A lazy day of fieldwork

[ms_tique]

(Continued from here.)

"Vespasian! Oh dear lord, he isn't breathing!"

The Merry Maid partially entangled in a moving maze of laser tripwires smiles.

"Someone give him mouth to mouth!"

One arm can just barely reach the second door to the left. It's open. Hmm.

"He's not just a dog, you heartless bastard! He's my sweet little pookie ookums

Comments

[_contrary_mary_]

The camera shows the other room which seems to have been used for some sort of party. There are red streamers hanging from the fixtures and flashes of red on the walls which must be from some sort of lighting system.

Upon closer inspection, it will be seen that the streamers are some sort of body parts. The red 'lights' are splashes of blood on the walls. The source of them all lies on the floor in two neat little piles, about four bodies in all.

A chair is in the middle of the room and sitting there, one leg draped over the other in a demure posture, is a woman. Propped on her knee is the head of a security guard, facing the door with a permanently surprised expression. One hand holds the machete used to create the carnage. On the other is balanced the Mercator globe.

Typhoid Mary is humming Monday, Monday to herself as she watches the door, waiting for company.

[la_belette]

ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit

That is, quite literally, all that goes through Weasel's head for a good, oh, thirty or forty seconds after Mystique whispers at him and pokes that camera thru the crack in the door.

ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit

[ms_tique]

"No! Call a vet! He can't be dead! Not my poor, sweet Vespasian!"

Mystique's standing on one foot, leaning heavily to the left, avoiding the laser tripwires.

"Where are you, Lemur? This isn't the time to wack off."

[la_belette]

There's a long, crackling pause over the two-way, and what sounds like a gun being cocked in the background.

"Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit..."

[ms_tique]

A loud, mourning wail comes from upstairs. "No! No! No!"

Mystique's right leg wraps around her left like an impossibly limber statue of Shiva.

Aww, shit. Not right now. She grimaces, but her voice is calm and professional. "Weasel. Listen to me. Give a headset to whoever is holding that gun. He and I will exchange words."

No one fucks with her minions while she's on assignment.

[la_belette]

"I'vegotthegunit'smineohgodohshitgetthehellouttatherenowRaven."

There's more fumbling, and the softly muffled sound of a dropping mic.

"TYPHOID. Door. Other side. Run!"

[ms_tique]

Typhoid Mary? Oh, this shit needs to stop. Now.

Mystique pushes the door open. She's still dressed like a short, hispanic maid. A maid with a gun in each hand.

"Gott Verdammt woman! Do you have any idea how much time I wasted easing through security?"

Unprofessional bitch. Just look at this carnage. She has no idea how much she could sell those maps for. Or the dead guy's organs.

[_contrary_mary_]

Blue or not blue, Typhoid is aware of who she faces. Even if the comments didn't give it away. The woman is egotistical if nothing else. Just strolling in like nothing is going on.

"Wasted being the keyword in the sentence, wouldn't you say?" Typhoid asks in an amused tone. She narrows her eyes slightly. "That must be why you have so many problems getting jobs these days, Mystique."

[ms_tique]

"You try supporting half a dozen minions who want four weeks a year of paid vacation AND rental car reinbursements when on assignment."

Is it so hard to bring a cooler and some dry ice when you KNOW you're going to be killing people? Sheesh.

"What do you want, Typhoid?" She's keeping one eye on the globe and the other on the psycho. Easy money. Right.

[_contrary_mary_]

"Minions. I forgot you like them so much. How are you treating my little lovemuffin Weasel anyway?" Typhoid asks, showing lots of teeth in what might pass for a smile. It comes out as feral instead. She hopes he's listening in. It won't be fun unless he is.

Unfolding her legs, the severed head drops to the floor with a thud and rolls about five feet away. Typhoid starts to bounce the globe in her hand, about six inches up each time from her palm. "What do I want. Oh there are so many things. Deadpool's heart on a pike. Daredevil's head on a plate. Or is that the other way around? I can never remember." She gives an almost pleasant smile as she rises to her feet, not making any moves toward Mystique while doing so.

"Oh that's right! I'm here to deliver a message to you."

[la_belette]

Oh, he's listening.

He's also just discovered what shirt-tails are really for.

[ms_tique]

"Muffin? I'd call him more of a biscuit; soft, flaky, and completely useless when you're in the mood for something more substantial."

This is what she gets for dealing with 'sapes. Forge would have Typhoid glued to the floor and writhing in a pool of her own vomit by now. Then she'd say it was time to kill her and he'd say she could be rehabilitated and they'd only have angry make-up sex if the police shooed them away from the scene before they could get a really good mad on.

Oh, yeah.

That's why she's dealing with the 'sape.

"You know, you could have Deadpool's heart on a spike AND head on a plate AND make him watch the whole time." Probably. Omega level healing factors are wacky.

The girl's getting bloody fingerprints all over that globe. It's going to take a restoration expert to get them out now. Stupid unprofessional bullshit. So she has a message. What's wrong with email?

[_contrary_mary_]

"He's more like a pancake. Flat and flavorless unless you add syrup," Typhoid decides, shrugging. "Maybe I should've tried that. That's why I only played with him a short time. I'd be willing to give him another chance though. Something with fire this time." At that, a map on the wall bursts into flames. A few thousand dollars down the drain there if it hadn't been stained in the first place. Maybe not a 'sape after all.

"I'm supposed to tell you about a job, of all things." She shakes her head, amused at the concept as she walks over toward the head on the floor. She's still bouncing the globe. Using the tip of her boot, she flips the head into the air and starts an odd game of hacky-sack with herself. "It's a job no one can finish. Everyone disappears or dies." She glances over at Mystique. "Anvil. That's the name of it."

[ms_tique]

"Maybe a yeasty dinner roll. He'll never be the main course, but he's useful to have on the side. I hear he can rise to the occasion."

The fire alarms shriek as the map goes up in flame. Great. This is going to look just perfect for Heinreich and Ahmed.

Anvil.

"Message delivered."

She levels both guns at Typhoid's chest and fires.

It's not like she has to worry about being stealthy anymore.

[_contrary_mary_]

At the precise moment the firing begins, the head is kicked up just that extra bit necessary. Bits and pieces explode out but the shot was avoided. As for the second bullet, the globe intercepts it as Typhoid dives to the side. In that movement, her second blade appears in her hand as if by magic. So much for what Mystique wanted to steal...

"Something to keep in mind," Typhoid calls out as though this is a friendly chat and not a firefight...and she forgot to bring a gun. "The person who wanted you told? They expect you to die since you are getting older and losing your touch..." She's already heading the opposite direction, intending to make an exit.

[la_belette]

And she's stopped by Weasel standing in her way.

He had just teleported in, gun drawn, intending on getting Mystique out by any means necessary.

Some hero, huh?

"G-G-Get o-out of he-here, bitch."