The Handi Package

March 01, 2016:

Stylus and Agent 13 intercept a package in Warsaw. (Mild NSFW corny humor involved)

Warsaw, Poland

Characters

NPCs: People

Mentions: Nick Fury and Maria Hill

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

WARSAW; POLAND:

The ball was an elaborate shindig of the who's who in the Euro world. A small gathering to celebrate the latest success of Poland's redition of Louis the XIV, in the guise of a shadowy meeting in relation to: The Package. No one knows what the package is but intel describes it as something small enough to fit into a metallic briefcase, which would be locked and handcuffed to Renaldo Baltazar, who's in lead of being the next representative of on the ruling council of Warsaw.

His routine is such, as delegated by the dossier:

Arrive ten minutes past 9pm.
Meet at the security check point where the briefcase will be taken and held in a small safe room under heavy security and guard.
Mingle with the locals.
10pm Meet with the corporation who in turn pays Renaldo for the package and endorses his bid for the seat upon the council.

Their mission, which was accepted, attend the function and acquisition The Package, and return to the Trisk post haste. Drop point is to be met at 12am, or else.

The or else is something that Sharon didn't want to know what, but as the violin plays, a silk gloved hand reaches into a ruby red purse, drawing out a small compact which was flipped open with a small *CLICK* and gazed into. She was checking her hair. As well as the two guards at the door who await the arrival and keep watch upon the guests just in case. Lipstick was soon produced and smoothed on, her bare shoulders a dream as she seemingly poses while applying her makeup.

"Thirty minutes. According to the dossier."


"Until we get 'the package'." Reggie snorts, badly hiding his amusement.

Dressed in a white dinner jacket with black slacks, the superb cut of his jacket and the boutonnier— precisely the shade of Sharon's dress— do nothing to make him look like a wealthy man about town as much as his impeccable posture and alert eyes. There's nothing subservient or docile about this fellow— he's even shaved and combed his hair a certain way. And his skin's just a few shades darker, and his eyes are grey, today. It's hard to say if he's a tanned German, a dark Italian, or a pale Turk.

"Hey. Hey Sharon." He leans sideways again. "Where do you want 'the package'?" he asks, in those relentlessly juvenile tones. "And if I give it to you, does that mean I can tell everyone you've been handling my 'package'?"

It's all done sotto voce, voices not carrying more than a few inches, and the only sign of his humor is the upcurl of the left side of his mouth.

"Oooh, the bar's open. C'mon, let's get a drink," he says, breaking for the bartender. "Bartender! I'll have…" He pauses and rubs his chin, scowling in thought. "My heart says vodka, but my stomach says… fuzzy navel."


Sharon was all straight faced. For half a second. Her lips wrinkle just a touch as she spreads them just enough to brush on a little bit of her lippy with her pinky finger to hide her amusement. It wasn't funny at all. Nope, not at all. Lets just blame some of the office staff that handles the assignments from being too hung over to come up with a decent good name for 'The Package'. They figured it was plain. Right there. In your face.

What they didn't figure in was Reginald Darrow and his jokes. Or being probably the only man to make Sharon laugh while on a misson.

"If I tell you where I want 'the package' and where to put it, you'd not think of me as wholesome anymore." Her words were but a quiet murmur as she snaps her compact shut, dumping it into her clutch as she tucks the little white, and gleaming case beneath her bare arm.

"Can't you -not- drink while we're on a mission? Just once? They want us ready and alert in case.. 'The Package', slips out." There was a slight snickering sound, a blush tinting her cheeks as she curls her gloved fingers against Reggie's elbow. "Bad joke."


"Oh sure, you joke about a package slipping out, everyone laughs," Reggie says, scornfully. "I joke about it and I'm banned from the yoga studio."

"Two vodka martinis. Two measures of Grey Goose, one of Gordon's, splash of vermouth, twist of lime."

He looks to Sharon. "And no, Sharon, I can't -not- drink. It keeps me loose, on the edge. And drunk drivers survive wrecks. That's science, Sharon. It's science -fact-."

He prods her upper arm and turns to regard the ballroom, foot tapping in time with the violin.

"Ohh, do we have our eyes on our special contestant?" he remarks, lifting his chin at the far door. "I think I see our fellow."

Sure enough, a portly fellow moves through the entryway to the hall with a wing of security flanking him, moving at a 'I'm too busy for you' pace and heading straight for the security office off the foyer.


"There are certain things a woman could do and certain things a man cannot." True statement. Very true statement. Men could get away with package jokes in the right company, women could in all companies. Sharon leans back against the bar, both elbows hooking upon the surface, her eyes watching the crowd and those dancing in their elaborate garb, a few others talking with their glasses of champagne and taking in toasts in celebration.

The actor for Louis the XIV, a very tall young man (who actually did well in the play, very well) makes his entrance and a few people create sounds that mimick birds as well as a few claps in congratulations.

The prod draws her attention towards Renaldo, her lips curling into a slight frown as she searches out for a clock, finally snapping upright with a turn that causes her glittered pearl-colored gown to flow like magic as she grasps for the larger hand of Reg's. "Dance with me."

Of course, this was all a ploy, for her fingers slip upright into the arm of his jacket to start the count down upon his watch. "We can drink later."


"What-no, Sharon, my drinks-!" He gets his hands on one martini and slams it back in a gulp, and when she drags him off, he manages to toss the glass at a particularly calm and exceptionally well-trained waiter, who without an expression nimbly catches it and puts it on his serving tray.

"Wait, I can't dance to this," he protests. "This is the wrong kind of music, the beat time is all wrong. And everyone else is doing the Valse Musette, and I only know how to do International Standard style."

He sighs and rolls his eyes expressively. "Yes, I know they share etymnological roots but the Viennese waltz was made popular due to the influence of the Strauss' in the early part of the century, and thematically it… it just feels disingenuous, -Sharon-," he complains. "And I'll be damned, if I'm going to undermine the efforts of 19th century France to find ways to move in time to the music, of Johann Strauss!" he ends, in a thundering declaration. Everyone in their immediate vicinity gives him a strange look, standing as he is with a scowl and finger upraised.

The band breaks into a new song after the lull into which he'd been complaining, and he brightens. "Oh! Hey, this is a tango. Fuck Argentina, they do it wrong," he says, grabbing Sharon by hand and waist and leading her through a tango step.


"Too bad." Sometimes, it's best to just let Reginald go. He 'was' her date after all. And if Sharon wasn't who she was, she'd be completely embarrassed. But the show of people glancing his way and nearly moving close to listen and approve of his rant gives her a clear sign of which door the portly fellow went into. Especially after the rigorus pat down he had to suffer. Not to mention the glint of metal.

"Reginald.. Reginald.." Sharon soothes, reaching out a hand to press against his chest, leaning in ready to complete the moves until some untold attention kicks in by the way of a smooth and sultry beat which has Sharon backing off, eyes wide.

"I can't do the ta—.." Too late. She was already swept up in his grasp, her leg hooking tightly around his at random intervals as he sends her swinging into a wonderful array of moves that she has but no choice to follow.

"I.." Turn.
"Hate." Dip.
"You!" Spin!


Reginald -can- tango, and he does so with an aggressive and confident lead that doesn't let Sharon so much as trip, let alone mis-step. Even when she fumbles, he twists her this way and that and makes it look as if she's merely pausing for effect. All the while, he's looking at her, and she's looking at him, except they're neither of them looking at each other, and both are watching where the fellow with the case is going.

The music comes to a close and Reginald pulls Sharon close and dips her, her dress falling away revealingly from her athletic legs.

His eyes hold hers, inches away, chests rising and falling with the exertion of the fast step.

"You know your tits look awesome in that dress, right?"


For a moment, Sharon blanks, the scene of Dirty Dancing drawing to her mind as she imagines herself being lifted into the air… and dropped right upon her head. There was a level of trust when it comes to the dance, the twirls and spins, the aggressiveness, why if this wasn't a very important 'mission', Sharon would have to..

"What?"

She looks down, the corset that came with the dress sinches her right nicely. It causes her to frown, but that look was all but approving and not upset in the slightest. "I suppose that's why you picked it." Beat. And a slight peck to the nose which causes onlookers to go .. 'D'awww'.. and 'To slodkie!'

The uprise was an easy and fluid motion, both feet planted to the ground, her dress tugged and pulled in places, both hands drawn up to fix her bosom as she lets out a satisfied sigh. "You're up."

And as the next song starts to play, Sharon draws away to perform an elaborate dance; her arms stretched out as if she were to beckon, one foot forward, pressed upon the ground as hips slowly roll and sway.. but the second step was a doozy in the sense that it causes her to fall right upon her ass, a loud scream to draw the crowd to her attention as she grasps ahold of her ankle as she begins to cry.

"Moja kostka! Mysle, ze jest zepsuty!"


"O nie!" Reggie says dramatically, lunging for Sharon too late. "Moja zona spadla frumpy!" He kneels down next to her and cradles her shoulders in the curl of his arm, looking around. Instantly, security materializes— and not the uniformed guards, but the guys who were trying to blend in with the scenery in black tuxedos and shoulder holsters.

"Does she need doctor?" one of the no-neck guards asks, peering at Sharon. Reggie shifts her dress 'accidentally', putting a lot of her leg on display. The fellow's eyes shift, then bulge apologetically when Reginald 'catches' him looking.

"Schwein!" he hisses, eyes narrowing. The guard gulps guility. Reggie snaps his fingers and beckons people to help him get her up. "Pomz mi dostac sie do pokoju, bezpieczenstwa, ona jest zbyt tlusty, bo zjadla wszystkie Taglongs spakowalem," he says, speaking flawless and fast Polish that sounds like he grew up a mile outside Warsaw proper.

"Jakie byly moje!" he adds, with a snaopping tone, stalking along behind the tiny army of people hauling her to the back area.

"Hey— idiot, where are you going?" he snaps at the guard. The fellow gives him a befuddled look. "She needs somewhere quiet and safe to sit! No cameras, I don't want people ogling my lovely companion!" he says, fiercely.

"Yaya, sorry maester," the fellow says, in a guttural tone. The whole cavalcade brings Reggie and Sharon the other direction— to the security room.


"Aaaahh.." Alright, Sharon was milking it. But in truth, it did 'hurt', with the way that she grabs and dramatically leans against Reggie for support. His polish was a lot better than hers, so he took the wheel and drove it perfectly home. After all, she was the damsel in distress and needed 'saving'. Whether traditions ruled here in Warsaw, Sharon kept her mouth shut, saying naught but a few oo's and aahh's at perfectly timed moments, the show of thigh was flexed ever so gently, and the way she bends give most guards the view that Reggie was hoping for. Or had.

Their past is kind of muddled like that.

As the other patrons paw and grasp at her arms to help her up, one arm lays along Reggie's shoulder as the escorts draw in to lead them towards their point of ingress. She weeps still, pressing her cheek against Reggie's shoulder, her eyes closed partway to watch and make sure that none else followed them toward the doors, gaze lingering upon the motions of his finger as he presses the buttons. The door beeps and was licked open with a push of the guards hand, which opened the room up into something..

Incredibly fucking low tech.

A switchboard rests at the helm filled with monitors and screens, the briefcase locked upon a shelf that was encased by a metal cage. That too had a numerical lock which kept it 'safe'. The 'dashboard' of the security room lit up with reds, yellows and greens, an old fashioned radio built in with others set upon various spaces in the dark room with leather chairs abound at each station. It was a sad and sorry sight, one that nearly makes Sharon roll her eyes at the sheer need to pretend to break her ankle just to get into this mess.

And she gives Reggie that look. That look that says it all. 'Are you fucking kidding me?!'


"I know, right? This is, like… babytown frolic," Reggie says, with professional contempt for the utterly lax security measures. He gets Sharon set on the sofa, and the guards filter out except for the one fellow watching the cameras. He fans her absently with a magazine he finds on a stand— an ancient Maxim— and eyes the room. "So I guess I'll handle the guard? With my—" he snaps his hands through the air. "Kara-te?" With a smug look, Reggie moves towards the chair, eyeing the guard, who seems intently focused on the monitors.

"…I feel kinda bad, just so you know," he remarks. The guard turns, confused, and Reggie punches him in the back of the neck, temporarily paralyzing the fellow. He instantly puts him in a firm chokehold, and before the guard can do more than flail, he sags bonelessly limp.

"Okay, so standard lock, looks like a five pin tumbler…" He checks his watch and eyes Sharon. "Bet you can't do it in under thirty seconds."


"Babyton is another word for it. When we get home, remind me to kill whomever." Or anyone. Kill them all for sending them on a mission with -low- tech. It was a damn shame really. She was expecting to give it her all on this very mission, and she's reduced to laying on the couch, being fanned by a foreign Maxim that had a slight bit of crunch in the middle. And it smelled.

"Augh." Sharon draws out, drawing her hand and ducking away from the quick snap of hands. Still, even as Reggie moves away, Sharon eyes the locked case with a frown. "Try not to snap his neck.." Sharon merrily calls through the struggle, those little steps taken back as she reaches behind her to turn the lock and tumbler into place with a silent kick. It's not as if they'd come running or knocking, they were possibly busy ey'ing other patrons of the dance who were inspired by the speech and dance that Reginald gave.

"It looks like it." Sharon confirms, striding across the floor, her foot rising to rest upon the sleeping mans chair, drawing her skirt upright to reveal a show of calf.. then thigh.. right up to the crux of where no man should be going without the necessary standard protocols and permission.

The band wrapped around the thick of her lace, two lock-picks snatched from their cases as she draws out with a slight grin.

"Bet I can do it in twenty. State your terms." But there was no sense in waiting, she was already upon the lock with a lift of delicate fingers as quiet, soft little clicks and tinks were heard.


"I don't know. I mean, traditionally," Reggie grunts, picking the guard up and dragging him to the paint locker, "I'd be like, handi in the limo on the way back to the hotel. But we've been going through all of that lame-ass sexual harassment training—" he opens the locker door, then with a heave shoves the fellow into it expertly. The man's firmly wedged into the narrow locker, and Reggie starts patting him down, pocketing his ID, keys, and emptying his wallet. For good measure, he steals his wallet, too. "I'm just not sure that's really appropriate anymore."

Reggie closes the paint locker door and with a twist of his wrist, wrenches the handle so that it can't be opened without a circular saw. He dusts his palms and starts going through the man's wallet, then pulls out the cash and corporate card and throws it in the trash. He puts two cigarettes down, one on the monitor stands, one on the floor, as if the fellow had just dashed off to get a smoke.

"So if you -want- to go for those terms, I'm obligated to say that's seriously inappropriate, but I'm a pretty chill guy so I won't report you to Fury."


*CLICK*

"What was that? Twenty nine seconds. I didn't hear a word of what you said."

"Check that. I heard what you said but I don't care. Handie in the limo it is." Naturally she was joking, their witty banter was a thing to get through missions as easy as one would walk down the street with a rambunctous child. Okay, that was overshooting it.

The lock was pulled down and tossed to the side, the case soon retrieved and pulled from it's cage. There was half a moment of need to take a peek, to make sure that the contents were there, but there was a slight commotion on the screen that draws her to look.

The portly man was soon gathered with the three shadowy figures, all dressed in black, varying sizes; one slim and tall, another short and stocky, which appears to be the leader, and another thick in bulk in which makes his suit look tight. They stand off to the side, conversing, all smiles and shakes in which Sharon would assume were introductions.

"Heads up. We're going to have company."

The four men gather in order, along with two others joining, making quick talk as they head towards the guard door. Sharon glances around, spying for an exit, which has her looking up as well. There were two choices, take the ducts or go out fighting.


"Ducts," Reggie says, the instant Sharon comes to that conclusion. He moves quickly— it's an ancient building, with the immense ducts needed for older fans to move air. He grabs a chair and hauls it over, and fishes in his pocket for a slam-driver; a thieve's tool for pulling screws.

"Catch," he grunts. The screws fairly fly out— zip zip zip zip, and he hands the grill to Sharon, then leaps up and pulls himself into the duct with a lot of agility.

He sets his legs inside the duck, then leans down and beckons for Sharon. "Feet first, c'mon!"


"Ducts!" Switchblade was soon snatched from her thigh guard and flicked open with a click. She was frowning, for she begins to stab and cut through the dress to give it a shorter more easier feel. The rip tears of fabric was soon draped around her neck and tied off with a sinch, blade replaced back upon her thigh as she quickly and hurriedly moves out the way. The ping ping of screws had her dodging, snapping up the screws rather quickly, her eyes upon the screen as she squints and murmurs. "ETA one minute, hurry the fuck up!"

Grill was soon taken and tossed aside. Once they realize and see that the case and the guard were gone all hands would be on deck. And being caught in Warsaw was something that -any- agent wouldn't dare want to have. Waterboarding? It was a thing of the past. They'd drown you and resuccitate you only to do it all over again until your heart finally gives up the ghost.

As he pulls himself up, she immediately climbs upon the chair, pushing the briefcase up into his hands first, and then bends. Granted it was a salacious showing, but that flexible and acrobatic bend plays to the strength of her days in college, hands planted upon the seat of the chair as both legs hang loose and limp, tensing and spreading wide until she was straight into the air.

"Grab my ankles.."

Wait a minute.. don't laugh Sharon.. don't do it..

Her face soon turns a deep colored red as she begins to snicker-fit! This was serious! It was supposed to be serious!


And he leaves her there for a moment. Several moments. When she looks down/up, he's looking at her with his eyebrows raised and lips pursed, his expression apprecative. There is a /lot/ of Sharon on display.

"Not bad," he comments, when she catches him staring.

"If I fall from this chair Reggie so help me god.."

She trembles a little..

"..I will fuck you up."


"Oh, keep your corset on," he mutters, rolling his eyes. He grabs her ankles, braces, and heaves with a lot of strength, his body rolling inwards in a surprising display of core strength and flexibility. And not a moment too soon— he hauls her in hand over hand like he's pulling a bucket up on a rope, and the vent *clicks* into place silently an instant before the door opens.

It's an incredibly uncomfortable position they're in, both upside down and backwards with knees and feet and heads all tangled up. Shouts of anger come from below, and Reggie comes up with a pack of chewing gum. He folds them in half and hands them to Sharon, one at a time— SHIELD special-issue insta-weld— to hold the vent mesh in place.

Then they sit for several minutes, barely daring to breath, fighting every urge to twitch and relieve brutally cramped muscles and the dense, claustrophic air of the vents. After screaming orders are issued, the soldiers fly out of the scurity room and an alarm starts whooping in the distance.

"Hey, Sharon?" Reggie whispers softly, from somewhere by her knees.

"I just now realized why you didn't have panty lines."


As if holding your breath could make you feel lighter. The heave and the ho's with slight grunts has her tangled and twisted, her dress riding up which was uncomfortably tugged down in the wrong place which leaves her half exposed and sneezing. Thankfully, the last sneeze wasn't heard by the entering guards, her hand clamped over her mouth as she takes the standard chewing gum, screws placed upon the small of her back and wedged in with the fabric as she carefully places them one by one in place to hold it still. Deft fingers.

And the silence was awkward, save for the slight shifting of Sharon, her brows raising then furrowing as she looks back down, her heels pressing lightly into the duct as she holds her breath to -try- to adjust her leg in the proper place.

His quiet whispers draw up a hint of a brow, her head and neck craning in attempts to loo-..

"Really?!" Sharon hisses quietly. "You're doing this -now-?"

We're talking about the poke.


"Hey! It's an autonomous process, and not helped by your wildly liberal disregard for the proprieties of dress!" Reggie snaps back in the same hoarse whisper that can barely be heard.

The conversation gets nowhere fast after that.

A few short punches (and because someone's a -biter-, some new flesh wounds on Reggie's calf later), the two of them emerge from the duct and land in an alleyway. Reggie helps Sharon down, and promptly removes his tuxedo jacket and turns it inside out— and it proves to be black with white borders on the inside, and perfectly reversible. He puts it over her bare and dusty shoulders, and flicks his handkerchief from his pocket to try and get the dust from her face as discreetly as possible, keeping one eye on the distant street.

He undoes his bowtie, unbuttons his shirt and partially untucks it, then unzips the fly and looses one suspender. They won't pass a close scrutiny, but the two of them look like any other rich couple snogging in the street.

"Ready?" he murmurs, tucking his Walther into the front of his pants and throwing the shoulder holster into a trash bin.


"Stop buying me tight shit!" Sharon hisses back, and thankfully, with the racket of 'ow's' and 'hey quit it!' had gone missed and soon they were outside in the alleyway looking no worse for wear. The briefcase was set aside as they assemble themselves, the two pins pulled from Sharon's hair as she shakes out some of the cobwebs, leaving the hair as a mess as it was, her dress tugged down just enough to cover the more important parts and a few bits out of place. To say they were snogging was an understatement. Sharon looked as if she were rode hard and put away wet.. oh wait..

She licks her fingers and smudges her eye makeup. Perfecto!

"Let's go. Check the time."

She was already on the move, arm hooked in with Reggie's, perfecting the staggering stumbling step was an understatement which.. oddly enough was perfected and taught by the creeper from SHIELD. Who was then fired for fraternizing with the younger women under his guidance.


Reggie flickers a glance at his watch. "Plenty of time to spare." He opens the briefcase while Sharon's getting herself artfully in disarray, and empties the contents of it into his briefs— because it's fast and convenient to do so. It's not a lot, a small NAS drive, some folders. Reggie's quick about it, too, not bothering to sort the contents, and even uses a switchblade to cut out the interior lining. Just to be thorough. And it pays off, there's an index card hidden in the felt.

The suitcase gets buried under a pile of trash in the bin and he's arm in arm with Sharon by the time she's ready to move. The two of them stagger out into the street, and the moment a guard turns to look, Reggie laughs drunkenly and grabs Sharon for a deep and rather tawdry kiss, the sort of kiss where people get uncomfortable for staring at it for too long.

The guard gets uncomfortable, and Reggie waits for Sharon to give him the clear before they're staggering off again.

"See the limo?" he asks under his breath, grinning like a fool and lips barely moving.


And here Sharon was hoping for something a little more substantial. Like a diamond. Or some weird mechanism that would give someone super powers. Maybe dirty pictures that can be used in an international blackmail that reaches the upper echelon of the Queen, god save her. Still, Sharon shakes her head, tugging him along, creating a slight lean with her foot that has her drunkenly stumbling with the near chance of breaking a heel.

But she was ready. Ready to knock a guard out and take off into a run, until she was wisely pulled into a kiss that would make any woman, even one of her calibur, take seriously. Cause.. holy shit. Reggie was already a looker and amusing to boot, well read and a clear man of the renaissance. Once the kiss was dropped, Sharon nearly falters, her hand lifting to give a finger wave towards the guard as she rights herself with a deep inhale and exhale.

"Try not to run for it." Sharon teases. "And I was kidding about the handi."

Through her little tease, she does take stock of the limo, staring into the reflections or what would be a reflection beneath the cars chasis to make sure there were no glowing or flashing red lights. One could never be too sure.

"Be a gent and get the door?"


Reggie staggers into the door and opens it for Sharon. "I am gonna -wreck- you at the hotel," he tells her in slurred French, and for good measure he gives her rear a quick swat when she ducks into the limousine. He grins and laughs giddily and falls in after her, and the limo pulls off at a sedate pace, like ten other limos in the area.

Reggie cuffs up his trouser and eyes his calf, then points. "Hah! I knew it! You drew blood! Look! You bit me!" he declares, jabbing a finger at his leg. He raps on the closed window. "Bill! Bill, she bit me!" he complains to the chauffeur. "Look!"

The driver peers in the rear view mirror, then whistles. "Damn, Ryan," he tells Reginald. "What'd you do to her?"

"Nothing! I saved her from a bunch of security guards, and she bit me! I'm telling Maria—" he looks at Sharon, "I'm telling Maria," he repeats, making it a threat for her benefit.

"AND I WAS PROMISED A HANDI!"

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