2013.08.06 - POLLOS

--Da da da daaaaaa! Los Pollos Fernandos! De doo doo! Jersey's crunchiest, tastiest fried chicken!--
Anyone who lives within 175,000 watts of Elizabeth, New Jersey and listens to the radio has probably heard the jingle. They even advertise in Gotham, for while there are no Los Pollos Feranandos joints in Gotham City itself, people often drive to Elizabeth just to get their hands on what is known as the crunchiest, tastiest fried chicken this side of the West Coast.
Let's not outdo ourselves, though. It's a fast food joint, that's all.
The place has some of the most obnoxious colors in the world. Pale white, bright yellow and cartoon-beak orange make up the tiled, pseudo-sterilized interior of this fast food chicken joint. And yes, folks, there is but one Los Pollos Feranandos, and it's 'World Famous', too. The tacky signs plastered up all over the place are quick to remind its customers of that fact.
Outside of the restaurant, there is a telltale vehicle, which might explain the text message that was sent to one patch-eyed mercenary simply reading, 'POLLOS'. It's a Harley-Davidson Iron 883. However, inside the restaurant, its driver isn't exactly visible.
Not yet, at least.
The mens room door opens, and out walks Kwabena Odame. Upon his head is one of those skull-caps Africans use to keep their hair in check (even though he has no hair), and upon his frame is a simple, black leather jacket, a slightly busted up t-shirt, and a pair of stained jeans. Combat boots complete the ensemble, and it looks as if he's picked them up at an Army Surplus somewhere.
Someone's phone still hadn't been turned off after her flight went down in a blazing inferno somewhere in the middle of freaking nowhere in Ohio. Domino's utterly beat, having not gotten any proper rest in too long. She's still picking grass out of her wounds after a high-speed landing into an open field. What few weapons she still has are kept inside of the small black nylon pack she retrieved from the jet, having no other means of concealing them upon her person. The Bluetooth mic is the only thing she brings out, hooking it into place around her ear. Just in case.
The message now waiting on her phone is enough to make her stop walking along the dusty dirt road she's been following for the last several miles, her forehead dropping onto the back of her hand for a few seconds.
Your timing sucks. Out of town. What's the sitch?
Her own situation is about to take another roll of the dice. There's an old barn not too much further out. She's not expecting to find a brand new Porsche and a modern military weapons locker inside, but one never knows until they try.
Knowing her it's likely going to be something useful to her current situation, regardless.
-BaDaDing!-
Checking his phone, Kwabena keys it to life and holds it up to his head. "Out of town?" he murmurs to himself. "Son of a... my luck." He starts firing off a response, but is briefly interrupted by the manager, who comes by to check on him.
"Was your chicken as tasty and delicious as--"
Shoving his half-eaten basket of processed, fried 'chicken' across the table, Kwabena glances up at the manager with a smirk. "Needs more seasoning. Lots. Also some real chickens would be nice."
The manager just... blinks.
"Tank you? May I have some privacy?"
"Oh, um, yeah. Sure. Of course. Thanks for coming to Los Pollos Fernandos!"
Rolling his eyes, Kwabena looks back and stands, phone against his ear as he makes to leave the joint. "Forget about dat. Listen, where are you, exactly? Any chance you could be in southwest Ohio in eight hours?"
Once again Domino slowly comes to a standstill when the question is bounced back into her ear.
Southwest Ohio.
She looks to her left then to her right, gazing out at nothing but miles upon miles of empty, open, Ohio countryside. Way off in the distance she can still see the smoking remains of a crashed international jet.
"I'd say there's a pretty good chance of that."
Dusty boots begin moving once more, her head bowed against the sun as it starts to approach its mid-day apex. The pack gets readjusted on her shoulder, left arm hooking through the straps. (Eight hours, that's enough time to secure a vehicle and find something resembling indoor plumbing.)
"So I've gotta ask, what the hell's happening in southwest Ohio that you're coming to me for? You've never used the signal before, got some trouble?"
Pollo. This means something. Probably something big, or bad.
"Yeah," answers Kwabena, as soon as he's outside and facing the hot, Jersey mid-day sun. He trudges across the parking lot, boots crushing a couple of stray weeds that have managed to grow through cracks in the baked asphalt. "Big troubah. Sentinel-related."
He stops by his motorcycle, giving it a good once over. "You've dealt with dem before, and I need a good eye." Beat. "And a smart brain." As he walks around the bike, he checks its luggage -- a large satchel on the rear cargo hold, and a long item that pretty blatantly resembles some kind of rifle case, all tied down for a long journey. "How does fifteen biggies sound?"
Even though he can't see the mercenary on the other end of the phone, he can't help but stop and grin. Oh, he can only imagine the look on her face. Then again, she might not like the sound of $15,000 for dealing with Sentinels.
Either way, it's a damn shame he can't see whatever look his offer is given.
Sentinel-related. Domino's been slightly out of it, what with matters in China and a constant powerplay between four different forces within her life. She hasn't had a chance to catch up on the news regarding what hit Times Square but she remembers the Sentinels plenty well. She had been on Bonita Island when they first struck, then again out in the Arctic.
Definitely big. And bad.
That's not the weirdest news she's heard all week. That award would go to Kwabena when he offers to pay her for her time. She very nearly hesitates once more but then picks up her pace as she nears the barn doors. "Since when did you have the resources to back your own contracts, kiddo? Wasn't all that long ago you were bummin' work from me so you could keep fuel in your bike."
Still. Fifteen K for something she had assumed would be nothing more than a personal favor? Fifteen would more than cover the cost of the motorcycle that she had parked upside down in that Manhattan bistro the other evening...
The rusted latch on the barn door pops free with a little persuasion from one of the blades riding in her pack, muscling the heavy, gritty panel aside to let some natural light into the dusty air. There's a tarp covering something distinctly car-shaped. Her odds are looking up.
"I'm in." In more ways than one.
That grin grows just a bit bigger.
There is a grunt in Kwabena's voice as he throws a leg over the motorcycle and settles in. "Hey, don't ask questions," he answers. "Just... you know, considah it back payment for all dat help you gave me, right? I'm going to send you GPS coordinates. Meet me dere in eight hours."
Clicking the phone offline, Kwabena secures it in his jacket, then fires the powerful engine of his bike with two hearty pulls on the throttle.%r%rIt's a good thing he keeps the thing in top shape.
Four hours later, the hog is racing through Pennsylvania Turnpike at speeds exceeding 120 mph. With a helmet up to conceal his head, the African banks and whizzes through the much slower cars, giving the police vehicles behind him an awful chase.
Four hours after that?
The motorcycle rolls up to a stop along a dusty curb. The neighborhood is not far from downtown Cincinnati, but it's not a pretty place. Shady characters roam around here and there, and there's no shortage of questionable things going down. However, the police are keeping their distance, because someone paid them off to do just that.
Those GPS coordinates Shift had sent to Domino lead directly to a house on this very street. It's the same place where a black SUV has been parked for the better half of the week, and it's the same place where Kwabena's hog grinds to a quiet rest, after being put to its limits on a race to the midwest.
Dropping the kickstand, Kwabena hops off the bike and grabs the bag and rifle case from their resting places.
Workbench. Pegboard. Locked cabinet. Mystery wheels.
"Funny, I recall telling someone else something very similar to that," Domino half-distantly replies while she scans more than a dozen capped glass jars laid out across a shelf, each full of assorted bolts, screws, nails, and the like.
She selects one at random and twists the cap off, revealing a set of keys.
The jar is discarded atop of the workbench as she wanders over to the cabinet, trying the lock.
Match.
"I can be there in six."
With the call ended she opens the cabinet to reveal some dusty clothing, including a tattered Gander Mountain hat, flannel shirts, and a scuffed up pair of cop blocker sunglasses. In the back corner is an old Savage 99, a .303 chambered lever action rifle that's speckled in dings, scratches and rust.
"Hoo-wee," she mutters while pulling it out and checking the action. A box of bullets that look to be older than she is sits on the top shelf. Serviceable, of a sort. Just as she turns away she spots another set of keys hanging from a hook along an interior cabinet wall, fetching those next and looking at the badge.
Porsche.
A thin smirk crosses blackened lips. "What are the odds."
Ten minutes later Dom's kicking up dust along that back road in a cherry red 1971 911 Targa, the roof panel removed and tucked away. One flannel shirt, one scuffed up pair of cop blocker shades, one Gander Mountain baseball hat, and one Savage 99 tucked in the footwell beside her.
Three hours later she's at a roach motel.
Forty minutes later she's emerging from the shower.
Two hours later she's pulling up to those coordinates. Shady looking SUV. Bad neighborhood. Her in a bright red classic sports car.
Twenty minutes later she's seated in a dark restaurant having an early dinner.
An hour later and she's getting into the harder drinks.
Then, on the mark, she returns to those coordinates to the sight of a man on a bike killing the engine. She hops out of the car and tucks part of the old rifle under the flannel shirt that's way too large on her diminutive frame, hat and glasses yet in place as she approaches Kwabena.
"Not one word, Tuesday."
It's a reasonably slow motion, that of Kwabena's helmeted head. It turns to eyeball the Porsche first, then the woman who's hopping out of that fiscal monstrosity.
Slowly, very slowly, he reaches to remove the helmet. Sweat is beaded upon his face, for it had been a very long and very hot ride to get here. However, the grin upon his face is just... absolutely, viciously wicked.
"I don't think dere's anything I could say," he offers, giving her a good once over. "Except... maybe... woo hoo, Dale Junior?"
Quickly, Shift nods his head toward the house. It's a small number, maybe three beds on a two story, and as Kwabena approaches the front door, a pitbull in the yard next door lurches up against the neighboring back yard fence, barking and snarling bloody canine murder.
A rustle of keys and the door is unlocked, revealing the inside of the house.
It's pretty much empty. There's an old television sitting on a rickety table, a coffee table and two couches. Nothing on the walls. Clean.
Tossing the keys onto the table, Kwabena gestures toward the room to the rear. "Kitchen should have food and drink. Beds upstairs. Basement's got enough gear for us to get de job done." He pauses, eyeballing Domino again. "Along with some proper attire for everyone."
As in, camouflaged, padded body armor of a rather high tech nature.
Dale Juni--
Whap!
There's Kwabena's first punch in the shoulder from the walking wardrobe explosion that is Domino.
As the two start walking she passes a lingering glance back to the angered pit, off-handedly muttering "Adorable."
The inside of that little house isn't much better to look at than its surroundings. The albino steps in around Kwabena, pulling the shades clear of her face to reveal a scabbed but emotionless face. "Swank. Glad to see that business is kickin' for you lately."
The Savage and flannel are soon discarded upon the same table, revealing a more traditional compliment of combat webbing over sleek black armor, adorned with plenty of matte black blades, two compensated 10mm pistols, and a matte black .44 Desert Eagle. And three pipebombs that she found the time to throw together.
"Do we have time for a scene before this job kicks off?" she nonchalantly asks. It's followed up a moment later with a glance and a teasing grin. "Hope you've managed to find an armored catsuit in my size."
Her current one has seen better days.
To be fair, Kwabena half expected that punch. It's why he didn't tense his muscles and all. Experience Points.
"Got to keep a low profile," notes Kwabena in defense of the pad. "Besides, decking de place out would only cut into your budget." He tosses the bag onto one of the couches with a heavy thud of associated gear, then sets the rifle case down onto the carpeted floor next to it with much more care.
Then, he blink-blinks and turns back around to look at Domino again with a blank expression that eventually turns into a smirk.
"Jesus, merc-for-brains. Dis ain't 'Rodeo Orgy 2013 Uncut'. Nice ego you've got dere, thinking that would be worth fifteen grand."
Kwabena deftly starts walking into the kitchen, if only to avoid punch number two.
Rummaging through the cupboards, he procures a number of food items, most of which range from fresh fruits and veggies to canned and packaged stuff high in carbs. "Great. Just what de body needs." When he comes to the last cupboard, he finds the liquor. A bottle of George Dickel Barrel Select. "... aaand what I need."
The bottle thuds against the counter. Two glasses are procured, and whiskey is poured for each. "So, what happened to you anyway?" he asks, while turning to slide a glass across the countertop her way. "You look like you just wrestled with some few rabid Ohio wilderbeasts."
"If you think I'd take that over the fifteen grand you obviously don't know me very well," Dom jokes back. "I'm worth way more than that. Though if I posted the results to the net I'll bet that I could make up the lost revenue in a few months."
He's followed to the kitchen, having a similar idea in mind where the liquor is concerned. She need to do nothing more in order to score a drink, her head bobbing down once as the glass is lifted upward.
When the question's asked she pulls out her phone and unlocks the screen, poking around and calling up a picture before sliding the phone his way across the counter.
It's a picture of her, the same scabbed line across her forehead fresh and leaking blood. It was probably taken at about five in the morning. She's hanging from a parachute, grinning and giving the camera a thumbs up. Behind her is a thick string of oily black smoke coming from the third engine of a four engined jet, clearly left with little to no control.
"That's about fifteen hours old. Story's probably all over the news by now."
The scary thing is that's only a small part of what she's been up to. Most of it she's not going to tell the guy. Most, but not all.
"The other week I busted up an arms operation in Gotham. Buncha kids with state of the art three-dee printers manufacturing their own guns. Even the bullets to go along with 'em. All-poly three-eighty, poor range and limited accuracy but plenty hardcore for up close work. They copied the old Ingram design and went to town, lighter weight parts kicked the rate of fire up to eleven. Then I dropped a building on top of their heads."
Sip.
It's a good thing Kwabena waited to take his first drink of bourbon until Domino was done joking back. Otherwise, he'd have snarfed liquor, and even turning into smoke won't make that go away easily.%r%rFortunately, this time, he snorts raw air.
"At least you know you have a backup plan, if de merc business evah goes south on you."
Snatching the phone from the counter, he studies it for a few moments while carefully taking his drink of bourbon. It's all an effort to avoid snorting the brown stuff through the wrong hole, and he does it well. "Haven't had time to check de news," he answers, while casually flicking his fingers across the phone's screen in order to send the picture to his own cell. Setting the phone back down, he slides it across the counter, just as his phone beeps to alert him of a new incoming picture message.
"Thanks, Dom," he quips, "Now I have a background pic for when you call."
Settling back against the counter top with glass in hand, he cocks his head just slightly to the side and listens. "Three dee printahs, I've heard of dat. High tech stuff." Once she tells exactly how she busted up the ring? He grins widely and lifts the glass in a mock toast, saying, "Beam me up, Scotty," in a manner of congratulations.
"Dere's an old Sentinel facility about twenty six miles from here," he offers. "Decommissioned, officially, but you and I know dat smells about as nice as a bull's ass on bad grass. De truth is, what we're probably looking at is experimental stuff. I'll wait 'til de rest of the pahty gets here to go over de nitty gritty, but let me just say this. We're going in, quietly, taking whatevah we can, and when we're done, I intend to blow de place to hell and back."
Sip.
"I've got a few ideas in mind," Domino admits with a bit more serious tone. "Though harassing you will always be one of my hobbies."
Out of all of the things Shift could copy from her phone she's not going to complain too much about him using that image for when she calls. It certainly beats him trying to get a picture of her in her fifty percent Hayseed look for such a purpose.
"Happy to help," she deadpans with her lips hovering over the rim of her glass.
Not long later and she's giving Kwabena the most bizarre look ever... "Beam me up, are you for real? Rockin' it oldschool nerdcore, right here," she says with a lopsided grin.
As the operation is laid out she turns around and hops up onto the edge of the counter, hunched forward with the glass pinned within alabaster fingertips between her knees. "Yeah, I instinctively distrust anything connected to the word 'Sentinel.' We'll do some proper damage."
Pause. Pale eyes snap back to Kwabena, the white-surrounded brow hooking upward. "'Others?' I didn't realize this was going to be a party, who else are you bringing in?"
(Probably some of the X-Men. Scott, maybe Logan.)
"Just keep my Shift out of your lungs and we'll call it a deal."
The rest of his whiskey is downed with a quick gulp, and he reaches for the bottle to pour himself another glass. Following this, it is placed on the counter within reach of either. "Hey, it's not my thing, but at least you got de pulp reference. Sentinels are about as close to sci fi as I care to get. And I'll be damned if one of dose metal bastards are going to slice me in half again with dose lasers of theirs. All of my intel says that we won't find any of them online and active. Here's to that." He lifts the glass in another mock toast before sipping.
It sure is a relief. He'd had a close call with the police at the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and barely had the time to stop for a swig.
"Small party," he answers. "A sharpshooter named Strillka, a tech head named Billie Circuit--terrible name--and Lunair."
He casually neglects to mention that this is not an X-Men op.
"Keep your Shift to yourself and we won't have a problem," Domino easily replies.
To the toast she drains her glass then automatically moves to refill it. "Well, now you've got a bit of luck on your side. I doubt a three-oh-three hollowpoint is going to do anything more than nick the paint on one of those bastards. You aren't going to hear any complaints from me over keeping this op spectral."
A slight frown passes over her face as the list of names is recited. Strilka, unknown. Billie Circuit, unknown. Lunair--"Lunair?" A black nail lightly taps the side of her glass a few times. "I know that one. Kinda loopy, though it's impossible to be out-gunned with her around. Make sure she doesn't touch anything and we should be alright."
Omission is answer in its own right. None of those names are ones she recognizes from the X-Men roster. She's not a part of that team, either. Two and two go together nicely enough. This is something else altogether, but she won't start digging. Sentinels, cash payout. She's got everything that she needs to know.
Thus, the matter isn't pursued. "Been a while, hasn't it," she off-handedly says. "Already reminds me of last year." These two, working together.
"Yeah, well." Kwabena's voice now bears the strain caused by a sudden influx of whiskey paired with not having used his voice for a good few hours. Noting it, he eyes the glass suspiciously for a moment before tilting the glass back and taking the rest in full. "If it comes to it, and we've got troops on de ground? Dey'll be shooting to kill. I'll just sic you and Lunair on de grunts and find a way to handle de big guys with style."
There is a moment of silent reflection then, during which Kwabena takes the time to reflect on all that has happened. At the end of the day, the list of those he couldn't trust was long and lengthy. After his falling out with the X-Men, they were on that list. Worse yet, he all but knows that this operation is little more than a test given to him from Magneto, whom he trusts about as far as he could approach.
Maybe it's something about that gun she pointed at his head, but it was more likely the professionalism. There is a brief moment where Kwabena studies Domino, dropping the ever present poker face just long enough to give her a considering glance, before he finally breaks that silence.
"Yeah." Another pause fills the air. "Let's hope dis one goes bettah dan Latveria. I'd almost be willing to accept Bakersfield." Standing from the counter, he puts the glass into the sink nearby, then collects an apple and two emery bars from the stuff he'd rummaged out of the cupboard. "Gonna grab de couch and some shut eye. De oddah's ought to be here in three hours."
"So that's how it is now," Domino starts in with a slightly irritated tone, "I've been downgraded to your mop-up crew? Kid, when I first met you you couldn't tell the difference between the mouth of a bottle and the business end of a Benelli. Maybe your powers don't know how to call it quits while they're ahead but I've got years more field experience than you. If it comes to it I'll do whatever needs to be done, giant robotic Japanese movie rejects or no."
(Of course he had to bring up Latveria... Better than him mentioning Bakersf--sonuvabitch.)
"Textbook sketch and fetch, Shift. We map the place out as we go and grab whatever looks interesting. We're not going to be exiled from the country for sticking our noses somewhere that isn't technically supposed to exist."
They don't deport for that. They incarcerate for life. There's a difference.
It's followed by another slight nod of acknowledgement. "I'll check out the party favors downstairs. Be ready to roll when you are."
Called on the carpet! Shift is halfway through turning to make a departure when Domino rightly puts him in his place. He turns back to her, mouth ajar in forming protest, but he promptly screws it shut and listens.
"Hey, look, dat's not what I--" he starts to say, but swallows the retort halfway through. She was right. It was all getting to his head.
"Shit."
Reaching up, he scratches at the base of his skull, which had started to turn into a tell of sorts for when he feels out of place. "I'm not paying you dis much to be mop up crew. You don't..." Silencing himself with the proverbial sock, he simply says, "You're de most talented on dis op. I'll follow your lead, you follow mine. Deal?"
To that Domino looks back to Kwabena, considering his words then affirming with another slight twitch of her head. In another moment she's off of the counter and back onto her feet. "This is your op, kid. Just keep in mind the people that you're bringing into it. Know your team. Know how to fully utilize them."
With that said she drains the remainder of her glass and sets it on the counter behind her, making her way to the basement.
(Also know what gear everyone is bringing along. Looks like I get first inspection.)
Category:Log