2159/Spoiled Business

Spoiled Business
Date of Scene:	19 June 2020
Location:	Noonan's Sleazy Bar
Synopsis:	A brawl becomes a flight and a first meeting.
Cast of Characters:	Cole Cash, Meggan Puceanu

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Cole Cash has posed:
It is poker afternoon at Nooman's and Cole should be getting some nice pocket money to pay the rent. But guess what? Sore losers. Today's group does not want to play with the guy that has already cost them for several thousands in the past three months.

No worries, they will change their mind once they are a bit more into the game, and more drunk. Cole is by the bar, a smoke on his lips and a tall glass of beer, feigning he is watching the baseball game on the corner TV.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Noonan's scrapes the bottom of the barrel and keeps digging for worse. Even in the daytime when the majority of patrons fall into skeezy, sleazy, or petty criminals, it's not the spot anyone hangs out at. They come with a purpose: business or escapism. Rarely pleasure, unless forgetting the world through the bottom of a streaky glass with cheap beer or well drinks counts. And few wisely do, for it's a great way to end up in the morgue or tossed drunk into the back alley fleeced of everything a soul owns. So thinner crowd, less nasty attitude, but still vile and thick with dark intentions. Dark intentions that buffet the woman playing a game of pool, alone, radiating a 'screw off' sort of aura in retaliation. Meggan is forgettable in part because the people around her want to forget other people, so she's younger, sullen, someone who fades a little better into the shadows.

Black hair, black shirt, torn jeans, she has the uniform of an irate generation. Too hot for a coat but she still has one slung around her shoulders, too big, beaten all to hell. Having a cue is equivalent to a weapon, and taking shots with some measure of accuracy helps keep interest away. Her 'table' is a scarred thing, with a glass of paint thinner masquerading as vodka or gin, probably doctored all to hell by now. Stooped over the battered table, she lines up for another shot. They're quick. Sharp. Excuses to watch the front door and the back in case her contact is /ever/ showing up. Instead all she's got is that damn poker game, and the noise. Time ticks. Another crack of balls to ball, banking off the side. It's not a pretty sound. Around here, it covers up a lot.

Cole Cash has posed:
Cole would be offender to be called petty criminal. He is a petty criminal only part time. The rest of the time he is an honest mercenary or an illegal government operative. Which means he is a part time major criminal. But he does it for Uncle Sam, so all is good. Amanda Waller says so.

He is also bored.

The 'guys' are slow to get drunk today, it is still early. Baseball is the most boring sport to watch on TV, really. The years have taught Cole patience when necessary. But this is not the case. After all, this is not a dangerous place for Grifter. None of Gotham big crazies would be caught here slumming and Noonan is up to date in his protection payments.

The young woman by the pool table caught his attention the moment she arrived. Not that it was shown. Nothing is in Cole's casual attitude. But women alone are rare here, and despite the rebellious clothes and decent pool shooting, something is not right there. He grabs his beer and walks closer, to watch her game (anything is better than baseball). "Waiting for someone?" He asks after a few minutes.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Probably a rule of Gotham: if you see a pretty flower growing in the middle of a dark alleyway, nuke it with Hellfire or leave it the hell alone. Because chances are fair to partly good it's not what it seems. Smart to live by. That's how one keeps living.

Meggan isn't going out of her way to show off mad poolsharking skills. Enough to methodically chase the striped balls around, cat after a mouse, and use the practice to improve. Someone like that waiting, a tad carelessly, is a mark or seasoned. Might be she falls more into the latter than the former to a seasoned eye, but she's got a kind of cagey awareness that doesn't fit the mold of sacrificial lamb. So Cole coming closer doesn't immediately halt her game but she chooses another angle that puts a fair bit of the table between him and her. Casually sliding around to line up behind the cue ball is ony natural.

Besides, playing beats sitting by the door and watching baseball. Incomprehensible and yet duller to see than cricket matches, and agreed, they're horrible to watch. She lifts her head a little, eyes a murky shade of pale brown. "You bored or something?" Her immediate retort is a promise. Reinforces the shape, shields the mind from the drumbeat of derision and irritation about the patrons getting slowly drunker by the hour. "He'll show if he shows. You?"

Cole Cash has posed:
Cole half-smirks, but he is bored and not bothering to disguise it. "Some guys with no poker skills got tired of losing," he mentions, glancing to the poker tables, and maybe a bit louder than needed. There are a few snickers. The scruffy blond is generally well liked, at least when there is no money involved.

There are few pleasant 'feel' in the bar. The most intense emotions being the elation when someone gets a good poker hand, and the fear of losing for those who didn't. But nothing from Cole. There are no readings from the tall blonde, his mind is shielded. Or perhaps, he is a robot.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan doesn't even manage the smirk. Sometimes a look is enough, the appraisal through a direct stare and the slight tip of her head. Not much, but enough that a few of the lank, bottle-black bangs scud over her brow and smack into the curve of her shoulder. "Don't lose money you don't have," she quips, looking past to the game in progress. Her cue is held in the crook of her arm like some ancient fasces or spear of old. It doesn't exactly support her but she leans into the cue a little more. "Another round if you want."

She's sunk most of the targets, as it is. Not like racking up the balls and starting again is tough, the cost of a few quarters in the machine beaten to pieces. The empathic side might welcome the silence, in a way. Dread it. Tolerate it. Her gaze flicks to the door as two or three more people slouch in, their expressions far from mellow. It's the acrid smell in the air that presages a fight instead of a storm.

Cole Cash has posed:
"You are in," offers Cole. He doesn't look at the un-mellow people, he saw nothing? No, instead he goes to check facts. "Set it up, I'll get you a drink, beer is decent here," he goes to the bar. To get the drinks, and whisper questions to the tender.

The blonde merc doesn't need empathy to see a bar fight coming. Why, he usually set them up himself. But when he doesn't, he wants to know the why. And, of course, how to her the most benefit out of it.

Or maybe he should just grab the brunette and run. That would be a good idea. But Cole rarely has that kind of good ideas.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
In Meg's defense, she should know when to see the rain is coming. Someone has to fend for themselves in a lonely world. Keep their eyes open for trouble and learn the hardest lesson, when to duck for shelter or run. With Cole heading away, she gives a nod. A few coins fished from her back pocket comes up about right. One quarter needs to be dragged out from another pocket, but she feeds the dully glowing, half-lit dispenser the filthy lucre it needs to operate. Obligingly, the internal mechanics clunk and groan like an old beater starting up. Out comes the first ball, a sorry little bashed up planetoid treated badly and not replaced until it cracks apart. She palms it, setting it onto the table. Getting the triangle is another matter.

Couple of the petty thieves in the corner take the chance to conclude their business. Not much to conclude; one of them ups and leaves. The other makes a show of finishing up his beer. Like bugs scampering away from the rain. The first of the group wandering in launches himself with those ground-eating strides to take a table, thumping himself down at a seat. Not sitting, either, perching. Anticipating being in the way from anyone heading out the front. The other two go right for the card players, eyeing up the mass with an indiscriminate sneer, not giving a moment for a delay before snatching up one with a reasonably good pot. There might be an act of a pause before he's bodily hurled into the table.

"You owe us," doesn't really pack so much punch as a physical punch.

Cole Cash has posed:
There we go, and Cole couldn't even bribe the bartender to find out who are the group causing trouble. The bartended didn't even manage finish filling Megan's glass when "you owe us" is heard. A sentence rarely heard here without blood.

Cole is armed, of course, like almost everyone here. Which is why the bartender ducks behind the bar, and the waitress is nowhere to be found. He finishes his beer hurriedly, then looks at Meggan and points to the door. Go.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
If he asked. If there was time, Cole might well learn she came alone. She's been playing pool for half an hour, forty-five minutes tops. Never seen her before. If he asks, afterwards, that's the story.

Then the bar itself that has offered plenty of protection in the past becomes a refuge for the bartender. He guards it as a parent shields the nest, or a literal soldier in a machine gun nest. No doubt he's packing enough there to keep anyone from approaching too close. Cards, blood, and beer become more interesting than a baseball game. Odds aren't pretty on anyone recovering this round of chips or coin, whatever was being thrown in, but the mayhem is enough to make centering in on the other target ratted out by her absent contact easier to spot.

The dark-haired girl holding a solid red three-ball in hand backs away from the pool table for a second. In the fracas bubbling up to make life more interesting in a dull afternoon, Meg spots that warning point. No need for Cole to shout it. A nod and that's it, the cue is abandoned. She edges purposefully along the game area and makes a swift move for it, using tables as cover. Quick, purposeful, that doesn't help with one thug placed where he can arbitrarily try and tackle anyone headed out. It's really a question of who lands and who dodges.

Well, she bolts anyway.

Cole Cash has posed:
There was no reason for a brawl to begin today. And although sometimes the unexpected happens, Cole is the suspicious kind. Two unlikely events together: new girl and bar brawl, might be a coincidence. Probably they aren't.

The thug ready to tackle near the door would solve the question. Is he there for the girl, or someone other? Cole wants to know. And Cole shouldn't get involved.

But he throws the empty glass towards the thug's head anyway. Because life is dull if we do what we should do, right? Well, that is his excuse. Now it is a question of who lands and who dodges.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Maybes. World's full of them. Cole could get involved or he could stay out of it. Let the situation resolve itself, girl versus man bigger, harder, colder than she is. Worth the trouble, worth the danger?

The glass descends in a glittering arc. Those moments quantum physicists love to go on about, how whole dimensions or universes open up if the glass nails hit straight in the face, if it misses, if it hits Meggan, if the large man turns for a glancing blow. If he caught it midair. Possibilities litter every action, but the inflection point in this moment, this reality, is that he isn't paying a whole lot of attention behind him. He's after her, going for a clean snatch propelled by explosive bursts of movement that might once have been useful on a football field. Worth it in a fight, moving that bulk around. But the glass comes smacking down, right as the girl in the torn jeans might be calculating flinging the three-ball right in her attacker's face.

Who lands and who dodges? He bowls into her with less coordination, and she drives into the sunshine like a nymph trying to get back to her river father. To her credit, she doesn't yelp, but the combined momentum throws both of them out the door, mostly upright. A sliver of sunshine to outline the brazen grab, and her throwing an elbow back at his face.

Cole Cash has posed:
Yeah, it was all about the girl. (As usual).

There was one-time Cole did something like this and he ended up involved in a millennia-long war between alien empires. And also got a space ninja girlfriend that broke his heart. One the positive side, he got his mental health back.

Here hoping the brunette is no space ninja, Cole dashes for the door.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Usually. Something like that, about the girl or about the know-how.

Cole doesn't have to worry too much about doors, since the one hit by both of them is crooked and due to be replaced. That biweekly rehanging is probably about due. Neither is the street outside filled by cops or anyone much interested. There's the girl having shunned her coat, the better to slide free, leaving the thug he hit with a glass holding it like a fool. Meggan hasn't gotten far, to be fair. Far enough to let her turn rather than run pellmell into the harbour or off for the docks. Long enough to guard her back, but that requires a bit of weaving and carefully picking her way out. Nope, she's not a space ninja exactly -- more like a protesting millennial in the wrong place. Though that mask is slipping a little, since her adrenaline is up and her pursuer so very certainly isn't happy. He swears words not fit for repeating, snapping a look back to Cole. What's the point of shouting "stay out of it?" Not really much, so he snarls Cole's way and flings the coat at her. Next step, plow her into the battered old Grand Am parked away. Or he'll tango with them both, not knowing he picked the wrong guy.

Meggan, for her part, isn't exactly fighting back, but there's an art to putting a big target in the way, and throwing it at them. At hand, her choices aren't much until she's around the car.

Cole Cash has posed:
Unless he is misjudging her age, the brunette looks more like a Gen Z to Cole. Too young to be a Millennial. Cole himself is solidly Gen X. The healthily cynical ones. Or so he will claim.

Stay out of it? When has saying that ever worked? No, Cole already choose to play the white knight role when he tossed his empty beer glass. Beer knight? Something knight-ish. It is sad he has no idea Meggan can defend herself just fine. In fact, he has no idea her name is Meggan. They had no time to introduce themselves.

But this is Gotham, no one else is going to help her, and the cops will be way too late. So, he rushes the thug, trying to push him out of the way, preferably -into- something painfully hard. Concrete works.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
He has no idea she's not a stringy, dark-haired creature vaguely in line with some pop chanteuse who sings about crowns and bad guys. That she's much more blithe than this, but appearances have to be upheld. Appearances fed by the anger being directed at her. "Where's Drake?" she spits out as she dives over the bonnet of the Grand Am, sliding back and faltering when he grabs her wrist. He, thug, occupation: ass kicker. Some kind of trouble there as Cole rushes in, yanking back the anonymous troublemaker. For that, he's John.

John may not like his scraggly victim with torn jeans, but he likes someone who hauls him back a whole lot less. Letting go of the girl means swiveling and striking at a knight-in-Pilsner armour. Because that's bound to be what it smells like, after he slid out of that sticky table. It's too fast to negotiate a counterstrike even for a seasoned enforcer. Brute force doesn't amount to much, not exactly, when dealing with someone in the metahuman scale of things. Which is probably why Meggan isn't picking up the car and hurling it, that goes from defense to murder real fast. She doesn't cower as she falls back into the street, catching herself like a cat and landing on all fours about the time shoulder, arm, and face impact the ground where John Thug is involved. He lashes out with a kick while trying to defend himself, like it might save him from a broken nose or worse, but not so much. Being rammed into the ground at force is something.

"Come on. He's not showing," states the girl, obvious, sharp and quick still. "His friends won't be..."

The last word doesn't get out. She still has the ball and she flings it hard as she can for the doorway. It's going to break something, if it hits.

Cole Cash has posed:
Although the thug is somewhat larger and heavier than Cole, there is not much contest there. And unfortunately for John, Cole has no qualms about abusing his super-soldier gifts to break some bones. John isn't one of the regulars at Noonan's anyway. The nose is not the only thing broken. He dislocates the thug's right shoulder too. And fractures a few ribs with a kick to make sure he stays down for a few.

"Name is Cole, by the way," he tells Meggan. "Care to tell me what was this all about? My poker evening just got ruined, and I am late with the rent."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sucks to be John. As for Jack and Jake, the near twin problems coming out the door, the numbers might be even but the odds have to be shifted by another quarter. Notably, pulling a piece from under a jacket. Meggan hisses under her breath and darts out, like she might be ready to grab Cole by the arm. Not the wisest move but wisdom is another matter, really, where bullets come out. So the sound of her feet hitting the ground is soft, quick, and the questions can be answered if he's going to hurry.

"Look, I'm sorry for this, but let's move, Mr. Cole. Answers and rent problems next, okay?"

If he starts on his way, great, she's already zeroed in on a break between the next rundown buildings. If not, they'll get to that part. Or it's following him. "They aren't your friends or mine."

Cole Cash has posed:
Cole's eyes narrow when Jake pulls out a gun on him. It is not even a decent handgun, he was going to point out while shooting him. But Meggan grabs his arm and runs. Hey wait...

Okay, following. But if he gets shot in the back, he is going to be pretty annoyed. "I could have handled them," he notes, not sounding as if boasting. In fact, he is still a no-read for Meggan, despite most people would be going through emotional spikes in a situation like this. No problem keeping pace with her, either. "Left now, that one leads to a dead end," he points out. "Gotham's street greed was planned by a drunken monkey, you see," because it is never a bad time to criticize urban planning.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Is it worth it?" A question made on the run, really, with a particular aim of getting out of there. In a t-shirt and torn jeans, Meggan isn't benefiting from any particular armour. She can, however, maneuver with a particularly skilled alacrity. Almost as soon as the words are out of Cole's mouth, they shift like someone grabbed her with a gaffing hook and yanked her sideways. Straight ahead, veering around the boxes, while the other two Js are in hot pursuit. A shot hits wide, striking into a brick building and chipping the ugly facade. They're at least partly visible. "Hullo, belatedly."

Another ugly intersection collides four streets into two at drunken angles, because why not do that and throw a traffic circle in for no reason. Chicago learned from Gotham's worst, of course. Might as well wait for a bus to stream past with no intention of letting anyone on, and the distant drone of music spill in. "I'm Meg. I went for a drink and got stood up. Sucks, really, because I'm worried he got lost or lost his job or lost his life. Multinationals got something to lose."

Cole Cash has posed:
Oh really? Now they have a pause Cole pulls out John's wallet. Because of course, John was going to pay -his- rent, and Cole lifted the wallet while beating him. "Yeah, this guy is Roxxon," he points out, checking a card. "They are the worst. I rather deal with the Joker."

The thugs are not very good at running, must be all that Roxbeer and Rox-doughnuts. "This way. Nonono... that is Crime Alley. We don't want to go there," now it is Cole guiding Meggan, and he knows the street ways well, as he was a street-rat in Chicago when he was a kid, ages ago.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Roxxon," spits Meggan. Oh, she knows them. They know her, too, small thorn with a definite sharp point in their side. "Got it in one. He had something to share, poor chap. I can't--"

Turn she does, practically falling back on her heels and sidestepping to get around a derelict trash can and a hopeless community paper with an annual readership in the three digits at best. Graffiti glaringly smears the pavement adn the walls, not the sort of place she wants to go. Cole's guidance she takes to well enough, not complaining about retracing their steps. "We probably will lose them, in this rat's nest. Maybe we can come out in the autumn at this rate." She glances up at a building hopefully advertising apartments, though by the looks of it, the upper floors are unoccupied. Could be worse places in the icon of failed gentrification. "You were playing cards. I'm sorry - they interrupted it."

Cole Cash has posed:
"Actually," he smirks, "I was watching the baseball game," which really, explains it ALL. A bored Cole will find trouble inside a fishbowl, just give him ten seconds. "And you didn't start anything, they did, so no apologizing."

Two city blocks, turn right, and they get into a major avenue, full of people and looking much, much more civilized. Almost like New York, if always with worse weather. There are even some cops on sight. "Alright, I think we lost them and they won't start a gunfight here. Need a cab?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"No. It's way too much to pay for a trip back into the city." Meggan shakes her head, looking around to get her bearings. Old Gotham, more like, which means at least some promise of public transit. Promises that might be lies, but they look good, feel better. Too many sparks of risk down the wrong street, but even she can manage. Her hand scrubs over her face. "Thank you. I owe you one, and I won't forget that you helped. Even when you could." She shoves her hands into the back pockets of those fraying, artfully torn jeans. "Be careful. Roxxon is bound to bring you trouble just because they can. In ways that get hard to deal with. Cancelling your lease, buying out the building just to make things worse."

Cole Cash has posed:
Cole chuckles, then shakes his head. "There is very little they can do to me, since I don't have any of the things corps use to leverage against regular folks. I am a zero in the system and that is how I like it."

He takes a good look at the girl. Too young for him, he decides. At least she is no space ninja, adds the most cynical part of his brain (which is most of it). "I won't forget, no worries. If you need help in Gotham, ask around for Grifter. Sometimes I help for free, 'cause Roxxon has been in my shit list for... er, a good while."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Zero in the system?" A blank look from Meggan there, shaking her head. "I'm not sure what that means. You don't matter or your records aren't there?" A lifetime of watching too much television, reading too much online, and being dissolved into British culture will do that to a girl. She scrapes her fingers through her hair to organize it a bit and makes a face at its condition, giving her head a good little shake. The hue was darker in the bar. Everything was darker in there. Here, it's definitely not bottle black but washing out to a lot brighter shade. At least she is not a space ninja, but willing to hastily comb herself back into order. Too many people around here looking smart, and she isn't so unmemorable there.

"Grifter? That's a heck of a name." A smile then, slight, but it's not the bitter stare of a battered Millennial. And it's in that moment that minor configurations are already done, in the space of a blink. No gross shift of matter, because those things are so minor, it's hard to measure the raised brows, the more open hint of a smile. Some people's faces light up differently when they're happy; she must be one of them. Unless Cole is looking for exact details, in which case she's got a hell of a better bone structure and cleaner skin than she did before. "Shouldn't sell yourself short, but I'm not exactly rich, either. But if it means flipping the bird to Roxxon, I'm all in."

Cole Cash has posed:
Cole is observant, it is a good survival trait, but he makes no comments at 'Meg' subtle transformation. Maybe he won't recognize her next time he sees her, but he might remember her British accent.

"Right, no records," explains the blonde man. Then adds, "eight blocks to the Hyperloop station, that way," points out Cole. Quite a walk, but they are in a large, safe avenue. "Stay safe, Meg," he heads the other way, back into the darker alleys.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"You too. Thanks and all." How can one be more grateful than that? Things are odd and Americanisms don't stick with the same ease. In shows, they'd be holed up in an apartment for a week while Roxxon searched bodies and rooms for them. Or there would be some calamity where she ends up robbed. Life isn't a story like that, made with fifteen people in a writer's pen coming up with ideas.

Hesitation and then the choice is already made, and she moves through the crowd. Slowly but certainly the dark shades in her hair bleed away back to a dark flax, something suitable enough around here, and she can pass for any cool Gothamite. Enough attitude to do that, but there's still a niggling grain. A few times, she looks around. Unanswered questions.