ArchivedLogs:Old Timers

Old Timers
Dramatis Personae Steve, Wolverine
In Absentia	2018-09-12 "You here to get paid or to talk shit?"
Location <NYC> The Rockaways
Florence might still be a ways down south, might not be due to /properly/ batter this area at all, but even far distant as the hurricane is it has pushed a mess of wet and murky weather out ahead of it. The slate sky overhead has been leaking, light but steady most all the day. It's probably for the best that it can't muster up strength for anything more than a drizzle, an intermittent heavier gust -- this section of the Rockaways looks like it never properly recovered from /Sandy/, many of its coastal buildings in a lingering state of disrepair. Still, the dilapidated beach houses and empty stretch of pothole-filled street makes a great backdrop for lurking. Some people are professional Lurkers, pulling off an air of casual menace near-effortlessly. The pair of men leaning up against their motorcycles on this narrow strip seem more like an /aspirational/ sort. Watched a lot of Sons of Anarchy, took /careful/ notes, and now (decked out in well-made and neatly patched heavy leather cuts emblazoned with plain white crosses on their backs, sturdy boots, sturdy jeans, their bikes clearly carrying A Lot of custom work between them) they are trying their damndest to replicate this imagined badassery. One has a cigarette dangling between thin and stubble-shaded lips. The other tucks his thumbs into his pockets -- changes his mind, hooks them through belt loops instead -- thinks better of /this/ stance and pulls out a torch lighter to click it. His slouch against the saddle of his bike stands at sharp odds with the keen-eyed alertness of his gaze, carefully scanning the street around them. Only very intermittently glancing up to the windows of the nearest houses, where -- well, nobody is visible to the /eye/, but keener senses no doubt could pick up wind of several other men tucked away with better vantage points. The steady growl of another motorcycle approaches. This isn't your standard road trip bike. All the heavy extras that would weigh it down, make it more convenient, more comfortable, have been stripped away to make it lighter, faster. It and its rider grind the gravel in a tight, controlled semi-circle, a brown cowboy boot digging into the shoulder of the road. The rider steps off with a practiced swing and tugs on his dark brown Stetson, "Alright. I'm here," he announces gruffly, blue eyes peering out from the shadow of the brim, "Faster we do this, the better." Wolverine cocks his head slightly, "Posting lookouts won't do us much good against any John Doe who wanders by. I've got a strict no witnesses policy, and I'd prefer not to kill some idiot who feels safe out here just cause he's got his dog with him." If he hadn't already cased the scene, it wouldn't make a difference. With those ocean breezes, it can be really hard for someone to stay downwind, no matter how hidden they happen to think they are. He rolls his shoulders under that battered brown leather jacket and something buzzes in his pocket. The protection-for-hire pulls a burner phone out and glances down, "Alright. That's the number." He gestures sharply with his hand, "Dealer's in that building. Don't forget what I told you when I agreed to this: we get in, we do the exchange, don't make chitchat, don't get personal, and we get out. Everyone clear?" Those last two words are snarled, an implicit threat. This isn't a protection job. These guys are barely a real gang. It's babysitting. He wouldn't even be here if he didn't need the cash for a recent high stakes gambling debt. The building in question might have been someone's dream vacation home once, but has long since fallen into dilapidation. The windows are boarded over and someone has spray painted 'DEAD INSIDE' on the door in big loopy red letters. The engine of the black Nissan Armada parked on the far side of the house starts up and pulls to the side of the house, crushing what's left of the flower beds gone to weed. The passenger door opens to disgorge a tall, brown-skinned woman, unassumingly dressed in a black trench coat, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her dark brown eyes skim over the newcomers, then she glances back at her driver and gives him a curt nod before closing the door. She takes only a few steps toward the men and their motorcycles, but keeps the bulk of the house between herself and the street. "Took you long enough," she says, dark brown eyes flicking over the Purifiers but settling on Wolverine alone. "Are you /really/ serious, or what?" The black-haired man snaps the burner phone emphatically and then grinds it under his boot heel, "I said the money was serious." Wolverine jerks his head, indicating for his associates to hand over the duffel bag, "Count it if you want." He narrows his eyes, throwing a sharp glare at the leader of the Purifiers, that glare that suggests he's going to be pissed if the money isn't all there. He knows they're shit for brains, but if they're that shit for brains his night is either going to get really annoying or really fun, depending on his mood, which tends to shift like the tides. He pulls out a stub of a cigar and lights it before glancing around warily. It's all performance. He can hear and smell everything. But these wannabe 1ers don't know that and it needs to stay that way. "When you're satisfied, open up the cases and show my associates here the goods." He chews perhaps a bit impatiently or perhaps a bit excitedly, it can be hard to tell with him. Wolverine crosses his arms and glances the weapons dealer up and down, raising an eyebrow suggestively. She doesn't need to be a telepath to know what he's thinking. The Purifier with the cigarette -- a tall and stringy strip of a man with dusty-brown hair trimmed short and neat at the sides, slightly longer on top -- gives only the barest snort at Wolverine's lecture as he pulls himself to his feet. "You here to get paid or to talk shit?" The other snaps his lighter back into his pocket, stands straighter as well. Clearly, /he/ isn't here for small talk; a small lip-twitch of smirk is the only response he has for this exchange as the car pulls up. His arms fold loose over his chest, his chin tipping fractionally upwards as he watches their would-be business associate approach. He doesn't approach, himself -- just picks the bag up and hands it off to Wolverine to make the trade. Left holding the bag. Not a thing he enjoys figuratively or literally. Wolverine grunts like it's heavy. It is. That much cash weighs a lot and usually gets counted with a scale. But he's stronger than he lets on. He hefts the bag and drops it next to weapons case. He looks up, checks for any hint of a wrong move from anyone, and then kneels down, teeth clenching around that cigar, and unzips the bag to show the cash. He then stands up and backs away two clean steps, hands still where everyone can see them. The woman's eyebrows raise up fractionally, but her expression remains somewhere between neutral or unimpressed until Wolverine takes a knee. Then her lips curve into a thin smile. "I like you down there, it's a good look." Teasing aside, she still waits until he's stepped back before stooping down, gesturing sharply at the SUV as she does. A smallish southeast Asian man hops out of the back seat and comes over with a suspension scale in one hand and a smartphone in another. She leaves him to a closer inspection of the cash and goes to the case instead. Hefts it around and opens the heavy snaps to expose gleaming black semiautomatic pistols nestled in gray foam. "You can count it if you want," she offers with a crooked grin, stepping back. This draws a quicker smirk from Cigarette, his still-smouldering smoke casting dancing wisps of grey into the air from where it bobs erratically between his lips. His hands are as twitchy-restless as his cigarette, though he does catch himself /enough/ to make sure his fidgeting does not stray anywhere near pockets, hips, anywhere that could be construed as threatening. Plucks at his cigarette, ashes it with unnecessarily sharp flicks of his thumb. Watches the opening of the case with a small dart of the tip of his tongue across his lips. Brushes fingertips through his hair once the smoke is returned to his mouth. His shorter, scruffier, and now empty-handed compatriot is a lot more at ease -- or, at the least, externalizes his nerves far less. His arms return to folding over his chest and stay there as he waits for the others to take their measurements. If his partner /has/ a reason for jangling nerves, it certainly doesn't come from any malfeasance on their end, the count in the bag accurate to their promise. The shorter of the two Purifiers waits until the others have had a chance to properly assess the payment before he steps forward, reaching for the case. "We good, then?" The woman glances back at her associate, who gives a quick nod to indicate the cash is as promised. "We good. Pleasure doing business with you." The last is, once again, directly solely to Wolverine. At first only superhuman hearing can detect it, but soon the thrum of a motorcycle can be heard by all approaching at high speed along the road. The bike is a shiny new Harley Street, its fuel tank bearing the image of a white star in a blue circle ringed by concentric bands of blue and white -- matching the shield on its rider's back. He's wearing a light brown leather jacket, blue jeans, combat boots, and a dark blue helmet with a capital 'A' on the forehead and stylized white wings above each ear. Without signaling or even slowing down, the bike veers off of the road and toward the business deal in progress. Skids to a half about the same distance from both parties as they are from each other. The weapons dealer and her assistant have both drawn their sidearms. She's calmer than he is, and says, low, "If you set us up, I swear to God you're going to regret this." The rider dismounts, seemingly unconcerned with about the guns. "Salut!" he says with what sounds like genuine good cheer. "Pardon the interruption," he's speaking to Wolverine, now, "but you are /not/ an easy man to pin down." "Tell me about it," the weapons dealer mutters, though she doesn't lower her weapon. The Purifiers' reaction to this is along very similar lines -- if a bit more dramatically so. There are another pair of weapons pointed at Logan -- likely more than just the pair, judging from the sounds of shifting from inside a couple of the nearby buildings. "The /fuck/ you think you're doing bringing /him/ into --" His words are hissed through a very sudden clench of teeth. He's not really keen on /waiting/ around for this conversation, though -- weapons still pointed out toward Logan, he's snapping his case shut to make a hasty retreat for their bikes. His partner takes only a moment longer to start to follow. "-- fucking traitor turns up /every/ /goddamn/ /where/," is directed more to his companion than any of the others involved. "We really gotta start vetting better." Or. Maybe. At all. At first, the bike means nothing, just background noise. No need to get jumpy over traffic, but it gets too close. Even if it is just someone passing by, now they've seen something, and now everyone is going to lose their shit, which means this entire deal is about to go tits up. He glances at the dealer, "I didn't!" Wolverine growls. This can't be right. That smell. His nose crinkles as he bares his teeth, "Scatter! Now!" He turns and stalks toward the intruder, "I'll handle this." He glances at Cigarette, "Then I'll be by to collect." If they're smart, they'll heed his warning. He knows the dealer is smart, his clients, however, could be a real problem- but no, they run. Good. He's still paying them a visit later to get the other half of his money. Half up front, half on completion. Nobody cheats him. Nobody. He gets close to Captain America and takes a long drag on his cigar. He lets it out slowly, "What the hell makes you think you got any business pinning me down?" Not exactly the warmest greeting for an old war buddy. At Wolverine's warning -- or perhaps at the Purifiers making a break for it -- the weapons dealer also books it, backing up with her weapon still trained on the newcomer and covering her comrade as he retreats with the bag of money. "Jesus fucking /Christ/, maybe leave your boyfriend at home next time?" At that she retreats into the SUV, which peels off in a skid of sand and gravel. "I'm not /his/ boyfriend," Steve offers, still unfazed. But all his glibness vanishes when the Purifiers ride off, exposing the backs of their cuts. "Purifiers." The word comes out low as he reaches for his shield, but they are already accelerating down the road. "I was trying to offer you a job, but you're working with /them/?" Incredulous. A little bit hurt. "Yeah, I am. Or at least I was," he grunts. "Normally I'd be happy to see an old war buddy," he drops his cigar on the ground. Wolverine pushes up his hat and stares glibly at Captain America. Steve's exactly like he remembers. Right down to the aftershave he uses from the smell of it. He had no idea they were still making that brand. The man's nose crinkles as he grinds the cigar into the ground with the toe of his boot. He is not the same man Captain America knew. "Thing is, buddies don't show up at your job and fuck with your paycheck." He takes a sharp breath and sighs a gravely sigh, "What's the job? And why you? I heard they'd brought you back, but I never call and never write for a reason, Steve." His eyes dart away for a moment, a slight tic in his right cheek, the tiniest betrayal of why he didn't look his former brother in arms up. His gaze returns, cold and steely, "More importantly, how much does it pay?" Steve sucks in a deep breath and lets it back out before replying. "I knew there was a chance I'd walk in on something..." His eyes dart toward the now-empty road where the Purifiers had vanished from sight. "...unsavory. But it was the only information I had on where to find you, and I thought it best if I talked to you before my employer sees fit to send someone else." He takes off his helmet -- even his haircut is unchanged, though the pomade in it is new and smells faintly of rosemary and lemongrass. "You remember S.R.S.? It's kind of a long story, but I'm still working for them, more or less. They pay well, though. I can probably get them to compensate you for..." The corner of his mouth twitches, but there's neither amusement nor warmth in it. "...my messing up your deal. Maybe I should have let them send a /professional/ to do this, but --" He grinds his teeth together -- probably audible to Wolverine, the noise low and grating. "Do you /know/ what those people do?" Wolverine shrugs, taking his time and gathering himself. He wasn't expecting to feel anything. He can practically smell Steve's disappointment... but that's not it, no, not quite. Steve's making him feel disappointed... in himself. That's a feeling he tells himself he got over, but maybe more than one ghost from his past has come back to haunt him. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a flask. Slowly, the mutant unscrews the cap, then takes a swig. He swallows and his throat catches. "Why would you think I don't?" he tips the flask in offering to his old pal. "And yeah, I remember the S.R.S. Most of it not too well, but well enough. Do you know what /those/ people did or did they find a way freeze your naive idealism along with you?" That's right. Bite back. It doesn't matter what Steve's intentions are, he got Wolverine to feel shitty about being a piece of shit, and ironically the best way to feel better about that is to sink even lower. He scoffs, "A professional. Heh. Who were they gonna send? Oh wait, no I got this," Wolverine smirks, a sadistic glimmer in his eyes, "A dead man." Steve's jaw tightens. The teeth grinding doesn't stop. "I've got some idea. I'm trying to keep them on the straight and narrow -- they know it, too. Are you going to take the Purifiers to task when they're vandalizing businesses? Terrorizing kids? God forbid, murdering someone for the contents of their genes?" His face is slowly twisting into a scowl, but he masters himself. "If I had to take some naive idealism into the ice with me, it's worth the cost. The world needs it as much now as it did seventy years ago. I didn't come here to judge you, or to tell you to be like me, but those people? The Purifiers? They're -- I couldn't see the Logan /I/ knew helping them build their road to genocide." Frustration raises the hairs on the back of Wolverine's neck, his tone acerbically sarcastic, "I'm sorry, Steve. I'm sorry the world changed and I changed with it." He gets louder, pointing at Captain America with a small tremor, "I didn't get to opt out of this shit for over half a century like you did!" The tremor grows to a shaking rage and his voice breaks and cracks as he shouts, "Let's get one thing straight- /You/ abandoned /me/!" And the claws pop. Not the bone ones he once had, the adamantium blades Weapon Plus gave him. The S.R.S., as far as he's concerned, was not blameless in this. They paved the way. They helped make him the monster he's become. The claws retract and his hand drops to his side numbly. He teeth grit painfully, face screwing, unable to settle on an emotion for a long moment. Then his voice and his expression shift, tinged with grief and regret, a doleful look in his eyes in place of that thousand yard stare he works so hard to maintain, "Things went from bad to worse..." He sounds quiet, broken, "and you weren't there. You weren't there..." but that anger comes back, not rage, but betrayal, "You weren't there so how could you possibly understand what I do?!" Wolverine chugs the rest of that flask, throwing it in the face of his shame, and then he mutters, "Can't believe I was stupid enough to miss you all these years," which is more or less his way of saying, 'Welcome back, it's good to see you.' He wipes his mouth and takes a breath as he stumbles back a step... maybe it's not just whiskey in that flask. A man of Captain America's caliber and connections might know the smell of jet fuel when it wafts his way. "The Nazis didn't win, but they didn't have to. Humanity has had a long affair with genocide, and no matter how many times you put it down, we'll discover it all over again. You're not gonna change that. And neither am I. I may be a piece of trash, but it's a trash world and so's everyone else. What difference does it make if one kind of trash wins out over another? It's still trash." Steve actually flinches /before/ Wolverine's claws pop out. A shadow of -- something -- passes over his face at the accusation of abandonment, but what comes after it chases the brief flash away. The shield is in his hand even as he drops his weight low, expecting an attack that does not come. He slowly straightens as the other man continues speaking. His expression remains relatively even. He doesn't try to cut in, though he does wrinkle his nose at the smell of...whatever was in the flask. He waits for the space of a few breaths after Wolverine stops talking. Then, finally. "I don't know what you've been through. I wish I could have been there for you. And I'm not going to argue about how much good we did, but even if standing up to fascism never changed a damned thing -- it's still the right thing to do. Because the world /hasn't/ changed, not nearly enough. But that's not your fault." He lifts his free hand to rub the bridge of his nose. "But whatever else, Logan...you're not trash. You weren't then and you aren't now." He draws a small white card from a pocket and turns it over in his hand. "What S.R.S. has become...they're ostensibly out to protect the world from /mutantkind./ I wanted to warn you about that. But if you want to hear what they've got to offer..." He holds out the card. "Do it on your own terms." He's pacing as Steve talks. He's drunk, but that's the least of his problems right now. He looks like he's about to have a psychotic breakdown, caught not between emotions but between identities, his shattered sense of self plain to see. He's losing his shit over this, about to go berserk. He almost had that under control back when he and the Cap were working together. Almost. He's so close to that edge, but then the flux abruptly stops. The mercenary wins out. Wolverine takes a shaky breath. He sets his jaw and lets that breath out like a death rattle. His expression goes blank again, his eyes cold. He takes the card. "Whatever it is you want, I'll do it." He grunts, "Not because you asked me to and not because they asked me to, but because I'll work for anyone who's got the money or one hell of a thing to trade." Wolverine pockets that card and grumbles as he turns and walks away, "Someone's gotta watch your back and it's not like any of your friends are still alive." He mounts his bike, and revs it before he releases the brake and kicks the stand for a quick and weaving launch. By the time he gets to his flop house, he'll be sober, but that's ok. It's just an opportunity to start getting wasted again. And then? Then he can pay his clients a visit to collect the other half of that money the easy way or the hard way. At this point, he's itching for them to pick hard. Wolverine needs to tear someone apart, and he'd prefer for it not to be himself.