1964-01-01 - What a Horrible Idea
Summary: There's a trainwreck in motion. When Act-F meets former KGB.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
clint veruca 

Inside the Duck the air quality has that faint white haze of cigarette smoke that makes every moment seem like it comes from old film footage thirty years ago. It's a haze that makes it hard to see fully across the room, but for the people that choose this place as a spot to do their drinking find it suits them just fine. Who wants to see those bastards over in the corner hogging the pool table, the crack of the billiard balls is loud and obnoxious enough. And who wants to listen to the drunken whining of the line of hopeless cases at the bar. Not Clint Barton, that's for sure.

Barton sits in one of the booths a good six strides into the front room of the Duck. The bartender's already seen to his needs with a bottle of whiskey set on the table and a glass that's being milked. Yeah he's not exactly tearing through the liquor, but he always pays for two bottles and ends up barely even touching one. The tender would normally throw such a guy out, but once when things went down with some mob types, Barton had helped throw them out. Since then, nobody bugs him too much.

As to what he's doing there, other than mostly not drinking, he's got a few napkins set before him and a pen in one hand. Idly he's considering each, considering what's written on them which seems from afar to be really just… scribbling? Yeah his handwriting is a mess. But he's thinking about it fairly deeply. Deeply enough to not seem to keep an eye entirely on the comings and goings of the people in the room.


It has been nearly a week since Chaos touched down in the America's. And during that time she had been nothing but a studious foreigner. Picking up upon social cues, reading the room as it were. Watching those interact with each other and attempting to mimic their accents so that she sounds as if she were one of them. It would be hard to place her, but each word was pronounced, sounded out, and nearly finessed.. it was then that she struck out in the world like gold.

The door opens to a woman of a moderate height, though the heels give her the extra needed, dark brown hair falls down upon her shoulders, slacks overlapping but yet tight enough to be form fitting. To say that she was out of her element was true; most women would wear low dresses and held themselves prim and proper. There was a relaxation to her, out of place yet those icy blue eyes held not a care in the world as she kicked up a thigh to settle upon the stool, nails extended to tap with a coded thump upon the counter top to rouse the bartenders gaze.

"I'll take a whiskey. With ice." Perhaps it was the wrong way to order, but she would have her drink soon, and she would be set to mingle.


Then again… the quality of women who frequent The Duck aren't exactly set to a high standard. Expressions are aimed her way, a mix of open mouthed leering akin to lupine fascination is seen along with some scowling that probably comes from ages of rejection from the finer types of gals. But she'll get her order fairly quickly, since her money spends like others and chances are… she'll tip well. If she knows what's good for her.

Clint, on the other hand, has an expression of an inclined eyebrow and a curious squint that ends with him looking back to his table. Not exactly a friendly mug, but amongst this crowd at least it looks like he might have a semblance of… a job. Maybe? Hard to tell with that five days growth of stubble on his face.

But if she were considering someone in particular her attention most likely gets shifted away when a larger fella with a sort of authoritative tone asks her, "Buy ya a drink?"


A lean to the side allows one leg to gently cross over the other, a little smile born upon her face as she shifts her fingers within her top to withdraw a wad of cash. Perhaps foolish in that, in which she produces the money, her fingers licked as she begins to peel each dollar back until the suitable amount was needed to pay her 'bill'. "Keep it open for me?" She asks in a sing song tone, even giving a little wink once the drink itself was delivered, the bulk of the cash soon inserted back into her makeshift holder within her top, fingers grasping to make sure that the bulge itself stays in place.

She looks around, a girl clearly out of her element, her hair tossed back and away from her shoulder to show a slender neckline, the emergence of the large man allows freshly plucked eyebrows to raise and, a deep inhale of her breath taken as she gives a shake of her head and a kind smile.

A kind smile to the unknowing, and to those who do? Say that she'll eat them alive.

"I've already paid for my drink Sir. No thank you." She murmurs quietly, her fingers grasping her glass to lift in a toast to him, and then a return to her minor musings as she takes a light sip.


"A'right," The big guy smiles, he pushes a fiver across the bar towards the tender, who takes it since it's money. "I got your next one, little lady." As he says that he tips a nod to her, finger to his brow as if he had a cap and then turns away to walk back towards the billiards table from whence he came. A few moments later he sits down.

The bartender gives her a shrug as he goes about breaking up the ice underneath the tap with a pick, then steps down the bar to start handling another guy's order. It leaves her with a bit of time to reflect on the tactical situation and the likely outcome of various possible events… assuredly.

Clint Barton does follow the departure of the Casanova, but then he looks back towards Veruca and seems to give her a once over. Not exactly the typical thing you see in this day and age, more checking for hidden firearms or weapons. Last time he ran into a pretty gal in a bar she shot at him, after all.


That was surprising. Veruca was nearly expecting a fight but the man handled himself smoothly. There were idle thoughts placed within there, a time of fun, and a leave in the morning but there was a suredness in that for it may not happen. Idle thoughts, after all. The sociopath within her was high, while she was not thinking of gutting the man outright? She was thinking -something-. For once the man returns to his seat, the woman turns ever so slightly to nurse her whiskey with a lean forward upon the bar.

The coat she wears was warm enough, yet form fitting enough to not safely conceal a weapon. The slacks held that same entendre; form fitting, a little outline that rests upon her upper thigh tells of what's underneath, and the upper edges of her boot that presses against the slacks just so. So yes, unarmed.. but not a kicked puppy. In fact, she preferred being unarmed, it was close and personal.

"Tell me.." She says to the man behind the bar. "..what is a suitable neighborhood to live in?" She asks, her back straightening as the drink itself was discarded, her coat soon peeled off and rest upon the chair to her left. "New in town. I would very much like to settle near to here. This.. place.." She gestures around. "..appeals."


The bartender's answer is given easily once he's back down towards this end of the bar, his expression is wary and a bit tired, as if he'd seen it all and this gal was just another chapter. He's an older guy, bald save for two bushy bunches of hair that hand over his ears, though that's forgetting the paint brush of a moustache he wears. "Depends on how much money you got, and how desperate you are."

He lightly taps a fingertip on the bar top as he stops in front of her as he stops, pouring another mug of beer for another order. She might not entirely pick up on it if she's really 'new' to town, but the universal sign for tip me for info is almost an instinctive thing isn't it? Ubiquitous even.

But for him a smile from her might be enough so eventually he'll confide. "Well the fella you just talked to, Kenny. He'll put ya up for a few days probably, though you may have to get sweet on him a bit. He won't flip out on ya though, least as far as I know. Kick ya out sure if ya don't play nice. But yeah." Then he gestures towards Clint. "That guy's probably got the best lay of the land overall. He's got bucks and connections it seems, but not exactly a people person. You want a mark, work him."

Alright, he's probably made some presumptions about her, but then again… The Duck's not a nice place.


Perhaps Ru wasn't a nice person as well. Those finger-tips that tap upon the counter top get a blank stare. So she's been in the upper echelons of New York, now down in the dregs such as this. That tap was nearly dismissed and a smile itself was given. "I have a lot of money." She totally missed that cue. But as he goes on to make another order, she leans forward upon her elbow, watching the man at work. While he wasn't the best looking man upon the block, he worked the bar like magic and she was impressed with the American way of 'work'.

But, his continued words towards her had her shifting within her spot. First to the larger man whom she admired from afar, one brow drawn up in consideration. Perhaps it was the grimey fellow that seemed more her speed; while Kenny was a true gentleman, in Russia, it was the men who looked like hell on wheels who had more to offer the girl, even if it were just one night.

To work them both? That was in the cards in the future, no doubt.

"I shall." A mark? Did he figure her out? The man would have to be dealt with in working order. But for now? A permanent place to lay her head became her number one, for with an uncurl of her legs and a kick off of the stool, she grabs her drink and slowly begins that sauntered trek in his direction. If anyone considered her a working girl by any means? The smooth sway of her hips and that look within her eye would certainly -not- give them any other thoughts as to who she could be.


As she moves over towards the man sitting alone the world seems to shrink for a moment. Oh not in that lovely romantic way with an upswell of music between two people as their eyes meet. No the world shrinks for each of them are trying to get an edge on the other. His eyes flit up, down, along the curves of her body in a way that's not exactly appreciating it though she's a comely woman. She's a player. Of some game. Not entirely sure what. Could just be a gal on the make. Could be something else.

As she draws near, Barton casually nudges a seat out with the toe of his boot for her to take. He inclines an eyebrow and indicates the bottle near him just in case she wants some, but her own drink will serve for now. Yet, she may notice, that trio of napkins he had been pushing around are all taken up and crushed into wads. Trash now, to be disposed of later.

Once she decides to sit, or not, he'll address her. "Let me guess. Little girl lost her sheep." BoPeep indeed. He eyes her again, "Name's Clint. Clint Barton."


Napkins. Three napkins that were immediately taken and shoved away. That draws a slight hint of curiousity to her gaze, and as the chair was soon pushed out, all it takes was a fluid movement in which she sat at an angle so that her knees didn't bump the table in front of her. The glass was settled in, legs crossed yet again, a slight dainty air drawn around her even though she was practically built as she was. His words catch her off guard, of course her tactic wouldn't have worked. But this? This is something she could work with.

"Yes. I'm sorry.." She immediately apologizes, her hand drawing up to wave a bit within the air, soon slapping against her thigh as she rubs that area keenly. "Alexis. Alexis Green. It's a pleasure to meet you, Clint." Niceities aside, she lets out a slight little huff, her shoulders slightly lowering. "It's just that I'm new in town, from Wisconsin.." (Not with that slight, offhanded accent) "..and that bartender said that you'd be able to help me find a place to stay." Her eyes widen, her hands soon shown, bare. "Just for a little while. I can pay enough. But it'll be just until I can find my own house. You.. I'm sure you know how that goes."


Normally the response she gets from such a thing seems to trigger the lupine instincts in the male of the species. The opening of the mouth, the slight increase of salivation, the focusing of eyes upon her and only her. But from him, there's none of that. Incredulity hidden extremely well is what his face evinces. Oh he's a practiced hand at it, hiding what he's thinking. But there are small micro tremors that an individual such as herself might pick up on. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the crinkling of the flesh around his nose. It all signals a moderate dose of disbelief.

But then he shifts attention by speaking, "Oh izzat so?" He lifts a hand to scritch a fingertip at the stubble along his cheek, the scraping barely audible considering the stiffness of the bristle. "Yeah, you see… there's this thing called a hotel. And if money's a problem…" His lip curls wryly as he adds, "There's always Jersey." Apologies to the people of Jersey.


They were noticed. Perhaps there was the fun in all of that. The little tics and nuances that she's studied over the years. To play into that, it would be a moment of hilarity before she actually decides to do him one better. With a karate chop to his throat..

"Well, Sir.." Veruca settles in. "..my mom always taught me to be frugal with my money. Say I pay a hotel one hundred dollars a day for a room. It would be just that. A room. Then I would have to go out and find something to eat. Which would possibly be fifty more dollars out of my pockets." She takes her drink, sipping it, then places it back upon the table. "Then I would possibly have to pay added money for a laundry service, which.. I suppose we could say that it was an added fifty dollars. So I would spend at least an upwards of two hundred dollars a day, and I don't think that I could afford something like that."

She pauses in that little lie then, her eyes squinting as she studies him. "Unless those figures I just gave you incite a need for you to set a price that's way too high for me to handle.." Her lips twist.. "Maybe I could at least ask Kenny if he'll put me up for a while. I'm sure he wouldn't mind the extra cash and company." She leans forward, a smile put upon her lips that would make a puppy sit with a wag of his tail. "I'm a good cook. I make everything from scratch." For her? It's sadly true.


The man before her isn't an easy mark. He's a field agent with a ton of experience under his belt, a dose of cynicism to go with it, and in a job where he's half-expecting people to come at him in one form or another. Literally, since, you know… Skrulls. But one of his favorite ways of dealing with a Honey Pot op is to spring the trap, go straight at it, and try and break the story in fun and interesting ways.

"Darlin', how about we just show our cards?" He leans forwards a bit and it's only /then/ that he takes up his mostly untouched drink and takes a nice sip. Ah liquor, forbidden and dangerous considering his history. But it also helps get past the tough times. "Why don't we go somewhere and absolutely destroy each other until neither of us can walk straight for a week, screaming our aliases into the night, and then if neither of us kills the other before breakfast we can have some room service. Deal?"

As easy as that, he tosses that out there with that wry knowing entirely too much smile. Now on the one hand he figures if she's a normal gal this'll send her running to the hills. On the other hand if she goes for it hey she might try to kill him. But then on the third hand she might just agree and then it's a good one night stand with minimal actual human connection. He likes that usually.


"Shit. I'm losing my touch." Thankfully not her current accent. There was a look of foul disappointment upon her face, the light-hearted tone she carried suddenly dropped like a mask that was forcibly ripped away due to his reveal. That sideways turn that she kept stiffens, her fingers that once held the glass at a light little touch soon turns into a deliberate limp of fingers that trace along the rim of the glass, the connection to it lightly singing as she traces it with her nail.

It was soon gripped, drawn upright and the contents drank as if it were water, her lips smacking deliciously as she drops the glass upon the table, it wobbling upon the edge and nearly falling over until it steadies itself due to the ice within the glass.

"There are holes in that." She states with a light point of her finger. "You wouldn't walk straight for a week. I'd be totally fine." But yes. She was alright with that arrangement. "But in the case that it happens to be the other way around, I'll make you breakfast. Then we -debate- about killing each other after. I'm not too keen on making rash decisions on a full stomach."

She leans back then, hands drawn away from the glass, folded neatly within her lap as she tilts her chin towards the bottles. "And they come with."


A short precise nod is given, "Alright, I'll bring my bike around front." As easy as that he gives her a nod, takes a second sip of the drink, then puts the bottles down in front of her. "You carry 'em." Delegation is a lovely thing.

A nod is given towards the bartender as Clint gets to his feet and starts to head towards the back door as he shoulders on his jacket. Decisions have been made, and the path they lead him should be fairly interesting to see at the least.


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License