2696/Par Excellence

Par Excellence
Date of Scene:	30 July 2020
Location:	Sushi Yushu, Gotham
Synopsis:	A perfectly nice date, RUINED by Slade Wilson. He's the ruiner of all nice things.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Rose Wilson, Slade Wilson

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Tim Drake has posed:
There have been several new eateries popping up in Gotham in the past few years as Lincoln March's campaign of revivial has hit the nicer areas of Gotham City. One of them is Sushi Yushu, a high end sushi place not too far city hall and the other government buildings. Like several of these newer places, it's a pricey proposition for those who get a reservation.

However, unlike many of them, Sushi Yushu is 'traditional' and caters to more than just the younger crowd, unlike the overpriced hipster bruger joint a couple blocks away or the ridiculously named pho place around the corner. The menu is extensive, however, and the number and breadth of the different types of rolls and materials for them is intimidating to those not accustomed to these sorts of places. Located on the top floor of one of the many high rises in Gotham, it boasts a commanding view of the downtown city from its many windows.

The tables are crisp with clean white linens, the furniture black lacquered. There is no chintz or gimmicky decor, only gentle, beautiful Japanese artwork on the walls behind glass display cases, including a famed piece of a woman cutting her kimono as to not disturb a sleeping cat. The dish ware is high-end china with pink and blue cherry blossoms on white, the chopsticks black lacquered and real, nothing of the pop-apart wooden sorts here. As well, they are known for having not only the 'wasabi' colored horseradish typical of most sushi places, but, for a hefty fee, fresh real horseradish either instead or beside it to go with ones meal-- it's grown aquaculturally on the rooftop above.

Tim Drake had reserved a table for two, and while this wasn't a black tie establishment it did have a bit more stringent of a dress code than the hipster place he's taken Rose to before. As such, he's neatly dressed much as he was for the whiskey tasting: tailored black slacks, italian leather shoes, a red dress shirt and long black tie with swirls of the same red, and cufflinks with the Drake family crest on them. He rarely wears them, but they seemed like a decent match this evening. As they are shown to their table, he pulls one of the chairs out for Rose to get her seated before taking his own.

Having a founders name is unfortunately a big deal in Gotham. A ceramic bottle of chilled sake is brought out, with two small cups, at the same time the menus are. Tim doesn't wave it off, mostly because he's long since realized the futitilty of doing so at these sorts of places. He glances to the bottle as the waiter disappears to let the peruse the menu, sighing almost inaudibly. "Well, it's probably pretty decent," he says after a moment. "Assuming you'll want any." It's at least a tacit agreement he might do one.

Rose Wilson has posed:
Dress nice? For sushi? It probably took some convincing on his part to get her to opt out of the jeans and t-shirt look, but she doesn't give up pants entirely. Instead she's opted for leggings, boots, and long button down shirt that are all in black, the better to hide....nothing. It's not supposed to be that kind of date night, but that doesn't mean she left the house unarmed, either.

When they are shown to the table she slides herself into the chair, reaching for the menu before she glances at the bottle that is placed on the table. One hand reaches over, and the back of her hand rests against it to check the temperature of the bottle, "They aren't hiding a low quality."

Slade Wilson has posed:
They had better not be. Tucked away in one corner sits another fellow who never goes completely unarmed, and who is somewhat known in this city and others for refined taste. This is Slade Wilson's first visit here...a "friendly lunch" with Carmine Falcone passed uneventfully earlier in the day. Falcone had no immediate work for him, which was just as well. There were a variety of reasons working in Gotham was troublesome, but most of them had a Bat or Bird theme...even if only the Bat himself truly gave Slade any pause. Trying to deal with him on his home turf was a challenge even Slade's steel-trap tactical mind could find no certain outcome to.

It's neither Tim nor Rose's fault that they might not notice him. Beyond being tucked in the corner the line-of-sight to him was blocked by a waitress delivering another bottle of sake when they were being seated. Slade goes for the simple black and white...black pants, white shirt, black tie, black eyepatch. A suit coat is draped over the back of his chair, and his cufflinks bear the US Army Special Forces branch insignia. It's an amusing bit of irony..."De Oppresso Liber" is their motto..."To liberate the oppressed." And yet how many times has he propped up tinpot dictators and megalomaniacal tyrants? Far more often than he's liberated anyone beyond himself and perhaps a select few others, few of which could truly be called "oppressed."

But that's neither here nor there. Right now Slade's only concern is tucking into a glorious slab of O-Toro on a perfectly-crafted pillow of sticky, just-vinegary-enough sushi rice. The barest touch of his chopsticks to fresh wasabi and soy sauce so as not to drown out the natural flavor of the morsel. He wields the chopsticks with practiced ease, and for all his rough-and-tumble background he savors each bite. No rush here. Even less when his good eye catches a glimpse of silver-white hair, and focuses on its' bearer. Well well...what have we here?

Tim Drake has posed:
It hasn't been too long since Tim's had take-out sushi, but that doesn't bother him much. He peruses the menu, which is everything that isn't nigiri or rolls, making a couple of mental notes of what he wants from that before pulling the tablet and pen over to him to mark off the actual sushi he wants. Even at higher end places, that sort of thing is done the same way all over. He checks off a few, musing momentarily between them, before sliding the pad and pen back over to Rose her her to add whatever she's wanting. He's fairly quiet then, though he does pick up the ceramic decanter and the two tiny cups, lifting an eyebrow at them. Shrugging, he tilts the decanter and fills them both about two-thirds full each. "I'd doubt if they were," he replies to her, regarding the sake. "Not the sort of place, I think." He's ask how she'd know something like that, but...

He is the protege of the World's Greatest Detective, and to be blunt, it really doesn't take something like that to figure out how Rose Wilson might know anything about anything related to alcohol.

So discretion being the better part of valor, he doesn't pry. He does, however, slide her one of the two tiny cups. "I'm thinking the jasmine green tea, actually," he says mildly, "but if you'd prefer something else." He leaves his cup untouched for the moment.

Probably for the best he hasn't noticed who is sitting behind him and off to the side a bit, even if he wouldn't recognize the man nearly as quickly as his daughter might.

Rose Wilson has posed:
The waitress as moved, and the man in question is right there to be seen. But Rose isn't looking up from the menu to spot him, she's carefully looking through everything. When the pad is pushed her way is when she looks up, and she glances at Tim.

Then past Tim. Oh, she recognizes him. Right away. And there is a quick choice, "We need to go."

Slade Wilson has posed:
There's that brief moment of eye contact. That moment of acknowledgement. And while some estranged parents might take that opportunity to gracefully ignore their child and let them live their life, this is Slade Wilson, not exactly the most laissez-faire of parents. He lifts the cloth napkin from his lap and gently dabs at the corners of his mouth, setting it to the side. His plate was just finished...but for the quirk of a few minutes' time they might have missed him, but such is fate.

Rose's imperative may be wise, but it's too late. Slade rises from the seat and strides over, unhurried to where Tim and Rose sit. His good eye takes Tim in as he closes the distance, like a Great White Shark cruising up from the depths towards a blissfully unaware seal. But there's no explosion of violence at the end of this charge. Instead there is simply a hand at Rose's back, and Slade leans over to briefly press dry lips to her cheek.

"Rose...if I'd known you'd be here I would have reserved a table."

Perhaps the most frightening thing is that there's at least a shred of the warmth that he's forced into his tone that...isn't insincere. Even if he can't quite hide all the crushed gravel his voice usually carries, there's that note of amusement and surprise, wry humor, even a tiny sense of happiness to be seeing his daughter. The performance is all the more masterful when it carries at least a shred of truth.

"Ah, excuse me...unless I miss my guess, aren't you Timothy Drake?"

Tim Drake has posed:
Under Batman, Timothy Drake has learned many things. Acrobatics. The bo. Parkour. Basic biochemical analysis. Tracking. How to drop off of dizzying rooftop heights trusting nothign more than a grappling hook shaped like a bat.

None of his lessons are more important at this moment than the ones in acting, concealing emotion, and mental fortitude. So while the young detective's mind is firing in panic mode between Rose's undertoned command and Slade's nigh-instant arrival, it isn't the third of Batman's proteges that responds to Deathstroke, wanted assassin and feared murderer.

It's the wealthy young scion of a powerful, storied family-- perhaps the last of his line, but still commanding the privileges of the closest thing that America has to nobility-- that responds, what ever-slight tension easily forgivable by the sudden appearance of his lovely date's father at their table on what is quite apparently a date. "Ah, yes, sir, I am. Well, technically, Drake-Wayne now, I'm afraid." He gives a cheery smile, the same sort he might at any number of galas or social functions that might put him on Page Six, even if below a headline of his much more handsome and personable 'older brother' Dick Grayson, the oldest of Bruce Wayne's many adoptive children. "Have we met?" There's a hint of that sort of gentle societal naievite.

Bruce plays the playboy, and Tim... Tim plays the good-natured wunderkind. At least his 'face' isn't as far off from reality as his mentor's.

Rose Wilson has posed:
"Father." Dad is reserved for people who are far more familiar, well-liked maybe. And Slade is certainly not a Daddy, probably never would have been even if Rose had known him when she was of an age to get away with that kind of moniker.

The familial resemblance is probably not easy to miss for a blind man, and Rose has no doubts that Tim is not that. So she assumes he's playing the part of Tim Drake, young, innocent child of Gotham. Which just gets a mildly annoyed look that is covered quickly.

"We were just leaving." Because plan A is still escape.

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade wags his index finger in that sort of "aha I was right" sort of way, "Ahh, thought so. I've seen your face before...likely on the news. Slade Wilson, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drake." Slade extends a hand to the younger man, before quirking a brow, "Nonsense, you haven't even gotten your drinks yet. No need to rush on my account. I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman, as I'm sure Mr. Drake is being." Is that a meaningful look he gives Tim? It certainly /looks/ like a meaningful look. Yes, he's playing the protective father, which might cause Rose to have to stifle a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it.

"You know, in Japan it's considered something of a taboo for someone to pour their own drink...allow me." He picks up the chilled Sake decanter, arranging the two cups and pouring each about three-quarters full, placing one apiece before Tim and Rose.

"So how did you two happen to meet?"

Thankfully he at least hasn't sat down yet.

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim shakes Slade's hand firmly, standing from his chair to do so (he does have manners, of course, as any properly groomed socialite would) and taking his seat again. His gaze flicks to Rose, catching her eye with his. He's in total agreement with her-- getting the hell out of here is probably better for everyone involved.

But there's a role to play, and he's stuck in it, for better or for worse. Deathstroke isn't known for being an idiot. If Tim were to back down now his game might be up, and that's dangerous... not just for him, but potentially for the rest of the family. He'd seen the Batcave's dossier on Slade Wilson. If he were even half as dangerous, Tim wouldn't be so worried.

He'll have to make it up to Rose later-- whether that was letting her beat on him in the training room or something else less violent (but likely just as physical, knowing Rose), or some combination thereof... he'd do it. Whatever it was. He only hopes she'd forgive him for what he was about to do.

"Of course, sir," Tim smiles brightly. "I would never deign to do anything to hurt Rose or make her unhappy." The perfectly gentlemanly response. Despite the fact that he is quite aware that not getting up from the table and departing as fast as possible is likely doing both. "We met a few years ago in Metropolis... I was visiting some friends up there, and she happened to crash a party. We just recently happened to run into each other again, and well..." he shrugs helplessly. "What can I say?"

If you consider 'crashing a party' to be 'crashing into a group of teenage vigilantes and fighting with them' and 'run into each other again' meaning 'she's sticking around more often between taking jobs her now-friends try and talk her out of', he's being truthful. Which is to say, he isn't, but while Tim isn't fond of lying, it's somewhat second nature with the mask off. Kind of like 'motorcycle accidents' are easier to explain damage from than 'I got my ass beat by Killer Croc'.

Rose Wilson has posed:
Unless you're Rose, telling Slade something. 'Got my ass beat by Killer Croc' probably has a far more honest ring to it. But then again, Rose knows that she can't out Tim. Not him. Not his family. As much as the Bat's might get on her nerves sometimes.

"Yeah. Mutual friends." Does it sound as lame to anyone else but her?

Slade Wilson has posed:
There's a flick of a glance to Rose at her curt response, but that's not until after the firm handshake is received and returned, "Crashing a party. That does sound like you, Rose. Never a dull moment, is there?" He straightens, "And Metropolis? Beautiful city, but it always felt a little...sterile. But I suppose that's the old soldier in me. I prefer places with a little more character." He half-smiles a touch wryly, "Gotham mostly included. Your Mayor's done a remarkable job with the City Center over the last few years."

Tim Drake has posed:
Damn. Slade looks like he might be settling in for a conversation. Tim's mind analyses the potential options for responses that might dissuede him sooner rather than later. The longer he's here, the higher the risk to them both.

But Tim's not lying as he replies, "Gotham does have character. I was born and raised in Gotham, like my family has been going back to the Founding. I love my city, and I would do anything for it." He gives a half-smile to Slade in return. "And Mayor March has been a blessing to Gotham since he was elected. I don't think we would have recovered from everything without him nearly so quickly. He's a //good// man, and I'm proud to have met him on the occasions I have. I'm looking forward to his recovery for the Narrows and beyond once he's re-elected."

He glances to Rose. He caught the flatness in her tone, and he feigns a concerned look, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand gently. The warmth and caring in his expression isn't a lie, either. "I'm quite sorry to cut this conversation a bit short, Mr. Wilson, but I did promise your daughter dinner."

Rose Wilson has posed:
Oh, she's trying. Very hard. To not show how much she wishes that she was anywhere but here. Then she reaches for the cup in front of her, picking it up to down it quickly.

Then when Tim mentions that he promised her dinner, she starts to her feet. Cue to run, maybe? "Maybe we can catch up some other time, Father."

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade cants his head at that particular angle that Rose might recognize. Weighing. Measuring. Finding wanting? The conclusion he keeps close to his chest, but there's a flicker of amusement and a lifting of his hands, palms outward, "My apologies Mr. Drake, you're absolutely right. I've no intention of ruining your evening, so I'll be on my way." He smiles, all good, mildly chagrined humor, and gives Rose a brief pat on the back. "I'll talk to you later, Rose." And with a nod, Slade steps away, turning to head out the door without another glance.

Tim Drake has posed:
As soon as Slade is out of sight, Tim pulls his wallet out and drops two hundred dollar bills on the table. "Car? Now?" His red sports car is parked in the parking garage nearby, and he doesn't want to be here any longer than he has to be either. Slade Wilson may not know he's Red Robin, but he does have mild concerns about how things might go should Slade decide he feels like... I don't know... setting up across the street with a sniper rifle.

Rose Wilson has posed:
"No." Rose shakes her head, reaching for Tim's hand to start dragging him not towards the front door, but the back door. "We'll come back for the car, we circle around, and come from behind...or just report it stolen. You are insured, right?"

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim frowns. "...well." He looks furtive, then flips his phone on and pulls up a custom program. "It's not that simple. But I can have it come to us, elsewhere." He hasn't exactly //told// her that his 'sports car' converts to effectively a smaller variant of a Batmobile. Bright cherry red. "Don't ask. But you're right," he squeezes her hand back. "We need to get out of here."

Rose Wilson has posed:
That is a clarification for another time, "He'll notice a random car driving driverless down the road." Because she //knows// her dad will notice something as odd as that if he's stuck around.

And she assumes he has stuck around. Either way, she's dragging him for that back door.

Tim Drake has posed:
"I mean in an hour. Or six." Tim isn't fighting the dragging, and he's looking rather grim. "How suspicious is he going to be that we bailed?" He glances over his shoulder, and pops the back door and heads out. "And where to? I don't want to lead him back to the Roost."

Rose Wilson has posed:
"He's always suspicious." Because that much is true, but she's not sure how suspicious he'll be of other things.

As for where? "I've still got my apartment...I can burn that location, and he'll just assume it's where I'm living." Instead of the Roost.

Tim Drake has posed:
Tim gives her a half-grin. "Taking me back to your place, huh?" he teases lightly, though he lets her lead the way. "I'd be excited, but I suspect we're not going to have much fun." He frowns at the idea of her burning it, but he understands. He's seen what Slade is capable of.