2012-12-01 Attack of Conscience

To put it mildly, life for a small number individuals has royally sucked lately. Through sheer force of will and blind, stupid luck, Domino's managed to drag herself all the way back to the States after horribly failing a job with a handful of people she called allies at the worst and friends at the best.

She's the only one to have returned.

Her walk is still somewhat stiff. What little of her pale flesh can be seen shows some rough handling, bruises and cuts well into their healing cycles. Added to her ensemble is a pair of dark purple tinted sunglasses, fitting for the woman wearing them as well as useful in concealing the eyes lurking behind the ballistic-tested lenses.

The status of the others is up in the air. Dead or alive, imprisoned or free. She's in no shape to handle the situation on her own. If they failed as a team while in their prime and working together there's no chance in Hell that she's going to do any better working alone with a very long list of personal injuries. She's learned a long time ago when to cut her losses and run. By all counts, she still managed to come out ahead after all is said and done. She shouldn't be sitting at the table of this dark, stuffy bar getting hammered tonight. Yet, here she is.

Most of Logan's days are now spent chasing down contacts, leads, anything and everything that could conceivably give him the edge he needs to enter Latveria and do what his teammate could not: return alive. It's been an arduous process; his tactics have borne some fruit thus far, but without some inkling of what Latveria - and moreover, its mad king - could have in store for he and the allies he's gathered thus far, there /is/ no mission.

At the end of another long day, the weary mutant pushes his way into the first bar he comes across, scanning the room and gently sniffing the air as he drags himself to the counter. He's wearing an old, brown trenchcoat, jeans, and brown boots; the coat is closed tightly around his body. This is the /last/ place he ought to be -- even the Institute would be better; at least there, he could lose himself in the Danger Room for the rest of the evening. He pushes that thought aside, however, in favour of settling into a stool and bracing himself briefly against the counter when it creaks beneath his weight--just in case.

"Whisky," he'll grunt when the bartender is in earshot--not that he's really watching him to see; his attention is still on the rest of the bar as he finishes his--

Blue eyes settle on ghost-white skin and slowly narrow; he has to remind himself to breath, after a second. To turn away, to not be seen watching.

"Make it two," he amends, rapping his knuckles sharply on the countertop just to be sure he's heard--and startling the bartender in the process. He taps his index finger in front of himself, then jerks his thumb towards Domino; once the bartender hurries away to fill the order, Logan turns his eyes up to the mirror hanging behind the bar and waits.

Once such a cautious (very nearly paranoid) soul, Domino seems more interested in her own thoughts and the poison set before herself than anyone else in the joint. Everyone has their tolerance, their breaking point before everything else doesn't matter and whatever happens next, happens.

She isn't expecting the next thing to happen in her life to involve getting a free drink plopped down in front of her. "-Who,-" she quickly demands, suddenly back to being on guard. So help her, if some idiot's trying to take her home tonight...

That guy. He never struck her as being an idiot, and the chances of the latter part being true seem highly unlikely. This is about something else. Has to be.

The drink gets driven home in one brisk motion, the empty glass abandoned as she pulls herself upright and starts walking toward the bar. You can hear her every step of the way, if the scent of leather and gunoil weren't obvious enough to a sensitive nose.

Dom claims a seat beside you, arms folding across the counter as she hunches forward, looking to you through those dark lenses. She only offers one word in greeting: "Unexpected." The word comes through slightly strained and hoarse, evidence of earlier trauma to the throat.

Logan's first drink was gone almost as quickly as he got it; the one Domino will see when she arrives is his second. His hair is a matted, tangled mess, as if a bird built a nest in it and he proceeded to just throw a helmet over the whole thing for a while; he hasn't any bags or dark circles under his eyes, but they are nonetheless full of weariness. That same heavy, consuming exhaustion also shows through in his sagging posture, and he doesn't bother to sit up any straighter or do anything /else/ to make himself more presentable while Domino approaches; he merely glances over his shoulder when she's a few steps away, just to conclusively put a face to the scent wafting towards him.

"Where is she?" is Logan's greeting, delivered alongside a suspicious gaze. His voice is coarse and low, just shy of growling.

Straight to business, of course. Normally Domino would be fine about this. Tonight it's instead received with a tired sigh. No name needs to be given to know who is now the center of their conversation. Betsy. Psylocke. 'Veev,' as Dom had affectionately titled her.

"Dead. If the man in the metal underwear is to be believed." No matter how badly it hurts to talk or how awful the sound of her own voice is, she's never far from another sarcastic remark. "Lost sight of 'em. Who the Hell knows."

This discussion isn't off to a very smooth start, but with how Dom's paying more attention to the other drink that migrated back to the counter with her it would seem that she's rather beyond caring. Pleasantries can get kicked right back to the curb, she's not in the mood.

That hard look persists for a while - explanation or no. Whether or not Domino really believes what she's telling him isn't really the issue, either; it's that /Logan/ would rather not believe what she's telling him. When he finally breaks eye contact, it's to glance down at his tightly-gripped second glass, which he hastily tosses back and pushes away from himself lest he inadvertantly crush it.

"Old trick," he murmurs as he lays his hands atop the counter. "Could just as easily be in a cell of her own somewhere." Whether he's trying to convince her or himself, he couldn't really say just now; either way, he doesn't make eye contact as he offers that grimly hopeful suggestion.

"I need to know what /happened/," he then says. After clenching his jaw for a beat, he adds, "An' why /you're/ here, an' the rest've 'em..." The tracker's eyes shift towards Domino as he trails off. His voice is - mostly - devoid of suspicion, but taking her unexpected presence entirely at face value is difficult.

There's a slow roll of tiny shoulders as Domino casts her attention directly forward, imitating your earlier posture. "Sure. I'm in no position to call his bluff." Maybe they're all still out there, doing okay, kicking back and sipping on fine wine. -Blink- certainly seemed to be cozy out there, from what little information Doom had fed to the albino. If any of that had been accurate, for the matter.

"What happened is we -lost,-" she almost growls in that rough sounding voice.

The next part might make her laugh on a normal day, turning enough to look at you once more before a single, pale fingertip hooks the bridge of her shades and pulls them down to reveal badly bloodshot eyes. "I'm here because he was done with me. Don't break selectively, so he tried to break the whole thing."

Again she turns forward, grimacing as more of the alcohol sears its way down her throat. It hurts now, but give it enough time and she'll be beyond caring about that detail. "If they're around they'll be in Doomstadt somewhere. Castle in Latveria. High tech. Magic. Very well guarded. Impossible security. Had to destroy the country's generator just to get through its shield, still only got inside by getting ourselves caught. Was on my own when it happened, working over the airship armada with AA guns. Think they held out a while longer, never saw what happened. Could be anywhere in that hole. Assume at least one has been compromised."

/Compromised/?

Logan's tired eyes open a little wider in genuine surprise, and he stares at Domino for a few moments after that word is said. As his eyes fall, he starts ticking through the files Psylocke sent him, trying to decide for himself which of her motley crew may have turned--and moreover, how manageable any given one of them might be, were it to come down to a fight. Shift and Blink, unknown quantities that they are, are simple enough: either could have easily turned... and from what little he knows, his chances of taking either of them down would be slim, at best. Carol is more of a conundrum - superhuman SHIELD agent or no, there is no telling what a person subjected to the ministrations of Doom might do to survive, and if he /were/ forced to fight her...

Logan's knuckles hit the bar top so hard that a little chip of wood is sent flying over the edge. Another drink won't wash that thought away, nor those that naturally follow - what, after all, would he do if it were Psylocke at Doom's side?

Regardless, when the bartender obliges, he tosses the stuff back, and then finally turns to try and look Domino in the eye again. "Must've been your lucky day," he murmurs. "I imagine the same tricks ain't gonna work again, though; we go back in, we're gonna have to find another angle."

'We', just like that; tortured voice and bloodshot eyes or no.

"SHIELD ain't gonna let one'a their own rot; I got a couple of 'em digging up whatever they can get on 'im. It's--" He lets out a slow, ragged breath.

"It's a /start/," he quietly finishes.

For what little Domino knows about the situation, she does know the name of at least one of theirs that seems to have defected. "It's Blink," she offers in that gravelly tone as you send a piece of the bar into low orbit. She keeps forgetting all that you're capable of... Especially given her current state, it's one of those moments where she's glad the two are generally on the same side.

Things are never so simple. A forced laugh barely manages to escape the mercenary woman. "Yeah, right. Don't exactly feel lucky right now." Still... You're a lot more accurate with that remark than she wants to admit.

And a lot less accurate with the comment that follows. "'We'..?" Hidden behind the shades once more, Dom looks your way with an expression that not even tinted lenses can conceal. "What's this 'we,' Logan? I'm not crazy enough to go back to that place twice. We got torn to pieces out there, -I'm- in no shape to try and change the fact, and it may already be too late. Ya gotta know when to cut your losses, man. I'm not about to risk everything on a chance."

Actually, that's exactly what she does every time she's on a job.

"I'll tell you guys what I can, then it's sayonara and happy hunting. He's not gonna let you guys step on his toes. Didn't for us."

As soon as Domino questions him, Logan's nostrils flare; that she follows it by preaching discretion brings a growl rising in his throat, and by the time she gives him her blessing, he /has/ to look away lest he stare daggers at the woman, because for all that he'd like to snap at her, to snarl, scream and holler and /drag/ her back into Hell to clean up the mess she helped to make--he /can't/. How could he?

Who, after all, is he - with his unbreakable bones and endlessly resilient body - to force a woman who narrowly escaped death to face it again?

"He's not gonna 'let' me do much of anything, I reckon," the mutant murmurs in a low, tightly measured voice. "But if I do my job right, I won't need 'im to."

With that, he pushes back from the bar, hops off his stool and fishes a few bills from his pocket; it's significantly more than enough to cover their drinks--enough for a good night's worth of drinking, if Domino's staying. "Hope a little'a that luck rubs off on whoever ships out with you the next time around," he says as he turns to head for the door. "God help 'em, otherwise." No attempt at /all/ to hide the accusatory tone, there; berating may be off the table, but bitterness, not so much.

"Got your number; I'll be in touch."

Through all of this, Domino says nothing. She sits there and takes everything you have to say with stiffened shoulders, even abandoning her drink for the time being. There's always something being gnawed upon in her thoughts, tonight complete with more than the usual volume of unpleasantness for her to pick through.

"Be sure to high-five his face with those claws when you see him," she says as you stand clear of the counter and start to make your way to the door. It's only once you've stepped away that she unfreezes the rest of herself, eyes closing as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

Could she do it..? Knowing that others are going out there to risk -their- lives over the chance that the others from the first team might still be alive? Could she honestly just sit back and let all of this happen?

No. No, she couldn't.

"Sonuvabitch," she mutters under her next quick sigh, hand dropping away from her head to thunk down onto the counter. No, she -can't- just sit this one out. If you are serious about going back there... -Hell.- No attempt is made to stop you, to call back for you to wait up. Dom knows how this game is going to play out. You'll give her a couple of days then make the call, at which point she'll begrudgingly agree to tag along and it'll be like tonight never ended the way it did beyond some unspoken resentment toward her for not manning up and stepping up to the plate. It's already obvious that she's going to go back to that place. She knows it. She would bet a year's worth of independent jobs that you know it, too. Best make the most of that window before the call is made to heal, rearm, and work out that bucket list.