2013.04.20 - A Taste of Civility

The Black Lagoon Bar. 
Settled back in Madripoor, it doesn't take Roy long to make his appearance once again at the Black Lagoon, checking in with Belikova. 
He does not, however, find Belikova behind the bar. Instead, a tall British white-haired man with an English moustache is standing there behind the counter, wiping glasses and looking for all the world like he belongs there. 
"Who the hell are you?" Roy asks, settling in behind the counter. 
"Wintergreen," the man replies. "I take it you're the man that Ms. Belikova has been expecting. Roy Harper? She told me to, and I quote, 'siddown, shut up, and make nice until I get back.'"
"... Well, hell," Roy sighs. "Gimme a bourbon on the rocks, then," he says, as he glances around the bar...
It isn't everyday Taskmaster goes without mask and full regalia. Not everyday he goes without disguising himself with his holo-inducer either or even make up or cosmetics of some sort. No, today Taskmaster is the man supposedly known as Tony Masters; a tall, broad shouldered yet lean man with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He looks like he could be one of those old crooners back from the days of Elvis Costello, Bing Crosby or Tony Bennett. His rugged good looks and style tonight fits that, straight down to the grey suit he is wearing.
"So, this is the place?" He says loud enough to be heard. A sidearm is present in the form of a new modified M45A1 and a combat knife.
Baroness came as she was, any day, all day. She seemed rather pre-occupied sliding a finger over a projected holographic mapping of some mountain peaks, fingers pinching down on the top to twist and rotate the mapped scenery in its glowing effigy to reveal another side, sliding a finger down a slope in a single caress to make it zoom in and pan downward.
Heels clicked and ground over the flooring of they place as they stepped within, armored boots of black metal that trailed up appendages to end in a bending cusp over knees and pointed. Don't get kneed, it came with repercussions in the maw of a cobra. Where the boots stopped the hem of a leather skirt picked up, a pencil skirt hugging its way upward over the birth of hips to meld into the high waist-ed aspect gone corset with red lacing to end where a white blouse covered her chest. Hair is pulled back in a chignon yet again, more loose strands falling around her facade as glasses slide down her nose in the inspection of the hologram. 
Pressing a button the image flickered to a close, the screen on the pad going black as she inspected the surroundings with a wrinkle of her nose. "Smells like it."
Slade looks up from his place in the dark shadowed corner of the room, a tepid craptastic beer he's not yet worked up the courage to drink sitting before him. His hair is black, his goatee has the addition of a few days without shaving added to it, and his eye patch is gone, replaced by a glass eye as blue as the original was. Even with the scars on the side of his face, these small changes to his more then memorable look do much to make him unrecognizable... Tony on the other hand is completely recognizable. Slade's eyes narrow. What's /HE/ doing here?
Wintergreen barely bats an eye as he slides Roy the requested bourbon on the rocks. 
Taking a swig of the bourbon, Roy eyes the newcomers, releasing a low whistle at the woman in boots. Yeah, lordy, those legs went on forever, and where they stopped, one could just skim right along until hitting those...
SWIG. 
"Is that lady a regular?" Roy asks Wintergreen. 
"No, first time. I may have seen the gent before," Wintergreen replies with the air of someone who's seen it all.
"Hmmm... I'd swear I've seen her before..." Roy muses, before shaking his head. "Ah hell with it, how much longer till Contact gets back?" 
"Not too much longer, Mr. Harper. And before you do what I believe you're going to do, may I point out the gent next to her?" 
"... what gent?"
It's awesome being able to copy /any/ physical action you see. To be an encyclopedia of combat moves the every day martial artist would love to touch on even for half an hour as most will never attain half the stolen skills in their lifetime the Taskmaster has. So awesome it takes a grand toll, one of those being your life. Or at least the memory of your life. Wintergreen and Slade both once a part of that, Slade more so than the latter but still... now nothing more than lost memories.
"Tony" looks older by a good handsome number unlike the white haired veteran. He also skims his eyes right over both of the elderly fellows without so much as a hint of recognition until they settle on Roy.
"Yep. This is /the/ place." A crooked half smile worn on his features as he settles up next to the bar, one elbow on it. He doesn't seem to pay mind to the looks Baroness gets, shes his employer after all and mean as sin. The lady can handle herself.
"Hey there, old fella. Bout a bourbon."
Anastasia feels the looks, the ones that trail and leave that tingling sensation to ride up your spine.. If it creeps you out. Her, no. All of them didn't even seem like they were part of her notice, or deserving of the Baroness' "court", though Slade had not been noted nor recognized yet as one hand sweeps those stray ribbons of black hair back. 
Blue eyes swept after Tony, landing on the bar and then wandered down the 'spanse to land on the old man behind the old stretch... as well as the red haired man before it. There is where her eyes stayed, red painted lips curling ends into spires as that crooked smile came to place itself upon them, narrowing her eyes in their cold and sharp setting.
The bar was her target, one that she set onto for now, claiming a stool and crossing one leg over the other, swiveling in the stool to face down the line of the bar towards Roy and Tony, facing them both while she sought a menu, or something.
"Please don't tell me all you have to offer is swill, or bitter swill, or sour swill." 
Amazingly, any accent Baroness had prior, is obsolete for the moment as she spoke to Wintergreen.
Well now... this is an interesting turn of events. His source was right, things were heating up. Slade sips from the beer and manages not to spit it out all over the floor as his body's first reaction is to reject the brew. Violently. He glances at his phone and nonchalantly sets it back down on the table, one end pointed towards the trio at the bar, and taps the screen once, activating the directional mic. High tech eavesdropping is a joy.
Wintergreen declines to answer Roy, instead turning his attention to the newcomers. "What may I get you?" he inquires in his British-accented voice.
Acknowledging Mr. Masters' order with a nod, Wintergreen considers. "A top-shelf drink, then," the British man replies, already turning to the wall of alcohol. No well or call drinks for this woman, then. "Will a Stoli Elit do?" Not the -best- vodka - that was reserved for Belikova, but certainly nothing to sneer at. 
Roy meanwhile, studies the duo, the grin on his face at inspecting the Baroness fading as he notices he's being studied in turn. Crap. He didn't recognize the man, but now that he'd gotten a better look at the woman... 
"We've met before, haven't we?" Roy gets directly to the point, as he puts his bourbon down on the counter.
Behind him, Wintergreen moves quickly to get the drinks before -something- happens. Yes, he's been warned about Harper.
A tip of his head and a finger-wave salute is given towards Wintergreen as his drink is served before turning to gaze back at Ana then Roy again.
Taskmaster's lips curl up to show off white teeth in a smile, "I'm not sure. Weren't you at Disney World dressed in a mermaid outfit?" His bourbon being shaken in his hand before it's lifted and meets his lips.
He's all to aware of where they are at this point and more than once scanned the place without being too obvious. That whole read body language perfectly thing is quite a useful talent.
Asking for wine or a champagne of some sort is likely out in a place like this, but the old man took a job that very much would put him in hell's path in more ways then one. "No Ciroc?" Anastasia blinks at the man, despite reminding herself she is in a third world country thrice removed she still has her tastes that are just as high maintenance as the womans broken temper. 
Twisting slightly in the bar stool, she keeps an eye on Wintergreen for a response, resigning with a sigh and a wave. "If not, that'll do." Still no accent, as if she is as American as the red haired one before her. 
When Roy inquires though, and that slow movement is made to set his drink aside Baroness slides forward in a lean that had leather moaning protests out at the constraint and discomfort of a movement that only brings a smile to her lips, one that seemed light hearted and inviting, but behind plush blood huen lips venom dripped; teeth remaining un shown. "I don't know, how many parties have you been to here?" Slowly her eyes slide over Roy, from head to toe. One way you can find it flirtatious, though truly she is watching, looking for any movements, and signs a weapon is involved on his behalf.
Slade sets the mic to record and leans back in his seat, letting the shadows slide over his face the rest of the way, cloaking him in darkness. A chance meeting... how boring. Still, there's always the possibility that Harper will kill the woman and then Tony will kill everyone else. That would be something to see...
It -might- be something Roy would respond to... check that, it -would- have been something he would have responded to if it wasn't for the timing of Wintergreen's acquisition of the Stoli Elit vodka. One of the best tasting vodkas in the world, at the least, and certainly well stocked enough for the better clientes. 
"Your drink, madame," Wintergreen smoothly interjects. "Will there be anything else?" 
The distraction, at least, gets Roy's gaze off the woman and onto Tony Masters, as he considers the ... attitude and then glances back at the woman. "...Oh right. We did have a party, once, didn't we?" The smirk returns, as does a certain cockiness in his voice. "We -could- dance again, if you like. Name's Bard. William Bard." For Madripoor, anyway.
"Several actually." Tony admits with a less toothy smile this time. His lips now only turned up slightly at the corners as he seems more content with his own glass. The crushed ice in it making noise as he swirls it about between drinks. 
"Nah, I'm good for now. Just keep 'em coming." His response for Wintergreen, owner of the epic mustache. 
He'll let Baroness do the talking - this really just a social call of sorts or at least he assumed it was. He doesn't presume to know what the Lady of Snakes plans or has going on behind those devious blue eyes.
Well, Roy caught the innuendo and proved to be smarter then the average bear. While he had glanced away though that skirt was slid up on outer thigh, the part facing the counter, and from a garter that COP .357 is drawn and tucked neatly in her lap, wedged in the hidden crevice of bent torso and bosom as an elbow found home on her upper knee, cupped hand holding her chin. The other hand remains occupied keeping that little bit of high powered weaponry aimed right for 'William's' center mass.
"We very well could, but I do insist this time I take your spleen and whatever other organ you drop - as a souvenir from this wretched leetle hell hole." There was the accent, and there is the true blue smile of a woman who had no other intent then the exhuming of the red heads innards. But for now, she remained ever still even as her drink is served. 
"You do tend not to work alone in any circumstance, so who is the man in the corner that is watching us? Or is it just another creep in this shit hole?" Now she gestures towards Slade - a lead in espionage and spying, she is not as oblivious as some may assume.
Slade hears the Baroness' comment and chuckles to himself, the sound low and inaudible over the noise in the bar. He's fine at stealth, but it's never really been his best asset. He's to big to pull it off well. Still, he doesn't seem to react to anything said, remaining still in the shadows and waiting. Maybe she's paranoid and he's just passed out drunk over there? Totally plausible in this place.
"More bourbon, sirs?" Wintergreen interjects, -just- before Roy is about to say something about giving Baroness an organ, all right.
Taking a deep breath and using the freshly poured bourbon provided to him and Tony to re-think exactly what he was going to say, and not -anything- that might get the aforementioned organ ripped off and stomped on, Roy grins ever so briefly. "Well, that's true, but..." Eyebrows shift towards Slade, and Roy narrows his eyes. "I'm not working with -him-, that's for certain. I'm not sure who..."
Roy squints, before tilting his head, and then his eyes widen. Wait, that couldn't be... No, impossible, he had -two- eyes. And the hair's all wrong. But still...
"Hmmm. Another patron, now that I think about it. He's been here before. Nevermind him, so about you and..." He motions to Tony Masters. "What do you want?" Reaching back for his bourbon, Roy re-assesses. Just what -was- her hand doing there...? 
Guess Ana was still on the side of angry. Guess you can't blame the woman, due Roy and Domino she has lost a fair bit of money and assets. He also had his own score to settle but he wasn't really the vengeful sort, not entirely, vengeance wasn't usually a paying gig. Also some part of him might just very well be far too lazy.
"T, just call me T." He says with a casual nod. Another slug at bourbon taken up as he lounges there in that partial lean against the bar.
"I want what any woman wants with high standards and no morals. Everything." Her gaze trails towards Tony then with that grin ever persistent. Ana had not given her name, and there is no need to, she was not on elbow rubbing grounds with 'William', nor did she care to have him search and find her. If it is in her own capabilities she wouldn't put it past Red, there. Or anyone she deems enemy.
Though despite the latter she does drop her hand from her chin and reach for the vodka, spinning the ice in the glass as her eyes finally do leave Roy and his mannerisms to go towards Slade. A swift flash of movement and the COP was shifted in her aimed grip ever so slightly as a dagger is drawn and thrown towards Slade's table with her other hand, hoping to land dead on that device sitting out and open on it. "I do mind."
Slade sees the movement coming, and as it tends to do, time slows for him, his eye(s) narrow and he crunches the possible outcomes... Do something and give away his ID, his possition, do nothing give away his source of intel. Either way he loses out. His breath starts to his through his lips in a heavy sigh. Fuck it. As Baroness moves, he moves, leaning forward in his seat and with a flicked fingertip, sliding his beer mug into the path of the oncoming knife. As soon as the mug is in the line of sight, he palms the phone, protecting it from CRASH! beer and glass flies everywhere as he jerks back, acting the roll of the shocked and annoyed bar patron, "Hey!" he bellows, a thick German accent in a tenor voice, "Who srews ze knive!?" he shakes his phone as if trying to get beer off of it and wipes at it with a napkin in mock panic, like a teen girl with her Iphone.
"Hey now..." Roy exclaims, moving to intercept the Baroness's hand. 
"Pardon me, madame," Wintergreen interjects, as he moves his hand underneath the counter. "I'm afraid I have to insist that we do not throw knives at other customers."
Indeed, the bar's other customers were antsy, already reaching for the guns openly displayed on their tables, reacting. 
"Sorry!" Roy calls out to Slade, although he -does- give him a strange look. "She's just cranky because she's not getting anything she wants! Dude, can you do something about her, or has she got you by the balls?" he says towards Tony.
"Careful, stud." Taskmaster says with a calm edge to his voice. He'll play along to a point but there's a limit to casual. 
"She is her own person, I ain't her keeper. You can't handle the lady don't cry for me to step in." He hasn't bothered to move from where he is at, still in that lean while he nurses his drink. He does however cast his own discerning look at the conveniently safe patron. Spry.
"Oh, contrare, I am getting plenty of what I /want/. I'm always this way." Pausing as Wintergreen makes a bold move Ana leans back in a repose that exposes the COP in her lap as well as a small remote device, both elbows rest on the bartops eave, her hands dangling loosely over the edge, one bearing the .357 while the other plucks up the remote, swining it to and fro as she talks like she is excited about a football game playing on an unseen screen but will push the 'power' button if the home team loses. 
"We would mean you and...who? I hope that is your bar rag your reaching for, for everyone's sake." Glancing over towards Slade in his German accented outburst, she responds casually, or as /casual/ as German can sound. "Der sollte ich sein." Pausing she glances to the vodka she had to set down to wield her weapons of destruction, scoffing. Dirty work is thirsty work. 
"Better yet, instead of your rag, I'll take a straw." Make it bendy for effect or some shit. Smirking to Tony she shakes her head and laughs softly, now darting her eyes that were like daggers towards Roy. 
"If I had him by the balls he'd be singing in a Roman Church, not be here with me. Sit. Down." 
Pause. 
Grin. 
"Please." Spoken between teeth in that Cheshire smile.
Slade looks up, vaugly confused by the woman's words, "You should be ze... vat?" he asks, as her sentence didn't make a whole lot of sense. "Ze von who srew ze knife?" he growls, "Frauen sollten ihren Platz kennen." he tosses back as he finishes wiping at his phone.
"No, madam, I can assure you, this is certainly not a dustrag, nor is it a straw," Wintergreen replies with the air of a man who's seen too much to be fazed by a young punk like Baroness. "However, I'll provide you the straw, if you wish," he says, as he shifts his hands away, but not before Roy (and perhaps Tony) notices the glint of a Glock 17.
Where the hell -did- Belikova find him?
As the straw is provided to Ana, Roy winces at Tony. "Man, working for -her-? I know how it is, man... you should see that woman I'm working under. She's a ballbuster," the redhaired man says as he sits down. 
"So -anyway-, tell the man you threw the knife, then we can get down to discussing what you're doing here?" Roy says, arching an eyebrow at Ana. 
"They're the best kind." Taskmaster says as his drink is finished off and he slides the empty glass over. He is watching all the gun toting going around, knowing full well there is a lot of them. Baroness is seriously going to get him skewered one of these days. More silence opt'd for, this isn't his convo. He's just hanging out and watching that curvy backside.
"That would be me who threw the knife. Lacherlich. Typischer mann." Ana rolls her eyes at him as he cleans off his phone like a sulking tourist whose camera fell in the water. Baroness is far from young punk and has had her dues and then some doing far more then 'youth' could ever allot a human.
"I don't think you're in the position to be giving me orders." Pausing, Ana comes to a stand and tritely smooths her skirt with a smear of hands over hips and a sharp tug, carefully sliding that remote she had out, away but keeping the COP in hand. "It's a public place, I can go where I please." Like she is doing now, right through the staring masses and out of the door.
Slade watches her go from the corner and waits, patiently, for Baroness to disappear before he stands and muttermuttering to himself heads for the 'restroom' of the place, presumably for more papertowels or napkins of some kind. He's in there for a couple of minutes...
"Damn it," Roy sighs. "Well, at least she's a lot -better- going than coming..." the redhead remarks, watching her go, before glancing over at Slade, who seems to be disappearing. 
"I don't suppose you know -what- she was gonna talk about before a bee got into her bonnet, or are you just here to tell me we're gonna be dancing more?"
Taskmaster chuckles as Baroness departs. "Nah, no more dancing. Third strike and all that jazz. This time around I'd just kill you and be done with it. This was a meet and greet of sorts, we wanted to see what y'all had going on here. Sort of a uhm... " He twirls one finger in the air. "Gettin' the lay of the land. No reason we all can't be civil for spell."
From the bathroom there is the sound of a fight, short fight, thudding and banging, and then silence. Through the door then steps Slade Wilson, white haired, patched eye, goatee trimmed neatly. He wears BDU's and boots, military basic t with a harness over his chest that puts a pair of 1911's against his ribs, a massive revolver at his spine, and a pair of large knives resting against his thighs. "Your customers do not know thier betters." he informs the barman as he eyes the patrons at the bar, "Harper." he says, his gaze then setteling on Tony. "Masters." something in the tone is familiar and... something else. Wary? Angry? Something. But it's Slade and so hard to really suss out.
"Yeah, well, if we're just having a truce before we started playing baseball, I gotta tell you... I -really- wanna at least get to home plate with -that- chick once," Roy comments. "You could pretty much play..."
"I apologize, sir," Wintergreen interjects, as Slade comes out. "The lady has departed. Would you like a refill, or perhaps a vodka?"
Roy, on the other hand, quirks an eyebrow. "Wilson." He glances over at Tony, and shakes his head. "You know him too? Small world." Glancing back at Slade, Roy calls out, "Hey Wilson, ixnay on the Harper. It's -Bard- here."
"Don't think you could handle any of her bases or /plates/, pal. Sides that, I wouldn't advise it. She's got venom for blood."
A finger-tap given to his glass, indicating just a refill for Wintergeeen.
"Don't recall giving out that name." Taskmaster says while craning his head looking Deathstroke over. Long term memory shot is a shame. The eye patch, the presence and being called Wilson, fits several profiles, namely one. 
"Too small most days. Lemme guess you shacked up with this here lot too? "
Slade eyes Roy for a long moment, "Very well Bard." his tone suggests he's never been a big fan of fake names. Part of Wilson's power is his name, when people /hear/ Deathstroke, they know what's coming. Of course, no one's ever mistaken him for a super hero so he can play any side with his name and not be out of place. Tony's words make Slade smile a grin that speaks of sharks and lions, "You know me better then that Tony." he says walking to the bar and motioning for a drink, "Scotch, voting age." he says, turning to stare at the other men, "I haven't shacked up with a team since... well..." he waves a dismissive hand.
Bourbon poured out for both Roy and Taskmaster, and an 18 years old scotch poured out for Slade, Wintergreen withdraws smoothly and unobstructively, leaving the three men to talk at the bar.
"Tsh... but what a way to go," Roy says. "Then again, I've got my hands full enough already." 
Leaning back against the counter, Roy quirks an eyebrow at Deathstroke. "Since when, Easy Company? Howling Commandoes? The Minutemen?" 
"I'll take your word for it." The easy reply to Slade, Taskmaster still the wake-up-its-a-new-day-every-day amnesiac. Quite for the moment he sips at his drink. Maybe he is trying to remember or for once the man doesn't have much to say.
Slade continues to stare at Tony, "Since he was a wet behind the ears rookie." he says, pointing a finger Tony's way... then levels on Roy, "Or since you were an idiot boy agent trying to dangle your toes in the adult swimming pool." Slade's been doing this for awhile. "Or maybe I mean Thermopolyae. Who knows?" he offers with a small smile. "Xerxes was entirely to soft." he's kidding, right?
"Yeah yeah, next you'll be telling me you're some kind of Eternal Warrior," Roy drawls, as he takes a swig. "Pull the other finger, why don't you? I'm just glad I don't have to face all the mercs I've run into on the same team. Because that'd be hell to deal with." 
"Hrm, never been a wet behind the ears rookie. Not as far as I can recollect." A wink and Taskmaster downs his entire glass before setting it down. No Wintergreen near enough he takes up the nearest bottle and pours himself some more.
Somewhere off in the distance there is a huge eruption that rattles the bar, causing the ground to quake, bottles to clatter together and chairs to shimmy across the bar floor. 
"Guess she pushed the button."
Slade snorts at Roy's words as he sips his scotch, "You have a hard enough time dealing with just one." he doesn't say which one, but he's still smarting over the last time he crossed paths with Roy... they ended his contract. Then he eyes Tony again, "I heard you have memory troubles now, shame. You were a complete ass, but a promising one... Now I hear you're a school teacher." he tsks softly, "Disappointing."
Slade doesn't seem to notice the explosion... he didn't get blown up, so what consern is it of his? None. Besides, it's Madripoor... a gunship hit the docks a couple weeks back an no one batted an eye.
"Hey, I'll have you know, I've got Dommie figured out. Just give her a couple guns, point her at a target, annoy her enough that she'll take out her aggression on the target, and bam, mission accomplished. Now I just have to figure out how to get her to let her hair down," Roy grins, lifting his glass and then draining it. 
The explosion causes Roy to look back out the door, and then tap the counter with his glass for another one. "I tell you what, if they don't kill each other, I think your partner n' mine will have lots of fun blowing up the stuff. Did yours ever blow up a volcano?" 
"Yep. Memories not quite what it used to be. But hey I'm an accomplished ass now." Taskmaster says with a grin, "And a /very/ well paid school teacher." His curiosity is piqued that Deathstroke seems to know him on a personal level but at the same time he has been down this road before, it's a song and dance he's grown used to. 
"Employer not partner, clear line there and I wouldn't know. Not been workin' for her long enough. I imagine they'd get along just dandy." In another universe perhaps. He's not sure pigs fly in this one or if he can make a wager big enough to give such a miracle credit to even try.
Even as that smell of burnt flesh and fried ozone fills the air everyone more or less remains casual, Madripoor. Welcome to it.
Slade raises his glass in admittance to that fact. He's kept some small tabs on Taskmaster over the years, his accomplishments and what have you. When he left the game to become some sort of instructor, Slade was rather disappointed. He had all the signs of being true competition. Now he... dabbles in the game, and spends more of his time being a school marm. It grates a bit on Slade's sense of ethics. He doesn't dignify the talk of a partner, assuming Roy is talking to Tony. Slade doesn't work with other people... ahem. Mostly.
"Tsk... your employer's a handful," Roy grumps. "Whoever she is. Don't suppose you could tell us anything about her at all? Like what her name is, or isn't..." And then the whiff of burnt flesh catches his nose, and Roy grimaces. "Damn it... back later." Got to see if people were still alive... what kind of crazy woman was -this-? 
"Baroness they call her. But she ain't shy ask her next time I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you all about herself." 
Taskmaster's brows quirk up, "You a volunteer fire fighter too? Nothing you can do out there if that's where you plan on goin'." Silent moment now he stands there next to Deathstroke, drinking their own individual brews. 
"Yep"
Slade sips from his scotch and watches Roy wrestle with his principles and lose before dashing out of the bar. He turns to eye Tony, sipping from the scotch with a slow long pull and smacking his lips once. 
"Yup." he says in agreement with Taskmaster.
More of that prolonged silence. Clearly these two men of action are also men of many words. The bourbon set down and refilled, "Bout that, huh?" Bout what exactly? Who knows. 
More drinking ensues as they stand there at the bar. Heroes like to call that burning smell outside danger, villains tend to call it progress, Baroness is the sort who probably just calls it fun. Terrifying really. Just one of those things that happens when she gets bored or ticked off.
Slade calls it ... nothing. Because it's none of his concern. Should the fire spread to threaten him he will move, should someone pay him to stop it he will, or perhaps even feed it. But for now it is just smoke and smell and nothing to him. He sips from the glass, his tone changing as he chooses to speak Spanish, a language he suspects few if any people in the bar know, "Lynch hasn't hunted you down yet?" he asks, shooting Tony a curious look, "For anything?"
"Lynch?" Taskmaster's lips quirk a bit as he swishes his drink around past his teeth. Reaching behind him he pulls out a wallet and thumbs through a few cards before handing a blank one over, well, blank except for a number. "If you count that. Tied in with that widow peak sportin' fuck too, huh?" A flash of imagery leaks from Taskmaster's memory palace; a HELO drop above Qurac, machine gun fire, figures racing back and forth as he takes up a sniper position while covering for a man with a sword the length and size of a machete; hacking through would be terrorists all the the sound of Barry McGuire's Eve of Destruction.
"Guess so." Easy acceptance. Taskmaster has learned how his memory works and tends to just go with it, it's like music video clips for him. Songs, smells, certain noises they inspire a visual he can call up briefly but then they're gone. It usually says he lived it before and he should remember. He never does, not completely.
Slade eyes the number and his lips curl into a snear, "We all were kid, we all were." he says in a low tone that's 100% predator. The growl, the voice, 'kid', it might job something loose too. "You ever want to know the story," he says, turning to eye the entrance again, his drink coming to his lips, "All you gotta do is ask."
"I still know how to tie my shoes. I'm good." Taskmaster replies not realizing he's still speaking in Spanish. It does inspire another flashback of Wilson's two-eyed screaming camo-painted face bending another human beings head around so it's facing his spine. Then reaching a hand out to help him out of a trench as artillery slams down around them in some desert blasted landscape. 
Yep, enough of that.
A clearing of his throat and Taskmaster burns through his last bourbon. "Welp, that's that. I'll be seeing you around Wilson. We'll have to jaw again sometime."
A Wilson with /two/ eyes at that... Not much younger looking, but still... Two eyed Wilson... no one's really heard of that. Slade nods his head and tips his glass Task's way, "It's a small world we run in Masters, I can guarantee you we'll see one another again. My guess," he look towards the door where whisps of smoke drift, "sooner rather then later. My two cents? Lynch comes to you again, tell him to go fuck himself. We, none of us, owe that bastard a damned thing." he sets the empty glass down and taps it with a finger, "Another." he says, though there's no barman to be seen. He sighs. "Figures."
 
Category:Log