2012-11-30 Spy for Hire

Brooklyn may not be the most charming of places on the face of this planet, but it does have its share of hidden gems. One of them is the small diner which is currently being observed by the individual going by the alias of Tonya Harris. Green eyes, straight black hair pulled up in a simple tail, jeans, hiking boots, and a worn brown leather bomber jacket. It's a simple presentation, yet it manages to hold an air of refinement which tends to be overlooked by most normal people. Care and attention down to the very last detail, most certainly with the cosmetic touches and where every strand of hair happens to fall. A well picked over plate from lunch is brushed aside while she continues to favor a mug of coffee and a good old fashioned newspaper before her. Although, only part of her is paying attention to the printed words. This diner is also a good place to do some people watching. Some of the faces are familiar, many are not. To the others, Tonya's starting to become a fairly regular customer, herself.
With a teammate stranded in a fascist nightmare and a Senator held in the grip of terrorists, time has been in short supply for the X-Man sometimes known as Wolverine. Weeks ago - before she disappeared, when the Senator's plight was still new to them - Betsy told him of a woman he'd never heard of--one who may have had some hand in changing the way she saw the world. Even then, time was short; investigating the mystery woman was a task to be saved for /after/ the Senator and his family were safe.
Now that Betsy's gone, though, the curiosity that gnawed at the back of his mind at the /first/ mention of his teammate's enigmatic new friend has eaten at him--and with the Marauders still proving too elusive for even his keenly honed senses, there are far worse people to seek than Tonya Harris, hard-edged pro-mutant mystery woman.
Of course, /finding/ Ms. Harris meant finding other people who knew her, which meant a couple days of tense, sporadic, often violent confrontations with various pro-mutant groups across the city.
After a few false starts - as it turns out, information gleaned from finger-breaking is not /always/ the most useful - Logan managed to pick up the woman's trail, tailing her through the city for some time before eventually winding up across the street from the diner. He, like she, is wearing a brown bomber jacket to protect him from the winter air; a plain white t-shirt and ancient blue jeans complete the ensemble.
He initially lingers across the way to wait for an opportunity to pick the trail back up, but by the time Tonya's nudging her plate aside, he's making his way inside, where he'll slide into a table in view of Tonya's and commence perusing the menu.
Patience, it's a difficult thing to acquire and often one which does not desire being kept once grasped. Fortunately, 'Tonya' has had a very long time to claim and hone it within herself. These are peculiar times, though as always good informants are very rare, and very valuable. Someone has been asking around about her. Someone with a habit of enacting a bit of violence to get his way. Quite the charming rascal, this one.
Part of her people watching involves watching for one in particular. That one element which does not belong in a given setting. One like this scruffy gent that steps in from the cold and takes a seat, where they can both get a view of one another. "I say, it's about time he gathered the nerve to show himself," she quietly speaks to herself around her mug.
The newspaper gets neatl folded and tucked beneath her arm, taking her coffee along for the short trip from one table to another. The one which you happen to be occupying. "Rather dreadful weather these days, isn't it," she inquires with an obvious accent. "Is this seat taken, dear? I do believe we have a few matters to discuss, you and I." Dropping her voice, she adds "Your newfound infatuation with me, among them."
Whether you offer her a seat or not, she's taking one directly across from you.
Logan shifts his eyes just past the menu to take a peek at Tonya when she speaks of his nerve; there's a frown on his face as he resumes scanning the diner's lunch selection. He /thought/ that he was being careful, but--was he, really?
As tiring - as /distracting/ - as these last days have been, would he even really know?
Tonya's arrival forces him to push those concerns aside; there are, indeed, far weightier matters at hand than niggling doubts--though he still waits until the woman has taken her seat uninvited to actually lower his menu and make eye contact.
"Sure," he lowly replies, features blank save for the weariness and worry that he can't quite abolish from them, "And next, we can talk about a friend'a mine: purple hair, penchant for butterflies. Sharpest mind you've ever seen; sound fair?"
Loyal contacts don't always know everything about everyone. Such as this man having very good hearing, Tonya isn't aware that her personal remark got picked up by the other man. Maybe sometime she'll learn to be more careful. That time isn't now.
Fingers knit together atop of the folded paper as she regards you for a moment, back straight, posture statue-perfect, expression giving away very little beyond the tiniest smirk of amusement... It's a rare glimpse beyond the mask, not many get such an opportunity to see it. Here lies a situation which she is not prepared for. Word has gotten around, and it seems their mutual friend of the butterflies has become something of a bridge to cross this divide.
"Quite a lovely one, that girl. The violet, it's all very endearing. Must be a pain to constantly touch up the roots," she says as though the other mutant ever had to worry about dying her hair to get that pigment. "She did seem the clever type. Resourceful. Capable of thinking for herself. A rare trait these days, don't you think?" comes the next inquiry as lightly grinning lips return to the rim of her mug once more. "And unless I'm mistaken, it is a quality which, to some extent, you possess, as well. You've found me dear, and let me assure you that I mean our friend no harm whatsoever. One such as herself is something to be cherished. And employed to the best of its capabilities."
Tonya narrows her eyes ever so slightly as she continues to study your face, finally recalling where she had seen you once before. And yet, you haven't recognized -her,- have you..? She'll keep that wildcard hidden for a while longer.
"Yeah," Logan murmurs, voice as dry as the sun-beaten desert, "that's our girl: resourceful an' independent." His fingers are so taut on the menu that they're bending its laminated surface; he sets the thing down with a small grimace once he notices, then folds his hands tightly atop the table.
"There ain't a lotta people like us left in the world, anymore, I guess." Resourceful, independent people like he and Psylocke, that is. "People are gettin' softer an' softer, and God forbid any of 'em ever had t' take care'a themselves," he continues musing. "So I figure, independence or no: we're a dyin' breed; it's only natural for us to watch each other's backs, when it comes down to it." The old man's hands gingerly unclench and flatten out against the table, and then as he leans a little nearer to Ms. Harris, he lowly finishes, "So you can maybe see where, when some broad comes along to fill that girl's head full'a rhetoric - talks about employin' her on top of it - I might be concerned."
Tonya can see where this is going. That tension in your hands, though... Nervous? No, surely not -that.- You don't strike her as the type. Anger would better fit the bill, which leaves her to assume that it's focused toward her and what she stands for rather than any chance of the menu not having your favorite appetizer listed.
"Many are, true," she initially agrees. "Not all of them, though. As I'm sure you understand." Because, hell. Just look at you. Not a lot of softness or rounded edges to be seen.
Talk of a dying breed, there's more behind those words than referring to the resourceful types. "I quite well agree, likeness should stick together. United we stand, and other such sentiments." She hesitates for a second before further encouraging you with "Relax, lovely. You have the look of a man who's preparing himself for the firing squad, hardly fitting for a cozy diner. Try item six, they do know how to season their beef around here."
Now we're getting somewhere. "Aah..yes, there it is," Tonya declares in a soft but amused tone. One elbow lightly settles against the table so she can rest the side of her jaw within an upturned palm, the other hand idly toying with the warmed mug before her, stained from many years of beverage-handling service. "And you would therefore be concerned as to whom was trying to 'employ' her, and for what reasons. Fair concerns, those."
"It's like this, sweetheart. I've been around for some time now, and I've seen every side there is to see of society. What I have seen has been ..most discouraging, to say the least. I, for one, do not enjoy watching those of us being flayed open in the name of science and extermination. Banding together is a survival mechanism, strengthening our resolve, creating a foundation for which we all stand upon. Dreadful business, but highly necessary, don't you think?"
The question is left hanging in the air as she claims another sip of coffee, her focus never drifting away from your eyes.
Logan is angry, to be sure, but it's focused inward as much as it on Ms. Harris. So far as he knows, the woman sitting across from him might - /might/ - have helped put Psylocke on her destructive path, but he /definitely/ encouraged her to continue following it; his hands are pressed against the table as a precaution and a reminder against letting any of those conflicting emotions spill forth. When he's actually called on his tense demeanor, he just scowls and responds to the suggestion with a slight shake of his head. He hasn't had to recover from anything ghastly today; he can stave of eating for a while longer.
"I'm with you, there," he cautiously and quietly allows. She /certainly/ doesn't have to convince him of how dangerous science can be when turned on mutants without a care for conscience. "But whether or not we might agree on some things - I dunno if /that/ was ever really a question for me." After a moment longer, he settles back into his seat, and even draws his hands back to fold them loosely in his lap. "World's a dark, dark place; I know as well as you seem to that that means stickin' together and doin' some things--" The inflection on the word leaves no doubt that none of those things - at least in his mind - are nice. "--to keep that darkness from swallowin' the rest up. But I also know that I got a line--and that /she/ had a line. An' I know that I got no idea where yours might be."
There's an upward hook of a perfectly shaped eyebrow, a thoughtful 'mmh' from the back of Tonya's throat. Now she's looking quite well intrigued by what you have to say, further delving into the tormented mind across the table from her and what ticks within. She's being felt out for -that- sort of deal, how fascinating! "There's more to you than meets the eye. True for so many of us. Let me start by saying that there is very..little..that I would not do to ensure the survival of our species. Our friend, the Vibrant Violet, I found her when she was down on her luck. Some great, unseen force was tormenting the poor dear, she was barely aware of the world around her. I took no pleasure in seeing her so vulnerable, she required a hand and thus I was there to provide one. Her safety is of great importance, whether through me or, through yourself," she claims while motioning your way with her lowered, mug-ready hand.
"That's no longer what this is about though, is it." Tonya folds her arms together, leaning closer toward you over the table. Perfectly at ease. Still amused. "You aren't here to talk about her. You're here to talk about -me.- You've gone through the trouble, jumped through the hoops, and now you've found me. So tell me, dear. Now that you've here, what is it that you really want? If I were to hazard a guess, I would think that you're looking to add some extra hands to your current dilemma. If..said dilemma involves the safety and well-being of our kind then I suppose the answer which you might receive would be yes; My schedule is always open for one of us in need." More or less. When it might benefit her.
The wee Canadian isn't hovering in Tonya's face anymore, but he's hardly relaxing as she speaks: he listens to not just her words, but to the beat of her heart--and he doesn't just listen, he watches. Slumping in his creaking, straight-backed seat, Logan tries to take note of every little cue, every bit of the woman's body language he can, and while he tries as well as one can to look as though he's merely listening to her and not trying to gauge the truthfulness of her sentiments for their shared acquaintance... there is only so much that he can /do/ to hide his intentions from an experienced people watcher like Tonya.
When she actually comes towards him, his brows arch a little, his head is drawn back slightly, and he otherwise stays put.
"Good guess," he lowly replies. "You ever hear of the Marauders?" His eyes narrow, now; the time for sizing up has passed. "Murderers, terrorists--killed a bunch'a homeless mutants in the sewers a few years back. Bit of a rep, as I understand it."
This is the part of interaction that Tonya enjoys, the silent and calculated butting of heads between predators. It had always been the highlight of sharing a game of Chess with Erik, less about the pieces upon the board and more about getting inside of the head of the opposition. Gambling was much the same way, often more profitable in the long run as well. You're good at observing on the sly, heightened senses allowing you to do so with ease where a normal person would begin to develop a tell. She doesn't catch every part of it, more playing with the assumption of what you're up to rather than the facts.
"The name does strike a bell," she confirms with a distant, wilting sigh. "Troublemakers of the worst sort. Enough of a rep to have made a name for themselves. How it is that they still manage to live and cause trouble is something of a mystery to me, though such actions cannot be allowed to continue, no? If they are preying upon our kind..." It's the first time that she doesn't complete her current thought in words. It's also the first time she feels it unnecessary to do so. "A 'cleaning up the streets' operation, then, is it? I would be willing to add my voice to your rallying cry of opposition in this instance." No hesitation, no giving it obvious thought. Mutants are being hunted and killed? Then the Marauders should expect to receive the same fate.
"Just..one thing before we discuss any plans for this particular cleansing, dear. You seem to know something of me, enough to have found me out here. Who, then, might -you- be? You do have me at a distinct disadvantage, as I do not know so much as your name."
"Actually," Logan begins with a slight shake of his head, "I had somethin' a little different in mind." Shutting them down for good is the best case scenario, but destroying an enemy one can't touch is beyond Logan's means.
"They a place in Detroit, but--they're /smart/; nothin' I've tried to pin 'em down has worked. Trails keep goin' cold; maybe they're onto me, maybe they're just that paranoid. They--got somethin' real, real valuable with 'em, right now; could be either one. Point is: I could use a fresh face. Fresh set'a eyes and ears--someone who can maybe get close to 'em for long enough to gimme some idea of where to hit 'em. Anything that happens to 'em after that..."
Like Tonya, he leaves the the rest unsaid because it doesn't /need/ to be.
"Ain't a lotta glory in it," he quietly adds, "but it's what I got." With that, he unfolds a hand and stretches it across the table.
"An' the name? Logan. Still think you can find that voice'a yours?"
A fresh face. A person on the inside. "Ah, -splendid!-" Tonya says with much renewed enthusiasm, though still keeping her voice pitched low enough to not reach much further than the two. "You're in need of a spook! The plot thickens." Not only that, there is -such- a glint of anticipation now in her eyes. A straight-out massacre, while still within her realm, lacks a certain ..finesse. It's brutal and ugly, not the sort of thing she tends to enjoy so much as the rush of the chase, itself.
Right now, you're speaking her language.
"Well, Logan, a fresh face is something which I happen to do quite well," she states while taking your offered hand in her own. "Congratulations, you've found yourself a new ally for the hunt."
This is gearing up to be an opportunity with a great many birds Mystique can kill, and with one handsomely sized rock.
"Good." Logan can't quite manage to match, or even feign anything like Tonya's enthusiasm, but the nod accompanying that one syllable is sincere. Psylocke's faith in her is no guarantee on its own, but it /helps/--even if that eagerness sets him a little on edge. Accepting the need for targetted deception and betrayal is one thing; reveling in it, though...
In the end, he only has so much room to judge others for finding joy in dark places; it may not sit entirely right, but she /is/ on his side. For now. That, he figures, will have to be enough.
"Keep me posted." After pulling his hand from Tonya's, he'll reach into his coat to procure a little strip of paper and a pen, scribble a number down, and slide it across the table. "Secure line; use it if you need to. Best case scenario, you're our ace in the hole when we go in an' get the bastards."
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