2019-07-19 - Car Troubles and Russians


Clint's sweet ride breaks down, and Dashenka helps in return for getting directs back home.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Fri Jul 19 00:00:00 2019
Location: {$location}

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Downtime is rare for a man like Clint Barton. It's rare that the stars align and things come together just right to allow someone like him to get away from the missions set before him, from the harsh regimented schedule of training he keeps, and to his rather anemic social obligations. But today was one such a time where each line of inquiry he had on his most recent operation had ground to a halt. Nothing more he could do than wait. And the SHIELD training center was booked up…
He had ended up shaking his head, scowling, but then considered it best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So he had slid out of the cubby hole he used as an office and left word as he passed, "M'goin' out, hold all my calls."
To which the SHIELD agent scowled and called after him, "I don't work for you, Barton!"
But that never stopped him. Instead he made his way to the underground garage. Found his current baby, an old 1971 Plymouth Barracuda that was almost back up to street spec. It was a chance to just cruise around town. Let his thoughts drift on the task at hand, maybe come back to it from a different angle…
But the thing about having a hobby like driving old cars… is that old cars… they tend to break down.
So it's now, off to the side in Little Odessa, one of the vacant lots that had once been the foundation for an old apartment building, that he's standing there leaning over the open hood of that old Plymouth, and he's scowling all the while. Coughing a bit sure, but mainly trying to wave the smoke out of the way to see what the hell went wrong.

Dashenka has only been here for a few months, and is still getting her bearings in this vast, sprawling metropolis. Sure, she came from one of the larger cities in Russia but it just doesn't compare to this and sometimes it is easy to get lost. So here she is, the tall young woman with snow white hair and ice blue eyes wandering around looking at street signs that she can't quite read (Americans have this really strange alphabet.)

Ah! A person with a car! Ooh! It's a 'cuda! Oh. It's not working, much like her own car. An idea strikes her and she walks up to the man in distress. "Privyet!" she calls out to him. "I am seeing you have car problems." It's almost hilarious how thick her Russian accent is, her deep voice making her sound like a femme fatale from a cheesy 70s spy movie. "I can fix but I am lost. Perhaps we help each other, da?"

The tall blonde man at the car turns slightly, eyes widening a little at the offered greeting but then with an ease of reply that might be deceiving he returns with, "Privyet." A small pause then he offers, "Hello, heya." Another sidelong eyeball.
He has that look to him as she speaks, listening to the worlds. Worse than Natasha in the few times she's let herself slip back into her native language, thicker. She can see him taking that subtly extra bit of time as he puzzles out her words then replies with a smile.
"Oh yer lost? And yeahh…" He turns back to the car and frowns as he rests a hand upon the hood. "Mebbe you can fix but it's prolly gonna take a garage…" Since he's no slouch in the repairs department. "And a few days," He adds with a hint of mournfulness.
But then he brightens slightly, "But, yer lost? I think that's somethin' I can handle a lil easier."

Dashenka grins, showing teeth as white as her hair, which she ties back with a practiced twist and snap of a hairband that she pulled from a pocket of her overalls. She pulls the bib of the overall upa nd runs her arms through the straps before leaning over the open hood of the car to poke at bits and pieces of the engine that she can safely touch.

"This is good car," she comments, trying to make smalltalk. "'71? '72?" she asks, turning her head to ask Clint directly. "Needs work, da, but car like this you work and love, and it love you back." She turns back to the engine and pulls at one of the hoses, popping it free of the engine and looks at it.

"Ah!" she exclaims, pulling out a connector of some sort from the hose's connection. "Bad PCV valve. Easy to replace buuuut," she draws out the word. "There is too much water in oil. This," she says, handing to valve over. "Is…. symptom." It took her a bit to find the word. "Much bigger problem if too much water in oil."

"Mmm," Clint says as he looks at the bad valve, some dark thoughts drifting the way to the man who had sold it to him. But he shakes his head and voices none of them, instead he reaches to his hip and withdraws a slim cell device and swipes a thumb across it to bring the display to life. "Thanks." He offers, then taps a finger to his chest, "Clint." He offers in the way of introduction.
But once he has someone on the other end of the line his attention is for them for that slim series of moments. "Hey, yeah. It's me." A pause, "Yeah. Yeah you were right. Mind sending someone? Nah, I'll hoof it." Another pause then a nod, "Sure thing. Seeya then."
The phone is deactivated with another swipe and he pockets it then turns towards Dashenka. "Appreciate it, you still need to find your way somewhere?"

Dashenka closes the hood of the car and mimics Clint's gesture and offers her own introduction. "Dashenka. It is good meeting you." She waits patiently while Clint makes his phone call, and then nods when his attention turns to her.

"Da. Bowery. Or Mutant Town if closer. I can find my way from there."

"Bowery," He says the former, but not the latter as he looks her over for a moment. Perhaps the destination brings things into frame a bit clearer, or perhaps he's just a naturally semi-suspicious individual. But he nods his head and slides his hands into his pockets. "Well c'mon, can take a stroll and get you on the right path, it's on my way."
The tall, though not quite as tall as her, blonde man smiles a bit and starts to set foot to stride down the sidewalk. "It's a left onto 38th," He gestures with one hand to the side, though as he moves there'll be a short sharp 'SQUAWK-WAWK!' that sounds as his car alarm keys in. "Then pass next to that cistern that… I'll just show ya."
And with that he sets foot to put action to words.

Dashenka nods attentively, walking after Clint and listens to his directions. She looks a little confused at the word "cistern" however, which may have been what prompted him to just show her. "I am grateful for your help," she says, shoving her hands into the pockets of her overalls. After a few silent minutes she speaks up again, "I am new here," she explains. "My English is not so good. Reading is worse. Letters…. are different. Mean different things."

"Yeah, know what you mean." Clint says as he walks along, stepping around some other passersby as he chats amiably with Dashenka. "Felt that way my first trip overseas, ate nothing but McDonald's since I could at least read the menu there."
When Clint speaks it's fairly steadily paced, though he does have a hint of an accent that might make picking up his words a little rough. But then he eyes her sidelong and says in a rather precise approximaton of Muscovite Russian, « Is this any better? » He clears his throat and then adds, « Can speak in your mother tongue if that might be easier. »
Then he uncurls a hand as he walks, slipping around some other passersby who actually take a moment to eye the tall Russian as she passes by. "Then again mebbe best to stick with English if only so you get used to it faster."

« It's good to hear somebody actually say things I can understand without having to think hard about it, » Dashenka replies in Russian, relieved. Her own accent is more easterly in nature. « It's straining when you have to think so hard to understand and be understood. » Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets she mumbles, « If I'd known I was going to spend a lot of time in America I wouldn't have goofed off in English class. »

She notices the man staring at her more because it drew Clint's attention than anything else. She waves a hand dismissively, and switches back to English. "It is no thing, the staring," she says. "This happens in Russia too. I am used to it."

« Such is life. » He says, speaking that old saying but then switching back to English with a smile. "But alright," He wipes at his brow with a forearm, then slides his hands deep into his pockets as he strolls. "You seem pretty quick on the uptake, you'll get used to it."
That said he'll continue on down the sidewalk, pausing briefly to glance up and down the street when they reach a flashing red 'WALK' sign. Seems clear so he'll make the token jog needed to get across before the light changes. Once over there he continues, "Ok you see that thing on top of that building?"
He turns to look at her as he relates the directions, "That's the cistern, it's a good landmark to keep in mind when you're looking for the Bowery. You go down there, 38th, you take a left when you get past the cistern and voila, there you are."
His lip twists and asks, "You good, Dashenka?" He gives her a once over, "Any other questions or anything I can help you with?"

Dashenka barks in laughter, "You are first person to tell me I am quick." She doesn't seem upset by it at all. Contrarily she's grinning. "I am not smart. I am good with cars, da, but not much else." She shrugs as she hurries after Clint at the crosswalk. "This is an okay thing."

When Clint points out the cistern, Deshenka pivots to see what he's pointing at. "Cistern," she says, trying out the word. She pivots again when giving her directions and she echoes, "38th. I know this street. I think I can be finding my way from here. Thank you for your help."

A light grin is given then Clint steps back and away, "Alright, s'no problem Dashenka. Seeya around." Once that's said he turns around and starts to walk along down the street once again, shaking his head a little bit at the thought of his 'cuda left to its own devices.


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