2012-08-16 Grime

It has been a good week for Clint utilizing his resources to uncover leads on cases. First he was able to find someone who knew information about Zombots, and then that DEA contact he tapped for information on the narcotic he was tracking in Dublin? Also called in. Of course, technically SHIELD closed their book on that particular line of investigation, but that's never stopped Clint before in terms of digging his nose where it doesn't necessarily belong.

And besides, he has friends! He told Natasha that once he got any information about the dangerous narcotic he was tracking that he'd let he know. So he did, and also informed her that he used his DEA contacts to set up a meet with the main manufacturer of the product, giving SHIELD unofficial first touch on the case, with an understanding they would report their findings back to Clint's DEA contact. Then Doug was offered the chance for a little field experience. Short drug-trafficking recon mission, low-risk if everything goes smoothly. Clint doesn't mention the bit where it is officially unsanctioned, but hey, what the probie doesn't know won't kill him. Most likely.

So now we shift our scene to Brooklyn, namely a series of abandoned housing projects near the edge of town. For the most part, these are husks made primarily for squatters to find relatively comfortable quarters, while the local officials turn a blind eye. But one squat brickstone has been serving a rather more devious purpose, according to Clint's contact. Namely, the primary plant for the highly toxic and addictive hallucinogen that has been spreading across Europe at rapid speeds. Clint made a contact with the manufactorer, using his cover identity from Dublin, Miles Dravish, drug peddler and general hoodlum. Currently dressed in a truly offensive Affliction t-shirt and jeans, as well as a ruddy beard and hair dye that more or less conceals his true blonde colors, he glances towards his fellow agents. "Everyone have their identities straight, yeah?" he asks, already falling into his thick Irish draw he spent week perfecting while across the pond.

Natasha Romanoff is not quite herself. Today she is a creature of a scientific bent. Doctor Siobhan Reilly is a chemist who is here to test the purity of whatever is brought to the meet. She is dressed a step above Clint's character, in dress pants and a blouse, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and glasses perched on her nose. She carries a silver case, supposedly of testing materials. "Ready," she says quietly.

And Doug, well, Doug is not having much difficulty looking mildly squirrely. /This/ is not something he's ever done before, and honestly, the opportunity to openly fidget and look anxious is a welcome change from what he's become used to. Even if the knit cap on his head is a bit warm for August, the baggy t-shirt and jeans help make up for it a bit. "I'm not going to say it," 'Liam Cassidy' murmurs in an expectedly pitch-perfect Irish accent, glancing between the two. "I'll think it, but I won't say it." He has a bad feeling about this.

Clint clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth as everyone falls into their rolls and nods his head. Picking up his pace slightly, he slams his fist against the door of the brickstone and waits. And waits. And waits some more before the door opens just wide enough for the chain that holds it to catch. "Yes? Yes? The fuck you want?" a heavily accented voice asks as an eyeball peeks out at the trio, eyes darting over. "Who sent you? You ain't no fucking cops are you, because if you are you have to tell..." The accent is hard to place; definitely middle-eastern, and fairly thick. Some freakish mutant linguists might recognize it as a Persian accent, but who would be that specific?

Clint is quick to put up his hands. "We're cool, we're cool. Danny called you, about wanting some of the Grime?" He glances over his shoulder to make sure his partners are suitably unassuming. "We ain't no narcs man, just here to get some of ours. We're loaded too," he explains before nodding towards Doug, the signal to break out the rather large wad of cash he was meant to store in those baggy jeans.

Natasha stays silent, because as a woman, in dealing with Middle Eastern males, it's best if she not speak if at all possible. Stoning of women is still acceptable in some countries. It gives her the opportunity to keep her body turned towards the discussion, so the pendant on her necklace, and it's tiny camera, can record things.

Doug is quick to go rummaging around in his pockets before he comes up with a thick, bound wad of cash. He taps Clint on the shoulder with it before passing it over, with a brief look to the eyes in the door before averting his eyes. He, too, stays quiet for now, simply making mental notes of the things he notices, and simply rubs at his arms as if cold.

Clint takes the cash and holds it up, even rifles through the bills. "See this band, mate?" he says, as he finishes flashing through the hundreds. "Fifty thou, for as much Grime as you can spare." He passes the money back towards Doug and shrugs his shoulders. "So guess how much you want to make a stack tonight. Up to you."

"You not my mate," the man behind the door is quick to counter, eyes flitting between Clint and his two silent accomplices. "None of you are, and I certainly don't trust no bitch." Still, he closes the door and after a few clicks, it opens, unlatched. "Come in, stay there, I get the grime," he barks, pointing at a trio of what look flea infested couches. The inside of the 'factory' is as disgusting as you'd expect, with bugs visibly skittering across the ground. While the trio comes in, their dealer hurries off to the other room. Soon enough, a conversation can be heard from the other room, afar and in Farsi. The following is translated for anyone might speak or understand that Persian language of choice.


 * "Papa, we got someone here for the Grime."|

This leads to a long silence, and then an extended argument about where these big-stack dealers came from, and if they can be trusted. For his part, Clint is staying OFF of those couches and waiting, gaze caught on Doug for any information he can subtly share with the rest of the group.

Natasha steps aside to let both men precede her into the building. She dips her head slightly, not making eye contact with any of the men, as she follows her group in. She stands behind them a few paces, as is appropriate to not offend their contacts. She doesn't even flinch at being called a bitch.

Very quietly, Doug mutters to himself as he follows Clint inside and finds himself a /vaguely/ clean-ish bit of wall to lean against. He looks down to the floor and brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck, and continues quietly muttering to himself. Now, however, he's offering a hushed translation of what he can overhear into the mic on his watch. He keeps an eye on the door, ready to lapse back into random mutterings about the fleas and money if he sees signs of the men returning.

After a few more moments of arguing, a heavy set of footprints follows behind the lighter original, with a rather heavy set Persian 'gentlemen' emerging from the basement, bald with a heavy beard. He glare from one to the other before landing on Clint. "You the big man here?" he asks, his accent even thicker than his father's. "The grime, it not for sale. Not to you three."

Clint frowns, putting his hands out defensively. "The fuck you on about, mate? I got money, you got product, let's do business, yo."

"NO BUSINESS!" the man yells loudly, throwing his hands around. "No with you...you..." He seems searching for the proper epithet, before his son interjects with a nervous question.


 * "You think they know about the product? About the mutie?"|

The father gives his son a firm stare, before glancing back towards the trio. "You. Three. Go. Now."

The Widow stays still, both hands on the handle of the box, which has an odd siding to it. It almost looks like her bracers, if they were unrolled. She waits for the word from Hawkeye to make any moves. There is more than just chemistry equipment in the case. Her bracers form the outside. The handle is actually part of one of Clint's collapsible bows. There are arrows and guns in the false bottom as well.

Doug does very well right up until the son's question. He can't entirely hide the little glimmer of recognition on his face when he understands the words, and there's nothing he can do about the way it makes him pause and cast a questioning, concerned look to Clint. Maybe he'll be lucky and won't be the only one who understands Persian, or the men will mistake it for simply being caught off-guard by how the deal has gone. But he's not budging until Clint and Natasha do, and even then, he is now feeling a little more invested in figuring this out than he likely should.

Clint frowns a bit at that demand, glancing towards his team, first Natasha, and then Doug, when he sees that...concerned look. Frowning, he looks back towards Papa. "Okay. You don't want to give us a lot of product," he mutters, reaching into his own pocket, pulling out a Benjamin and holding it up. "What does this get us?"

Papa frowns slightly and pushes up against Clint. "You trying star' something...mate?" he threatens, and from behind him is the distinct sound of a 'CLICK'. Gun cocked.

Clint raises a brow and then just smiles. "Well...since you asked," he says evenly, his accent faltering just slightly as he reaches a hand behind his back as well, flashing two fingers three times to the agents. All are trained what that signal means. Showtime.

In one smooth motion, Natasha pulls the case up to catch it between her wrists on the sides, so the handle rests in Clint's hand behind his back. As he hauls on the collapsible bow it pops out, the bracers release snapping around the Widow's wrists, and the case falls to the floor at her feet, the false bottom popped open and arrows and guns available to both men. She levels the Widow's Bite at the gunman and fires off a blast, hoping to stun him long enough for the boys to arm themselves.

Doug is still not entirely comfortable with guns, but it doesn't stop him from grabbing one from the case the instant it's opened. He tries to move before his brain has a chance to start over-thinking things like it does in the training facility, giving Widow time enough to shoot before he surges forward -- towards the son. He trusts Clint to go for the bigger guy, but the younger one clearly knows something, and he wants to ask him a few things.

Situations like this have happened enough to Natasha and Clint (often due to Clint's actions) that actions like this are second nature. The Sting causes the man to stumble back, his loaded shot harmlessly going off to the ceiling. Clint ducks down and bring up his bow, actually using it uppercut the man, staggering him even more before he gets a boot to the face. Papa's taking a nap.

Meanwhile, the sudden flash of action catches the son off guard, staggering backwards and tripping over his own feet before he finds the armed Doug hovering over him. |"Shit man shit, fuck me,"| he says in his native tongue, glancing at his father and then back to the three agents. "Fuck you man, you said you weren't cop," he spits at Clint.

"He's not a cop," the Black Widow deadpans. She strides over to the prone son and pulls a stiletto blade from where it was holding her bun intact at the back of her head. She gives him a cold little smile, that is far more terrifying than friendly.

That was quick. Doug likes quick. He keeps the gun aimed at the young man, studiously ignoring the voice in the back of his head that's trying to figure out if the kid is older than he was when he was shot himself. |"I would prefer not to,"| he replies calmly, before he raises a questioning eyebrow and smoothly slides back into English. "You mentioned a mutie. Would you please tell us about them?" Be polite. Be polite. Coulson said to always be polite.

Between having a gun and a knife in his face, the son is in a fairly defenseless position. He glances from Doug to Widow and then back to Doug. |"You speak Farsi?"| he says incrediously, before shaking his head. |"Whatever, you'll find out for yourselves."| he says before switching back to English. "Go down and see for yourself."

Clint moves up slowly to Doug and taps him twice on the shoulder before relieving him of the sidearm and keeping it trained on the man. "I'll stay with our friend here while you two go and investigate," he says, calmly, the gun firmly aimed at the man's head.

Natasha gives Clint a brief nod, then begins moving deeper into the building, making sure the way is clear for Doug. She doesn't want their star trainee getting blowed up on an unsanctioned mission.

Doug doesn't wanna get blowed up either. He glances over his shoulder at the tap before he nods to Clint, lowering his own gun as he moves aside and falls into step behind Widow. Once they've moved away, he says quietly, "Something about a mutant and the product. The older one made him stop talking before he said too much." Best if Natasha knows what they may be walking into, after all.

As the pair of agents get closer to the door in the far side of the room, they begin to hear the soft sound of a engine running; at the doorway, the distinct sound some sort of pumping aparatus is heard, just as a long rickety set of stairs to a basement are found. Down the stairs, the pair will find a dimly lit room with vials upon vials of think green salves; this is the product, "Grime", that Clint has been hunting down for weeks.

In the center of the room, strapped to what looks like a disused electric chair, sits a young man, a young mutant. His mutantdom is clear from his soft green complexion, as well as the fact that he has several small pods that ooze a dark green substance, then then slicks the entirety of his body. He's overweight, and naked at the moment, with several of his pods being hooked up to the pumping mechanism from before. The machine itself may be recognized as a milking aparatus for cows, jerry-rigged to pump directly into industrial sized milk bottles, assumably to be transfered later to the vials for distribution. The young man looks tired, barely able to keep his eyes open, with an IV attached to his arm as he pants for air. The air stinks, and on closer inspection it is clear that a hole has been cut beneath his chair and a bucket catches whatever waste he puts out.

It's impossible to tell just how long he's been here, but with the volume of product in the room? It's been a while.

"Do you think they might be synthesizing the drug from a mutant?" Natasha whispers back at Doug without any change in her expression. She's all focus. Her question is grotesquely answered by what they find in the room. "Oslayob syn!" she curses. You really don't want a translation of that.

Doug doesn't need a translation, and judging from his horrified expression, he agrees. He forgets himself and hurries into the room without looking around first, though he /does/ think to hurriedly bring his watch back to his mouth. "We're going to need a medic in here. And blankets."

As Doug draws close to the poor mutant, his head lulls from one side to the other, trying to focus on the other mutant as he smacks his dry lips. |"...are you an angel?"| he asks in Farsi, his voice dreamy and far away. It is likely the IV is not meant to provide nourishment but to keep the victim drugged and docile. He then looks over towards Natasha and offers a weak smile. |"I know you are..."|


 * "Rest now, you are safe. We will take you from the monsters,"| Natasha says to the mutant in soothing tones. She sets a gentle hand on his forehead as she adds for Doug, "I have seen many terrible things in my life. This is one of the ones bad enough to give me nightmares."


 * "I am not an angel. Just a mutant, like you,"| Doug replies apologetically to the poor young man, looking him over for any obvious injuries. Well, anything worse than likely needing a good sandwich. He glances to Natasha when she speaks and nods in agreement, making a bit of a face. "Should we remove the IV or wait for the medics to come?"

For the most part, other than the attachment to the equipment, and some redness around other pods that were clearly used at different points, and soreness aroud hsi wrists and ankles where he was strapped down, the mutant's body is mostly unharmed. He seems incredibly weak however, most likely due to a combination of drugging and lack of physical activity for extended time.

"We wait for the medics. We don't know what drugs are in his system. There are some that will kill the subject if they are stopped suddenly without careful weaning." Subject. Strange terminology. But she is a product of the Red Room and she knows how these things go. She moves to begin carefully, and as gently as possible, shutting down the parts of the machinery that are taking the grime from the mutant.

Doug nods to Natasha and frowns. He hadn't thought of that -- but that's why he was there, to learn. While she deals with the machines, he simply stays with the mutant to make sure he's alright, glancing back towards the door. At least the matter of getting inside hadn't been too difficult.

Luckily for Natasha, the milking equipment is pretty self-evident in terms of how to use, as well as how to disengage. As it powers down, the pods that were being sunctioned from expand and toss of the ground limply. The mutant is able to breathe a bit more visibly, though his stare is still far-off, glassy. Drugged.

"Stay with him, Agent Ramsey. I need to see if they have any paperwork to indicate there are other labs, other prisoners, other machines," Natasha says in a low tone. She begins a systematic search of the building for any such things.

"Yes'm." Doug has no problem keeping his focus on the poor guy. He keeps the gun in his hand, though held down at his side and with proper trigger discipline, and regards him with a thoughtful tilt of his head. |"What's your name?"| he asks gently. He doesn't mind if he can't focus enough to respond. Asking just feels better than simply sitting and waiting, even if it does expose him a little more to the smell.

The cursory search of the area doesn't find anything to suggest there are other mutants that are being used in this way, but a ledger is found of big-ticket customers. Hundreds-of-thousands of dollars worth of the grime, being shipped across Europe and South America, even a few pockets of the SouthWest. Nothing really in New York. Don't shit where you eat.

The mutant smiles slightly at Doug. |"Arezo,"| he says, quietly, weakly. |"Arezo Noormorabi. I came to America to be famous. My uncle promised he'd make me famous,"| he says, before the drugs take over and he fades back to a half-sleep state.

The ledger and any other paperwork the legal eagles will require gets photographed, every page, every name, every transaction. The Widow turns the pages with gloves, but doesn't otherwise touch them, so as not to contaminate the evidence. The she returns to Doug to wait with him. "Ask him, if he can respond, if the substance they are taking from him, can be returned to him somehow." If not, she will push for it to be destroyed, rather than studied. Out of respect for what he has gone through as a "subject."

While the agent continue to investigate the scene, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs are heard, soon revealing a small crew of SHIELD medics who get to quick work assisting the victim. Shortly after them is Clint Barton, who frowns at the horrific sight, actually covering his mouth. "Christ," he mutters, before storming upstairs again.

It takes about an hour, but Arezo is eventually rushed to a nearby hosipital. In the days to follow, he starts to heal and get better slowly but surely. He eventually informs police and federal agents that his uncle and cousin lured him to states under the promise of fame and fortune, only to use his mutant ability to create psychoactive, toad-like secretions to start their own market of a unique, unsynthesized designer drugs.

The sellers are tried for drug trafficking and related human rights violations. The buyers from around the world are arrested under charges of aiding with the torture of Arezo.

Eventually, Arezo stays in New York.

He is currently enrolled in acting and singing lessons.