2013.10.08 - Soldier For Hire

Metropolis' Suicide Slum has long stood as an odd counterpoint to the glittering skyscrapers surrounding it; in the Borough of Tomorrow, its dense tenements and dark alleyways mark out the Neighborhood of Today, where crime is rampant and life is uncertain.

And yet, it's as vibrant and lively a community as any in New York, with thousands of inhabitants who cherish it in spite of its flaws--and a rare few who struggle in their own ways to right the many wrongs plaguing the community. Among them are a young man and woman - often seen sporting identical purple and black uniforms, but never together - who have put their meta-abilities to frequent use in battling the muggers and drug dealers infesting the Slum since appearing roughly a year ago--often at night, when the streets are at their most dangerous.

Of course, a diligent observer might, given time, realize that the man and woman are one and the same--and that his(or her?) interest in keeping the streets safe might have something to do with her(his?) lack of a home; nights of crime-fighting(or city-exploring, or crime-fighting in slightly less depressing venues) more often than not end with the shapeshifter making camp between a Big Belly Burger and a liquour store.

Burgers, booze, and busted heads. There's a purity to the lifestyle that Jackie can appreciate, with a bit of self-indulgent irony, from the gilded vantage point of a 'company' high-rise. He's sipping lime-adorned icewater-- no liquor on the job, and these nights? Estacado doesn't let his guard down often.

Jackie's people, his 'thing'.. they've done a good job compiling a decent image of Xavin, Xavin, and Xavin's activities of late, detailed in a trail of derailed dealers and dime-a-dozen scumbags. "Yea." Jackie confirms, flipping the last testament in the dossier over, and shutting the folder clean. "Set the meet, Vinnie." An older, balding gentleman in a fine suit nods once and flips a burner cell open, walking off-premesis before making a singular call.

That night, the Super-Skrull's campsite is already occupied when Xavin returns. The loiterer is a burly man with a bushy, flame-red beard who's swigging unlabeled whiskey from a dark red flask, leaning in the back of the alleyway. A hefty, black-handled waraxe rests in plain view, leaning against the wall nearby, but the warrior's stance is decidedly passive, waiting for the vigilante to return 'home.'

This is not the first time that Xavin has returned to his 'home' only to find someone else there, but by and large, those people not in possession of large, black waraxes. Normally, he would deal with intruders via polite intimidation - spontaneously combusting limbs and bizarre shifts in shape are great for getting rid of wandering drunks; this time, though, when he rounds the corner to see the burly firebeard waiting for him, he hesitates at the entrance to peer at the stranger, even as an invisible barrier springs up around the Skrull. There are a few spots of blood on his uniform; before coming to his alley, he spent the night at an underground casino/dog fighting arena. Curiosity is evident in his gaze, but more than that, it's clear that he's sizing the other man up as he looks him over--just in case.

"You are going to have to find another place to sleep," he informs the stranger after meeting his eyes. He takes a few steps into the alley, relaxed with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. "I don't know you, and while your weapon is lovely--I'm not in the mood to share bunks. You understand."

"Them dog fighters? Always fancy 'em among the worst of the worst." The accent might have been vaguely Scottish once upon a time, but it's grown up in the New York erosion, gaining a heavy inner-city clip. The large man takes a deep pull of the whiskey, then offers the bottle out and over by way of greeting. "I ain't here to sleep, champ. Man I work for you wants to talk to you. About a job, a good'un, so he tells me."

The Butcher doesn't waste time with the hard sell. There's an almost jovial rose to his cheeks, despite sadness in eyes that have seen too much on the far side of the tracks. "Consider me.. a specialized talent scout." Which is a polite way of saying superpowered vigilantes have a much harder time tearing him apart, if the mood takes them. It's a dangerous world out there.

Xavin's eyes momentarily widen, then narrow to razor-sharp points; he casts a quick glance over his shoulder to scan for obvious tails - more out of learned habit, than any expectation of finding anyone - then takes a small step back to adopt a somewhat more defensive posture. His arms are still hanging at his sides, but the fingers of his left hand begin to curl around an invisible sphere; even if the Scottish scout is here without any forewarning of the Skrull's capabilities, it's a tough gesture to miss.

"Just awful," he agrees, tone laden with suspicion. His eyes flick to the flask when its offered, and while he doesn't make any move towards it initially, the mention of a job is enough to replace at least some of that suspicion with genuine curiosity. His hand doesn't unclench, but one eyebrow does go up, and after mulling it over for a few moments, he accepts the drink--by flicking the sphere to capture it within, then drawing it through the air to his waiting hand.

"What kind of job? My talents are..." His eyes drift to the axe, and his thoughts to the room full of men who believed they were a match for the boy with earthen skin.

"--'specialized' is as good a word as any," he quietly decides, punctuating it with the same sort of long, lingering gulp he witnessed the Butcher taking--which is closely followed by him spitting out a mouthful of whiskey and coughing violently.

At least he has the presence of mind to encase the flask in another bubble and lob it back at the Butcher while he does so--albeit erratically.

"Specialized's as good a word as any." The frank and convivial axeman re-echoes an echo. And pauses for a hearty chuckle at Xavin's expense as the Skrull fails to hold his liquor. The bearded messenger strokes his chin, "I'm the wrong man to ask about the details, kind of prey we hunt... best to keep a real tight ship. All I know is the sorts you've been targetting, boss figures you might be eager for some bigger game. If you are, well. You just gotta let me know right now."

The whiskey is plucked back from the air, and tipped back swiftly. A wad of bills, twenties and fifties, is cut into a smaller stack, which is held out to Xavin, "Otherwise, consider our appreciation and have a real nice evenin', eh?"

It isn't more Earth money than Xavin's ever seen in one place, but that wad of bills is quite possibly the most he's seen that wasn't tied up in a bust of some kind; he certainly stares at it incredulously enough as he wipes the whiskey from his mouth with his uniform sleeve.

Of course, another glance at the axe - not to mention the implied stalking - is all it takes to remind him that the Butcher's money might not be much cleaner--nevermind what it's being offered for. "I..." he murmurs, eyeing the offered bills and creeping further into the alley. He lowers his head and shuts his mouth after trailing off, weighing his options even as he closes in on the recruiter.

"--accept," he finally, quietly concludes, upon getting close enough to take the money by hand; his eyes remain fixed on it, rather than the Butcher, even as he adds, "I'm assuming that your--leader won't be waiting for me here tomorrow night?"

When Xavin accepts the money, agrees to the meeting, that eventuality was clearly planned for. A black Mercedes arrives at the mouth of the alleyway right on cue, tinted windows showing little of the suited driver within. The cowboy saunters drunkenly towards the car, motioning for Xavin to follow, "Alfie here'll take you to meet the boss. Keep your head, don't be a dumb asshole, and you'll come out fine whatever you do." It has the air of sage advice, as much as warning. Of course, if the likelihood of Xavin being an idiot were too high, they wouldn't be having even this conversation.

The gunfighter tips his hat to the alien, and pops open the back door. "All yours, chief." 'All', in this case, turns out to be a surprisingly well-stocked microbar built into the front seats along with a sturdy divider between the vigilante and the driver, and a well-equipped entertainment center to keep the passenger occupied in transit. 'In transit' is around a half hour of winding through back highways and then country roads just outside of Gotham, eventually turning into a gated estate a mile or so up an unmarked dirt road.

A few lights are already on inside the guest house, a little cottage on the outskirts of a grainfield and untamed forests beyond. Further up the drive, in darkness broken only by moon and star, looms a large main compound, clearly fortified to an experienced warrior's eye.

It's the little cottage that the Mercedes pulls up to, the window between Xavin and the driver rolling down, "Head on inside, kid." He'd offer something reaffirming, but what good would it do coming from the mobster driving one to the middle of nowhere?

Xavin's eyes snap up from the money to stare at the suddenly arriving car, and it isn't until his recruiter offers him that last bit of advice that he's able to wipe the surprise from his face. Upon reaching the door, he pauses momentarily to pocket the money - did his uniform always have pockets? - then climbs inside and promptly sets about fiddling with the entertainment system.

Hopefully for the driver, the partition between the two is sturdy enough to filter out the dubstep that thrums in the backseat for the next thirty minutes.

Despite his choice of music, the alien is more focused on studying the world passing by his window than dancing--especially once the darkened estate comes into view. When the car finally stops, his jaw is set, and with a firm nod to the driver, he slides out and briskly makes his way inside. Just as in the alleyway, his hands are loose and ready to draw invisible armaments from the air the moment it seems that things might go bad.

Not gawking at the interior will take some willpower, but surely, his military discipline will be up to the task.

Alfie has one job tonight: drive Xavin to the rendevous, and keep the Skrull from asking too many questions. It helps that the driver doesn't really know anything of relevance to this outside the location for the meet. Not its purpose, not the nature of this costumed operative-- though he's worked for Jackie Estacado long enough to give Xavin ample respect. Seen some shit, and all. The guesthouse opens into an entryway with a descent into a cellar that's well-stocked with aging barrels, and forward into a well-appointed living space that's amply scented by the fresh cannoli arrayed on a platter on the coffee table.

An overhead light illuminates the surprisingly modern (given the locale) appointments, and a ceiling fan circulates the air pleasantly. Jackie sits, wearing a dark crimson shirt with the top two buttons undone tucked into fine, pressed black slacks and matching Italian leather shoes, in a high-backed and well upholstered easychair, tapping one finger against the other and awaiting his guest. "'ey, come on in, grab a seat, have a snack." The convivial introduction sounds shortly after the front door closes behind the alien vigilante.

The rest waits for Xavin to fully arrive, to take in the surroundings. "Living out of an alleyway, busting down mooks from the bottom rung up. Not that it isn't noble and all. Some of those scumbags need it the most." Beat. "But your skills.. aims.. might be just what I'm lookin' for to shut a whole mess of scum off at the source." Might as well be up front about it.

A small smile crosses Xavin's lips when he enters the underground living area; his host's seeming dedication to security is admirable, and the smell of fresh cannolis only sweetens the reveal. At Jackie's invitation, he wipes the smile from his face, and with a briskly uttered, "Thank you," bee-lines to the cannolis to grab one.

Scratch that, two; beating up dog fighters is a great way to build an appetite, as it so happens.

Once he's got his pastries, he settles into a chair opposite Jackie and gingerly sets them atop an invisible platter a couple feet in front himself. His posture is rigid as the mobster speaks, and it isn't until the job is laid out that he speaks up himself to reply, "It's an honor to have my prowess recognized--even if I'm still not entirely sure how it was." A beat passes as he cocks his head curiously to one side. "Or which skills you're after, exactly; I have many." Lifting a cannoli from the air, he adds, "This is a very well furnished bunker, by the way; I'm impressed," almost as an afterthought before taking a bite.

"Can't take credit for... this one, I'm afraid." The subtle emphasis on the word 'this' seems to bring a bit of a smile to Estacado's face, and he leans back in the seat, glancing out past Xavin momentarily-- though of course the skrull was not followed. "Belonged to a moonshiner an' pimp who works for a kingpin out of Gotham. He took a bit of a trip, wound up decidin'... it was time to retire." Just what shade of true it is, that's left hanging in the air. Jackie doesn't flinch.

"This chooch's boss, even more of a two-timing scumbag than him-- an' that's sayin' a piece, right there. How do you feel like hunting some /big/ game, kid? Drop 'em so hard they don't even see where the hit came from. Take a whole big nest of that good ol' black-as-pitch scum and villainy off the streets wholesale." Estacado pauses in his pitch to light up a smoke, the air recyclers taking surprisingly good care of it.

The shadowy Don eyes Xavin over the burning cherry, momentarily reflecting in amber eyes, "Maybe step up a little in the world while you're at it. Started by presumin' you could use someplace nice to lay low." Or bring the ladies. Not to mention the kinds of allies and victims the life of a vigilante brings.

Xavin nibbles at his cannoli while he listens to the Don, though his steady rhythm of biting, chewing and swallowing is briefly interrupted when the former owner's 'retirement' is mentioned; he ends up squinting at Jackie with a mouthful of pastry for a few moments before swallowing it and that pimp/racketeer's fate with a slight dip of his chin.

When Jackie lights up, Xavin sets the cannoli on its invisible tray and suggests, "Infiltration and decapitation," as he brushes crumbs from his hands so that he can fold them in his lap. It's Skrull Military Tactics 101, and while Xavin's training was more focused on direct engagements due to his powers, there isn't a Skrull alive who isn't familiar with the concept. He begins to open his mouth to say something further, but Jackie beats him to the punch--and, in doing so, ensures that the alien's mouth remains agape, at least for the moment.

"I--my camp--" he stammers as he tries to wrap his mind around the notion. "--of course, if you insist--" He breathes out sharply, then tries to affect a neutral, disaffected expression as he finishes, "What did you have in mind? Something to help sell my cover, I assume." After taking a beat to glance around at the furnishings, he quietly adds, "Making it look--hospitable won't be part of the assignment, will it? Decorating is not one of my many skills."

There's a singular nod to indicate the reinforced door, currently ajar, at the back of the living space. "Panic room." He indicates. Inside? Well, it looks like the lair of a private detective, conspiracy nut, or serial killer. Every aspect, or very nearly so, of the day to day life and personal history of a man named Holland Oates. "Associates called him Dutch." Jackie informs Xavin, rising gracefully and pacing towards the intel lair.

"You want the job, you're gonna take the three days he's still out of town to memorize everything about him, an' perfect his face. Little while after that, you'll take his meetings, set things the way we need 'em, and put a very dangerous dickhead in a vulnerable place." While undermining the security and taking measure of affiliated operations, by the sound of things.

"I'll make sure you have as much operational support as you need, I look out for my guys. Phase One's sneak an' peak-- we'll pull out the nails once we know where they are. You'll have extra hands for that part."

Xavin hops to his feet to follow after Jackie, cannolis bobbing along behind him. How much intel a given Skrull soldier might get before infiltrating an enemy force varies; other spies and advance scouts do what they can to provide intel on important targets, but it's never a given that such dossiers will be complete--and sometimes, when on the ground intel is lacking enough they are forced to fall back on information gleaned from detainees, or - if they're truly desperate, and their target is sufficiently unsecure - the very people that they're meant to replace.

Xavin has heard - and read, as part of his studies - plenty horror stories of assignments gone wrong due to faulty intelligence, so when he steps into this shrine to the life of Holland Oates, his jaw drops and his heart about skips a beat. As he moves into the middle of the room, he does a slow turn to take it all in, already scanning the odd document or photograph to start getting a sense of the man he's about to become.

"Will I have a chance to meet them?" he wonders mid-twirl. "My other hands?" Beat. "My fellow soldiers?" Upon stopping to face the dark Don, he makes a broad gesture and continues, "Are there recordings, too? Audio, video, anything; the more like I him I can sound, behave--be, the better my chances of avoiding his associates' suspicion." He turns, with that, to study a photo of the man; as soon as he does, a new thought occurs to him, and without turning to face Jackie again, he quietly voices it:

"Will I need to make sure that there aren't any loose ends, before he's replaced?"

"There should be a few recordings in with the intel, too. You don't need to stay deep on this, if it goes to plan." Holland is just the access point. High enough to matter, low enough for no one to care -that- much about him. "Guy like this, the bigger names mostly come to to bark orders and push their own agenda. Play your cards right, most of what you gotta do will be listenin'." Jackie's had to go into no shortage of situations not knowing what he needed to know, himself-- might be why he's a fan of due diligence, now.

"When we get ready to move, folks'll meet and we'll work out the details. For now, settle in, start goin' over things. Made sure the house is stocked. Oh, and kid." Jackie tosses a fairly hefty keyring Xavin's way, "The main house is the Dutchman's. Make yourself at home." The cottage atop the hideaway? Just far, far more inconspicuous on the off chance someone is watching the grounds.

Someone besides the skittering creatures summoned up from the Darkness, of course, keeping the perimeter secure around Jackie and his new cohort.

Without looking up from picking through intel, Xavin raises a hand to catch the keys--in a bubble, a couple feet away from himself. That the mission will be a short term one is something of a relief - his posture certainly got more relaxed upon hearing that - but that's no reason to slack on prepping for it.

"Understood; I'll do my best to be unremarkable," he resolutely promises, swallowing right afterwards. After a lifetime of drills and training, it's his first real mission, from a real superior(okay, employer) with real intel, and real support from professionals, rather than friends; the money and roof over his head are almost bonuses, by compare. "Thank you--sir." After locating a DVD with footage of Oates, he turns to Estacado and holds a hand out for a shake. "You won't regret giving me this opportunity."