2013.10.05 - Walking into a Bar

It's sunny and overwarm, and there's a man in a black suit with a UN ID clipped to his jacket, sunglasses obscuring the most identifiable part of his face, smoking a cigarette as he leans against the outside wall of a bar that's not open yet. It's only ten in the morning, so that's probably not much of a surprise. His face is turned upward, pointed at the closest stone angel, and his mouth is set in a thin line. Loiterer.

"You stare at them any harder, and they fall on you I hear." The speaker's also rocking a rad pair of shades, but in his case it's more out of necessity than out of concern for bright weather. Plus, Ortel's are much more customized for ... reasons. Like the fact they can switch between being two-way so that he can at least see in normal conditions while keeping his near night-light vision from causing trouble. Regular, heavy-tinted sunshades just don't agree with him, in other words.

He'd seen you standing there, wearing that ID, staring upwards, smoking, and he just couldn't help himself as far as coming over and making a snarky comment was concerned. Exactly how many people know he's been dispatched here to the Crazy Mutant Hotspot, he himself doesn't know (nor need he), but if there are people coming to Genosha wearing an ID badge front and center, not to mention nagging at his brain...

"Don't blink," Wisdom says magnanimously, taking a last drag off his cigarette and flicking it at the inside rim of a bin, where its cherry explodes in a little cloud of sparks and ash, and it bounces thereafter into the trash. And then he lets his attention settle on Aaron, lifting his eyebrows; he reaches up to lower the sunglasses. "Don't even blink. Blink and you're dead." There's a pause, and then a crooked grin. "Dunno if Mags has seen any Doctor Who, but this shit is sending /me/ straight up a tree. Expect to wake up in 1962 any second."

"Well at least I'm not the only one who gets the jitters about it. You also forgot 'can't sleep, angel will nab me', from The Simpsons." Not really an exact reference, but close. Despite all the talk about not blinking, Ortel isn't too concerned about looking away from the creepy decorations that aren't. "I don't think these time vampire you, by the way." That he knows of. "Plus, I'd think someone from the U.N. wouldn't want to go back in the past. You'd have to relieve all the bullshit again."

"Ugh, don't remind me. I feel like I've a bloody great target on my chest," Pete says, face scrunching for a second as he pushes off the wall and starts walking. "Do I know you? You're a bit familiar. And obviously not a local. Is there a /single/ fucking pub here that's open before noon? I don't want to be sober."

There's a pronounced look at your chest, as if this shaded individual was checking for exactly that. "Not seeing one," he replies with a grin. "Could say the same to you about familiar, but I don't know anyone from the U.N. I like to keep to myself, protects me from having to deal with some of the psychos around here. By the way, I hope you're not human because there's some here that will probably eat you alive if so. Had an altercation a while back with a furry who couldn't see past the skin, y'know what I'm sayin'?" "I'm human," the badge-wearing Englishman says irritably, taking out his cigarettes and lighting another as Aaron falls into step beside him, "as any other mutant. And I'm not meant to talk politics: observation is fucking observation, innit. And I need to be drunk because that shouldn't be politics. What do they do to aliens, I wonder." For the record, he lit it with a match; that gets waved out and flicked at the next passing bin. "Christ, this poor island."

"To be fair, that wasn't here in this city. I took a little trip to the /real/ fun part a while back and /that/ was a colossal mistake. Still wondering if I have some of that guy's fuzz on my jacket somewhere and that's what's been setting off my allergies, even though I've washed it multiple times since. So what brings the U.N. out here, if you don't mind me asking? Business and politics, I bet, but you could be here on vacation for all I know, and want to book a cabana on the beach." Still with that wide grin on his face, despite the fact his head is swivelling here and there as though half-expecting an ambush. "The real fun times, though, are when the guy in charge makes public audiences. Especially when he's with the creepy tentacle freak who I swear is a sociopath, even if I haven't seen that yet." "Impartial observation," Wisdom says, smoking in a distinctly broody manner, shoulders hunched a little under the fabric of his jacket. "What are -you- doing here?" he asks Aaron pointedly, sidelong. "Book a cabana on the beach? And I can't help but notice you've not said a word about open pubs. I'm going to be cross if I have to go all the way back down the fucking mountain for a drink. I hate fresh air."

"I don't drink a lot; I get enough headaches with my job here. Why would I want to be hungover /too/? So I can only say take a look around if you want a blimey good place to drink." He didn't miss the use of the word pub instead of bar. Plus, U.N. "There should be /somewhere/ you can get a drink by now I'd think. I told you, I keep to myself really, after getting assaulted. Got better things to do than get shed upon, or wonder if the kid down the block is going to go nuclear because he didn't get his baba."

"Fix a hangover with the hair of the dog what bit you," the Briton says with amusement. "Wake up and your head hurts? Time for vodka in your orange juice." He takes another drag of his cigarette, then walks with it in his hand for a moment. "Look, mate, I'm meant to go check in with someone or other, and then I expect I'm going to go hitch a ride down the mountain. If you want to natter about tentacled sociopaths, find me at Karko's, I'll buy a round."

There's a very real shudder that's given at the remention of tentacled sociopaths. It's subtle, in its way, but the sudden shift in body language is pronounced. The shivering itself could be attributed to the weather, but the shift to his shoulders, the absent wiggling of fingers at his side, it adds up. "Yeah, that's a subject I would rather not find out too much about first-hand. Bad enough I was standing right there having a... /initiation/ chat from the guy who calls himself Imperator. Never felt so creeped out in my life, let me tell you. The more I think about that, the more I think I could use that drink, honestly. You're on."

"Good," says Pete in something very like relief. He finishes off the cigarette with one long drag, then stubs it out on a building before flicking it, too, into a bin. "Expect I'll be there all night, unless something blows up. As they do." He shoves his hands in his pockets and eyes Aaron cannily. "Drink a lot of water if you're afraid of a hangover. Tools of the trade, yeah?" THE ANGELS ARE WATCHING HIM. "I'm out. That check-in rot; this's my stop." He takes a hand out to cock a thumb at the UN offices. "Be seeing you."

So it is that the two mighty heroes part ways from there, with one going one way, and one going the other! One smokes, the other tries not to start the party early, and life moves on.

< SOME TIME LATER, ELSEWHERE >

Until the time comes for wanting that drink soooo bad, that he shows up at the bar ahead of you. From the looks of it, Ortel's already been nursing at what may well be... italian soda? He wasn't joking about the lack of booze, given that it does absolutely zero for him, except to end up making an ass out of himself or cause trouble later on account of his vision. He's sitting there, alone, absently drumming his hand and trying not to look at the rather devilish looking mutate pouring the drinks. The man even has filed teeth.

"Oi, Kev," comes a familiar English voice, accompanying its owner into the bar. It's the same guy from before, but without the suit or the badge: ratty jeans, combat boots, and a battered leather jacket over a plain white t-shirt; sunglasses are up on top of his head, and his eyes are a murky brown. He's talking to the devilish-looking mutate tending bar. "G'n't for me, I'm feeling a bit shit--"

"--you /look/ a bit shit," 'Kev' retorts, nevertheless pouring Wisdom a gin and tonic with a brief flash of pointy-toothed amusement. "The fuck are you doing in the Bay? You're not still with that outfit you were with in aught-nine, are you?"

"Took 'em apart," Pete says, pulling out his wallet and pulling out a few bills. "Debit today, and this sorry bloke's on my bill," he explains, cocking a thumb at Aaron and his italian soda. "Give my love to Laura and the boys. Glad they made it out."

"Will do. Here's that, and good luck getting -him- to drink anything but fizzy sugar water," the devil-man says, first with grudging affection and then with scorn, respectively. Pete salutes, then carries his G'n'T over to Aaron, eyebrows up. "Weren't kidding, were you. It not get on well with your shit? --no, nevermind that, not my business." He drops into the seat across, then squints. The muddy brown's cleared; his own eyes are bright blue again, like they were when he lowered his shades earlier. "All right, mate?"

It's actually his third drink, truth be told, and he's been here long enough that his bladder took matters into its own hands and insisted on a trip to the premises. After that, he just sat there, brooding over #2 and #3, even giving 'Kev' an ominously silent stare from behind those shades - yes, he wears them indoors too - when teased upon getting something a little more serious than fizzy sugar water.

"Oh, it's you again." He didn't miss the exchange and obvious first-name basis with the barman, but naturally there's nothing to be said about that. "Was wondering if I was going to be paying for these myself or not; good thing I could afford it myself if I did. Still not really interested in talking about creepy hentai rejects though."

"It's me again," the Briton agrees, pulling on the gin and tonic, then crunching an ice cube. "Name's Wisdom. Don't have to talk about that, but you seemed as you were hopping to talk about /something/ or other, and this place's about as safe as I can muster on short notice. So: who are you, why do I know you from somewhere, and what's up?" The way he says 'what's up' carries the distinct tone of 'what's wrong', rather than 'sup, yo'.

If there's one thing that's nice about being psychic - well, sort of psychic in that he can't read thoughts the way others can - if there's one thing that's nice about his change in the sense of sight, it's that he can get a feel for when someone's asking for all the wrong reasons. He was sent here by Fury to investigate and keep his eyes open, after all, and it wouldn't do for the eyes to go blind, on more than one count.

"Yeah, I was thinking about that, and it suddenly hit me why, a bit ago. We were pretty high up in the air at the time, if you catch my drift, but I don't think we ever said hello. Or had reason to."

And amazingly enough-- for a spy, for a SHIELD agent, for someone who looks different from one place to the next-- Wisdom's on the up and up. Concern, curiosity, but nothing underhanded or ulterior. In fact, when Aaron goes on about being in the air, his expression clears. "Oh, right then, yeah. All right. Mostly I'm drunk if I'm upstairs. I hate flying. I take it your holiday's not been all it's cracked up to be?"

"I told you, it makes me feel like drinking, and I rarely do that." There's a 'cheers' lift of the glass in front of him, Ortel taking a hit off of his sadly unalcoholic beverage. "The most I've dealt with here so far is wondering just when my vacation will get cut short. How 'bout you? What brings you down here to Crazy Town? I didn't think anyone else was going to come in a fifteen hundred mile radius, for... obvious reasons."

"Have a lot of friends here. Wanted to check in on them. And honestly this place ain't near as bad off as Joao Pessoa right now; Genosha looks like she's running scared, but not broken. Why're you still here, anyroad? Election's over, innit?" Pete asks, -far- more relaxed in this, his natural habitat, than he'd been out in the sun, on the street, in a police state with Weeping Angels on every corner.

There's silence to that, the questioning enough to have Ortel's eyes looking down at his drink again as though truly wishing it /was/ something to get him shitfaced and unconscious, his head and those shades directed at the liquid for a moment. "I don't trust what's going on here," he finally says, tilting it back and finishing it off. "Part of it has to do with the people that man associates with. I know of one, and I wouldn't be surprised if there are others, and if that's true..." You get a significant look directed at you, Ortel going quiet there. "I haven't been able to get close enough to find out, and I shouldn't try. I already attracted suspicion just by being here."

"Developing a healthy paranoia's probably one of the reasons you're still alive," the scruffy English subject says, voice holding something like irony, mixed with a liberal dose of sympathetic annoyance. "You tell the air pirate? About your shaky ground." There's a pause as he swallows from his glass, not bothering to roll the alcohol around in his mouth-- it's just a damn gin and tonic. "Haven't made my rounds yet, so I've got nothing. If you're thinking I should--" he eyes Aaron over the top of his glass, "--then you'd best think again, mate, it ain't my specialty." This man's not an organization infiltrator. Not with how there haven't been any lies; not with how he's honestly friendly with the barkeep; not with the emotional ties to this place and its people that bind everything he talks about here. Maybe he really /is/ an idealistic walking bomb.

/That/ earns you a withering look, the suggestion that he'd try to induce you to do his assigned duty for him. Concealed eyes stare at you with an otherwise annoyed cast to his features, the not-scruffy American subject holding that thin-lipped regard in silence. Eventually he brings up the drink one more time, finishing off number three before settling back with his arms folded. "There's a reason I haven't been in contact. Part of the point of why I'm here was that we couldn't get anything at all. Electromagnetic? interference of some kind if I recall. I'm no physicist, go talk to the sky pirate if you want details. I even came with a few things in the event that became a problem and then... nothing. Downright fucking eerie how it's been quiet in that regard. I was expecting a lot more than what's happened, honestly, but the biggest problem is the security. I'm not equipped for that at all, and I get the strange feeling that leaving now could create more problems than it's worth. Maybe that's me being psychic," he adds dryly.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Wisdom says easily, waving a hand around dismissively. "Didn't know how desperate you were. Don't know you from Adam, do I." He finishes his drink, sets the glass down with a clack, and fishes around for a cigarette. "Fine then: I'll go muck about helping my mates dig themselves out of what they're in to, and if we run across anything might help you, I'll pass it on. Don't remember your name, though." Quick, sharp, bright eyed glance: what kind of reaction asking for a name would get, that's what he's looking for.

"If anyone asks just tell them the guy with blue eyes." He says that so blandly, pausing right after without a further word, before suddenly those lips break out into a hint of grin again. "Ortel. Though I was tempted to be cute and fuck with you a little bit after that, even though it was true. I just can't show everyone these pretty baby blue things is all. Let me know if you need anything; if there's one thing I can do, it's be convincing."

"Will do. And Christ, I'm glad you didn't fuck with me, I'd've started singing that obnoxious thing by Eiffel 65, and I'd hate meself in the morning for it," Pete says, mouth twitching upward at the corners before it turns into a full-on crooked grin. He hauls himself up, then, patting his pocket and stubbing his cigarette out in the tray. "This fucking thing's buzzing, I hate mobiles--" He hates everything! Taking his phone out of his pocket, he squints at the display. "Jesus God it's my girlfriend. You can get my shit from the sky pirate's phonebook if you're lookin' for me before I find you, mate; I got to go--"

Quick swing of the mockingest salute ever, and Pete hauls himself outside, waving to the bartender and making a vague 'whatever' gesture, like, keep the change or something. He's already lighting another cigarette as he starts talking to someone -- presumably that girlfriend -- in Russian, as he vanishes through the door.