of the matter. And anyway, he's always got the pistol and more; though this weirdo hardly seems worried in the least. "Fuckin' war hero, man," he says with a grin, remembering those glory days in Kosovo, Somalia, Afghanistan - when he was still officially employed by the U.S. Government, rather than a completely deniable asset.

Ah well, pay's the same.

"But that's great, y'know. You don't give a fuck. -I- sure a hell don't. Right on, man - so nobody saw nothing," he finally lifts the barrel of his pistol. Under normal circumstances, he might even offer the man a drink out of his flask - but this being Gotham... one never really knows what to expect. He puts the flask down on the pew next to him and ironcially pats up and down his flak jacket. He's still talking around that unlit cigar with effortless ease, "Fuck. All outta business cards, whaddya know? Heh. You have anything particular in mind, or are we just having a hypothetical chat here? Batman about to bust through the fuckin' roof and bust me, or what?"