The Whistle Stop

May 09, 2018:

In horrible disguises Balllistic and Taskmaster scout out one of Gotham's more unique skyscraper exhibits…


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The 'Whistle Stop' Taskmaster apparently likes the tune as it has been going on for almost thirty minutes now in their monorail ride turned lift up the Gotham Eight tower spire. A high rise that ascends floors above the cityscape below, docks off to one of the zeppelins and releases passangers on an air ride / restaurant over the smoggy gothic location.

The mercenary, doesn't quite look himself. A scarf, colorful sweater, swoop of a hairstyle, glasses and thinner than he should be, younger too. An image inducer. Hooked in one arm is Ballistic's own limb, crooked at the elbow.

"Darling, do you think the passengers like my tune yet?" He says with a faux snobbish accent.

"Please stop." The redheaded portly man to their left murmurs quietly.

"Again you say? Very well!" The tune begins once more as they begin to reach the top most floor.

Neither of them look themselves, for that matter.

5" stiletto's cross the woman into the elvator, every step in time with the whisteling counter part, who is a modern day Cosby… Scarf-Wise.

Ballistic, arm-in-arm with Task-by, whistling a tune fitting a warped Disney in this company - She is dressed… The skirt is slit high to hips up bot sides of thighs, open to every step to reveal the leggy red head??

All one piece, the dress almost seems pieced into one from tow satin slips of black fabric that meld at the bust of her hips only to split back wide over navel and leave the spanse between breasts exposed while it holds her in place at a rated… "Disney" level by care and the cling of that shining fabric alone. The mass of choppy fire engine red is held up in a spiraling bun that has cooppy ends fanning out in spires at the base of her skull, stylized into a messy perfection.

"No one asked you," A lowered glance to the portly man, one blue eye, one green dropping to him in his smaller height. Her smile only comes after a beat and the elevator ding of floor, after floor passing. Fake as fuck.

"No, da/hhh/ling, perhaps the Circuis tune of the Carousel."
The man scoffs at Ballistic and looks forward. Fortunately for him the elevator dings to the top to show a host, who bows and motions them in. A sharp little black vest over a white long sleeved shirt tucked in to a red wrap bun about his waist, slacks and pointy dark shoes. His hair coated in oils and grease, making it shine like plastic and his smile, just absolutely wide. "Hell-o." He says and then bows again, arm crooking up and down. A machine. An android man. "Let me take you to your seats!" Turning jerkily he starts to strut towards the east of the restaruant.

Taskmaster in disguise quits whistling entirely, "Robots or performers?" He murmurs to the dressed up Ballistic, "Darling, want to place bet?" A chuckle and he follows the jerky walk of the host.
The robo-man stops and waves with both limbs at a table seat, overlooking Gotham itself, a long drop. "Please. Be. See-ted. Friend. Friends. Your menu is on its way-way way."

"Vintage, swanky." Taskmaster remarks watching the machine before pulling back a chair for Cass. At least a good portion of the customers around them appear human if not… overly Gotham chic and rich.

"Trick question?" It could be Ballistic's answer or a question, the brow she has lined to match the fire-red of her hair *perks* over the "green" eye - but as Cass, it would be golden and a dying light in the backdrop.

With every step behind the android-man it can be seen one leg is clad in fishnet to mid-thigh, the other a semi-sheer dark nylon, but both have matching lace filigris pattern where it holds over her thighs in a loving wrap upon skin. No garters needed.

The way their host walks, though, is watched while the speech pattern is making Cass' lips painted a deep red, draw thin. They almost appear black if not for the fact that the light reveals that lie.

Task is pulling out Cass' seat, her descent casually slow, regal…

"//Way, wa—-, -muy-," A click of tongue to teeth that rattles behind the braod grin of a slight woman, her hair pulled up tight, just as 'oiled' in sheen, her long sleeved shirt of white is more accenting, opened at the neck to dip just as low as the black of the vest that clung to a smaller waist despite larger bust of torso and hips. "Men…men…men…yous!" A bow at waist, the knee length pencil skirt keeping her posture-perfect as the pristine parchment is swatted down before thm by the android with an…


"En-choy." A mechanical bow, much deeper than necessary for show-and-tell, and her mech-tick-tock sashay away from them is as brisk as her ugly flat loafers allow, only 1" heel? For shame.

The suspicious glance towards Taskmaster from Cass is lingering. "I did not pack enoug C4 for this, didn't I?" Always supicious.
"What is the old rule?" Taskmaster inquires while he sits down opposite of Ballistic, "Never trust a cook who cannot taste their own food." A look at the robo-waitress and Skully reclines back, one by one he studies those around them, so very wealthy up here. This is a novelty to be served by these geriatric and intentionally busted up mechanoids.

"This is just a scouting mission anyways, I wanted to see where they refuel and load the air ships." Always with the scheming. "I got this big plan.. I'll fill you in later… "

A hand rises up and rubs along his jaw, the image inducer hides enough that people wont see his fingers dip in past the display, "Oh, waitress, get us both a long island ice tea. Don't be bashful with it." A good headstart of a drink. "Then follow it up with just some whiskey for me and vodka for the lady. Be creative."

Cass is leaned back in the unusually comfortable seating for a chair tucked aside a linen draped round-table. When one leg crosses over the other the mis-match of nylons is made more evident by the exposed bare of thighs, capturing the strip of silk between in the motion, leaving more exposed than is proper for such a place.

A square folded napikin that is propped like a pyramid upon their table is pinched up and flicked into a fan that is laid upon her lap. White satin over shady netting, covering the "shameful" exibit.

"No rocks in the vodka, waters it down." An addition to their order and the waitress who stops, and in an almost mechanical motion due to the sudden stop - it almost looks as if the tiny heel 'breaks' the waitress' ankle. "Si. Cherry, no ch-ch-…" The ugly ass loafers are kicked off and under an unoccupied table in jerked motions of a mechanical set of motions that skip them aside.

Cass now leers at Taskmaster, understanding. Somewhere in that mis matched Husky gaze of similar chill, there is amusement. "How… big, /Tay/?" A bat of heavily mascara's lashes and she is leaning forward, propping her chin on the heel of her palm, stiletto manicured nails pointing dimpes into the skin along her jaw. "I am in the mood for a vacation to somewhere South and warm." Her smile is slow to draw but is enough to look as if she is basking in this moment.

Her other hand is upon a knee, hidden beneath the table.
[OOC] Ballistic mechanical set of flicks! that skip them aside.*

"Better yet." Taskmaster says standing, "Lets go take a ride on one of those and get a close up." Though hes aware of the GCPD one thats drifting not far off. Easing on towards the spire, the outer spoke creating a platform that allows for the airships to ease on in and await refuel, supply exchange or passengers.

"We can have the drinks on one of these over priced sky yachts."
They can actually. That is typically what transpires in these. Nightly many of them just drift, circling Gotham above while tourists, the wealthy and night goers partake of the sky lounges. Fun really. Perhaps the only place in the world one can do such a thing.

"Big enough, plan on complaining?" He mocks past the mask, "Just trust me. It will be fun."


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