5595/Quite Contrary

Quite Contrary
Date of Scene:	19 October 2018
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Crossbones, Typhoid Mary

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Crossbones has posed:
Crossbones gave precise instructions on how to get to his current safehouse. Not that he trusted Typhoid - he didn't trust anybody - but he controlled the information tightly enough that, if someone did betray him, he would always know who. You can't help people betraying you, but you can make sure you punisht he motherfuckers who do.

He buzzes her in after scoping her on the camera at the door. On the outside, the place doesn't look like much, an old auto garage that went out of business. The front windows are busted out and there are old needles on the floor from junkies crashing in it. None of the junkies ever bothered trying the locked door in the back of the oil pit. Why would they?

The interior of his safehouse is clean and spare. Mary can hear the sound of leather and flesh as he's in the midst of a workout, throwing taped fists at a heavy bag, dressed in a wifebeater and track pants. His mask is off, his grim visage mildly dappled with sweat as he throws thick arms, covered wrist to shoulder in ink. "Beer and water in the fridge," he says. "Hope you ain't hungry, cause I ain't got nothin' but some old MREs an' they ain't exactly for company." He had invited her yesterday via their contact. He said he had something for her.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Mary didn't have any trouble finding the place. Out of habit, she tends to stay in pretty centralized pockets of bad-part-of-town areas, which keeps her deep in the pulse of the crime game she plays on the daily. The wet grit sound of streets damp with sin and filth makes skritchy crunches beneath her thickly soled boots -- which she walks silently in, her assassin training like second nature to her, but it's hard not to step in the muck when it's everywhere.

    She uses the tip of one of her many blades to push the buzzer, just in case it's been tampered with (not necessarily by Crossbones, but you never know, in this line of work). When she hears the answering buzz and the ca-chunk of the lock being released, she pushes her way in and makes sure it closes securely behind her before turning her attention elsewhere. It's nice that the place is clean. Often times, in merc work, people meet in the grimiest, stank-ass places because it's places most people won't wander into... Though she's accustomed to existing surrounded by filth, this cleaner atmosphere is still appreciated.

    "Don't worry, slick. I ate before I came, but a beer'd be nice," she murmurs with a howdy-do smile and a half-assed two-finger salute from her brow to say hello. She saunters over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water (for him) and a bottle of beer (for her). She nudges the door closed with the bottom of her foot as she turns to sit at a nearby table. "What, the takeout don't come to this part'a town anymore?" she asks with an exhaled sound of relaxation as she twists open her beer and lets the bottle cap tinkle to the tabletop before leaning back in the chair a bit. Mary always seems to be at a bit of a lounge, whether she's sitting or standing... But, never off-guard. More like a panther lies lazily, content...until they aren't.

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow opens his bottle of water, unscrewing it carefully and taking a long swig before setting it down again. "Delivery boys are bad at getting secrets. Not that far to walk if I get peckish. There's a good pizza place three blocks over, a McDonald's a block the other way. Ain't fine dining, but it'll do."

He walks over to one of the cabinets and reaches in, drawing out a small black leather bag. He unzips it and slides it over to her.

"I got you some clean IDs. Shouldn't be hard to put your picture in 'em. You mentioned needing a passport. I dunno your sources, but I know mine. They'll get you anywhere on the planet, straight through customs on the VIP line. No waiting."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Mary nods understandingly. "I don't stay in one place for all that long, so it never makes a big deal t' me. Maybe a gopher'd be good for you. Some lil' toady you fuck up just right to do what you say and be ready to die before givin' you up. I could help you break a boy, if it appeals," she smiles, and it's all sharp teeth, despite her pretty pearlies. She puts her beer down and takes a look at the IDs put in front of her. She gives a low whistle. "These /are/ quality, guns. I don't do much work that requires me to have IDs and whatnot, but I have a person," she says, picking up the cards and secreting them in places unexpected and quite hidden.

    She takes a long drink of her beer and levels her intense gaze on Crossbones, "Don't nothin' come for free. What's the charge for these pretty pieces of plastic?" Her elbows rest on the table, and her shoulders are raised in a hunch, as though she's ready to take umbrage at any one word that might come out of his mouth. But, her expression is neutral -- maybe a little predatory, in that glinting of her eye, a little mean, in that cold little up-tick of the corner of her mouth. Is there some sort of game she's playing, something that Crossbones isn't aware is happening? There /are/ lots of stories about crazy Typhoid Mary out there. *Plenty* of those.

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow has a very straight posture generally, by contrast. Prison and being around soldiers most of his life did that. He kept his neck straight, his shoulders square. With his build, the weak tended to naturally be cowed by it, regarding him as the predator he was. He took every edge he could get.

"Truth? I need to keep you on a shorter leash than most. Not personal. But you have a messy reputation and I need my jobs, at least, to be clean. Not a matter of trust, just technique," he said. "I'll let you play, now and again, don't worry, but I need an understanding that you're going to listen if I need you to listen. I'd rather do it with honey than salt."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary sighs. "That is -SUCH- a buzzkill, Bonesy," she says in a semi-plaintive tone, pouting a bit as her shoulders droop. "I know I can get a little /carried away/ when I get goin', and that makes some boys uncomfortable..." she says, peeling at the label on her beer bottle. "But, honestly, I do good work. There's no way you'd have contacted me if my rep didn't speak for itself," she says. And, it's true. When she's paid to do a job neatly, it's done neatly -- barring mitigating circumstances that are out of her control. Like when that one dude blew up a little too soon because... Well, it doesn't matter. That's in the past, and it was out of her hands, after she'd done what she was paid to do.

    "Say what they will, people that've hired me are rarely displeased and, if they are, it's due to their fault, not mine. 'Course they'd never tell it that way, so I tend to nip that in the bud," she says, drawing her thumb along her throat as she winks. "And, anyway, who said I don't like a bit'a salt with my sweet, mm?" she asks in an altogether different tone. "You don't gotta worry about me fuckin' stuff up for you, 'cept in the way you indicate needs doin'. Just tell me the guidelines and I'll color inside 'em," she moves on, taking another swig of her beer. "Promise."

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow gives the ghost of what might be a smile on a normal person. It seems odd on him, like he doesn't know how to make it work. More of a baring of teeth.

"I'm not hiring you exactly, I'm plannin' to be your coworker. Most of the people pay your bills do so sitting back on their asses waiting to hear back. I'll be out on the line with you, just as deep in blood and guts. You're a wildcard so I gotta make sure I got ya in my hand - or up my sleeve - before I play you."

"Honest truth, I trust you more'n Bullseye, though."

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    "You're not hiring me, but you are paying me for my services, in a way. So, it amounts to kinda the same thing, 's far as my reputation goes. I don't -like- that people been sayin' I'm "messy." That sends the wrong message for future jobs. Like I can't do it neat when it needs finesse," Mary replies, her tone a smidge heated, leaning back in her seat, again. She looks...perturbed. "'S like these fuckos who go out on the job and they sold their souls for whatever stupid shit they thought was worth it, an' sure. They do the job. But, there's no joy in it for 'em. Grim-faced fuckers with no emotion, no expression of their inner shit... Where's the poetry in that? Where's the fun?" she says, warming to her topic.

    "Maybe that's the main difference. Most'a them fuckers sold their soul and they ain't got a shred left to play with. Mine, though, was fucked outta me. It's there, but it's in tatters, so it's blowin' in the wind," she smiles, crossing her legs and weaving her fingers together to grip her bent knee. "So, maybe they're just real envious of my artistic prowess, my jowah du veev. But, regardless, I'mma ask you nicely who's been besmirchin' my name, 'cause I got some bones to rip outta their still-warm bodies," she says, her smile tight.

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow snorts, "Well, unlike them, I can keep my mouth shut. Don't worry, I didn't put too much stock in it. You get results and that's always gonna win out over aesthetics. Lotsa marks pretend to care about civilian casualties, but don't bleat too hard when they happen. They like to think it keeps their hands clean, that then it's on your head and not theirs if something goes south. After all, you were just supposed to kill the one guy. Bunch of pussies, mostly, but of course they are. That's why they hire people to do their killing instead of doing it their own damn selves."

"And yeah, I can relate a bit. I got my causes and my missions. Things I believe in. Ugly things, maybe, to most, but I don't give a damn. I do the jobs to put away funds for that and to keep myself sharp for when I gotta stab the fucks what need to get stabbed," he says.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    Typhoid Mary frowns.

    "Bonesy, why you gotta be like that? People are sayin' words about me that just ain't true," she says after a long silence. She was quiet all through his little monologue, 'cause it was his turn to talk and it's not that she's not interested in what he has to say... It's that he's not planning on giving her the information she's most interested in. She purses her lips, "What if someone went around sayin' wrong-ass shit 'bout you? Put yourself in my shoes, 's much as you can do, guns." Hard to imagine Crossbones having lived her life, knowing what little he knows about her...and wearing her clothes. Yikes.

    "I know you ain't a snitch, but this is different. I just wanna...clear up the confusion for these people. You know? I'll clear it up -real good- for 'em," she says, talking through gritted teeth, still smiling. Or, trying to. "'Cause it's gonna make it hard for me to rest easy at night, knowin' there are some confused people out there, spreadin' misinformation. My rep... It's what I got. Why you gotta make me keep askin'?" she asks, clearly trying to keep her temper in check, the way she's squeezing that beer bottle, the way the heat is blooming in this enclosed space...

Crossbones has posed:
Brock Rumlow thinks for a moment and takes another sip of his water. If the heat or the urgency in her voice have an effect on him, it isn't palpable. He's as cold-blooded as she is hot.

"Tell you what. After this first job, we get out clean, everything's all tied up with a bow, I'll take you to the fucker's house and help you carve out their liver, not a second thought," he said.

In truth, no one had really said anything about her. He was just getting a measure of her temperament, what she wanted. But he could always find a useful patsy to point her at. He always knew a few people in need of ending.

Typhoid Mary has posed:
    "Deal."

    Typhoid doesn't need much more than that. If Brock is a man of his word, at least as far as this deal goes, she can extend just enough of a trust rope for him to hang himself with. If he doesn't make nice after the job's done, she'll carve *his* liver out. The look on her face might well make it clear to Crossbones, if he's good at reading murderous intent in the eyes of lovely women with a well-earned reputation for misandry and murder.

    Still.

    The heat recedes a bit, and she eases her grip on the empty bottle...completely dry, as her heated grip on it burned off whatever liquid might have remained, wisps of condensation smoke curling out of its open neck. The label, where it was being touched by her skin, ashes off onto the table below. After a long quiet moment, she repeats herself. Maybe to reassure him, or simply to remind herself. "Deal."