The Mercenary Intern

November 12, 2017:

Taskmaster gets a status update from the Hench - Sugar.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

North Point.
Taskmaster has found this location to be one of the ugliest, dirtiest, most low down wretched locations on Earth. It's heaven for the seedy underworld. The police don't even like to frequent this area. It's not even due to the 09' Quake and lack of maintenance or restructure but it's past, the Joker. This entire location was once his domain, his haunt and bled out from that nightmare horror show Amusment Mile that rises up over the north-eastern lip.

Taskmaster is present here, a dive bar full of bikers, Devils, Demons? Something. He isn't exactly paying attention. He is more annoyed he can't get the taste of salt water out of his mouth, the feel of grit and fish out of his nose and something else, lingering, under the skin that hes been scrubbing at. A rap of fingers on the bartop, the thick bodied pierce nosed blonde tender sliding him another drink.

The skullmask soft this time, easy to draw aside and hidden under a hoodie thats drawn up. He looks out of place here but no one has threatened him yet. They're careful. Mean but careful. A beer in hand he pops the cap off and starts to drink, the taste of it lost on him anymore. Cardboard. Each and every brand. Hes not here for any of this though, not even a mission this time. He's here because hes meeting up with his murderous intern, Sugar.

"Look away, buddy." He tells the scrawny man next to him who is trying to lean in and see his face. Maybe hes afraid hes someone else entirely. Taskmaster's presence in Gotham and reputation is low. He usually avoids this city.
Organized crime here is too… organized.


Sugar isn't murderous! She's a survivalist.

She lacks 9 lives.

With only one life to live sometimes she has to clear a path.

Sugar's taste in refinery is expensive.

That's living.

So she had to get shit from the Trolley Yard, sorely outnumbered, she still comes out a - head, nevermind the one she stepped on. His face,that is.

The scrawny man? His lean is interrupted. Fisnetted fingers claw a manicured grip into his collar, and with a yelp he is on the floor, and Sugar is in his seat, smoking his cigarette that was left behind in the ash tray.

"You smell like tuna. What's the puta's name. Your shit falls off and you go to heal for a week," inhale, waffle-wave. "I have to take it our of her culo."


The scrawny man upon the floor hits a sprawl, a couple men behind them chuckle. No one moves to protect or stand up for the guy though, he scurries off to a corner.
"Thats Ralph, hes the only one in this dive you're allowed to do that to. Ya understand?" The tender threatens Sugar, a pair of brass knuckles on her hand being waved as if she was making it clear.

Taskmaster peers at the woman then back at Sugar, "We're good lady, shes with me."

The woman smacks her gum and puts the weapon away, clinking too more drinks down on to the counter. "Just keep paying me big like you are and you two can stay all ya like."

"I like her, shes got balls." Turning on his stool so he is facing Sugar, Taskmaster gives her a better once over, studying her. "My shit didn't fall off, I almost got drowned in the goddamn ocean by some fuckin' cocoon kid. You ain't been returning my calls lately. I hope you got results, ya crazy lil shit."

"They all do…" Several (likely vulgar words) beneath Sugar's breath, and she turns the flip of wrist to the 'Balls' tendress. "I would like a Souza, because my pesos must be pinched." Any other regard, or conversation is brushed off with her, let alone the show of brass knuckles.

Talk Shit, Get Hit… And all that.

Rules of the Road.

"Aside from your prefaces (preferances?), I have been doing my ass-I-meant… Working my ass off. I need more shoes, my boots talk." Sugar looks down at the new pair, the massive rubber heel hooked over the rung of the stool, tattered netting eading to exposed garters, all weaving apath towards his buried in a pile of pink on black frills that entwine her waist.

"I get results. You get what you pay for, right?" A look towards the tender and her inces nail drums a tippy-tap on the bars lacquered surface.
"You have enough shoes and boots for an army. I seen your closet." Taskmaster grunts at his henchwoman, "You upload your /resume/ to the Unternet yet?"

The bartender stares, "What the fuck did she just say?" asking Taskmaster.

"Just get her some tequila or something strong. It's on my tab." The mercenary and at times supervillain rumbles, "Those aren't even sensibe for combat, you're going to get snagged up. You even listen to my lessons?" A fingertip rises up and rubs between his eyesockets, grumbling under his breath, "Yes. Don't make me look bad. I got a rep to uphold here… "

A shotglass is dropped by Sugar and poured in to, "Here you go, not a fuckin' Souza but its tequila."

Taskmaster chuckles, across the room from them two men start punching one another. A brawl. Just the two and suddenly one is down, clutching his head but clearly unconscious, "Man, this bar is going up in my reviews." Sidelong he studies, Sugar, "I think I'm going to set up shop around here somewhere, start making a name here in Gotham. Its free of Avengers and Justice League and Supermen, whatcha think?" He is actually asking her opinion on something for once. A shocker no doubt.

"They get ate up in this job. Ch/eezues/, you should know better." Sugar rolls her eyes and slings one leg over the other, the flutter of tulle tu-tu frills goes a-flutter, thehell of boot hovered just over T's knee, *not touching*!

"I did, why do you think I didn't answer your calls? Cuz I wanted to come back to /mi casa oliendo a atún/,(my house smelling like tuna)!" A flippant wave off of hand and with it, that hovering boot lifts up and to the side to brace lower rung of stool, palms' heels upon the cushion between thighs.

"Make you look…bad?" A flick of tongue apparent to upper teeth in her smile split wide in painted skeletal teeth peeling away… The barbell through tongue glowing in the shadowed lighting of the bar as the fight behind them resounds. "Mostarte… mal." The tequila taken up, rim licked to flash 'ball' all her own in muscle before salt is lining the rim and adhering to saliva.

Boot kicks off lower rung and she is sashaying her way to the unconcious, taking her shot and finding the split in his skin to wedge the glass-salted rim into it and jerking back. "Get up and fight, coño."

A tip-toe back in her lean, torso down, ass up, Sugar does not rise until she finishes licking the rim clean and puts the glass down, tip-tapping the rim. "More, juevos." A wink to the tendress.

"How much ya wanna bid on the man with salt in his w/oo/nd?"

The man on the floor releases a loud yelp, his eyes springing open. "What the fuck bitch?" He'd try to swing on her if his arm wasn't wedged under a table. It bounces saying as much. A hiss follows as his palm slides up to rub the spot she'd just lemon wedged.

The confusion is followed with loud barking laughter from all around, then whistles, a catcall. Something lewd in regards to her posture.

"Shes a natural." Taskmaster remarks fondly, hes a man as well, the view is enjoyed. He didn't just pick her because of her talents with a firearm, murder and mayhem. No. Shes an attractive, built creature from the roughside of one of the worst places in the world, Colto Maltese. Bloody dangerous street life he woulnd't wish on many of his enemies. She also has a flaire for show, something he can appreciate. It's needed when you're a intern, sidekick, hench like she is. Makes for a good distraction.

"This smell will wash off, just need a few more showers. Get it to go. We got to get back to the pad, round up some munitions and theres a little place I wanna hit." Standing up he pushes his beer away, hood being drawn over his mask a little more.

"Seriously too, get your ass on that app and update your portfolio. Time to show you off. It's good business for me."

The man who curses Sugar in his wakefulness is blown a kiss in her rise, a light bow of her spine permistted by the reinforced, bone-laced corset, painted in the skeletal form of an X-Ray that makes her appear as if 'in'doctr'ined'. "Maybe next time, you take me for a drink first." A wink and wrist flicks to cu downward to flick the /tulle/ at thighs.

"Pay me, beetch." Posture…what? Fingers withdrawal from the frills and rub together for 'money'. Beneat it all she released the safties of her hidden arsenal.

"You didn't SnapChit that?" A gawk at Taskmaster. "Tha fuccckk, was epic… Where's my tequila? I ordered mo—-" Refill there, she takes it quick and pauses in her exit. "Got a bottle of tomato juice? That was one skunky hooker…" A smirk and a thumb over her shoulder before she is moving with a hustle after him.

Some things you just know better, and as she said, she likes her One Life To Live.
"Told you. Was no hooker… that mouth of yours." Taskmaster mutters at her, stopping only to draw up his phone and pushing down on an app, several times. Its a wait as he stares at her there on the street now. A vibration of notice going through her own phone. "There, paid. Now calm it and no stabbing me when I'm sleeping again. I know you did shit a certain way back home but thats not how we play here."
A subconscious rub of his side and the 'disguised' Taskmaster is striding towards his car, "The 73rd street pad. Not that other one, look casual, cover your guns up. We got neighbors to impress." Or at least not kill.

That S90 Sport Sedan he drives powering on before he even reaches it. Technology is great now-a-days.

"Don't ask to drive either, stick to your fuckin' Ranchero." A look over his shoulder, the merc is teasing her now and she knows it.

"You threw fists my way. Sleep or no, you get stabbed. Was a pen." The hiss from tongue pressed at the roof of her mouth lowers with a click while her phone vibrates on the left side of bolstered breast, pulling it free she flips the case open and taps along the screen and the smile brightens more than the screen before it is flipped to cover and shoved back into the boulder-holster.

"Just. A. Pen. Do not tell me that hurt you feels /cráneo blanco/." A lean towards him and despite the peel of lips from her teeth that threaten his jawline it turns quickly into a sneer, a shove to part him from her, despite the fact he already was to drive. "Ranchero? Pastee culo americano… EL CAMINO …. madre…" The door to his S90 is jerked open, her frills clutched, jerked to the side. "I am impressive… jooodderrr… Get in this teeny little heiny plug.. My pride…" Tuck, fold of legs, the tulle drawn between and with a rock of hips her weight shifts the anchor of hinge and aids in the yank of silently slamming the 'Sedan' door closed.

"Oh look! No bebe seat in the back," Leeaannn to peek the speedometer. "It reds at 160… Mmm promise, the neighbors will be impressed by a high speed enem—-" Lip bite.


… insult her Camino, it's a classic!
"Tiny? This things worth more than all of your ugly ass boots put together." Taskmaster gravels as she shuts the door. "Throwing fists your way is called /training/ you know this right?" A look sidelong at her again, as if at times he forgets who he is talking to she always surprises him, "Goddamn ignorant. Thats what you are or at least pretend to be. You aim to confuse and throw people with that overblown ass accent… you been here long enough to speak proper clear English. I can read it in your body language, you understand this, right? Ain't foolin' nobody." She is actually, not him but just about anyone else.

A lurch and the car is taking off, lights illuminating the Gotham streetways as they go just a push above speed limit; too slow is suspicious just a little fast at these hours says youre eager to get home from work. Which he is.

"Impressed by what? If you intend on teasing me with that mouth of yours… " A hand lifts up, palm splayed over her face then shoves back, outwards so her hed would bump the window behind her lightly. "At least put a mint in first, you smell like fresh squeezed agave or whatever the hell tequila is shit out of." Such a healthy partnership they have.

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