Lemmings
Mystique stares at the HellHouse. This is why she has minions.
No.
This is where she acquires minions. Her current lot need a few more weeks to stew in jail after the bullshit they pulled while she was in Genosha. She'll break them out when she needs some muscle or when they stop whining about paid vacation leave, whichever comes first. Right ( Read more... )
No.
This is where she acquires minions. Her current lot need a few more weeks to stew in jail after the bullshit they pulled while she was in Genosha. She'll break them out when she needs some muscle or when they stop whining about paid vacation leave, whichever comes first. Right ( Read more... )
"Ball girl thinks the urinal is the cooler."
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"We don't rat out our guys, Mysti," he says, with an assumed air of familiarity, remembering the last time she was in this joint.
"Stick around a while, he'll show up."
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She turns to the gnome. "He doesn't owe me anything and I don't have a contract out on him."
His last contact address is quite literally a barren hole in the ground.
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Weaz is hiding out in a dark corner, buried up to his nose in some gun parts. This is a tricky one; the customer who wants it is colorblind, and needs a sight that'll correct for that. Over the babble of voices he hears a familiar one, but it fails to register for a bit.
Then it does.
He glances up, and lo and behold glory glory halleujah it's his favorite blue skinned shape-shifter.
He's smiling.
He's also working. C'mon over, 'Tique, bring him a beer, he's very happy to see you.
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He slides the beer to her, angling his head over to said dark corner.
"Five bucks, or you want a tab?"
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She stares into the mirror hanging behind the bar. Most of these cretins are so far down the pecking order their dossier's haven't crossed her desk. Off in one corner, though....the gnome's a dick.
"Send two more to my table. Make one of them a Bud Light."
She saunters across the room and stops in front of Weasel. "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
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He waves at a spare...well, call it a chair for lack of a better word. It's closer to a crate.
"Hello, Mystique. How'd everything go?"
Weaz? Has NO CLUE what the hell happened in Genosha. This is what happens when you're in physical therapy for close to three months.
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She takes a drag off her beer. "How've you been? I noticed your Pahrump renovations."
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To tell her flat out? Or no? Hmmmm. Eh, what the hell. Maybe Mystique can give him a bit of protection from that psychotic, disease-riddled whore.
"Had a run-in with an old friend of Deadpool's. Bitch broke about ninety percent of my bones. I only just got back in business. CNN was the last thing on my mind."
He sighs and fiddles with the sight for a second.
"Had to scram from Pahrump. She knows where I lived." Not going to mention he brought her there, no SIR.
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She keeps her face serious, perhaps even a hair concerned. This is excellent news. If he's on the run, he'll probalby work for half what she was prepared to offer him.
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"Well, the fingers were the worst. My left pinky's probably never going to be the same again."
He holds up the offending digit, almost in a 'kiss and make it better?' kind of way.
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Because she's used to working with professionals.
She wraps his hand around her lukewarm beer and motions for the bartender to send the other two over already. "I think you need some field work. Something that won't leave you in any one place for too long."
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"I think that's the best idea I've heard in weeks. I mean, the guys here are all well and good, but if Typhoid were to show up here looking for me, this place'd be emptier faster'n you could say 'there's a contract to go take nude pictures of Angelina Jolie on the line.'"
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