2013.06.28 - Interview with the Agent

It's been a few days since that cluster fuck of an op in The Club. Huntress is still sore and covered in more bruises than she'd care to admit to, hence wearing the honestly too warm for this time of year winter costume. Standing on a rooftop watching a particular restaurant, she waits for a known mook -- sadly one of the really low on the totem pole kind -- so that she can try to grill him for the whereabouts of the girl that Oracle is STILL trying to find. She's not about to admit that her ankle is still killing her after Billy Badass decided she needed to be thrown off a staircase. It's wrapped VERY tightly, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt. If she ends up having to do any serious running, it's going to really suck.

The important thing about being in the spy game was an appropriate air of mystery to your operations; if everyone knew how you did things, the men and women behind the covers and masks and codenames, you lost a lot of the respect that an air of mystery gave you... and most of the time, what you were /actually/ capable of didn't match what they thought you were.

In this case the air of mystery was achived simply by a rare drone overflight catching the right profile of costume and form and position (who else would be in a uniform like that waiting motionless on a rooftop for that amount of time?) and the building below them not exactly being well occupied. From the door to Huntress's rear there was a loud whistle, hopefully drawing her attention to the man in khaki's, a long sleeve shirt indicating he's a fan of the local Gotham football team. A bandana covers his face, and he doesn't look like he has any weapons visable.

When he's looked at, he throws a rock, sailing in an underhand throw, that stops right next to her. By the time she can take the rock and see the note attached, he's already gone. The note itself simply gives a room number, 1427, and the word, 'NOW.'

Huntress should have noticed the drone overflight, but she didn't. The weirdo in the khakis, team shirt, and bandana she can't miss though, and a snap shot reaction to the man sends a wooden bolt shattering against the roof access door fram just past his head. Then he's gone and she scoops up the rock he threw at her. Seriously? A rock? The hell, over? She pulls the note and looks at it, then at the door. Mr. Khaki had better have a DAMN good reason for this, or she'll give him a few new body piercings free of charge.

The walk down wasn't far; the room number itself was, conveniently, positioned on the top floor, and with a good view of the street itself that Huntress was trying to watch. It was also guarded by another person in similar clothing, a latina with a long sleeve shirt indicating she was a fan of some rap group that was popular with the 'hip' crowd back in Metropolis, jeans with a slight bit of bagginess to them. Her own face is covered by a bandanna, but a pattern might emerge when viewing this one. The group itself had tried to make themselves look like a street gang, but the clothin was too new, their mannerisms speaking less to 'streetwise' and more to 'well-trained'. The woman at the door itself was show with her hands folded behind her back, but as huntress approches, she smoothly moves both of them to a visable position, her right one held still and tense, as her left moves to knock three times on the door. After a second, it opens up, and the woman offers an invitation to enter with a wordless tilt of her head toward the open portal.

Huntress still has her crossbow in hand as she walks slowly and cautiously down the hall toward where the woman stands, though she keeps it pointed at the floor for the moment. Pausing in front of the chica, she studies her disguise for a momnet, picking up quickly enough that the garments are exactly that: a disguise. Then the door is opened and she's 'invited' inside. Okay, fine. With one last suspicious glare at the woman, she enters the indicated apartment with her crossbow now ready to fire. Her technique is reminiscent of what police officers do on TV shows, and thus probably not entirely effective. But at least she's on the alert, and ready to shoot anyone or anything that twitches.

The woman doesn't seem to be affected by having a crossbow pointing at her either... or otherwise she's very good at looking non chalant when staring death in the face. It might explain why one of her hands is stock still next to her, and why that pose is matched by Mr. Khakis, who seems to have taken up a position of watching Huntress from one of the corners, again without a weapon.

The apartment is obviously a studio that hasn't been lived in since sometime in the late 80s; worse, no one's really tried to clean it up, and it's probably labelled unsafe by some government agency or another due to rats or abestos or mold or anything else that made urban living hazardous. The fresh scent of disinfectent is clearly evident, and is probably a much more pleasing scent that what was there previous.

In the middle of the room, there's a folding table, a cheap one bought from a wharehouse store, and two folding chairs bought from the same. The one closest to Huntress is unoccupied. The one on the other side of the table has a man with jet black hair and brown eyes looking at the newest guest.

"I don't have a lot of time. You're going to ask who the hell I am and what the hell do I want. Any other incredulous questions we can get out of the way now?" His voice is clearly modulated, and that isn't something you can do in the field without both money and the contacts with good equipment.

"Yeah. I'm also wondering why you thought all of this cloak and dagger bullshit was necessary." Huntress keeps her crossbow ready. She doesn't any proof yet that these assholes don't belong the Corlione family or some other equally unsavory group. And she's not taking any chances. Especially considering who she was planning on 'questioning'.

Martin Kavanagh the man shurgs. "We'll add that as question number 2. QUestion 1. I can tell you who I'm not. I'm not the mob, the GCPD, the FBI, or a vigilante group. That should give you enough to narrow it down. Question 2, we're the type that relies on cloak and dagger. What, do you know anyone that would just walk up to you out in the open that wasn't dressed like some sort of circus sideshow?" He says, eyebrow arched a bit. "And the third question, why we're here. You were involved at an incident at a nightclub a few days ago. 'Nightclub' can be used loosely. During that time, some people were killed. People that I don't nessecarily miss, but whose deaths have got me somewhat concern, given how they were carried out. Don't tell me you weren't there. I know you were, and I don't have time to trot out the evidence. Did you notice anything about these people? Anything that might stand out from the standard criminal or vigilante element?"

Huntress hmphs at the man. He still haven't answered Question 1 to her satisfaction, but whatever. "You mean other than the sword-wielding asshole that threw me off a second story landing? I really didn't see much else since I was busy getting my ass handed to me." She glares at the man, as if silently daring him to complain.

The man doesn't complain at all, instead simply writing down that information as it comes forward. "You say he was weilding a sword. What was his level of proficency in it? Fair, good, excellent? Just given what you normally have to face. When he threw you down two stories, how easy was it for him to do that? Did his strength seem to be augmented or metahuman?" The questions are snapped off, and none of them have sarcasm attached. Though it might tell her exactly how much information the man has... which isn't much.

Huntress simply turns her glare up from roast to charbroil. "Fuck off, pencil pusher. You haven't given me ANY reason to be any kind of helpful."

The man looks up from what he's writing. "I suppose I haven't. That's mainly because I don't have many reasons to give. I can't exactly pay you for the goddamn interview, and for this sort of information, I couldn't justify an information exchange. So, really, it depends on exactly what type of person you are. And if you're standing on that rooftop trying to help people, or just because you like the scared look in a criminals face. Well, how about this. I'll give you another hint."

Martin Kavanagh points to the man standing off to the side. "That man is Agent Danzig. His collegue outside is Agent Grantville. We don't happen to use real names, and those are a bit temporary, I'll admit. Mine is not, however. I'm Agent Geiger. And this pitful little group I'm with is tasked with saving the world, much like you. Unlike you, it's our fucking job, and not a hobby. If you don't want to answer my questions, the door is behind you, but so far, neither of our organizations have managed to stop these people from getting killed or figure out why. If I get information from you, I might be able to change that. If I don't, we're going to see more buisnessmen and women shot in front of television cameras."

Huntress continues glaring at Agent Geiger's harsh words, then puts one hand to her ear. "HAL, you getting this?" She doesn't wait for Oracle's reply, instead deciding to give this douchenozzle a piece of her mind. "Look, Geiger, what I do isn't a hobby. And I don't get the luxury of pulling a paycheck, or having medical insurance. I go out there, every /fucking/ night, and I get my ass kicked, and then I swallow some pain killers and do it all over again. Because I /have/ to. And I really don't see how spilling my guts to you would help me in /any/ way. For all I know, you work for Corleoni. Or worse." Mandragora. She nearly says the name aloud, but has to stop herself.

Martin Kavanagh shakes his head. "Still doesn't change the fact that you decided to put on a costume one day and do that. Admirable, certainly, and maybe even responsible, ever since registration... but you aren't registered, are you? Not under that code name, and not under any other name we can tell. So it's a choice. And what that choice /lacks/ is respobsibility. If you screw up, the worst you have to deal with is looking yourself in the mirror every morning, and don't tell me that's the worst of it. Say what you will about your own morals and ethics pushing you toward this. Try having the mandate of every nation on Earth and the responsibility on carrying out that Mandate. And if you're good at it, you don't pass the buck. You have the option of taking off that uniform, or becoming something different the moment that becoems inconveient. We don't."

He moves to stand up quickly. "And that's one of the reasons I try to keep out fingerprints out of things like these, because I can't very well remove them once their on a place. But I am a man of contingencies, so I've tied up some valuable assests as bonafides."

He gestures to the window, and that's the point two figures appear on the fire escape. Unlike the people in this room, they're unrecognizable, even as a male or female. They view their surroundings through some very expensive night vision equipment, the body armor both slimline and reinforced, the assault weapons looking as if they just came from 10 years in the future. And the crest on their shoulders is unmistakable.

The man sits back down. "I don't work for Corleoni, or Falcone, or any of the families. They work for me, sometimes, but they don't know it, and I prefer to keep it that way. As I said before. For this, I can't promise you any sort of information sharing, but I'd like to hope you realize we're on the same goddamn side. Roughly speaking."

Huntress glances from Geiger to the two shapes out on the fire escape, and it takes her a moment to both place the emblem on their shoulders and recognize it for what it means. Oddly, this doesn't completely reassure her. "GOD. Why are you people always such assholes? Why can't you say who work for and get it over with?" She is TOTALLY going to tell Signore Fury about this, and she does NOT care that that sounds like tattling, even to herself. She does finally holster her crossbow at least.

Martin Kavanagh shurgs for a moment as he's sitting down. "I thought I already explained that. I don't like putting my fingerprints on something if I don't have to. We're on the same side, but that doesn't mean we use the same methods. There may be a time where it may help either you, or, hopefully, me to not know exactly what each one of us is up to. I'd much rather you go along thinking this was a Checkmate or Company operation. Not /lying/ to you, of course. Just sending you down the wrong road. Keeps my operations clean, and keeps you out of the loop. Perhaps the most important reason of all is we're fucking spies. Despite what every Bond film you've watched has told you, good fieldcraft is not walking up to every important person in a tuxedo and giving you're real name."

He taps his pad of paper with a pen. "Now then. Mind if I ask you one more time if you noticed anything unusual about the person that beat you up? Superhuman strength, any particular facial features or mannerism?"

Huntress crosses her arms, still very much put off by Geiger's comments. But, if he's truly SHIELD, it's hopefully for the best that she shares what she knows. "If I tell you what I can, what're you gonna do with that intel?" Like, do you plan to track that bastard down and make him pay for throwing her off the stairs and most especially for putting Dinah in the perfect spot to have HER knife hit the other lady in the BACK? 'Cause for that she'd happily spill her guts.

Agent Geiger shurgs his shoulders. "I learned not to make promises I can't keep to people who aren't going to be dead inside of a fortnight. It depends on the picture we put together. We need to know how these people are operating, what their motives are, and what their next move is. If we can track them, we can shut them down if they make the wrong move. Beyond that, well. There's pleanty of options we have, you know. A bit of misdirection might lead them into a trap, for instance, or they may be backers up the chain that need to be found. Lots of people like to take to terrorism to cover up true motives, esspecially these days. Everyone just calls a terrorist crazy when he blows up an oil refinery, but they're utterly convinced that he thinks what he's doing is just and true. No one looks to see if the nuclear energy industry is backing the Op.

He leans forward. "Why don't you tell me what you'd /like/ to do with it, And I can give you odds."

It would be only too easy to drop Mandragora's name here and now. But he's HERS to track down and deal with, and Huntress doesn't share. So she goes for the next best option. "That asshole caused /my/ knife to come within an inch of killing one of HAL's people. I don't tolerate shit like that, and he needs to PAY." She starts pacing, too agitated to simply stand in one place, especially as she starts relating the events of that night, focusing on what she can remember of the cloaked sword-wielding figure that was blocking access to the landing above the stairs. And, at some point while pacing and completely unconsciously, she stops trying to hide the limp that is just part of her reward for that night's efforts.

Martin Kavanagh writes the information all down as it comes out... though one might think, given the preponderence of micro recording devices, the writing was just theater, or perhaps a personal code. He looks up and takes notice of the limp itself... but doesn't call attention to it. Information was information, and if he didn't have to use it to pry for more, he wouldn't. When she slows down and wraps to a finish, he responds with more than a question. "Well, like I said before. I can't promise anything without looking at the big picture. Such a man may prove a more useful role behind bars, or interrogated, but why don't you tell me this." One might imagine there's something of a wolfish grin beneath the bandana that covers his face. "Do you think any of that... vigilante group you've come across are going to like you doing what you really want to do to him? Oh, sure, there's times when that 'subdue, not kill' code does come in handy. But you know in this case it doesn't. And if you want to see not just justice, but revenge... We know how to get what needs to be done, done." And he leaves it at that.

Huntress stares at Geiger for a long moment. "Break his fingers, break his knees, break his neck, or do all three. I don't care. These bastards need to learn that they can't fuck with Gotham." Hey, at least she managed to not add the word 'metahuman' in there, right?

Martin Kavanagh gives an aburt nod, and then snaps up his notepad for a moment. "And there's another difference between you and me. You want to clean up this city, and I can sympathize, I really do. But I'm paid to look at the big picture. And the fact of the matter is this needs to be controlled, because there's a lot of poor bastards out there looking at these murders and taking them at face value. 'Well', they're asking, 'So some rich pedophile got shot, and some mobsters got killed. SO what? They're doing what Gordon and those caped vigilantes never had the guts to." Hell, there's the question of how much they're fucking with Gotham if their primary target is mobsters. But they do it without control, without sanction. And we see two problems with that. First, that they will turn their ire on people whose crimes are only preceived, or who are innocent. And second, that this is all one big cover for something else."

He inclines his head toward the door. "Now, I think that person you might have been watching for could be close by. Maybe.. oh, I don't know. 4 and a half blocks away, caught by an unusually long stoplight? You better get to it. Oh, just one more thing." He says, tossing a cheap disposable cell phone over to Huntress. "That's not for you. That's for the women who seems to have access to our freqencies. I'd like to speak to her as well."

Huntress snatches the phone out of mid-air. "Don't call HAL. HAL will call you." She seems to find some kind of grim amusement in saying that, then turns to leave the room. Four and a half blocks. Going by zipline, she can be there in... ow... seven minutes. Probably not fast enough. Damnit.

Martin tchs. "I thought as much. But I'd rather have a safer route to reach her then getting hacked into. Good luck." He says.

When Huntress would reach the roof top, ready to zipline away, she'd find that, as serendipity would have it, her mark had come to her, parking his vehicle in an alley and cursing those goddamn traffic lights. And, of course, by the time Huntress has finished, the room she was talked to in would be as it was for that decade or two before. Abandoned, dirty, and the only clean things being where someone seemed to have wiped for prints.