5560/Bad Company

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Bad Company
Date of Scene: 15 October 2018
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed (OOC: Language warning)
Cast of Characters: Crossbones, Typhoid Mary, Bullseye




Crossbones has posed:
The bar is a dim and dark place and not on any tourist maps. You have to be vetted to get in here. You need connections. You need a password. You need a reputation.

You need to be a bad motherfucker.

Typhoid and Bullseye, through whatever contact they have for jobs, will have both received invitations for a 'business opportunity'. The card upon which it was placed was signed with a Jolly Roger insignia.

Crossbones has his helmet sitting on the table, the cracked skull visage marking his identity. He has a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of beer and glasses for three. He smokes a cigar, his tattoos showing on his neck, with his head freshly shaved on the sides. A silver fanged skull ring gleams on his right hand, emeralds set in the eyes. He's waiting.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    This is the kind of place Typhoid Mary spends a lot of time in, whether she's working or not. Its aesthetic is her aesthetic, and the clientele have, at least, some level of respect for the other patrons of this establishment. So, it's unlikely there'll be an unexpected bar fight--there are consequences for thoughtless disturbances.

    By the time Mary makes it downstairs, she's only moments away from being 'late'. She slows her roll by the bar, prepared to order something to drink when she catches sight of Brock and the spread he's got at his spot. She waves off the bartender and saunters over to his table, sinking into a seat with a side-smile, "Well, now. Look who knows how to greet a lady." She helps herself to some beer and drains half of it in a moment. "Evenin'," she exhales, leaning back in her chair, kicking one leg out straight and resting it on one of the free chairs.

Bullseye has posed:
The heavy thumps from Bullseye's combat boots echo throughout the dingy bar as he saunters his way in. Taking a drag from a freshly-lit cigarette, he narrows his eyes at both Crossbones and Mary, looking around to breathe in that dank, smokey air. It's definitely been a while since he was last shit-faced here, but no matter how familiar a place might be, you're never truly safe when you're a hired killer.

Y"I hate job interviews," Bullseye mutters with a tiny snicker, flicking the card onto the table in front of the two mercenaries. With a sneer, he yanks a chair from a nearby table and drops it right next to Mary with a loud rattle. "This you, Crossbones, or are we all gunning for the same gig?"

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow puts on a smile, but it's empty, a quick turn of the lips. He isn't one prone to things like 'nice' or 'friendly', but he understands that's the protocol in these sort of situations.

"No interview. I know what you both can do. You've left enough bodies to fill a cemetary, each on your own, just like me."

"I'm putting together a little crew. Nothin' formal, just...I get offers, bein' who I am and knowin' who I know. Sometimes there's more than a man can chew on his own, even with chompers big as mine. But I'm tired of hirin' out half-assed wannabes to watch my back. I'd rather work with pros so I know I won't get shot in the ass halfway through a mission. Not by accident, anyway," he says, showing his teeth in another mirthless grin.

"No commitments, you'd be free to do your own business, just...wanted to see if I could put you two on the mailin' list, so to speak. You don't gotta take no jobs you don't want, but most of the stuff I'm talking about is seven figure minimum, split even among the crew."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid looks up as Bullseye makes his entrance, giving him a bit of a welcome by raising her beer to him briefly. She keeps her mouth shut, though, and listens. For now. It's best to get the lay of the land, to know one's audience. Though, she can't help but quip, "You do interviews? I ain't interested in performing song and dance. My work speaks for itself. Someone wants me, they better not expect an audition. Ain't nobody got time for that shit." She shakes her head and drains the rest of her beer, going in for a second glass -- which she drinks more slowly, her initial thirst slaked.

    She nods, finally, to Brock. "It can get a bit boring in the downtimes, so count me in. 'S long as there isn't a boss to answer to, I could be persuaded to have some fun for profit." She casts a hooded glance in Bullseye's direction, wondering what his thoughts are. "Commitment-free is my cuppa tea," she concludes. "Anything on the burner?" her vibrant eyes slide back to Crossbones.

Bullseye has posed:
A devilish, gap-toothed grin snakes across Bullseye's pock-marked face as he leans back in his chair, visibly impressed. "Well, would you lookit this shit," he says in his usual mocking, douchebag tone, "Crossbones over here tryin' to make moves! What, you got a start-up you tryin' to get some funding for? Kid sick in the hospital?"

Bullseye takes another hard drag off his cig and lets out a snicker, his piercing blue-eyed gaze switching from Mary to Brock. Eventually, the craziness subsides, and his twitchiness begins to settle upon him interlocking his fingers. Keeping his hands in check. This is business, after all. "But enough with the bullshit. You wanna hire me? Aces. Lucky for you, my handsome ass is back in business. But I'm with Mary on this one -- I ain't lookin' for a boss. But if you got graves to fill, and scratch to hand out? I'm in like Flynn."

So, like she said," Bullseye says, arching an eyebrow at Mary and ashing his cigaette, "We got anything on the docket, or what?"

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow nods to Typhoid, "I figure we're all a little too big in our britches to go beggin' for jobs anymore. Plenty o' work to go around. More than ever, maybe. World's goin' up in flames and it suits me just fine. That's what they call opportunity," he says.

"Like I said, this ain't no full-time outfit and I ain't nobody's boss. I might call a few shots out in the field, but that's only cause I been runnin' wetwork ops since I was rippin' off corner stores in junior high. I'm good at it and, if I ask ya to do somethin', probably because it's the best thing to do and not just 'cause I like bossin' people around. We all worked for those types before and I ain't lookin' to be them. I put a few of 'em in the ground after they handed over their cash. I can't stand attitude from a soft boy," he says.

"And yeah, I got a job in mind. Little retrieval, snatch and grab. Guy's daughter runs off with one of his henchies, goes to hide out with his family mob back in the old country. He wants the girl back and the mob liquidated. Collateral damage encouraged."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid's eyes flick over to Bullseye when he mentions his 'handsome ass' and her brows lift high. She purses her lips in a repressed grin and gives a small toss of her head before drinking, again. No comment. She listens to him speak, and Crossbones' response, considering things quietly. Though she can be mouthy, she rarely speaks when she's got little to say. Silence doesn't bother her.

    Inhaling through her teeth, she clicks her tongue. "Young love," she exhales, kicking her other leg up and onto the one resting in the chair, her feet crossed at the ankle. "Romantic bullshit she's got foggin' her brain. It's almost like.. It's a burden, is what it is, but I don't mind tellin' her what shits men are," she smiles prettily. "Count me in."

Bullseye has posed:
Collateral damage. Bullseye?s favorite two words on the planet.

Even with his hands folded together, he can already feel the steel from one of his knives twirling around his fingers. He can hear the familiar *FWIP!* it makes as it?s hurled right into a some poor bastard?s jugular. It?s the last, extended note to the greatest song in the world, and Bullseye?s got it on repeat.

Suddenly, he snaps out of his trance, only hearing the second half of Mary?s take on the situation. The bald-headed psychopath licks his teeth and pops his eyebrow at Mary as she finishes her thought. "It?s true, men are trash," he says facetiously. "Got a fuckin? hashtag and everything." He smirks, peering down at the table in thought before looking back up at Crossbones. His tone is serious. Deliberate. "You said ?the old country.? Travel included, or you takin? that out our check?"

Crossbones has posed:
Crossbones shrugs. He's not particular about gender politics. He pretty much thinks everyone is shit, with relatively few exceptions. "I don't give a shit if she's convinced or not, long as she fits in the sack and gets thrown on the plane back to her Daddy's bank account."

He smirks at Bullseye, "What, a plane ticket to Budapest gonna put you in the down and outs? Well, no worries, I can make arrangements to take us in. Might be good to go in separately, though. Boyfriend's fam might be expecting a hit squad coming in and they've still got a little pull with the locals. Wouldn't due to get in a firefight at the border before we're near our prize."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary shrugs, too. "I ain't tryin' to stand up for women, neither. Most of us women are cunts, at some point in our lives, too. Everyone sucks," she says, finally sitting up, and letting her feet thud to the floor. She leans forward to refill her beer glass, again. "But, I figure her daddy don't want her roughed up much? Just for clarification," she says.

    Shaking her head, Typhoid replies, "No need to buy a ticket for me. I'm fine goin' on my own dime. But, you said Budapest? Time to fish out the ol' passport, then." She grimaces inwardly, not sure where Sweet Mary put it. It'll take some doing, but she hasn't had a vacation in a long time. This'll be fun. "What's the weather like, this time'a year, there?"

Bullseye has posed:
Bullseye rolls his eyes with a sigh, "It ain't about the money, Chuckles, you know that -- it's the principle. But you know what? Fine. I just got back into the city, and truth be told, this is *your* get -- so how 'bout this? How 'bout when we all get there, you just point your bony, little finger in the general direction of who needs to get bodied, and I'll take care of the rest."

He shoots a quick glance over at Mary and gives her a resigned shrug, "I'll... try to save you a couple, too." Bullseye grins."And for the record, Budapest is fuckin' gorgeous in the fall. You might wanna bring your, uh, favorite autumn harness or whatever the fuck it is you like to wear."

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow grinds out his cigar in the tray, "Getting cooler by the minute. Bet the fall colors are just dandy," he says. "Yeah, job's to bring the girl home intact, although I don't imagine a few bruises or a split lip will be any worse than what she's gonna get when Papa puts her over his knee after we hand her back," he says.

"And I have a very firm principle on not wiping other people's asses for them. You're a big boy, you'll get payed plenty and there's bodies enough to go 'round. In fact, I might pick up another hand or two to throw down, just so we don't get bogged down. The three of us could handle plenty, but speed and stayin' ahead of the state police is part of the bargain."

There's an undeniable tension in the bar as the three meet. Any one of them on their own would probably put a scare into people. Seeing these three lethal contenders at one table is bound to make a few people nervous.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary arches a lazy brow at Bullseye's comments. She can tell he's looking her up and down, as most people do for their own reasons. "Well, gee, only if you think I can *handle* a couple. Li'l ol' me," she says in a flat voice. She opens her jacket wide and invites a closer look. "Go ahead and get your fill. Don't bother me none. 'Sides, weather doesn't much bother me. Got my own thermostat," she smiles humorlessly, flipping up her middle finger, a flame dancing at its tip, as a lighter would.

    She blows it out, for style more than out of necessity, as she turns her attention back to Crossbones. "Hey, I been a part of group-play before, so it's not gonna chap my ass. I also don't need a dick to swing to earn my rep. So, it'll be just fine for me, boys. You got my contact info, 'Bones, so just get the details to me. I'll be there," she says, winking at him and standing. She drains the rest of her beer and, slamming it down on the table for emphasis, she smiles thinly to Bullseye before taking her leave. "See ya," she murmurs before heading for the stairs up.

Bullseye has posed:
"Well, goodbye to you, too, lady," Bullseye replies, slightly incredulous, as Mary makes her way towards the stairs. He turns to Crossbones is disbelief, "The hell was that all about?" He lets out a sigh and gets up of out his chair as well, pulling out another cigarette. He looks to be muttering to himself with the cigarette dangling from his lips before lighting it and exhaling out a deep drag.

"Well, like Miss Congeniality alluded to, you've got our contacts. Send me the details when you get something concrete, and you can count me in. It's good to be back, man -- and with familiar company, too. Just, uh... one thing?" Bullseye rubs at his chin, looking like he's not quite sure how to ask his next question.

"What was she sayin' 'bout my dick?"