Summary:Deadpool is contacted by the mysterious Chalk, an albino middle man for an unknown malefactor and hired to kidnap and humiliate one Emma Frost Log Info:Storyteller: emma-frost |
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Just after three in the afternoon is hardly a super busy time for any bar, though this particular one does have a lot more on the dockets than just shitty food and watered down alcohol. Even at this time of the day there's a fair amount of patrons, and a single rather surly and disgruntled looking bartender, currently half-heartedly, well, maybe EIGHTH-heartedly cleaning glass with a rag of dubious cleanliness. Hey, you want shiny? Go somewhere the fuck else!
The place has one or two actual patrons, and the bulk of the people inside are mercs of various degrees of disreputable.
And then the door opens, and a man who does NOT fit with the others present /at all/, enters. He's lean, dressed in a neat suit of expensive cut that's eggshell white, the shirt a glaringly white brushed silk, and of course a pale yellow tie. Even his shoes are white for cripes sake! As he enters the man takes off mirror-shades, to reveal pink eyes and his skin is translucent white, veins faintly visible as he peers about the room.
"GOD - FUCKING - DAMNIT!"
Wade Wilson bangs the side of the AC/DC pinball machine angrily. He was moments away from bagging the high score! His hand dives into the pocket of his jeans, searching for more quarters; he digs and digs until the pocket is turned inside out, and some lint tumbles to the floor. "Mother fucker!" he curses again, and bangs the pinball machine again for good measure.
He's currently dressed in blue jeans and a hoodie, the hood drawn up to partially cover the horrible visage that is his face. Turning from the pinball machine, he walks up to the bar and plops down on an empty stool with a disgruntled noise. "One of these days I am gonna get that high score!" he tells the bartender, before rapping his knuckles on the bar. "Whiskey. Double. And a White Claw. Grapefruit if you have it, but anything else works."
The bartender, of course, isn't paying much attention to Wade; his eyes are looking upon the new arrival warily.
"Hey. Earth to Dickless?" Wade raps his knuckles on the bar again. "Come on, I need to drink off my pathetic lack of Pinball Wizardry."
Having taken the measure of the room, having noted key details like entrances, exits, and potential dangers, the man tucks the shades away in the breast pocket of that tailored suit as he notes the wary look from the bartender. "Good afternoon." Unlike the rest of him, his voice when he speaks is a harsh rasp as he addresses 'Dickless'. "Are you the man to speak to about securing the services of a mercenary, sir?"
A faint smile. "No, I am not a police officer or affiliated in any way with any branch of law enforcement." Clearly the guy has done this sort of thing before, and even sets a crisp new hundred dollar bill on the bar. "Drinks for the house, if you please." Which will surely go a long way towards earning (buying!) a measure of good will.
He doesn't even bat an eye at the horrific scarring so evident under the battered hoodie that Wade is wearing. Hell, this guy? SO doesn't fit, he even SMELLS expensive!
"Talk to him," the bartender says, after filling Wade's drinks and gesturing toward the disfigured man.
Wade hasn't even looked at the new arrival; the smell tells him everything. He provides a pained expression to the bartender, as if to suggest that he was just thrown under the biggest, nastiest bus ever.
"You know," he says, eyes still staring forward and not looking at the man. "Telling everyone you're not a cop is a really good way to make everyone think you are a cop." He shoots the first glass of whiskey, then turns to face the man and suddenly chokes. He chokes, hard; a bit of whiskey seeps from his noise and he starts coughing horribly. A hand rises and waves about, then pinches his nose. "Oh God!" he cries. "Jesus! You… you made me snarf it!" His eyes are watering, but they're staring at the man with a sense of disbelief. "Oh God, it burns! Not the whiskey, it's… it's the suit." He gestures toward the man vibrantly. "It's… it's burning my eyes!"
Fat Garrett looks over and notes. "Well, if he IS a cop, by saying that he isn't he's just legally invalidated anything he could have used in a court of law, Wade. They're required to identify themselves if asked, so this guy volunteering the information has pre-emptively jumped that hurdle." The man then goes back to his cruller, and rises to get a refill on his pint of beer. Hey! White suit just bought a round for the house, right?
A brow quirks at Wade's reaction, expression mildly amused or else perhaps — mildly constipated, the jury is still out on that.
"I'll be sure to leave you the card for my tailor." The man rasps. "I am Chalk. If you're over the eye burning fit, I would like very much to discuss the possibility of hiring for a job." He cants his head to one side, peering at Wade. "You /do/ like money, yes?"
On the verge of finally collecting himself, Wade turns slowly to look at Fat Garrett, and he just stares for a moment. "Check out the big brain on Brad!" he exclaims, quoting Pulp Fiction. "Stick with the donuts, buddy, okay?"
Granted, he does appreciate the words of wisdom.
Turning back to Chalk, Wade grimaces. He tries very, very hard not to make fun of the man's name, and succeeds, at least for the time being. "It's okay," he says, turning down the offer of a tailor's business card. "I don't do Ricky Martin." There's no answer as to whether he likes money or jobs; instead, he stands up and kicks the bar stool back into place. "Well, come on," he says, and begins walking toward one of the booths. "Can't do this kind of a deal at the bar, it's against policy."
"Sure Wade, just tryin' to help out." Fat Garrett is actually a fairly easy going guy unless you mess with his drinks or food, or kiss him or something. Well, girls can get away with the kissing. Usually, but not Warthog Sue, she's just scary. Actually—WADE might find the girl intimidating, lets just say she's named well - she's surly, burly, and ugly and tougher than old shoe leather. Favors serrated knives, so, yeah, just a little off-putting.
Maybe a lot.
Chalk doesn't seem to ruffle easily, he nods at the commentary. "A pity, he has a great ass." The man states in that voice that rasps like a straight-razor across a strop. He was already standing, and motions for Wade to lead the way, joining him in the booth. "So, you're 'Wade'. I take it you're available for hire? I represent a party who wishes to remain anonymous, you'll be dealing with me. The job is a kidnapping, it pays twenty large, five in advance."
He'll see if that grabs Wade's attention.
Wade plops down into the booth, the second whiskey in his left hand, a White Claw in the other. He listens patiently, but when the sum is brought up, he cocks a hairless eyebrow and leans forward.
"I'm listening," he says, all traces of goofiness suddenly gone.
An envelop, a rather thick one, is removed from the inner pocket of the jacket, and set on the table with the pale man's long fingers idly tapping at it. Yes, Wade can see that the thing is full of money.
"Ah, so you DO have a serious side, good." Chalk inclines his head in a brief nod. "So…the target is Emma Frost, CEO of Frost International. She is not to be killed, but you can harm her all you like so long as it is consistent with the needs of the mission, no gratuitous maiming, please. She is to be held for ten days, then released, naked, in Central Park." Pink eyes look to Wade. "Interested?" As he asks he leans back, one hand removed from the envelope, the other stilled on it.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Wade mutters to himself.
Listening quietly, Wade's eyes narrow just slightly. "Emma Frost," he says thoughtfully. "Hellfire Club Emma Frost?" he asks, seeking confirmation that he knows is not necessary. Leaning back, Wade's fingers drift across the glass of whiskey, eyes focused upon Chalk.
"To be determined," he says skeptically. "She's a mutant. You're gonna have to give me something to go on. What's her power? Security? Home address? Shit like that. Makes a merc's life a hell of a lot easier, and that twenty large kinda worth it."
"I intend to." Chalk answers the mutter, apparently he had good hearing and no sense of humor.
"Emma Frost, as in Hellfire Club Emma Frost the mutant, yes." The man confirms, and then takes out a small tablet, and slides it over. "All that I have on her, her powers are in the mental spectrum, I have not been able to acquire any solid details, but she's said to be quite powerful. Security is top notch, the woman is a billionaire. She has a daughter, also a mutant with feline traits, though they are not always together. Emma has a condo near Washington Street Park, overlooking it in fact, and she has quarters at the Hellfire Club she seldom uses. Other than that, no security detail has been found, the building security is good however."
He slides the envelope to the middle of the table, next to the tablet.
Your move, Wade.
Reaching over, Wade takes the tablet in hand and begins cycling through the information. "So, here's the thing," he says. "This kind of a job has potential for some serious fallout." He looks up from the tablet, fixing Chalk with the same serious stare. "I'm gonna need to know who wants this done, because the fallout could seriously fuck me in the ass, and not in the fun way. Rawdog style, no lube, just… straight up, fiery ass ripping. Embarrassing trip to the ER kind of thing."
Leaning forward, he slides the tablet to the side, indicating he's gonna need some more time with it. "Any merc worth their shit's gonna ask this question. If they didn't, they're not the type to get the job done. So, those are my terms. Take it or leave it. Also, twenty-large is way too small for a job like this. Fifty or bust."
Having presented his terms, Wade lifts the shot of whiskey and downs it cleanly, this time not going through the personal hell that is snarfing it.
"No, mister Wilson, my employer was quite firm - their identity is to remain private, however, to compensate I have been given discretionary powers. His privacy is worth the fifty you mentioned, plus an additional ten. Finally, if you need funds to hire others, those can be made available but my employer's identity is a non-negotiable part of the deal. If this is a deal breaker, so be it, I will give you the five as a guarantee of silence."
Chalk waits for Wade's answer. Sixty Large is a LOT of money, that might well pay for the privacy he wants to ensure, or it might not. Once again the ball is in Wade's court.
"Rawdog it is," Wade answers. "You got yourself a deal." He leans forward and takes the envelope filled with cold, hard cash, then slides the tablet over toward himself. "Make yourself at home. I need some time with this tablet. Just don't talk to Fat Garrett. You think I'm bad; he'll drive you to the nuthouse."
"Excellent. On the tablet you'll find my contact details, if you can it would be ideal if this went down before Christmas. I'll drop another twenty-five off this evening, bring it here?" A smile. "Keep the tablet, use it as you will." A faint curl of his pale lips. "Lube might be nice." Oh, he made an attempt at a jest! Chalk rises. "In truth I will leave you to it, can I leave the money with the bartender or should I contact you directly?"
Eyes brighten. The man has a sense of humor! "Bartender," Wade confirms. "Thanks for the advance. I'm gonna need so much cocaine for this job. Chalk it up to needing a scrambled brain for a job with a telepath."
He can't help it. He smirks at his own, really, really bad pun.