2013.07.11 - A Drink with a VERY old friend

It was 6:30pm in New York City. The Scrap Iron Club was open from 4am to 2am most days of the week. Crowds would come and go, sometimes an old hero in full costume would show up for a drink, or to socialize. Occassionally tourists would bother them for autographs, but more often than not, it was an 'old heroes' club filled with regulars ranging in age from geriatric, to not as young as they look. Tonight the bar is mostly empty, the dinner rush hadn't begun, and the few patrons in here were scattered about at different tables, or booths. One patron sits at the bar, wearing a full head mask, with his Fedora balanced precariously on his knee, and his mask pulled up to reveal only his nose and mouth. He's nursing something brown in a glass, and smoking a filterless cigarette. The Silver Ghost has, apparently returned to town. One of those 'older than he looks' patrons does enter, and he must know the place's rules and regulations as he doesn't bother putting out his cigar, nor does he let it die a natural death. He's dressed in a button down shirt, slacks; looking very much like any other man one might see on the street, or rather -not see-. The only real remarkable thing about this newly arrived is an eyepatch. And the fact that he's greeted when he comes in the door by various people seated at tables. Director Nick Fury crosses the distance to the bar, and half settles into a seat, making a grab for some of the nuts on the bartop. "Whatever you've got on tap. Can't stand the bottled crap." Looking across now, Nick's gaze lingers for a moment, taking in mask, fedora.. and his voice is low, "Little warm for that, isn't it?" The Ghost looks toward Fury, looks to the mirror, doubletakes back to Fury, and his visible mouth grins "Well, if it aint Sgt. Fury...now that's one face I never thought to see again, let alone in person." he says and shrugs. "Haven't decided yet if showing my face 'round town's a good idea." he says "Kinda hard to explain how a dead man can walk around, y'know?" he says "not that anyone'd probably recognize me these days..." he says and finally shrugs, removing the rest of his mask. This was the Scrap Iron club after all, people respected secrets around here. The moment recognition hits, that's one thing. A name, sure. But Sergeant? Way back. Nick takes a good long look at the man as the 'big reveal' happens, and as the mask inches off, the cigar is pulled out from between his lips, and a smile grows. "Holy shit." There's a fine 'how do you do?'. "Look who it is." He barks a laugh and extends his hand warmly, a genuine gesture. "No need explaining things 'round here. No one cares. Okay, not true. People care, but not like that." He takes a deep breath and continues, "It's Director Fury now. Was Colonel." It's not a long breath before he finally gets out, "How the hell are you, Carmichal?" Carmichal just offers that somewhat nonchalant smug, his eyes showing that life after the war hadn't been kind to him, and his current predicament was a little more than he expected to handle, but was handling it as all good former spies, and soldiers did. He lifted his scotch, downed it, and tapped the bar for a refill, before answering Fury "Every drink makes it a better day, Fury, takes the sour taste outta the mouth, and reminds me of better days." he says "Wasn't sure you'd remember me, to be honest, though I'd heard you were still around. Same with Cap..." he says "I'm still reelin', man...that's the truth of it.." he says "Cap? Yeah.. saw him the other day, as a matter of fact," Nick leans back and reaches for the glass of beer when it's set in front of him. "He's keeping himself busy." Lifting the glass, the Director offers a silent toast before he takes the first swallow there. Then a second one before he sets it down once again. "Kidding? Some stuff I remember from back then then I do now. Now, though, I've got people to help me remember. And computers. And the damned leashes." With that, he pulls out his phone, and looks disgustedly at it. "Blessing and a curse." Setting it back onto his hip in its box, Nick looks sideways at the blast from the past that is there. "You on the rolls now? Or playing it alone? I could use a guy like you, but I'd rather not have something hanging over your head to do it." Carmichal listens for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Nope, been considering going to one of those registration offices and getting my name back out there..." he says "but, I did some of that searching the google thing at the public library a couple days, and couldn't find any information about myself." he says "I mean nothing...went down to the court house, paid off a flunkie to look me up, turns out I was 'presumed dead' in 1951..." he says "Honestly I ain't figured out yet, if it's a good thing or not to stay that way." he says and then pauses "A job? I could use something useful, Fury, but I've been out of the game so long, I'm not sure how 62 year old training's gonna be much use to you...I'm game though." he says. What did he have to lose? A whole lotta nuthin' really. "You should." And that's his studied, and professional opinion. "I'm one of those that likes things all in order. Except for those that can't possibly step to the right drum." Nick snorts softly and retakes his beer, and after a couple more draughts, almost empties it before its set upon the bar, along with a couple of bills pulled from a pocket. "Could be you had a friend out there," Nick mentions a little offhandedly, a shrug accompanying the words. "Lets you make the man you want to be again. I'll take you for SHIELD in a New York Minute. What you've got there, your '62 year old training' is still good today. Everything is the same, only moreso? That's what they say, anyway." Pushing his chair away from the bar, Nick pulls a card from his pocket to hand it to the newly awakened(?). On it is the emblem of 'SHIELD', along with his name, 'Director Nick Fury'. And contact information. On the back- his cellphone number. "Call me. For anything. We take care of our own." With that, the Ranger from decades ago retrieves his cigar and puts it in his mouth once again with a smile. With something a little less than a snappy salute, he turns about and heads for the door. Time to go.