Summary:Hank has something to give Domino but it comes with a price. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It has been a couple days since the debaclecross (Like a debacle and a double-cross — only more so!) in the Ukraine, and in that time Hank has had plenty of time to rebuild his wrecked costume. While he's at it, he also spends a bit redesigning the thermal suit that TamNeeDomino had commissioned, and which he saw first hand was shot to hell and not worth fixing. So…lets see, redo the boots - heavier, lots of buckles, she seemed to like buckles…thick tread, ceramic instead of steel toed of course. Also, small storage space, not much - just big enough for a flash drive of the like, or a tracer, in the heels. The arms end in fingerless gloves, and there's a sturdier pair of gloves separate, and ceramic bracers for each forearm. The collar is high, and there's a jacket with a hood that can be worn over the top. All it all it is more of a costume, and the material is still super compressible, save for the boots and bracers, she'll have to provide her own belt however.
As to the coloration? Hematite - a shiny black-grey that shimmers a bit in the light.
Once done, he sends Domino a text.
«New thermal suit. If interested send meet location and time.»
*
« What, already? Efficient. Mutant Town, three hours. »
Following is an address to one of Domino's hidey holes, a place meant to offer safe haven rather than contain a stockpile of ordnance. It isn't much and it's very easily overlooked, the brownstone apartment looking like a strong push would topple the entire structure. Inside the grimy floors have been stripped of all of the rotting carpeting to instead be left as bare and heavily worn boards.
They tend to creak when anyone passes through. For Hank this building practically cries out in pain.
A tarnished series of numbers lead to room 307. Third floor, lucky number seven. Neena knows he's coming so she left the door unlocked. He'll still probably need the encouragement of "It's open" but the albino at the kitchenette is ready to provide.
She's also ready with the beers. Beer may not cure all but it's usually a good start!
Inside it looks like the place was furnished by an Ikea warehouse overstock. Not a lot of rhyme nor reason to colors, patterns, or themes. It is, in a word: Disposable. Every decrepit inch of this dwelling is ready and waiting to burn should she have to go dark at a moment's notice.
"You struck me as more of a stout type" the albino suggests while holding out a brown glass bottle from some upstate micro brewery.
*
One nice thing about the meet being in Mutant Town — Hank knows it well and is a known figure there, and bonus, he's an obvious mutant so for once his obvious mutancy blends!
29 stone of fur covered man-mountain stops just outside the ramshackle building. A dubious look at the structure, a heartfelt sigh, and then he enters and starts up the stairs towards the third floor.
Hank's attire today is actually quite simple - a khaki windbreaker over a bare chest, though with it zipped, that's not obvious. Khaki pants and massive 'Colorado's with red laces as well as a brown cowboy hat definitely add a a little pizzazz though.
Once he gets to the door, he knocks before being told it was open - not like he'd just walk on in. Once invited, he does enter, and sets down a small case, but one much bigger than the last delivery he'd made. That's curious!
He takes the beer and nods. "I am, actually. I am fond of the beer, and my stature is also far from petit."
A chin point to the case. "I…tinkered a bit."
*
"Looks like it's your lucky night." With the beer, that is! "Also looks like you're moonlighting as a trail guide" she suggests while eyeing up the much broader mutant's appearance.
If Hank hadn't been cold out and about in his current attire then he might soom be sweltering inside of the apartment. Dom's almost got it like an oven in here with all of the incredibly drafty windows sealed in plastic, tape, and heavy curtains. Despite all of these attempts she's still layered up, the original thermal suit having taken too much of a battering to work anymore.
But she's still not drinking warm beer, dammit!
The second bottle is brought up to black lips then set aside on the old micarta countertop. Pale fingertips poking out from heavy knit fingerless gloves seem a bit eager to go to the case. It could be neon freaking green and she'd still put it to use. Not a fan of being so cold!
"Oh. Uh. Damn."
The first piece of sleek, shimmery fabric is pulled out and left to play between her fingers. "Free upgrade to the rave-approved version. Can't say this disagrees with me any."
Then come out the boots and bracers, the two sets held in each hand as she makes a thoughtful face and bobs her head a few times in silent agreement. "Yeah. You've got my number, Fuzzington."
If only she knew how -well- he had it.
*
A quirked brow at the first comment, and then he nods. "Roit, Anaconda McCoy, from Sydney." He gruffs, and his Australian accent is truly TRULY vile.
Having anticipated the likely ambient temperature in the domicile, he removes hat and jacket, and is only overwarm, instead of sweltering. Okay, he's still really hot, but…he'll cope.
"I matched it to the sheen on your eyes." Hank states, I would expect the effect to be fairly dramatic."
He finds a spot to hunker down, not really willing to risk the Ikea furniture.
"Why don't you go get changed, and then we'll see if I had any idea what I was doing?"
He'll keep himself busy with his lovely brown beer, thanks.
"Fuzzington?" He asks with a shake of his head and a Spocked up brow. "Go. Change. Get warm - THEN we'll talk and exchange taunts."
*
He matched the sheen in her eyes? "How kind of you to be paying attention."
Domino turns to pin Hank with a curious expression. "Are you bossing me around in my own home? Gotta say, outside of a medical emergency I didn't expect that from you. The attitude goes well with your new look."
Still. Promised warmth is like RIGHT HERE. In her hands. She'd be a damn fool not to take the opportunity and put it to use!
Just..give her a while to shed everything else.
The bedroom door had been left closed, probably because it's kept -even warmer- judging by the wash of air that spills out of it during her passing. She's probably going broke paying for all of the heating bills!
What emerges is totally appropriate of being called an assassin. From the neck down it looks like she took a dip in a pool of used motor oil, all shimmery and dark with irridescent undertones. The jacket is just about perfect when left open to conceal a pair of sidearms which -of course- she's already outfitted herself with. They had probably been hiding somewhere on her before, too.
"Slllinky" she says with a grin while making minute adjustments along her arms. "Definitely has a more commanding appearance than the last one. Me likey."
*
"Oh, I always pay attention." Hank rumbles, that voice is deep enough to /feel/ sometimes.
A grin that is borderline menacing answers her question. "I am not the Emergency Medical Hank." He quips, yes, another Star Trek reference. "What, this old thing?" He motions to the khakis, and then his fur. "So twenty-nineteen."
He waits, and makes no effort at all to peek. Truly, he is -not- surprised at all to feel the oppressive wash of heat from the bedroom as she enters, and then secures the Dommie Bake Oven.
Eyes of yellow study the effect, and the fact she is so very obviously happy with it adds nuance to the look. "The first suit was aimed at practicality, but this…is more of an ensemble."
Rising, he walks - more /stalks/ about Domino to get the full effect, and chuffs. "It'll do." He comments.
Having finished his first beer, he moves back to where he was crouching. "So…you approve then?"
*
There's something about the way he says that he -always- pays attention which gives Neena a momentary pause. "That's a lot of data retention going on." C'mon, he can't REMEMBER everything that he sees… For that matter he still has to SEE something first.
Nevermind that. Miss Thurman is feeling..reborn.
Outside of the blast furnace bedroom, down ALL of her extra layers, she's feeling …entirely adequately warm. She goes so far as to dig out a mirror (with a crack in it) and take a better look at herself.
That is an honest to goodness smile.
"I haven't felt so much like myself in four years running." Though she still frowns and pokes at her more acutely tapered bicuspids a little. It's not a perfect representation of her Pre-Hell self but it will indeed do.
"This is solid. You delivered, McCoy."
*
His memory is just shy of perfect, actually, and he /does/ remember nearly everything he's ever experienced. Some of which he'd /gladly/ dump to make room for non-sucky ones. "It is." He agrees.
When the transformed and clearly contented Neena emerges, and even mirror-preens a bit, Hank mmphs, and nods. "Good." A pause. "Find the storage in the bootheels?" He asks…he's betting yes.
"Like motor oil on water." He comments. "I had some thoughts along the lines of a chameleonic version, but the base probably wouldn't please as well, it is a flat silver, matte." An eloquent shrug as he hunkers. Interestingly enough he took a spot where he'd be out of line of sight of the windows and able to watch the exits.
He offers a faint smile at the compliment, walking his hat up overly long arms to don it, and then tipping it in thinks before setting the thing aside once more.
"Actually, I had a question for you about our trip to the Ukraine." And yes, he's paying VERY close attention.
"Why did getting paid drive you to such extremes of guilt?" Well, that was — direct.
*
"I -diiid- and that was both sneaky and clever of you" Neena says with a broad grin.
You know what ELSE she can hide in there? Lockpicks and a handcuff key! That'll save on the thumb dislocations!
"Silver has a time and place but it does make my job a bit more awkward" Neena suggests while flinging the mirror aside. Who cares if the crack grows, it's already garbage. "Not sure I need any help looking more pale, either."
The albino's going back to retrieve her beer when Hank mentions having a question. To her credit she doesn't flinch -at all- when he mentions Ukraine. Either she feels that she has nothing to hide there, ooor…she's done this so many times that she's perfected false innocence. "Yeah? What about?" she easily asks.
Her next drink from the bottle hesitates slightly as he asks her point-blank something which he should not have been able to know about. -At all.-
The stare remains as the bottle lowers and more of the cold stout disappears down the hatch. "What, that I was stuck in an iced over bathroom when everything went sideways and most of our team was compromised? Not that it's any of your damn business but I don't see my using the can as being worthy of a raise. I may be lucky but I'm not lucky enough to shit gold."
*
"Nah, such an old trick from the movies and fiction, the trope is stale enough that nobody would think to even check." Which is precisely why he did it, really. Hell, maybe even a blasting cap of a small amount of det cord! Not MUCH of those, but…more than none!
A nod. "Good reasons all, and I mostly assumed based on the fact that ninety-six plus percent of what I've seen you wear was either black or deep earth tones, it followed that Silver would not fit your aesthetic."
And he's -watching-. Very closely.
He looks a bit thoughtful, and then shakes his head. "Well said, but too plausible. Your delivery was nearly perfect, your body language spot on, but there's still some guilt, and a little fear in your scent." Rising, he moves closer, inadvertently looming as he does. "I just want the entire story Domino. And no, scatological armor will not make me uncomfortable, nor will vulgar language."
He bares his teeth now, and oh my yes, that /is/ overt and rather menacing. "So…why were you so guilty?"
*
'Nearly perfect.' Inside Domino could have just -laughed.- The Project had set out to create the 'perfect weapon' back when they made her and she wound up being deemed a failure. 'Nearly perfect' is hitting the nail square on the fucking head.
As Hank moves (LOOMS) closer there's another subtle shift within the albino. Her every motion becomes smooth and calculated right down to how she reaches aside and gently returns her beer to the dated counter with only a momentary break of direct eye contact. She can still see him fine in her peripheral. Nearly perfect, in fact.
"I've already answered your question, Hank," she plainly explains to the Blue Behemoth. Hematite-sheened eyes meet bright yellow and green as she lays her cards out on the proverbial table once more.
"It's none of your damn business."
*
That flat refusal, that smooth and subtle shift, yeah. Hank's hackles actually rise, and his bared teeth and expression darkens as a low growl threaded through with subsonic rumbles, deep in his chest. Another step closer, and his hands flex a little to either side.
"Neena…Tamara…Domino…mercenary…" Hank grates out. "…you have so many names."
He's now close enough that she would have to look up to make eye contact with the monstrously large fellow - not tall, but /wide/, SOLID as a boulder. And yeah, he's VERY angry right now and she has his -full- attention.
"I must firmly disagree. It /is/ my DAMN business. Doctor's Kelsey and Ho are dear friends, people who have aided me, and saved my life. I owe them. I /know/ them far better than any of us know you. You are guilty, your adrenaline pumping, you have cause for those feelings. SO…tell me."
A sneer. "Do any of them even know your real name?" Ouch! To steal from Cyrano de Bergerac, the 1950 version starring Jose Ferrer. 'And then, as I end the refrain - THRUST HOME!'.
*
Is it bad when even the Hellcat is mentally trying to grab Neena by the scruff of her neck and haul her away from this mutant? Though for better or worse it isn't the demonkitty at the helm. Animal instinct is one side of the coin but today's face rides stubbornness.
"And a whole lot more" she cooly replies to the idea of how many names she's acquired. There's a subtle grin edging across those ebony lips, that oh so familiar charge that she gets when standing toe to toe against insurmountable odds. Playing that razor's edge of percentages. This guy's got her dead to rights on nearly every conceivable angle at this range..but her power can do the math.
This is still well within the land of improbable. Hank is standing in Domino's playground.
The rib about whether RESCUE knows her real name or not cuts deep. No doubt Hank will pick up on a little MORE guilt from the pale assassin. But she doesn't give him the benefit of a visual indication that his attack struck a nerve.
"You sure that you're up to this, Hank?" she instead presses with an almost seductive edge to her voice, a silken mix of promises and cold blooded murder.
She's not telling him a goddamned thing. She's made her position here (nearly) perfectly clear. If he's so intent to seek out the truth then he's going to have to put himself on the line for it.
If there's one facet to her life which she values above all else, it's her privacy.
*
See…Hank is VERY very /very/ -VERY- protective of his friends and loved ones. Very.
Neena's taunts are like little barbed hooks rending at his self control, and it is a war of attrition he can't win.
People he genuinely cares for are potentially at risk and this smug woman is hiding things from him.
No, he'll not have it.
Domino would actually see the instant that the Beast unleashes the beast inside.
His teeth bare in a rictus, the snarl /primal/ and his hand moves with unbelievable rapidity as he picks her up by the throat, his hand capable of probably just crushing her entire head.
With a truly raw snarl he slams her back into the wall hard enough to bring plaster raining down from above, her shoulders buried into the drywall. Three inch claws extend from both hands, the ones pinning her stabbing through the plaster and into one of the studs inside the wall. The other just flexes.
A whisper follows, fangs just before her nose, his eyes looking down into her sheened silver and blue. "Are you sure you wish to provoke me further? I can /taste/ your fear. I don't want to hurt you but I will be DAMNED before I let you put my friends at risk." His lips curl. "Last chance."
*
She knows something's coming. This is the guy who kicked her through a second story window. Who turned himself into the creature which the Hellcat had told Neena was always there. The guy who had seen right through her back at Luke's Bar and who had picked up on there being something out of order on the flight back from Ukraine.
This has been brewing for a while and they both knew it. But it still wasn't enough to keep Neena from pushing her luck. Rather, it -drove- her to push it further.
As soon as the Beast moves three things happen in response, triggered on the same lightspeed carrier wave which transformed the moment from being conversational to physical.
One of her hands latches onto the massive fur-covered hand at her throat, baring her entire weight straight into the pressure point of his thumb.
Her other hand has its palm on the grip of a pistol, cleanly swiping the block of polymer and steel out of its Kydex home.
She's also hissing, loud and true in a way which no person and most metas should -not- be able to reach.
By the time Hank has her embedded shoulder-first back into the wall of the kitchenette she's got one of those shiny and strappy new combat boots lodged against his sternum with a nine millimeter semiautomatic staring down his third eye..but she's not going anywhere.
And she knows that even a point blank shot from such a 'pedestrian' handgun doesn't have great odds of landing a kill. Not against someone like Hank.
Not that she really WANTS to kill him…
The response is born purely of instinct and repetition. She's been in this situation many times before. It might seem cruel but in truth people like Neena are wired differently. She responds best to two elements in life: Money, and force. The former may go far with her but it always reaches a point where it can go no further.
"There he is…" she hisses past a heavily restricted windpipe. Fearful? Fuck yes. But well programmed not to show it beyond what she has no control over.
Seconds pass before the aim of her pistol wavers, Hank can probably read the mental struggle she's battling through which ultimately results in the gun coming away from his face so she can use that arm to further take the weightHER weightoff of her neck.
"It wasn't..supposed to go down..that way."
*
That hand at her throat might as well be stone, his grip is obdurate, his claws sunk into the wall. His thumb, the way she digs into it, yeah. "That. Hurts." He growls, and then he brings that other hand up, /slapping/ the wall, bits of plaster bouncing off Neena's cheek, more dust. One of her neighbors beats on the floor with a broom. "Knock it off you assholes!"
That actually startles Hank a moment, eyes widening.
Nostrils flare as he takes in her scent, his inhale very apparent…though he says nothing about what he's scented.
He looks at that gun in his face, and then he presses his brow to the barrel. Yeah, he CAN be killed by such, but he'll take the hit before he backs off a millimeter, and /that/ mien is probably enough to back the already scared woman off.
Hank relaxes his grip just a little, enough she can breathe, though she's still pinned. The 'there he is' ignites a bit more glare to yellow eyes. His hand he just slapped the wall with is dragged downwards, the claws effortlessly slicing up the drywall and plaster.
"How was it supposed to go down?" Hank asks in that same shiversome whisper.
*
When Hank's other pot lid-sized hand slaps the wall Neena actually flinches, and not just because the risk of getting debris in her eyes is real. "Tell me about it" she croaks to the bit about it hurting. She's noticed!
The ruckus from the neighbor actually has the pinned merc rolling her eyes as if to say 'Really?! I don't have time for this shit!' "He can be kind of an asshole" she wheezes in near perfect nonchalance.
Yeah..Neena's not pointing a gun at Hank anymore. Breathing is slightly more pressing of a concern and a trigger pull would likely get her the opposite!
When the Beast starts raking her kitchen wall apart her eyes go wide and turn toward the damage being done which she's unable to see. "Hey—come on!" It's followed with a quick leg flail as she tries to find something to stand on to make this situation a -little- more tolerable!
No such luck today.
To the whispered question Dom's baring teeth and growling low, now in a much more human sound of frustration instead of something otherworldly. She does -not- want to be doing this.
At least not in the sense of her actually having to share personal information.
"Goddammit—no one was supposed to get hurt!" she reviles as the first crack in her defenses shows and some honest emotion slips out. "It was a fucking masterkey op, open some boxes and go. Nothing in there about a hostile -fucking- takeover" the albino seethes while prying uselessly at Hank's hand.
And now a lot of people are hurt..or dead..because of her involvement. A fact which is not at all lost to her.
*
"Well, we /are/ making a minor ruckus." He whisper-growls, and all in minor chords. Somehow. He loosens up on the choking enough that Domino can breathe a bit easier, she's still pinned…but she can now get enough air, barely, and can talk more normally. After all, no sense making it hard to hear the information he's trying to unveil.
As her leg flails Domino could probably brace against one of Hank's thighs without too much effort, she's rather bendy, after all.
"So…you opened some boxes, Pandora…and people died, is that about the shape of it? How much of the debacle that ensued was a direct result of your side op?"
His hand stops in the raking down the wall shortly after there's a *pop*, and the lights go out. Lovely.
He sighs faintly. "Substandard wiring…this place doesn't meet code." His eyes? Backlit in green, not that either of them can't see just fine in the ambient light.
His lips curl back from his teeth even more, teeth less than half a foot from Dom's face.
*
Breathing. Breathing is good. Being able to breathe better is better. And sure enough it gives Domino a little extra wriggle room to brace herself against the Beast's leg.
"Yeahabout it" she snaps off in response, soon followed with "Pretty sure all of it. But it caught me by surprise, too"
As does the sudden loss of the lighting.
In the darkness those silvery orbs quickly grow, another gift of the Hellcat which lets her see clearly in pitch. However, there's a small side effect to Hank's clawing efforts.
"Oh you son of a bitch" she -seethes- as her silvery discs of eyes narrow into slits.
No POWER means no HEAT.
"I'm sure you've put those super commando senses to use, you damn well -know- I didn't want to hurt them."
Them..?
-Posse.-
The rest of RESCUE follow by proxy.
This is really starting to hurt her neck. "This would have gone down whether I was involved or not, McCoy. Would you rather it happened when no one was around to play defense?"
*
Green backlit bright yellow eyes narrow at the admission of culpability, and he growls /deep/, it vibrates through his arm, his whole body. The Hellcat can /feel/ how thin a line separates Hank from his beast…how precarious the balance, and Dom can too. She actually sees the very real possibility of death in his eyes…
…and then they shudder closed, and Hank steps back, more stumbles, turning away from her and burying his face in his massive hands.
"No, you didn't mean for it…but you took a side job…and apparently didn't ask many, if any questions."
His voice is an open wound as he fights down that instinct to kill, to rend, to crush bones in massive jaws.
He turns to her and he stands, face uncovered and arms extended to either side, /three inch/ claws at full extension, his bulk completely occulting the window. "You get this one chance, Domino. One." He moves to capture his hat, his windbreaker, and then speaks over a shoulder. "Own it. Admit to them what happened, explain, or by God /I/ will. You have one week."
And with that he strides for the exit…not the door…the window. He visibly pauses, considering perhaps just Kool-Aid Manning his way out, and then chuffs a half-laugh, before opening it, and then just jumping to the ground rather than risk the stairs.
*
Domino has graced this edge countless times before. It almost doesn't concern her anymore. The killer detail isn't that she may or may not die, it's the -waiting- of dealing with this uncertainty. If she knows which side faces up then she knows how to respond. When the coin-toss lands on the edge it gets a little more dicey.
Heads it is. As in, she gets to KEEP hers and Hank doesn't lose control of his.
With the tension suddenly away from her neck and the big guy taking a step back the albino momentarily flails before striking the rubble-strewn tile floor ass-first amidst another light showering of dust and debris.
"We -don't- ask too many questions, Hank," she spits back in her own defense. "This isn't some fucking job interview at Office Max. We ask questions, best case scenario we don't get the job but we get blacklisted. Worst case, we get thrown into a wood chipper."
When the darkened form of Beast turns to her with arms held wide she decides that -maybe- staying there on the floor is the better place for her to be.
Even so, defiance easily takes the place of fear, irritation, frustration, and shame, acting defensively as it always has before. "And if you so much as -think- one word of this to anyone else then plan on an extended visit at RESCUE while they fit you for a new pair of -knees.-"
As Hank goes for the window (Don't Break the Window!!) and OPENS it (whew…) to exit the albino slowly looks at herself. "Well. The new duds passed the crush test."
Picking herself up off of the floor causes bits of tile and plaster to ring out as they fall away, further adding to the mess. A careful stretch leads to an almost thoughtful 'hmm' as she discovers that the rough handling actually managed to sort out her back after that lengthy trans-Atlantic flight home.
Stepping forward she further brushes dust out of her hair while roaming back to the counter, retrieving the lone stout still waiting there to chug all that remains. Following is a quick sigh before she mindlessly flicks the bottle toward the wreckage where it breaks across the floor. At this point what does it matter?
"No more beer for THAT guy."
*