|"Set Up to a Bad joke", or, "A Punk, A Paisan, and a Brit Walk into a Bar..."|
|What: Tanya hunts down Wisdom, Bertinelli hunts down a lead, and Passwall eventually hunts down Tanya--then everything goes wonky.|
The Subway Inn: one of the most revered old man bars in the Upper East Side, a holdover from the days when you lived there if you had no money, and all your neighbors spoke your language, and none of them had white-collar jobs. These days, the crowd's as aged as the linoleum and their rent's as controlled as the price of the whiskey. It's dim in the daytime and dark at night; the nicotine on the frosted-glass-brick front window's never been cleaned off, and the lingering smell of old cigarettes and fading memory's ground into the split leather seating.
It's about ten-thirty in the morning, meaning the only people present are the bartender and the people he opens at ten-thirty for. The one Tanya's looking for is seated in the back booth against the wall, facing the front of the bar; he's where he can't be snuck up on, can't be jumped. He looks up when the door opens, and immediately downs the entire glass of whatever he's been drinking.
A Dodge Tomahawk pulls up out front, the engine shut off, and Tanya slides off. After looking up at the sign, she unfastens her helmet and slides it off, holding it in her left hand. She'd spread a little money around to a few bartenders to keep on the lookout, and one finally gave her a call. Pulling her sunglasses out of her breast pocket, she slides them on then enters the establishment. Better than some bars she's been in, so what the hell.
She glances at Wisdom with a grin, but doesn't immediately head for him. Nope, she has business to take care of, first. Her helmet is set on the bar, and she leans over to murmur to the bartender, as she slides a folded bill across to him, then nods toward that back booth. The bartender just nods and pulls out a glass, to start filling it with a draft beer. A grin and a light thump on the bar, then Tanya grabs her helmet and heads toward the booth, her leathers squeaking a little as she walks.
"Hey there," she says as she slides into the booth opposite him. "Hope you don't mind some company, but you're not an easy guy to track down." She sets the helmet beside her on the seat as she smiles at the agent.
Wisdom's silent for the exchange, but the look he's giving the bartender tells half a story: the other half's told by the bartender's refusal to meet his gaze. As Tanya's bringing her beer over, Pete's shutting his newspaper and pocketing his pen, then pulling out a cigarette and lighting it in blatant defiance of Bloomberg. There's /another/ silent exchange between him and the bartender, and the blabbermouth decides that right now, shutting up is the better part of valor.
"Let's see," the Briton says in a low voice, as dry as the Sahara, "ten thirty in the morning, drinking alone in a dive bar. What in Christ's holy jockstrap makes you think I might be opposed to company?" He ashes in his empty glass, then takes a drag, talking out the smoke. "You could call my job. You know where it's listed."
"Right, I'm going to call your job and say, 'Hey, this is someone who actually lied her little butt off and fried one of your agents but good. Can you put me through?'" She grins, there, and cants her head a little. "Yeah, I'm really sure /that/ would've gone over well." Interlacing her fingers and setting her hands on the table, she leans over as the bartender makes his way out from behind the bar.
"The truth is--" she starts with a lowered voice, then pauses when the bartender sets her glass down. She gives him a nod, waiting for him to leave again. "The truth is, I /owe/ you. I'm not stupid, you know. I should be sitting in a--a jail cell right now, or whatever the hell you people have. But I'm not. And there can only one reason for it." Pressing her index fingers together, she points across the table at Pete as she clicks her tongue, then she reaches for the glass.
Helena Bertinelli also followed a lead to this bar, whodathunkit? She's taking advantage of a day off of work to ride all the way to this part of NYC, it had better not end up being a wasted trip. She pulls the Ducati to a stop next to the Tomahawk and gives the Dodge a doubletake. She hadn't heard that that insane thing went into production, but then, it's not like she bothers to keep up with biking news. Parking her motorcycle, she pulls off her helmet and replaces it with a baseball cap to hide the helmet hair before stepping into the joint.
Well, the inside is exactly as dive bar as she was expecting, and unsurprisingly empty at this time of day as well. She purposefully keeps her eyes from lingering on the woman with the pink hair and she man she's talking to, and approaches the bar to ask the man there for a drink. Her unadorned black motorcycle helmet gets its own barstool -- it's not like they're busy after all.
"Or you could call my job and ask for Pete Wisdom, or to leave a message for me," the skinny Englishman says crankily, taking another drag, then holding it in for a second before exhaling directionlessly. He looks like he needs a couple nights' sleep, an iron, a shave, and a comb. His face, at least, isn't so sour it might freeze that way-- just irritable. "But all right; all right. Fucksake, can't you just call it karmic incentive and let it be? You don't owe me anything. I'm fine. Nothing unfixable happened because of anything you did." His gaze only flickers over to Helena, takes notice of her, files her away and keeps her position minded. It's right back on Tanya thereafter. "Fuck, I already forgot about it."
When the man's attention flickers, Tanya turns her head just a bit, to peer out the corner of her eye. Another biker early in the morning. In New York, though, you really do get all kinds. Then the agent is talking to her again, so she returns her attention to him. "Listen, wángbādàn," she murmurs with a lopsided smile, "you don't have to like the fact that I owe you, but I do. And I pay my debts, you get me? Just because you're yíwàng de bā, that doesn't mean /my/ obligations can be forgotten about. I'm half-Chinese, remember. We don't forget shit like debts, especially when /we/ are the ones who owe them." A grin, there, then she takes a sip of her draft beer and grabs her helmet to set it in her lap. This lets her turn and slide back to sit against the wall, feet propped up on the bench. This lets her get more relaxed, and keep an eye on the rest of the bar a bit more easily.
Helena Bertinelli takes her beverage from the bartender and sips at it sparingly, not looking around again, just listening as best she can to any conversations going on around her. Snippets of a foreign language catch her attention, but it's nothing she can understand, so continues pretending to be lost in her own thoughts.
"Ti'n llawn cachu," drawls Wisdom with a profound wryness, slouching back in his seat and resting his cigarette elbow on the table in front of him, "uffar ast. I don't care. I don't think I did you a favor, I was only fucking fair, wasn't I? I brought the cost on myself, and then I /told you/ to do more or less what you did. Hell, I even asked you to help in the first place. And you did. So shut up about your stupid debts and buy me a drink if you think you have to do something for me." He doesn't even sound irritable anymore. Just -- the man's gone from wry to resigned, and he looks older than he did even as little as a minute ago.
"You really don't get how this works, do you?" replies Tanya quietly, grinning at the man. "Your tab's taken care of, but that doesn't exactly wipe out a debt. I owe you my freedom, at the very least. That's not something that can be taken care of with a little bit of money thrown around." A beat as she rests her free hand on the table, to tap on it quietly. "I've got ancestors to look good for, other spirits to keep on my good side--besides, I was raised rather traditionally, which means this kind of shit right here." A lift of her brows in humor, there, then she takes another not-exactly-dainty sip of beer.
Helena Bertinelli keeps very slowly drinking her beverage, now starting to wonder if her lead was a dead end. The two people talking in the corner sure don't fit the lead she was given. She's going to give it until she finishes her drink, and then give it up and head back to Gotham.
"Well it's not on me if you figure you owe me, then," Pete says, disgruntled; his eyes fall to her tapping fingers for a second, the rest of the bar in his peripheral awareness. "For failing to be a complete prick. But favors for me are usually fucking immense. Like 'oi, Li, I've got this sort of extradimensional invasion of psychotic alternate-universe future children of the god-damned Titans and the motherfucking X-Men and their army of wind-up magic Sentinels-- need your help'." He's looking anywhere but at Tanya right now, and he finishes his cigarette and then smooshes it out in his empty tumbler. "Which I would ask you for anyway, and expect you to help if you thought you could. You've already done things for people you didn't have to. I've already seen you doing the right thing at cost. I only make deals with the Fair Folk and it's only because it's the only way to deal with that lot."
Another motorcycle joins the others outside--an 'Eighty-Six Harley Davidson Low Rider F.X.R.S., with a bit of custom work done on it. The large man slides off and runs his fingers through his hair, looking at the two other motorcycles. His attention is drawn more to the Ducati, and he arches one thick eyebrow in appreciation. That is one nice bike, and he's not so much a Harley snob as to be unable to appreciate it. He's also had a long night, which is why he's heading into the bar so early. Meth doesn't make itself, after all.
Tanya arches a brow at the agent, her smile not leaving her face. "And you'd have it, too, as much because it /is/ the right thing to do. But I also mean /you/, personally--and before you think anything, that's not a come-on. I'm taken and quite happily so." The smile fades a touch, but not too much. "I also take my debts very seriously, Agent; so much that it isn't some 'deal'. I actually respect the notion of law and order, and respect the incredibly tough job that I can only barely /imagine/ you and your fellow agents do. That means I /really/ can't just forget about it. It would be dishonorable to you /and/ everything you and your fellows do. How do you think my ancestors would like /that/?" Another click of her tongue as she sets her glass on the table.
Helena Bertinelli has been very intentionally sitting at the bar with her back to the door, making her posture slouched as if she were not paying attention to anything around her. The quiet but emphatic conversation in the corner has had most of her attention thus far, but upon hearing the low sputter of a Harley outside, she starts listening to see if the rider is going to come inside.
"I think," says Wisdom, letting his hand fall flat to the tabletop and sitting up straight, "you should take what I just said as tacit acceptance that you're going to do what you want." The wry and the resigned and the irritation are all gone; his voice is quieter still, but sharp with a tone that carries. "I can tell you truly, I don't believe you're a threat to me or to my organization unless I or we do something to deserve it. I can tell you truly you did nothing illegal. And it's God's honest truth you saved my life once already. So: I'm not going to stop you from doing what you need to to keep your honor clean, but you're not going to get me to capitulate on your belief in your inherent rightness. I'm allowed to disagree, and you're a fucking prat for trying to lay a guilt trip on /me/." Then he grimaces. "Just call me Pete, will you?"
The door opens, and there's a jangle from the chains on the biker's jacket as he clomps across the floor to the bar, a good few stools down from Bertinelli. Grizzled, not on good terms with a razor, and looking like he's busted more than a few bones in his time, he slouches onto the bar. "Bud. Bottle. Cold," he tells the bartender, rubbing his face with one hand. A glance around, but he doesn't linger on any one person for too long. He's not here for chit-chat, after all.
Tanya arches a brow at the agent, then chuckles quietly and reaches over with her right hand for a firm handshake. "Fine. You can call me Tanya. And I don't think it's a guilt trip as much as--as much as just letting you know, yeah? I'm glad you survived, though. It was left up to me, so--I tried to pick what would mostly likely actually let you live..." If guilt goes anywhere, she at least thinks it ought to go to her. Living through electrocution isn't exactly uncommon, even if it usually hurts like a /son of a bitch/.
Helena Bertinelli takes another sip from her own beverage, giving the just arrived man a single, brief, seemingly uninterested glance. He seems to fit the description she was given. Now to see if he says or does anything to prove that he's the drug dealer she came to locate.
"And least likely to scar my pretty face," says the SHIELD agent, rolling his eyes, but returning the shake just as firmly. "Were I what you thought I was. Which was a perfectly reasonable, even safe, assumption. Just fucking annoying in my personal worldview. I already told you what to do next time." He takes another cigarette out, lights it with a thoughtful expression and only about a third of his attention. The rest of it's on the two unknown occupants of the bar. "Because for fuck's sake, it's starting to become a Thing now. Hit Wisdom with the thing that pisses him off most in the world! It'll be great!" Apparently, talking about *anything except debts* is a step in the right direction. "Think we're about to witness a handoff. I'm going to laugh if it fumbles."
The bartender gets the man his beer, though the sharp-eyed might notice a tiny folded-up piece of paper set beneath it, which the large biker manages to palm in a rather fluid motion as he picks the bottle up. If it wasn't actively watched for, it would easily be missed, so many times these two have done this sort of thing. The biker pushes off from the bar and starts to amble toward the billiards table, feigning nonchalance as he fishes for coins in his pocket.
In the booth, Tanya grins and shrugs one shoulder. "Way of the world, brother," she tells him, and keeps her head pointed kind of toward him while her attention flicks to the side, trying to track the biker. "Seems like the world has a way of throwing at you what you really don't want, yeah?" She's partly talking to just talk, to keep up the appearance of friendly conversation as she follows his lead and tries to pay discreet attention to the others in the establishment.
And there it is. Damnit. She had NOT planned on the bartender being the one passing info to the drug dealer. She glances after the man again 'disinterestedly' as he heads for the billiards table. What's next? She's NOT gonna go over there and challenge him to a game.
"Yeah," agrees the Englishman, contemplatively taking a drag. Now his blue eyes are bright and narrow, focused on the bartender. "And you know, I'm still in a shitty mood. And I think I want another drink from the fuckpig behind the bar." He sucks down a good quarter of the cigarette at one go-- amazing he has the lung capacity-- and stubs the cigarette out, then picks up his glass and slides out of the booth. One glance to Tanya, there, and then he heads over to the bar and clacks the ash-tumbler on it. "Oi," he says sharply to the bartender, leaning on the bar next to Helena, one arm braced and the other loosely resting. And then Pete's voice lowers, icy and intent. "Listen. You tell me who you answer to or you're going to get a fucking audit; I work for the IRS." And he's so... so /serious/. So deadly serious. It's flawless.
Arching a pink brow again, Tanya watches Pete go over to the bar, and she picks up her glass, to lightly swirl the amber liquid within. Trying to keep as relaxed as possible, she goes to set her helmet on the table, then start easing around to a "normal" sitting position. Somehow, she doesn't like where things are going.
The bartender eyes the "I.R.S. Agent" rather skeptically, then points at the framed records on the wall that, by law, he's supposed to display prominently. "You got a problem, call one'a them. I pay my taxes and shit, and all my inspections are up to date. I ain't done nothing worth an audit." He sounds /oh so/ freaking scared.
The biker eyes the proceedings warily as he takes a few steps backward to grab a pool cue from the wall, his other hand bringing out a disposable, pay-as-you-go phone from his pocket and starting to dial
Helena Bertinelli looks at the Brit and leans away from him as if in distaste when he says he's with the IRS. Of course, as much of her attention is on the man over at the pool table, and she /thinks/ she hears the faint tones of cellphone buttons being pressed. That does NOT bode well. DAMNIT.
"Oh you think I mean audit the /bar/? That's fucking /darling/ that is," sneers the skinny, unshaven, disheveled alcoholic. "No you stupid twat, I'm after your *other* boss-- or your biggest source of income, whichever comes first. And I can forget every one of the handoffs I've seen over the past month if you give me that." He's leaning closer now, one hand up in a fist between the two of them. "Every one except the one where you sold out my last fucking safe space. That's personal." His voice lowers further still, grinding out in a tone that clearly enjoys violence. "Best part is, no one will believe a fucking word if you tell them the IRS outsources their black ops."
"I don't know the fuck you're talkin' about," mutters the bartender, who will never win an award for acting. "You got a problem? Call someone who gives a shit. I don't know nothin' about no selling no one out..." Eyes flick between the man's eyes and his fist, and the bartender is obviously more talking tough than anything else. Still, some puny I.R.S. agent...
The bar is actually mostly empty--Tanya in a back booth, starting to slide out, Wisdom standing next to Helena at the bar and giving the bartender a good, old-fashioned verbal drubbing, and a tall biker in the back, speaking in hushed whispers into a disposable phone. Out front are only three motorcycles; the Dodge Tomahawk, a black Ducati Streetfighter S, and an 'Eighty-Six Harley Davidson Low Rider F.X.R.S. It's--actually pretty busy for only being nearly eleven in the morning.
The biker slips his phone away and hefts a pool cue, resting it on his shoulder, now openly watching the proceedings. And why shouldn't he? Someone like him, he probably called in back-up.
Helena Bertinelli slides off of her barstool away from the skinny Brit, maintaining her expression of disgust. The guy by the pool table is done talking on the phone and she's expecting violence to break out any moment. So she backs away from the bar as if aiming for the door to flee. She's really giving herself room in case things get ugly. There's no way she could have brought her crossbow in here, but she's got a couple of knives hidden in her jacket. You know, Just in case.
Some puny IRS agent who's got a very grim smile now. "One more chance, mate," Pete says, his knuckles going briefly white, and then something brighter than anything in the bar flickering behind his eyes-- his eyes which have gone from blue to an amber-brown. "Everyone in here but -you- works for -me-. I sent her--" jerk of his head toward Tanya, "--to see if you were easily bought. And yeah you fucking are, more's the pity, I *like* this place. He," an inclination toward Billiards Thug, "is an informant. She," he indicates Huntress, "is a black-belt personal assistant with an arsenal bigger than Tony fucking Stark's. And the douchecanoe you answer to? Owes /ten million in back taxes/. So give it the fuck up, this isn't worth your twee little criminal empire."
A dive? Oh yes, this is the place for a thug-ette like Cordelia Kowalewicz. Or more commonly known as Passwall. But then, she's not exactly commonly known at all! Well, Tanya may know that name, for good reason. But otherwise... Then again, perhaps SHIELD has a file on her. They have files on everyone with even the tiniest blip on the radar. Which is a pretty visible blip, considering that she simply walks through the door to the place... Without opening the door. Hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, with jeans, and a grim look - that brightens perceptibly as she sees Tanya and heads over. "Heeey, pink. What's shakin'?"
Three more Harleys pull up outside not but a couple of beats after Passwall arrives, and not a one of the bikers look any less intimidating than the big one inside is trying to. Two of them also have passengers, women who look about as tough as the men. And one man, as he gets off his bike, is packing a semi-automatic firearm tucked into his jeans near his hip. It might not be unreasonable to assume he's not the only one.
Tanya slides from her seat, leaving her glass of draft beer but retrieving her helmet. She eases to her feet, the soft thump of boots on the floor and the rustle of her leathers about the only thing to draw attention to her. As Cordelia comes over to her, she gives the other woman a smile, discreetly beckoning her closer so she can whisper, "I'm not entirely sure. But--apparently we're getting drawn into--some bad shit..." She'd told Cordy about Wisdom and needing to talk to him and all of that, but she didn't imagine it would go anywhere near this.
The bartender starts sweating noticeably as he looks around to the others as Agent Wisdom names them off. He's not sure how much of this, if any, is utter bullshit, but given the near-ferocious sincerity of Wisdom... "I, uh, well..." he says, looking around even more quickly. "What-what-what do you want to know?" He's /trying/ to appear cool and nonchalant, but failing. /Horribly/.
And thinking about Billiards Thug, he switches the cue around so he's holding the thin end and starts walking back to the bar. He's left his beer behind on the pool table, leaving both hands open.
Helena Bertinelli carefully schools her expression to reveal nothing even though she wants to ask the Brit what the heck he's been smoking. But then the man wielding the pool cue start to approach AND she hears more engines outside... it's about to hit the fan. She turns her eyes to pool cue man with a glare of 'don't even move closer'.
"Excellent," Wisdom says in a sudden attack of bizarre serenity, glancing back at the approaching Billiards Thug, then looking to the door and the engine-sounds and the new set of backup band thugs. "The cold-calling queue is here. And you fucking well know how much cold-callers hate their lives. And how willing they are to take it out on chickenshits who're rude to them on the telephone." He reaches out one whip-thin arm and that fist grabs the front of the bartender's shirt. "/Do you work for Caesar Villanueva/?" he barks, yanking the man closer, eyes flashing fire again.
"Some bad shit?" Cordelia asks, before turning around and scanning the room quickly. Billards Thug, bartender, Pete Wisdom, Helena Bertinelli, biker thugs with guns, patrons... Wait. Back up. Biker thugs? Guns? "...Bad shit indeed." She slides into the seat next to Tanya, and wraps and arm around her, whispering into her ear. "Stay calm, hon. Don't look threatening."
The bartender looks at the approaching group outside, then he's suddenly yanked closer to Wisdom. "I don't know no fuckin' Villa-whatever!" he protests, eyes widening. "I sear on my life! Never heard'a that name before!" He's starting to sweat profusely, which just has to add that piquant touch to the air already thick with smoke and alcohol.
The Billiards Thug goes to poke Pete with the butt of the cue, not very gently, in the shoulder, as his compatriots enter the establishment. "Let him go, buddy, before you get into a world'a shit..." He says that with a smirk and a mocking tone, glancing to look at the approaching group.
When she's suddenly pulled back into the booth, Tanya tries to look sternly at Cordelia, but manages a smile. "We're--back-up, apparently. For Wisdom," she whispers back, glancing back that way. "And this isn't my first bar brawl, you know, dear." An amused smirk, there, given with one eyebrow quirked. "You're the sneaky one, I'm the bar-fighter, remember?" She goes to pat Cordelia's leg reassuringly then try to get back to her feet once more. She's going to need a little bit of room if this goes where she thinks it's going.
The three men and two women look around the room slowly, though are more concerned with Helena and Pete, made obvious as that's where their attention is generally focused. The apparent leader puts hooks his thumbs in his waistband, pushing back the vest a little--and displaying that semi-automatic weapon. It really can't be accidental, as it's like something out of a bad 'Seventies flick.
Helena Bertinelli stays where she is, with her back to the wall near the doorway, watching both the group that just arrived and pool cue man. This is getting worse and worse. She keeps her hands empty and at her sides, though, so that no one automatically suspects her of being combat capable. At least not until she /has/ to get into the mess.
"...you don't?" blinks Pete, already starting to let go the bartender's shirt when he gets so rudely poked in the shoulder. "Oi, fuck off," he grouses over his shoulder at the leader, "I'm not interested in your business." And he finishes letting go, smooths down the sweating gentleman's lapels, looks cheerfully apologetic. "Shit, bad lead. Pro tip: next time, demand to see a badge. Also try and think a bit harder under pressure: IRS black ops? From Essex? Christ on a crutch. By the way no one here works for me."
His phone beeps while he's saying this last, and he takes it out of his pocket absently, then glances down at the display. He lifts it up, then. "Sorry, sext from Katie Perry."
Cordelia looks over with a grin at Pete's comment. Humorous. "So. Backup," she whispers to Tanya, "is it?" A finger points in a subtle manner at the guns being so blatantly shown. "I can't help /all/ of you with those. It's a three-person deal. Me, and one for each hand." Apparently, she's pretty sure that she /can/ do something about the weaponry. But just what that is... She's not telling.
Helena Bertinelli stares at Pete for about a second before blurting out, "Are you kidding me? What the HELL is the matter with you, man?" And, of course, she can't just turn and flee, because she left her bike helmet over there on the barstool that the clearly completely bat guano insane Brit is standing in front of. Triple damnit.
Tanya starts edging closer to the group, flexing her fingers as the bartender can't quite decide how to react. Yes, it takes a minute for it to sink in just how bad he's been hoodwinked. Mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. Tanya glances back at Cordelia, grinning and nodding once. There's a beat as Wisdom brings up his phone, attention focusing on him--then Bertinelli's outburst is about all it takes for things to go from simmering to potentially explosive.
Guns are drawn, aimed at pretty much everyone, and Tanya dashes forward the step to one of the women. Her wrist grabbed and twisted, Tanya brings up the heel of her other hand to smash that elbow, then she releases the woman's hand to pivot and slam her elbow into the woman's head. That still leaves--everyone else.
The apparent leader aims his weapon at Pete, as does the second woman, and Helena gets one of the other men pointing his weapon at /her/. While Billiards Thug raises his cue to smack Wisdom--why, yes, he /is/ the focus of attention--the last man is turning to aim past Tanya at Cordelia.
As soon as the others who -aren't- part of the Biker Thug Band go into action-- right after Helena's outburst-- Wisdom drops to the floor and into a roll; his course takes him just past Billiards Thug's legs and he comes up in a half-crouch on one knee, pocketing his phone with one hand and using the other elbow to jab into the backs of BT's knees. He is, in fact, positioned so as to get BT to topple into Leaderman if knocking out his balance actually works.
Cordelia isn't about to let herself get caught in the crossfire, but then... Tanya's into it. She jumps up and dives for the bar, towards Huntress and Wisdom - oh, wait, He's gone somewhere else. Well, Helena is at least going to get her protection. A single hand on Helena's back, or shoulder, or whatever can be touched, and the woman will sink through any chair, to the floor - and moreover be completely protected from any /normal/ bullets. Anything without liquid or super dense objects, really. So that pool cue? Good /luck/. "Tanya, be careful!"
Helena Bertinelli reacts the second he sees GuanoMan move. As soon as the thug pointing a weapon at her is (hopefully) distracted, she starts to grab for the pistol aimed at her to yank it out of the man's hand, but Cordelia is suddenly just ... there. "The hell? Damnit, let go!"
And Billiards Thug suddenly finds himself toppling right the hell forward, just as the apparent leader fires his weapon. Being knocked into by the large biker means that his bullet goes into the ceiling, as the two of them sprawl on the ground in a rather compromising position.
As for the others, they start firing--and hitting the wall behind the women. This causes them to pause for a beat, partly in disbelief, partly in being unsure how the bloody hell they're supposed to deal with people who can do things like /that/.
Tanya had hit the floor; she isn't stupid, after all. And she calls back, "Please! This is nothing! Remind me to tell you about running through STAR Labs sometime!" And she's actually grinning, even as she tries to com up with a plan.
"Sometime other than now!" calls Wisdom out from where he's scrambling to yank the gun out of the sprawlpile of compromised thug, kicking out the clip, and starting to swing the thing like a mace. "Right now sleep 'em; death's too much fucking-- *oof* --paperwork." WHANG. WHAM. He moves surprisingly well for a batshit liar drunk; /unsurprisingly/ well for a SHIELD agent. Blunt object, feet, fists, and decidedly dirty fighting. He's tending to take hits and roll with them, but not like they're healing or don't hurt: just like they're completely de-prioritized injuries.
Cordelia knows little about strategy, really. But she knows enough that an afraid foe is a foe you don't have to challenge. Because they pose no real threat. Also, knowing something your enemy doesn't means you have an advantage. In this case? A /huge/ advantage. Picking Helena up, still touching her, she points to the guy with the gun that just fired on them. "Hey uh. He shot at you. Us. Whatever." So without further ado, she plucks an object at random from the bar, and chucks it at the man as hard as she can - it's a glass bottle, and it's aimed right for his head - while saying, "Strange thing about me, bub - I don't touch it, it ain't ghost-y!" The glass shattering on the man's face, she simply grins. "Tanya, you have the /best/ friends, lemme tell you!" And then she bows, still holding Helena's shoulder/back. "After you, miss. Have fun. Just don't go too far."
Helena Bertinelli looks over her shoulder at Cordelia oddly. "Uh, yeah." And then she's charging at one of the women, looking to be leading with a punch but then abruptly turning into a roundhouse kick aimed at the woman's head. She's NOT pulling her punches, and she IS wearing motorcycle boots.
The goons are dealt with pretty damned easily; they're punks, really, and punks are rather easy to deal with. The woman goes down from the boot to the face, the man having fallen just before her, both bleeding profusely. Wisdom's whirlwind attack having taken care of the others...
"...holy shit," says Tanya with a grin as she gets to her feet. "Remind me to take you people along to my /next/ bar fight." It really isn't like these things are all that rare to her. The bartender is cowering behind the bar, peeking over the it to the man and women who laid out the bikers, some of whom are unconscious, the others "merely" in a whole world of pain.
"Yeah all right," says Pete reasonably, picking himself up and straightening, brushing himself off. He coughs, flinches, and grimaces. "Ehh. Just not this week, yeah? Suggestion: pay phone down the street. Ring emergency services." He shuffles over to peer behind the bar. "You. Doucherag. I suggest get the fuck out of dodge and change your name. I may not be IRS, but I'll fuck you up just the same." Then he goes back to the booth to get his God Damned Newspaper before he begins the long trek to the front door. "Fuzz'll be here in short order anyroad, shots fired. I'm out. Tanya call me the way I said and I'll give you a better number. Pleasure to meet, et cetera, the rest of you lot. Be seeing you." Door open, Pete exit stage left.
Helena Bertinelli looks down at all of the thugs, and then when GuanoMan mentions the police, she hisses out a particularly harsh cuss word (in Italian), then retrieves her helmet. Maybe she can just bolt and no one will be the wiser.
Cordelia dusts her hands off - not like she needs to, really, considering she did almost /nothing/. But yeah, she's gloating. Even pointing at one - the big guy who shot at her - and calling him out. "Next time you wanna tango, you check who the /fuck/ you're messing with! Passwall don't take shit from thugs, I don't give a damn /how/ big your gun is!" And she reaches down to pick up that gun, phases through the magazine to pull all the unused bullets out, and drops them on the floor. She keeps the gun, though. "Pssh. Overcompensation. Probably got a..." Her words trail off, and she rolls her eyes. "Tanya, come on. Fuzz comin'." With that, she heads over to the pink-haired woman, and offers her hand to leave.
"I will Agen--Pete," says Tanya, giving the man a nod as he leaves. As Helena grabs her helmet, Tanya realizes how good an idea that is, and hurries back to the booth to grab her own, and she takes Cordelia's hand with a grin. "Babe, you /do/ realize that this isn't my first bar fight, yes? You should have seen the dust-up in this one bar in Metropolis..." She goes to shove the helmet into Cordelia's free arm as they hurry out as well.
As for the bartender? He said nothing to Pete, finally sparking a working brain cell. And then the others left. When the door closes and he's left alone? He sinks to the floor, turning around to sit against the bar with his head in his hands. It /was/ going to be a good day...