Summary:Mikhail Ursus takes Lena and Mick out for wings and a show Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
   |
It's late at night, the streets steamy after a long rain. A cheap flop hostel sits between a few restaurants, across the street from a shady Ukrainian doctor with a habit of passing out in the opium den down underneath the strip club down the street.
Mikhail kind of liked it here.
He's wearing a pair of black khakis, boots and an A-line wifebeater, his stocky, barrel-chested body large and intimidating, a few jailhouse style tats on his arms and an unfiltered cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He supposed he should check on the girl, but he'd bet she'd already bailed. He'd paid her bill anyway. Not with his money, of course, but those Bravda had left behind a nice cash haul that currently made a bulge on his hip.
Another dump, another drag - It was in these parts of the city that Lena felt the most at home. A few weeks prior of running into a goon hopped up on something or another, Snart had taken a few heavy hits that didn't fit her well. She was cared for, though, on the mend, even if her somewhat icy (but pretty) face was swollen in spots. A few bandages here or there and she was on the go.
Striding down a stretch of side-walk, Snart keeps her gait casual. Head up, eyes forward, she takes in a breath and glances about, marking people, places and 'attractions'.
The lowlifes, the crooks, the violent thugs. This was their kind of people. The large form of Mick Rory wrapped in his own equally large coat looked right at home as the pair walked down the sidewalk, but the while his partner was ever marking, thinking, perhaps even planning? Mick was simply basking in it. It was the perfect return to normal after their last job and the mess it had turned into when some freak hopped up on a super drug had attacked them.
Still, he'd torched the monster and the building alike in that one, so it hadn't been -all- bad.
Mikhail Ursus can tell those two are pros. They walk like pros and he's been in the business long enough to know it. Not the only ones in the neighborhood, of course, but more competent than most. Half the soldiers around here were strung out wastoids, barely able to keep their gun in its holster and burning their brains out on coke and meth.
"If you are looking for Doctor Vanya, he is in that building there. I think he is passed out, though," he says, gesturing across the street.
Lena Snart glances up toward Mick as the pair are addressed. She pauses, if only for a moment, her body turning to face the massive Russian. "Not looking for a doctor, friend. Do I look that bad?" She muses, smirking her dark painted lips toward Mick, a dimple pressing into her cheek. "Guess it's not bad knowing someone to patch us up now and then…"
A pause, she turns and faces Mikhail once more. "How are you tonight, friend? Any good news?"
"Better than hiring a veterinarian again," Mick muses. "I swear that last one gave me cat meds to stop infection…" a pause, the man turns his gaze up towards the man who'd made the statement, flicking his eyes in an almost transparent 'sizing up' before he half-nudges Lena with his elbow. "Who's this guy?"
Mikhail Ursus takes a long drag on his cigarette, "Just a well-sated soldier, feeling beneficent," he says, rather proud of that word. Beneficent. He'd looked it up after the doctor used it last night. "You look like the type who get shot at sometime. I would know. I am that type, too. I don't usually need stitching, but I have friends who do. Vanya is fair and good at what he does, even if he is a sick pervert and a junkie. But everyone has vices, yes?"
Lena Snart shrugs, not knowing the man who, thankfully, introduces himself. "Aww," she smiles then. "I love when thugs use big words. Makes a girl like me almost proud." Almost. Shifting in her stance, she turns her head and looks along the walk way once more, still counting out and down before returning her attention to, "Well, Mr. Beneficent, that sounds nice but I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the likes of perversion and being blized out of his mind. I'd rather see a vet." She eyes Mick and then Mikhail once more.
"Never seen you before, or went for a wander on this side of town. You know anyone else, Soldier? Anyone better?"
A glance, between the pair before them, Mick shifts a little on his feet and nods his head. "She's right," he half-growls, although it seems almost more a trait of voice rather than a true warning. "We try and keep our 'sickos' in low numbers day to day. Gets awfully crowded after all…"
Mikhail Ursus shrugs, "That is fair. I am not his type, so maybe it not as much problem for me. Plus he knows I will swat his head off his shoulders if he were to cross me. Fear is excellent motivator for good behavior," he says.
"There is the Chinese doctor, the one above the Lao Tzu restaurant. Of course, he doesn't see a lot of non-Chinese, but they say he knows what he does. He'll just charge you out the ass," he says.
"Mikhail Ursus," he says, offering a hand, "I was going to avail myself of the buffet at the titty bar down the road. They have good sesame wings."
"Hmm, Lao Tzu." She remembers, offering her hand out in return. "Lena Snart." Giving a shake, she pulls her touch away and slips it back into the pocket of her coat. Muggy or not, it was a fashion statement. That, or she needed a summer look. Maybe.
Smirking, she eyes Mick and then Mikhail. "I do like chicken. If you're open for some company, I know my partner here can eat with the best of them. Plus, I think we have some cash for the girls."
"Maybe we can convince him to play a little cheaper," Mick muses aloud, thoughts perhaps of just how that might be accomplished bringing a slight smile to his lips. Then there's talk of titty bars and wings. Alright, that could work.
"Worse ways to spend an evening," he muses aloud and gestures towards himself with a jerk of his thumb. "Mick. Mick Rory." Introductions made!
Mikhail leads the way, meandering through a few booths, waving off a few buskers and late-night hookers trying to pick up trade. Not that he was above that sort of thing, but he was making new friends after all.
The club inside was red-lit and played with the Asian theme, dragons and fans and swords on the wall. But the women on stage came from all ethnicities, their bodies directly on display beneath garish neon lights. The bouncer seems to know Mick, "Don't worry, I got us covered for tonight. I came into a little money and am feeling…generous."
"I'm not sure I trust generous very much." Lena murmurs, always watching around them. She doesn't seem to mind the drag what so ever. It is what it was and it was comforting. It was a place she came from, as did her partner. Without hesitation, or pause, she slips in with both men, moving to claim a place to sit with the pair. "You might regret it, too." She smirks, thumbing toward Mick. "He can eat this place to the ground. Both of us drinking, this place is in trouble." Unzipping her jacket, she peels it away, her under attire lighter, but dark hues of blue and black. Goth-punk is the best way to describe it.
Offer was made, Mick wasn't going to waste time talking someone out of it. They can regret it later with the bill in hand. It's straight to the bar with the big guy, hand raised to signal for attention and a grin on his face.
"It could be worse," he comments over his shoulder at the woman, "nothing's on fire yet!"
Mikhail Ursus snorts, "Some money you keep. Some money you spend. This is spending money," he says. Holding onto it too long would just be asking for trouble, if anyone came looking for it. Spending it well out of Russian territory, laundered between the firm thighs of high-class strippers, well, that was at least a good use of them.
He sits back and orders a massive tray of wings, dips, and appetizers, along with a pitcher of beer and a bottle of vodka, "That's enough for me, you two order whatever you like," he smiles.
Lena Snart rests back, watching the pair speak. She smirks, shaking her head, her hand out toward Mick to do as he'd like even as she keeps herself at their table of choice. Crossing her leg, she rests her arms under her modest chest and watches the area around them. The fire-bug knew what she liked to drink after all.
"I don't get your play." She says at length, once both men were back at the table with her. "Random people walking down a sick part of the street and you offer help. Money. Food and drink. Are you always this…giving? If you were, in this part of town, you'd be no better than another bum in an alley."
Sure enough, a drink is brought to Lena's hand before Mick sits himself down with his own drink and an order of a plate of wings for himself. Dropping himself down onto the couch, the man takes a bite for himself before shrugging.
"If he's planning on mugging us afterwards, at least we'll have a full stomach before killin' someone this time."
Mikhail shrugs, "No play. I do not have friends," he says simply. He doesn't sound sad or wistful about it, just matter of fact. "Is easier to spend money in group. You, at least, speak English, which is advantage over half the people in this part of city," he says.
"I am not mugger. Just bad man who came into flush of cash he need to get rid of. Why not let others join in fun? Good karma. I need some of that. Mine is probably shit."
Lena Snart licks her lips gently, eyeing Mick and then Mikhail once more. There's a constant, cool demeanor about the girl. Untrusting of everyone, perhaps everything, around her. Sipping from her glass, she swallows and clears her throat. "Fair enough. Gifted horses and all that." Another drink, she smiles smoothly. "I'll bite. Tell us about yourself. New to town or is this your stomping grounds?"
Logic alone suggested spending money on people to then mug them for money wouldn't really work out anyway, but Mick wasn't the sort to really consider that. Instead there's simply a little shrug of his shoulders and the man moves to devour another wing, pausing only for a gulp of his drink while questions are asked and answered.
Mikhail Ursus flicks one of his Russian cigarettes into a nearby ashtray. Nobody enforcing those laws here. "There is not much to tell. I am man for hire. I used to be Russian intelligence. Now I am not. Oh, and I am sometimes bear," he shrugs. "SOmetimes it pays well. Sometimes it does not."
He takes a long drink of beer and slaps the rump of one of the passing strippers, earning a glare from one of the bouncers.
Cold lifts her glass toward the passing one, a salute and little else. Drinking more, she sets the empty vessel down and by the plate of waste for the boy's chicken bones. "I'm sorry, you're sometimes a bear? Do you mean that in the literal sense or the furry, men like you, sense?"
A shrug is given, a tilt of his head between bites at his food. Another bone deposited and he gives a muffled chuckle. "No judgements. Whatever lights your fire," he adds, seeming rather pleased at his own pun.
Mikhail Ursus frowns, "People always ask that. I do not know what you mean. Is very simple. Sometimes I am bear. I can turn into bear. Big paws. Fur. Teeth," he says. "I do not know what this other bear is, but it is not as good as me."
He casually eats another couple of wings, liberally waving a decent sized wad of cash until he attracts a girl to come and straddle his thigh.
Chuckling, she shakes her head. "Well, I would say that, but…to each their own." She smiles and winks toward Mick. She waits for him to get settled, same with whatever girl with whatever single name finds the cash and comes to take her seat for the evening. "Mick, honey, can you get me another drink?" Reaching over, she drags her thumb across a splash of sauce, suckling it off her digit and then reaching for her phone. "Can you read English?"
Flipping a few things, she types and then offers the flat screen toward the man's face. There's a picture, an example of a PG level, and definition. "That's the slang for bear, Mik. Sorry for being one of the annoying people who ask the obvious."
There's a grunt, complaint perhaps from the man before he makes to stand up. There's a grumbling noise that may or may not have included the word about 'picnic baskets' before he moves to head towards the counter again. He actually takes a step, pausing for a moment only to turn and scoop up another pair of wings to demolish on the walk over, greasy fingers be damned.
Mikhail Ursus reads the description, "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Well. Is not so bad. I am hairy man. And I like to fuck everything. Boy. Girl. Occasional bear," he says. "I am not picky type," he says, sliding a few bills into the g-string of the girl straddling his lap.
"I am going to get lap dance. I be back," he says, hefting the girl up onto one shoulder and carrying her off for a moment.
"Apparently not." Cold quirks a brow, slipping her phone away and watching after the bear as he excuses himself. At least he has manners. Waiting for Mick to return, she smiles his way in a calm manner and accepts her glass. "He's gone to get a dance." She informs. "If you want one, we have change to spare." Sipping her drink, after pausing and cleaning it off from greasey prints, she nurses and rests back once more. "What do you think of him? I like him, but you know I like thugs, so…"