2012-12-28 Highway to Hell, part 1: Negotiating

How exactly Shift had escaped from Latveria, with a handful of prisoners in tow, remains a mystery. One could never quite understand the means by which Victor von Doom made his decisions, and it was hard to believe that such an inexperienced mutant, a borderline mercenary, could have pulled it off. Regardless, Shift had, indeed, managed to make his way out of the castle, after getting separated from his teammates, and he had managed to take a handful of prisoners with him. There hadn't even been enough time for him to debrief when they were all released from the country, for he'd been forced to fight off a pair of Doombots single-handedly, and his injuries had been severe.

Regardless, he'd gone against the better advice of those at the secret X-Men Base, and left Westchester County on his motorcycle, headed for New York. Headed for Otto's Shrunken Head, the quirky, small bar hidden away in the Lower East Side. The kind of place where freaks, mutants, and secret agents have a tendency to hang out.

Both Domino and Pete Wisdom have received messages from Kwabena's scrambled cell phone. Quite simple messages, in fact, bearing the word "Drink" followed by the address for Otto's Shrunken Head. That is precisely where he can be found, dressed in the facade of a leather-clad biker at a recessed booth for four, with his second glass of bourbon curled between the gloved fingers of one hand and a lit cigarette perched between the fingers of the other.

The message almost went ignored. It isn't that Dom has anything better to do with her evening, alcohol generally rates high on her list of fun ways to pass the time. It's that she doesn't want to be seen, would rather cut herself out from the rest of reality as much as possible and still find a way of getting paid. Then again, Shift hadn't been around when things got -real- ugly for the rest of them. Oddly enough, he's probably the one person that she would be the most willing to run into again after that night.

In the end, something within her defenses gives.

Dressed in her usual merc garb, complete with black and purple shades, she drifts in from the cold evening air and finds the individual that had sent her that message. She's here now, but it's fairly clear that she's not looking to be the best of social company. One seat is claimed for herself, another is claimed for her boot-strapped legs. "Looks like you made it out of there alright."

Without turning his head, Shift monitors Domino when she enters the bar. Mismatched eyes follow her until she has her seat, and with a simple hand motion toward the bar with two fingers, he calls for two more glasses of whiskey. Not for him - for her to catch up. At this close range, the dark tone of his skin can no longer hide the many discolorations, thin lines that stretch across his face and bald head, from where the Doombots had sliced him up. Undoubtedly more of those healing lacerations are all over his body, given how he'd chosen to take them out... infiltrating them in smoke form, then simply solidifying while inside of the machines.

Undoubtedly there will be a few scars.

"Barely," answers the Ghanaian. The tone of his voice is rather bland, as if he were still at least slightly bothered by the fact that he wasn't there to fight alongside of them. "When we got sepahrated, my only goal was to get dem out, alive." A slow nod is given to the cocktail waitress as she sets two glasses before Domino, and he refrains until the waitress is gone. "You seem to be holding up well."

The silence favors Domino's side of the table next, not muttering a word until after the drinks have arrived, and the first one gets a hefty portion slammed down her throat with barely a grimace. Already the conversation has settled upon the Latverian operation. It's going to be a long night, these two glasses are only going to be the beginning for her. Unless she decides to storm out before you. It's still an option.

Mention of her own well-being gets selectively ignored. Physically, sure, she's doing wonderfully! Never better. Mentally and emotionally, completely different story. "It was supposed to be a rescue op, you stuck to the priority," she pointedly replies, almost in a curt tone. "Question now is whether you've figured out what to do with yourself or not. We're done with that place, it's well past time we all moved on."

Someone's grumpy tonight.

Reluctantly, Dom adds in "You've still got that one offer open." She doesn't elaborate on the details, but it's also the only offer that she's yet given you. Especially without Betsy being involved.

It hadn't been an easy operation, to be sure, but he did have a fair idea of what might have gone down. Specifics, no, but generalities, yes. Throughout the silence, Shift diverts his eyes to study the patrons of the bar. He and Domino fit in well here, for they weren't -normal-. Not in the way they dressed, not in the way they looked, and certainly not in who they were, but it couldn't be said that this was a bar made for them. They still had to remain discreet, to some degree.

"That's not de only option open to me," comes a quiet response. "But if your option doesn't involve magicians, airships and killah robots, den I'm in." His eyes flick back over toward you while he lifts the glass once more, blowing a cloud of smoke upward and away from you. Smoking in the bar was illegal, sure, but the bar keep doesn't seem to be bothered. Others are smoking in true scofflaw fashion, flipping the proverbial bird toward the man, the law, and the government with every nicotine-laced exhale.

"So, what -do- you have in mind?"

Normal's no fun, anyway. Falling back to silence once more, Dom pulls the shades away from her eyes and perches them upon the top of her head, it's dark enough in here without having to mask everything in an even gloomier hue. "Congratulations," she flat-out replies when you mention having other options available. "It's still the only one that you're going to get from me for a while. Roadtrip, out west, little to no sleep, ring any bells?"

She's already starting in on her second glass. "I've already been set back three weeks on this run, going to be leaving soon. I need to know if you're able to commit to this or not." Back when the offer had first been made she seemed almost happy to include you. Now, it's just another job. Take it or leave it, but whatever you do stay the heck out of her way.

Ah, yes. The roadtrip. Shift points his cigarette-wielding hand toward you, making that overplayed fake gunshot with two fingers toward you then mock firing. "Sounds like you need a personal assistant," he remarks, with a tone that suggests he's -not- volunteering for the job.

Another sip of bourbon is taken before he offers any kind of answer. "I'm still checked out on where I stand with murdah. How much killing is going to be involved, and who exactly will de shells be hitting?" Of course, he's not stupid enough to be asking for specifics. Not who specifically, but -who-. Drug dealers like Slee? Human traffickers like the ones in Jersey? White collar criminals in suits? Innocent railroad conductors? His needle his shifting, and he's not sure exactly how he defines the red.

Domino somehow manages to lean further back into her seat, arms folding together with drink still in hand. She doesn't look particularly amused. "There's a lot of shit that I need. Right -now- all I need is a concrete 'yes' or 'no' from you."

When you press for info the woman across the table from you smirks, though there's no positive emotion in the expression. "How the hell should I know? It's simple in theory. Usually is," she claims while holding a fist out upon the surface of the table with just the index finger extended. One target. Might make a person wonder what the heck she needs the assistance for. "In reality, it's impossible to know. Could be dozens. Gotta be able to roll with the punches, kid. I've got no moral hangups putting these guys down. No reason why you should. Unless you're pursuing other professions." Are you, for that matter? How long is she going to be able to count on you?

For a long moment, the African studies you through narrowed eyes. He finally takes that final drag of bourbon, then looks over toward the bartender and simply nods down with his eyes, twice, before setting the glass down. It should be noticed that the glasses are being filled with the best stuff the bar has, which isn't to say that it's the kind of bourbon Kanye West throws back on a cheap date, but it's still better than second rate swill by leaps and bounds.

"I don't -have- any odah professions," he retorts, before taking another drag of his cigarette and extinguishing it inside the empty glass. "What is de payout?" he asks, keeping his questions far more simple now.

How does one figure out what to pay you in a situation like this? You've very little experience, but you're harder than hell to kill. Extra pay for extra threat doesn't seem to matter as much with someone gifted with your particular talents. Domino knows what -her- rate would be. The same doesn't apply to you. It probably won't ever. At the same time it has to be competitive enough to keep your interest.

Of course, you came from tiger country. Been living on the streets. How much money would it take to make your eyes glaze over, to leave you throwing caution and better sense into the wind?

"Three G's," Domino declares after putting the pieces together in her mind. "It's a fucking home run for you if things go like I'd expect them to." And the best of luck to you if you want to try and search for something better. She knows how those odds are stacking up. "Driving, tracking, questioning, locating, terminating, smelling like exhaust, and eating shit that's terrible for you whenever we stop for fuel."

Almost immediately, the offer is scowled at. He could make one hundred times that busting any two-bit drug trafficker with half the muscle employed by now-convict Michael Slean. "I used to sling meth for twice dat in one night," he points out, before snatching the fresh glass of bourbon off the table. "But I'll take it. In part because I've got nothing bettah to do, in part because I'm hunting for experience." He tilts his glass your way, before throwing down the contents of his glass in one gulp.

"Oh, and one more thing," he adds. "I get fifty percent of radio control. No more, no less. I don't know what motivates you, but I'll be damned if I'm listening to KMFDM de whole way."

Close enough. Bait taken. Dom had been hoping, even counting on, you going for it for the experience. Maybe the monetary value isn't on par with the meth trade you had been a part of, she didn't know about that detail. Not that she can't still jab at you some for scoffing at such an offer, too. "It's not like you're going to have medical bills to pay at the end of the day, kid. But, hey, if you feel that I'm not giving you enough for your time then you're welcome to go right back to pushing drugs." Hang out with loser drug pushers and addicts, or hang out with -her.-

She could almost laugh. The radio..? -That's- your stipulation? "Fine. Have your gear prepped and ready, and don't be too ornery if you're called on at three in the morning."

Now all that's left to do is to see if she can't get a certain Audi back in time for the trip.

Silence. Point well made.

Scowl.

"You win dis round, Lady Luck." He leans back into his seat somewhat, no longer letting the offensive offer bother him, at least for now. "I'll be sure to put my pants on and kick the bitch out de -very moment- I get your call," he quips, before pointing the empty glass your way with one finger extended. "One suggestion - get your ass to Gotham and get back dat Audi. She's got action where it counts. If you need a tune-up, bring it to de warehouse." Seems he knows his way beneath the hood of a car, not just behind the wheel.

Without another word, he gestures toward your boots, which are clearly blocking his way from leaving. Something certainly -has- changed about him. Time spent at a secret base north of the city. Helping to invade Latveria. Getting help from brilliant scientists to keep himself from dying. Does a number on one's psyche, and it seems to have made him stronger.

Which is good, all said and done. Domino -wants- you to be a stronger person. If you continue to improve, she might be able to continue offering you job offers. You could become a valuable resource. And, above all else, she won't have to babysit your ass. The Lady Luck bit comes so very close to her verbally snapping back at you but when you offer to be ready to roll on her command without complaint, she allows it to pass.

Once more that humorless smirk returns. She's obviously in no hurry to relocate her legs, lifting them and shifting them aside with a deliberate amount of effort. She doesn't know of a single person that hasn't changed after passing through Latveria, the only concern is if it's change for the better or for the worse. So far it seems pretty clear which side won out with you. "By the way, if you try to play Bieber on my radio I'm going to throw your ass out onto the highway."

Halfway through sliding out of the booth, Kwabena makes it a point to pound a fist against those heavy boots. Nothing too violent, clearly friendly, clearly perturbed. "I haven't lost -all- self respect." A bill comes out of a jacket pocket, falling onto the table and clearly enough to pay for their drinks, perhaps a couple more if Domino fancies sticking around. As for Shift, within moments he's gone.