Owner	Pose
Bullseye	It's another late night here at Bullseye's favorite dingy, smoke-filled, villains-only bar -- the kind of place you need connections to, to even know what neighborhood it's in. The kind of place where the length of your rap sheet is what determines the amount of respect you get. The kind of place that can -- and WILL -- smell a fraud a mile away, so if you're gonna try and puff your chest out? You best come correct.     Sitting at the bar, guffawing with the facially-scarred bartender, is Bullseye, clad in his costumed get up and pounding a beer down. He boorishly wipes his face and lets out a belch, continuing to regale the bartender with another war story. "So, this dumb bastard, right? He starts flailing aroundm, like a chicken with his fuckin' head cut off, clutchin' at this throat and shit because, really -- who the hell throws toothpicks?"     He strugges to contain himself, laughing, "Swear to God, Ralphie -- funniest shit I ever saw!"
Cheshire	The door opens and boot heels scuff softly on the wooden floor. The woman looks like she doesn't belong here, at least at first. Beret, bolero jacket over a tube-top, tartan plaid mini, and go-go boots. Yeah, she could be some fantasy French schoolgirl. Or a hooker, for that matter.     Then she smiles. Not a normal, polite, socially-nice smile either. There are few who see Cheshire's trademark smile and can talk about it later. Those few would recognize the expression now.     The woman makes her way to the bar, easing onto a stool beside Bullseye. "Scotch, please. From the top shelf." The fact that she even *knows* about this place says she either belongs, or is lost and somehow managed to not get killed while getting through the neighborhood to the front door.
Bullseye	Bullseye finally collects himself, but arches an eyebrow as soon as Cheshire makes her way to the bar. He'd never seen her, here, before, that much was true -- but the number of new faces at HIS bar lately has been surprising, to say the least. This broad, though? Bit of a Typhoid Mary vibe, which could be a good or bad thing depending on how much you like to get whipped in bed. He peers over and gives her a quick glance. "Could be some fantasy French schoolgirl," he thought to himself. "Maybe a hooker, for that matter."     Leaning forward in his stool, he signals to Ralphie to get him another beer, and it's here that he turns his head slightly back to Cheshire again. "Hey, so, uh," he says, looking her up and down, "You workin' or what?"     Ah. Ever the charmer.
Cheshire	Her stool swivels a little towards him, green eyes peering over the glasses she doesn't need. "If I was working, then I doubt we'd be talking." Which, of course, could be taken any number of ways. Then again, as his gaze wanders down he'd notice the stiletto in one of her boots. Thin and discreet. Professional.     It's a pretty fair bet that the bolero jacket is hiding a surprise or two as well.     "I'm Jade, but in this place you can call me Cheshire." She offers a well-manicured hand to Bullseye. The bartender pours her scotch, careful not to touch her in the process. He casually steps back, reaching for a can of disinfectant.
Bullseye	Bullseye narrows his eyes, noticing Ralphie's reluctance to touch her and instead offers a polite nod. Sure, he's in costume, and his gloves could possibly protect him in case anything was even remotely fishy, but Bullseye has made a whole career out of instinct, and in this case, all she needed was a sign on her forehead saying, "Do Not Touch."     He takes a swig from his newly-poured beer and clears his throat before making his own introduction. "Bullseye," he offers plainly. "You new?"
Cheshire	The woman shakes her head slowly, withdrawing her hand slowly. "I've been around." she replies, apparently not seeing any need to compare target lists. "Heard it from a little bird that you were active again." The woman crosses one leg over the other while perched on the stool. Wow, that's a short skirt.     "A pen thrown through a window? That's a pretty unique skill-set." Cheshire slowly sips the scotch, taking her time to taste it. "I've been in Africa teaching mercenaries. Nice to be back in civilization again."
Bullseye	Ah, the good ol' appeal to Bullseye's ego -- that's the ticket. Bullseye gives Cheshire a toothy grin (with a few teeth missing, naturally), and snickers to himself. "Tell that birdy o' yours that she ain't wrong." He takes another swig, looking visibly more relaxed in his stool. "As for the pen hit on Vasquez, that was just me stretchin'. Gettin' the kinks out and all that -- good to be around other scumbags again after bein' in the Hole for God knows how long."     His ears perk as she mentions Africa. "Teachin' the mercs out there, though, huh? Big game huntin'?"
Cheshire	The smile returns when Bullseye grins, but it's soon disguised by another sip of scotch. "Hunting, yes, but not exactly big game." Cheshire replies. "Someone was going to teach the insurgents how to fight, anyway. I might as well make a little money in the process."     "So are you between jobs, then, or was the hit just a distraction? I'm sure that you've got your very own FBI task force by now." The woman pauses, then adds. "Not saying whether or not I have anything in the works, of course. Just curious as to whether you might be available in the near future, is all."
Bullseye	Bullseye scoffs. "I wouldn't be me if I didn't have the FBI scrambling to put my head on a pike," he says, reaching into one of his utility belt's pouches. He pulls out a cigarette and strikes a match as he replies, "Shoulda never let me out, the idiots, so consider this a harsh lesson in the consquences of poor judgment."     "As for availability, I got a few gigs I gotta tend to, sure -- but if you hear about anything," he says, taking a drag, "let me know. As far as I'm concerned, the number of new capes in this city is fuckin' disgusting, so the more of us, the merrier."
Cheshire	Cheshire inclines her head slowly, nodding just once. "I will leave a means of contact with the bartender." she replies. "But let's do keep in touch, Bullseye. After all, why should the superheroes be the only ones who can form teams?"     And within a day or two a drop phone in a sealed, ziplock bag arrives at the bar. The word 'Cheshire' is written on the plastic in black marker. Ralphie puts it with so many others.