Ready Player Two

March 16, 2018:

Taskmaster and Ballistic chat-punch-stab-bond. (LANGUAGE warning)

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Taskmaster after the most recent Task Force X sortie needs to have a few words of clarification with Ballistic, the Gotham Arms are not his home anymore, a place of the past, but he is not far off. A familiar safe house, blocks away where he can from afar keep tabs on his old SKWAD mates, after Rose and Regan were cycled out, it came down to the few he felt less loyal to, Ivy who half the time may have wanted to kill him as much as he her and Doctor Moone who has a demon inside of her. An actual one.

Rounding past 1 AM, Gotham is cold but not as much as it has been, cloud overcast and in the distance floating sky ships circle, relics from the past with glowing lights cast out to illuminate below them, novelties one only sees here. Its unique, entertaining, someday he wants to hijack one. Maybe blow it up too. It sounds like fun. Tonight is not one of those nights. He called for a rendezvous.

The mercenary with the skull face waits, patiently on a separate floor from his hideout, lower and upon an empty balcony. This and two floors above it all bought out by him. Below it rich tenants, quiet ones who keep to themselves, he made sure of that.

Privacy is important. Very. It is life or death in his line of work.

Ballistic is still not over calling Taskmaster a Cunt in the 'c' game Harley made of that mission in/near Croatia, there is a history he may not remember, but one that reminded Ballistic of several things - the key one is why they put blocks(boxes) in the warriors' heads in Cyberdata.

Never the less, Ballistic comes to the door of the apartment, staring at the knob her bare hand reach—- no, a switch and th cybernetic appendage clenches the knob and twit-shoves the door open, but it is slow and silent despite wanting to blast it off the hinges.

Her other hand has her weapon at her side, hanging beside the hip clad in purple strips, now, silver pants paint dangerously low on hips, even bowing down over her pelvic line where criss-crossing straps of holsters of deep purple chaotically cling over contours and valleys of ink and scar laden skin.

The bare span of her stomach only shows further 'transgressions' until the span of matching silver 'latex' halter clings over rips to stretch over her chest beneath the half-jacket. Biker, but bomber in fashion savvy.

Thigh high boots remain that deep plum hue but meld silver straps with attire. She did not come here under-prepared, she knows better, Ballistic, evidently - even as her form shadows the balcony door, her single red eye reflecting the line of brake lights below on the street, waiting to go.

"What." Not a question, not a statement. More a demand, but it is evident she is unsure…

To shoot him, or not to shoot him … that! Is the question…

"Not even a knock." Taskmaster taunts as Ballistic shows herself. He is sans the hoodie but body armor is underneath, a tight undershirt that shows off his muscular arms, forearm wraps are underneath leather and heavy canvas that covers his hands in modified gloves, the skull still a combat type, tight to his scalp and showing off just his eyes. Fatigue pants of deep grey almost black, armor plated combat boots but no weapons beyond a long fighting knife that has a jutting out handle at his lower back.

"I am going to cut through the shit here, Ballistic. I looked you up, hunted you down through the Unternet and got the lowdown between here and Crow land, we worked together, several times. Why don't I remember you and what do you know about me? Not to mention, not everyone gets to so casually call me a 'cunt' and not get popped in the mouth. At least."

"Pop me in the mouth." Ballistic states, her chin rising as she steps those heavy laden boots over the threhold to the balcony.

Hey,
I was doing just fine before I met you,
drank too much, but that's an issue…
But that's okay..

"I dare you." There is no flux in the indifference in her look, nor her tone that does not bare a hint to just how much his /cutting through the shit/ words - cut.

A peel back of her upper lip, a turn of her head to the side and she looks as if she would spit, but instead she bites and twists the cork from a fresh imported flask and propels it off the balcony with a flick of her tongue and snap of her neck.

"You didn't before we boarded the plane? Color me shocked, but not the Devil with the Afro." A tsk of tongue in a drop of muscle against teeth.

"I don't know shit save what the Unternet shared with me and since the last against the Mobsters." She lies, but that is what she is good at.

Façade is veiled by the consumption of alcohol while ass claims a seat on the balcony ledge.

Not looking down.

"Get this IOU over with so I can go before the alcohol kicks in," A swish of the flask. "..said it's from back when O'Malley's crew made their personal grog in her name/." A shrug.

"Back to skull bald. Pity." A play on words, but if he catches it she would be shocked.

"Nah, your face is a little too uneven already. Pretty but you been dealt your damage." Skulls a grin, no reminder needed. He tips his head back, "You're a sniper, a crack shot, one of the best recorded. You'd think I'd remember something like that. You also got a pusher on your file, you know who that is? They like to try to burn you out. I bet its got something to do with that hardware." A finger flicks towards the arm, "How much bionics you carrying around, lethal lady?"

"What's got me curious though, why are you such a memory block? What did you do that made me kick your ass out of the palace?" That same finger lifts to jab at his skull. "We going to work together, I hate not knowing as much as the next guy, gal or half-microwave that rolls with me."

"O'Malley's, Irish mobsters?"

"Maybe here and now, but not as aged as this…" A rotation of wrist that stops when he points to her 'hardware', drawing her gaze to it like it was something new. "No. Not at all."

Stated lowly to Taskmaster as she descends that seated poise on the banister with a scream, of her latex over late-winter prop. "O'Malley would leave the rest of your Mobsters scalped like you, but not alive." A pause as her finger flicks back and forth over the cap of her flask in debate. "Maybe."

The skeletal Cheshire grin is responded to by her own when boots hit the ground and she walks slowly towards him, but also back towards the door. "Are you surprised? It's normal for us, right? To have those hunting us, hating us. Got me back here, didn't it?"

Cass pauses and tilts her head T's way to almost look at him sidelong at that position beside him. "Figure it out."

Like a dog on a hydrant, Cass is spilling the rest of that expensive Grog Rum at his feet and drops the flask in a clatter, her weapon holstered as she heads towards the door.

This is not something she deals well with. She knows it too well…
Zombie…

"You haven't died yet, so we're good. My hardware?" A pause and the scowl from Cass is almost a rabid sneer his way as her hand grips the sliding door frame, the bare one… Human?

"You know it.. Well enough…" A shake of her head, splaying blonde strands around her face in the random array looking like they have been razored by a bowie knife.

"Mea Culpa." Whispered, while the frame bends beneath her grip and slowly she peels her fingers from it.

"I am going to go make my face even… with the drunks, maybe the Cauldron… Something. St Patty's and shit." A wave of that hand before it thrusts into the jacket pocket.

"And to think, I blew my last little Den up for your scrambled ass… Did no good… Peter better have more of that left, screw this Holiday." Pausing her spine straightens, and that dip along the ride of of column just to the top of those silver latex pants forms a light shadow in the posture-pedic defense she has taken. She dug something up from her own grave. "Valentines sásta lá."

"What do you care of my riddles? At least you know I wont tell your tale to anyone, even you!" Ballistic is watching, her eyes a reflective flicker of lighting to watch as his motions become a blur with his incessant talking.

"What's to say you even remember that wager when we are done in the next five minutes, bet it'll outdo all the other five minute sessions though!" Cass hisses back just before his lunge is met by her own!

(Chime in the background groupies.. /'Ohhh…burrrnnn, bro…'/)

Ready, Player One: That pause mid-air of T's is in tandem with the uplifted lunge of Ballistic's, her fist drawn back with the doorknob palmed, the knife sliding from behind her back in a simple glimmer for the scene pan of the camera to show the massive bowie blade half unsheathed…

But now the pause hits start!

Ready, Player Two!

Ballistic's drawn back fist swings in to aim for his jaw, to splinter that fucking skeletal haunting smile of death. He can promise it now, but she knows that smile even before he came into the picture, and she has made her peace with it. But hates it none the less with a passion right now.

The blade whispers free from the holster aligning her lower back where the handle laid in rest within the small divot that straddled her spinal column. "Too many wagers. I die, you get nothing. I live, I get drunk eventually anyway. Nothing to win or lose Task/Master/.."
The doorknob swipe is caught on Taskmaster's forearm, his hand opens up and wrist twists, fingers coil around it or aim to.

The back fist for his jaw gets tucked in against, his forehead on the padding of his skull taking it, a crack appears but bounces off. His eyes watering as teeth clamp down, almost clack together audible but he's set, held.

A quick fist impacts with her breastplate, slamming home and with the impact he's launching her through the dividing posts of the kitchen island, face first through them, racking each one with them before releasing, sending her in a launch away from him.

"You're fast. Nice moves but I'm better. I'm the fucking Taskmaster, I never lose and if you knew me, you'd know this."

A hand reaches over and he rips up one of those dangling posts, holding it in his hand like it's a cudgel, a nail sticking out of it, bent and off to the side but jutting out of it at an angle.

"Want to revisit the or bargain? I may let you live, Ballistic." Though he pauses as he stares at her, some recognition flickers through Taskmasters dark eyes behind that skull plate only to then drift away, she can tell by the cocky slant of his head it was fleeting.

"Well… come on then!" He waves her on.

"You die, I get piece of mind and I always take a trophy. You should have just went to the bar with me, St. Patties right… you wanted to be a baller though."

Ballistic hits, and in that cybernetic fist the doorknob crunches, dents, and they locking mechanism shiv crumbles bit and pieces free in a shower to add fireworks to the blow beside his head! But that moment of victory is mere seconds. 30, in 600 for those 5 minutes, now making it 570…

The counter blow by Taskmaster sends her through the pillars, her breath already lost by the blow, but each. and. every. pillar…

Makes it harder to inhale when she lands in the splintered wood of falling shrapnel like snow around her. Her body hits the ground and that fist of cybernetic titanium hue bearing a baseball sized raisinette of a doorknob pushes her body upward into a side-roll! The human hand plants on the ground, nails breaking as the burrow into the flooring, tearing a path through the falling 'snow' of splintering décor as her body still grinds back until the toes of her boots, bury in and one catches the wall, landing her in a predators crouch upon all fours, even as she coughs to relearn how to breathe through the pain of a fist-borne defibrillation, her eyes are narrowed his way.

"Trust me, you got the best trophy already, and you… fucking.. forgot." Words between pants, tongue sliding to the corner of her lips to sweep at welling blood. She saw that moment, caught it and brushed it aside before he even regained.

Spitting to the side, pink fans across the floor to mottle darker red in heavy spots. "When we're done here it will be the equivalent to another room I spent time in - from here to the Midwest. Just add roaches and corn."

When Ballistic lunges forward, towards him, the plant of her heavy soled boot aids in her launch, but it also is a kick-off, so when the ball of her foot hits the edge her forward position is pitched to the left!

A feint just before that baseball knob is thrown at T with a high speed and accuracy, seeking to clip his left hip….

Brutally.

"If I forgot musta not been that fucking great." Taskmaster counters, a snap forward and he is coming at her again kicking off his left foot to dash at her, ready to swing but instead a sharp pain bounces through his hip, shock jams its way violently and flaring every nerve cluster as that doorknob rebounds from the meat and bone of his hip to thunk off a wall and roll.

That heavy swinging step he was just in over extending causing him to flail wide and stagger past her to crash on to a knee and slide, a sound escaping him, part agony part frustration.

Laying there on his side Taskmaster thrusts up in a Capoeira like over kick, throwing the non-injured leg out at her chest, a shoving kick but as he comes back down he lands on one knee, both hands snapping down to his hip, grasping it, "FUck, feels like you broke my hip… and paralyzed my whole damn leg. Nice shot… I'll give you that."

"Now come here so I can hit you again." Yeah, mobility shot, entirely. The hurt is actually so much its making his eyes see through red haze and tear up. Brutal is right.

The knob hits the 'Knob' of the Year. Ballistic will award T that plaque … later. Maybe. (500 Seconds left)

Ballistic is lunging, the massive bowie in her human hand flashing to toss from one towards the Cybernetic mate when she lunges for the 'bullet' knobbed foe! Like a juggle… That fumbled, because the timing /was/ to flip the pommel to land between cyber-fingertips in capture and throw it to land between metacarpal bones of his planted hand and pin him to the floor in his recovery…

(430 seconds.)

His recovery move leaving it to perhaps skin his hand, or get caught in that flurry of rebound! Before Ballistic can reconsider her drive forward and bounce back his heel impacts her chest, making the long-term loss of oxygen gain stars to her eyes, a black pulse of periphery with mottled white galaxies.

A jujitsu landing has her on her back but the force of his kick propels her in going asshole over elbow in that ground-slap, landing her in a crouch that has her drawing her Rhino.

The violent cough sounds almost hallow and vibrating inside… Perhaps a bit of a bubbling of liquid that has her coughing more before a part of a splintered pillar is gripped… Drug closer and lifted while she /slowly/ stands.

(320)…

A flick of wrist, the splintered architecture now held like a spear for throwing. "Do you even remember the fires? Maybe your HUB," A scoff, or maybe another bloody cough as her teeth flash. "Oh wait, that's your role, Hub-by."

Nope, she will stone him to death! The pillar shard is thrown his way like a spear as she steps back, and in the process is gathering small marble like silver balls from her tac pouch. Ballistic doesn't need bullets.

"Nothing is great for people like us. It's just confetti in a fire." A pause and her laugh is more a hissed hyena-like sound wrapped in cancerous smoldering.

"Now, move so it's harder on me."

(242)…

"I don't know what you're talking about." Taskmaster says, he's limping, remaining at a distance with his head downcast and glaring at her past that cracked mask.

"You cheat." He grumbles, "All this throwing shit. You're worse than Bullseye." He peels a piece of shard out of his shoulder, his arm and looks around her, at her. "

"Fire… the Hub, lady, you're talking crazy as hell."

A wave at the air, "Fuck it. Lets go drink." He says, Taskmaster stumbles, staggers then turns around to fall down where the 'divider' once was, shoulders impacting against the short wall there as his forearms rest on his knees, breathing heavy. "As soon as I feel like getting up. Truce… just truce. My hip is jacked up. I don't think I can throw another punch without landing on my face…. " Emphasis has him rubbing thigh and bunched hip where the knob struck.

"Just do it if you are going to otherwise hand me a beer off the counter… "

Tsk… ts/ck/…" Ballistic begins, but she is choking back coughs. It feels like she has porcupine quills stuck in her back where skin is bare - just beneath the bow where rib cage ends; the coat and top cut off, and the bow where hips span outward; low cling of silver latex pants begin despite the arch of straps that rise over the thrust of bare hips to dip back in the arch to 'behind'.

Yes, that inked and scarred canvas of skin has slivers and fragments embedded there from her drive through the pillars and skid-mark slide over that floor.

"I cheat to match my opponent, the /Master/ at cheating." Ballistic chides back, but her level tone, apathetic save the single emphasis of a word, but in saying it her teeth flash and like Baoding Balls, the beads/hand-bullets are rotated through fingers - Fushigi style.

Her pace takes her to the counter, the beer cap popped off to clatter across the counter, lifting the 'Weiser to her lips as she 's(t)waggers a hip against the counter and takes a long drink. Spillage from the corners of her lips is a 'Rose Gold' of blood and amber, trailing down her jaw.

(97)

The racket of her cough causes a metal ball to drop and hit the ground just before the toe of her boot, the others caught and clutched as her eyes go bloodshot in restraint of further fits. Breathe in…

"Yeah and I think you cracked a rib or two. I need a smoke and you made the prospect… Suck." Another beer is gathered then and thrown at Taskmaster. "Hand you? Bitch, please. I know you better." Annnddd despite her words she is drawing a smoke from her jacket pocket, placing it between her lips and sparking the zippo.

"Crazy is as crazy does." The beer is set aside though for the draw of her flask, a different flask, whiskey, Mist, Juice… Siiipp. "Whiskey Sour, or Rum and coke, preferred over that piss water." And that's saying something for Ballistic!

"You cheat because, you're a cheat." Taskmaster says, picking a piece of wood out of his neck not even sure how that one happened.

"You say you now me, time to spill. Because, maybe you haven't noticed toots, I don't know me and usually don't give a shit but when someone comes in like a Bat out of Hell like you have…. I gotta, just, get a little curious."

The beer when Ballistic sets it aside he reaches for and picks up, "Whiskey sour… too sweet but, whats that? Something else?" He drops his eyes studying her, his mind churning to kick up a memory or two or any, he comes up with… nadda, a shrug escapes him then suddenly hes envisioning 'fire' and kittens… "Burning cats mean anything to you?" He questions her like its the dumbest thing hes every said, the bottle tipped up and his mask pushed aside, guzzling at the rest of that beer.

A pop of it away from his mouth and he motions, "That arm, pretty handy." Bad pun but he meant it, "That how you do the crack shots, the hand and the eye? I think I need an upgrade."

Ballistic isn't picking any of the splinters or shrapnel from her skin quite yet, maybe the bitch is reveling in the pain, or maybe she needs it to stay upright as she is… That and the prop of her hip against the counter, that is.

"You know, I do not get your name. Taskmaster, and yet I see less 'Task' and more 'Master' in he demands, despite the fact that we are at a draw. Neither of us get what we want… But I still get drunk." His denial=More for her.

A lift of flask in a 'toast' his way just before he mentions 'kittens'.

(3….2…1…)
(0)

Her hand shakes, and the grip on the flask by the cybernetic appendage clenches to concave the slender oval sides inward, reforming the vessel and splashing some of that nectar laced arsenic over fingers and to the floor around the ball…

The others stop spinning in the transferred pivot, clutched in a fist. "Fuck. The. Kittens."

Her hand stuffs her 'balls' away while the other drains the 'Whiskey With a Touch of Sour' from the deformed flask, nothing-but-net into the sink with it on empty discard.

"I was born with the talent, this just pulled me out of Little League, beyond a League of Their Own… and into," A gesture around the broken and Picasso'd apartment, the her eyes bullseye on him. "League—" The cough catches up to her, a deep breath and a flicker of the bionic eye behind the thin layers of skin that form her eyelid. Bending over is moot, as she does so those 'pinpricks' of acupuncture and violent therapy jerk her back upright.

Her stillness though, is forced at his final words on the upgrade. "You want to be a slave then, Task/Master/?" The way she hisses those final syllables, reminders, down to the fact that when she steps forward now, forgetting her pain…

Obsolete.

The closer she gets the more she smells like… Everclear?
Gasoline?

"Thoughts of Kittens won't save you." Leaning just enough to nearly come eye to eye with him there is anger, the smell akin to a burning lounge of smoke and aged liquor, blood, and sweat.. Metal. "I'd kill you before.." A loft of chin, her throat tensing in the captured swallow before her lips capture her cigarette and she turns away from him to go back towards the door, picking up the knob on her way.

Lighter sparks to flame and lifts, dancing from the edge of zippo to spill along her alocohol laden fingertips as the cigarette is lit.

You wouldn't remember anyway."
Click Zippo closes.
Exhale. Flames blown out upon her hand.

"I'd outrank your ass." Slow. Smile.
"You keep saying my name like you're challenging me. I already called a truce." Taskmaster grumbles, a foot rising up to thump back down. Heel smashing on to the floor with a *thud*, hes trying his best to regain sensation in his hip and thigh, a hand coming down to rub over it once more, grasping in to it and releasing like he has been.

"Ballistic, huh… " He muses while his head rolls back to rest against the countertop, "So you're a mutant, with the gift of super baseball? Does that mean… " He cants his head to the side, eyes flashing, "You uh… " A low chuckle, yeah, he's being a bigoted ass. It is what he does.

"If you keep talking like you are, I am going to suddenly feel a lot better and not mind kicking your ass all across Brooklyn.

Taskmaster's elbow pushes him up further, like he was going to get up but he doesn't.

"Thoughts of kittens ever saved anyone? What the hell is wrong with you."

"You uh… You, realize uh, this is a no smoking zone."

"I uh…." Ballistic's hand holding the door knob extends to the side, the already crumbled ball of metal is brandished to the light. Golden in her titanium palm that suddenly curls in like a deep-sea, so hard the internal mechanisms spill out of the lock button like organs, but hit the ground in a cadence of a busted wind chime.

"I…uhh….what?" Ballistic looks back at him, the eye he sees peering through the strands of choppy blonde is ruby, but dulled in the shadows while the back facing him is one of Hell raising proportions with the bits-and-pieces protruding from skin, small threads of red cascading to pool where the holster for her bowie rests. Dimpled flesh over each Iliac crest that forms ample posterior, accented by thin violet straps to 'arch' and 'cross' in a web over curves and dip between. Sensual… But holding the deadly weight aloft. The whole look 'fits'.

"I can throw your balls all over Brooklyn?" No Smoking Zone? Ballistic smiles as she takes a looonnnggg ass inhale, the plume of the exhale circulates like tongues between lips, nostrils, and licks along cheeks like tongues before the dragon-plume of smoky cloud releases.

"Big Bad T afraid he is going to die of cancer of the hip, now?" Ashing in the sink-space, Ballistic bends to lean over the counter, one leg the stand, the bent knee, wavering a bit more, but she keeps herself aloft as she watches him, the cigarette left dangling from limp-wristed grip. "The same amount of shit wrong with you…. Tony." The cigarette is dropped into the sink space and crushed out beneath a titanium thumb. "But the burning lab and its fireworks was glorious. Pity you can't remember the fire, the kittens, the fireworks, and the celebration to put this holiday to shame with the money…" A shake of Ballistic's head and she slowly pushes to a stand, her hands bracing the counter only to have her slowly lower to a perched position while holding on.

Arms above her head, straddling the lowering crown.

"You realize, I know, but don't give a fuck? Rolling back she lands on her ass and drapes her arms over her knees. "You either won't be here in the morning, or will forget anyway. So let's give Brooklyn a show."

"My balls have never been quite threatened in that manner." Taskmaster draws himself up higher, back entirely straightening as his shoulders push back to the counter-island, his cracked skull-mask leveled so it's obvious hes looking directly at Ballistic.

"Don't give a fuck yet, right here, showed up right in to what coulda been an ambush and decided to fight it out anyways."

A look down and he rubs his thumb tip over his hip, tracing the wound there, its more bruise than puncture, a bruise thats on bone and making muscle tighten, seize and hurt. Walk it off right. Once he feels like getting up.

"Forget come morning. Depends on how much we plan on drinking and if you wanna be memorable or not."

"It's what 'people like us'," A pause and those dual colored eyes shift to roll over Taskmaster in his righting. Because his balls are under threat of fire like Pearl Harbor, or because she hit a nerve, literally? "Do. We go in…" Balls deep?

Ambush didn't happen, so his shouldawouldacoulda was brushed aside with a draw of eher massive flask from inner lining of attire, the metal flick of thumb over the titanium cap spinning it open so she can take a lon drink, worked up a thirst after all. Lowering it, she keeps it held in suspension by the rest of forearm off of her knee, the wrist rotating slowly to test the wight of the remaining contents and either:

A: How much time she had left for this shit. or,
B: If it would give him a concussion - after his final words.

"I will have to let you ex know she ain't the only one fed that line." Oh, screw throwing it, that flask is getting drained into her bloodstream.

Sip!

"Good to know I am no meeting your 'special treatment' clause. So vote for blackout forgettable with you and me." A tip of flask, lifted in a 'cheers' motion before drank from again while heels pushed into the ground and aided in shoving her back to prop against a wall.

She's going t need it if she intends to stand any time soon.
"Balls deep?" Taskmaster blinks, "We talking about fighting, drinking or screwing here?" A recline back of his head, skull base thumping loud.

"My ex?" A squint, "I don't tend to do ex's, most of 'em are just fuck buddies. We got understandings… "

"Why mess up a good thing, yeah?"

A scrape of one boot against the flooring as he draws his knee upwards, "How many times you had to remind me who you are?" A serious question, it's obvious in the tone change of his voice, studying her quietly as she starts to heel push upwards, ascent, that looks tricky. He isn't so sure he wants to try just yet.

Ballistic is attempting the rise? No, more like preparing for it. Against the wall there it is evident the tension that shifts thigh muscles beneath the second-skin coating of 'leather' pants and the resistant shift of straps that holster her own Arsenal. Her spine is bowed against the wall, shoulders aligned in hope it is 'load bearing', before she stops and just remains. The option alone hurts, but without surprise or a show of it.

"Not all of them." It would have been a "flick off" motion if it was not the 'ring finger' Ballistic rose Taskmasters way. "You don't have to worry about the mask here. I've seen it all.. Of the above." A snort of laugh and it is stifled by another drink, a deep sniff in and she is digging through pockets for something else to add to this moment of (non)sobriety.

A pause at his final question and she flicks those cybernetic fingertips. "You want /memorable/ times, or all of them? I will go with the ones that mattered to me, because that's all that counts. This will be the second." A pause as she finds a vial and tips it into her flask.

*Tap-tap*

"I get blocking out the weird Snake People, Guerilla Tactics and Labs. But the money and the… " A shake of her head with a half laugh that causes a *tic* around her real eye in that assimilation to pain. "Nah, fuck it, the Midwest is forgettable, the hicks were just hilarious and the Bartender in Chicago. Murder Bunny. His elf chick though, I'd still bullet her head if World of Warcrap had my guns."

"Oh wait, you don't remember."

"You're talking in the vague, you need to tie something to them for me to remember." Taskmaster instructs, "Senses for me to work with, like smells, tastes, sounds, these trigger." A few fingers slide in to that crack over his eye and peel it off, ripping a V out of the skull in a fragment to expose his brow and one dark eye.

"You would know this though, right? If we have been through this before." He is countering her, testing, "I remember… a few from my past but they're shadows, like looking at reflections in water, can't fully make them out and you only see them if you stand at the right angle. One ripple… its all gone." That drawn up leg gets an elbow rested on it, at least it appears hes done fighting her. The wind is out of his sails.

"I know this." Ballistic states, it seems affirmative, steady, even if it is said while she exhales with a light lowering of her head as if she was hoping to not…

Fuck it.
Fuck him.

He cracked a rib… or worse, even exhaling hurt.

Pulling out her phone, that red eye flares up and a data relay is exchanged, the screen casting a glow in the dark abandoned apartment. In the meantime, while data is transferred, the straps that bind boots to thighs, over knee, calves, and loosing strings at ankles a boot is peeled off with the unfettering of lashed bindings and the clatter of balanced daggers.

From within her 'crew' sock top she withdraws a book of matches, while another flask spills on the floor beside her. Citrus, cherries, whiskey, a strike of match on the floor beside the spill, sulfur mixes in and a voice crackles, distorts, and then echoes from her phone as Ballistic watches him.

//…A distorted voice patches through, "This is the Hub. I'm with /the Org/."
"I am lost and I don't know who I am? "
"It doesn't matter. I know. I always know? you are Taskmaster and your next assignment is incoming. Await details."
KLIK.

"Recognize the Ex now? Perhaps you can tell me about this Org that had me burn my apartment down to wander with your lost ass half-way across shit-stain Middle USA to be left with Jack and Coke tender and his elven lookin' bitch while you disappeared after.."

Another rattling deep breath and she snuffs the match out in the spill of sour and bitter, to take a drink of her chalk-mix.

"Brought it all just for you to find, because if you killed me, it'd be the best goodbye I could offer in Fuck You, Task/Master/."

SIP!
Taskmaster's nose curls unseen at the mixture and fire, his gaze averting enough to stare down at his boot, toes wriggling inside of it.

"I am Taskmaster. My face is death and the HUB… the ORG. It's a dead end." Some clarity in that. "If I try to seek it and find myself, I lose weeks, months, a year maybe more and I come back hating existence. I wont' do it again, I should gut you for making me hear that again."

A roll half to the side and he's pulling out a phone of his own, tapping the screen. "Turn on lights, dim, start shower, kill security for fifteen minutes>"

A grunt and hes shoving up to his feet stumbling towards the far wall, "Come on. We're not finished, I said I wanted to figure out who the fuck you were, not that… thats… just… not me anymore. I am Taskmaster, I do not do missions for the HUb or the Org any longer. I do missions for me."

An elevator crane in to view, shimmering up an old service shaft. Hidden behind drywall and tarp.

Ballistic is restrapped, though a pause comes when he speaks and the elevator behind walls spurs to life with his words. "You asked for it." Matter-of-factly stated and the truth as she caps off her flask of /chalky/ 80 Proof and no longer feels the pain, or at least has it a dull pulse in the furthest part of her mind.

Pushing up the wall….it stings..

But not really.

"You say that now, Tony Masters, I'll save it for later." The flare of her eye sparks a ruby in the shadows as the elevator opens a wall and she is pushing away from her own that is a crutch to walk for the opening with a rigid spine and the slapping cadence of belts and buckles still not re-done.

A glance to him and the bionic element within socket is fully dim by the time she tucks that phone into her attire. "I wish you luck in figuring out the rest." A waning grin that seems more grimace and sneer than anything else. A dare.

Taskmaster stops dead when she calls him by his Operative 'Alias' the one coined to him by SHIELD long ago. It became his name for many years, a close enough wordplay choice that warps easily in to Taskmaster. The real name? A mystery. One before even SHIELD.

"Quit." He says with a somber tone, "You're digging too far back and I don't want to go there." A look over his shoulder, jaw tucked in and skull glaring, that gape showing his brow, he is too, "I asked about you, not me. Stop taking digs or we're going to be at this again, around and around. I'm Taskmaster, there is nothing before that, no hub, no ex, the furthest woman we go back to is Santa Meurte. That's it, my thoughts, from the timelines, you came after her."

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