Scene #11537: The Eye and the Mouth

Owner	Pose
Wade Wilson	Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls might sound like a strange place to get a beer and talk, but that's only if you don't know it's a front for a mercenary bar and HQ of the X-Force. After the run ins with the mages that decided that spirits were just playthings, Wade wanted a more mystical eye to give him info on what they were doing. The clientelle of the bar were your usual rough and tumble sorts. Bikers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, all the ne'er-do-wells that lived on the fringes of the law. All were in attendance tonight, some playing pool, a number at the bar (tended to by a thickly bespectacled man in his 30s), and others at tables and booths looking over their phones. Deadpool himself was in a booth on a raised dias in the back. He's got a bottle of beer in front of him and his mask rolled up enough to show off his jaw and mouth. The mangled skin underneath is still visible, but it's a lot better than the full monty of his Angry Fuck Avacado face.
Jonathan Sims	Jon sticks out like a sore thumb here, even with the part of his hair that isn't shaved dyed in blue and teal and green, even wearing a t-shirt and jeans and Converse like he is. Maybe it's partly that the t-shirt bears a faded Columbia logo, maybe it's the round gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Maybe it's just his general air of belonging in Greenwich with his 'alt' look more than the Bronx. I mean, let's be real. The Archivist /really/ doesn't belong in the Bronx. He blinks at the sign over the door, then shrugs and opens the door to step inside. He takes a moment, after heading down the dark corridor, to look around the bar. Letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light after coming in from the sunny day, and taking a moment to look over those collected with mystic sight many of them might not even know exists.
Wade Wilson	All eyes in the bar fall on Jon. He really doesn't fit or belong in the Bronx. Most of the crowd returns to their business save one. A man at the end of the bar slides off his stool. He's -very- tall, nearing the seven foot mark, and the heavy set of his body hides more muscle than fat under the thick slabs of flesh. His bald head gleams in the few florescent lights of the bar and his white beard gleams as he stares down on the Archivist. "I think you're in the wrong bar, buddy" he says in thick, southern accent. "The coffee shop is the nexy street over." More eyes turn to the pair as the big man makes his insult. Even Wade seems moderately intersted as he leans forward a bit and takes a swig on his bottle.
Jonathan Sims	Jon looks up at the man, blinking slowly. He sighs. He might have known Wade, of all people, would invite him to the sort of bar where the only way to keep from being thrown out on your ass is to demonstrate physical prowess right off. "Point of order," he notes as he pulls off his glasses and idly sets them aside on the bar. "If you're telling me I'm in the wrong /bar/, you want to go with an insult that's about microbreweries or craft beer or the like." He rather intentionally dials up the 'posh' accent, just to make sure he's very /clearly/ English. "Otherwise, you're saying I'm in the wrong /establishment/. Or is that too many syllables for you?" He quirks a brow. "I mean, I'm not going to judge based on your looks. I've met plenty of /very/ intelligent people just like you." A beat. "But fucking with me, of all people, makes me presume you're not one of them. Or maybe you just don't watch the news." He pauses, then says in a very clear and distinct voice, "I am saying you are /stupid/, if that didn't get through. Just so we're clear with one another." He's oddly, almost eerily calm. Confident, maybe, in his ability to handle this guy taking a swing at him, which he's rather deliberately provoking.
Wade Wilson	A round of 'oohs' goes about the bar. "You gonna take that from the Brit, Buck!" someone says; (it is Wade for sure.) The big man grits his teeth and shakes his head. "Yeah... I hear ya..." The veins in his thick neck bulge as he looms over Jon. "Get outta here." A hushed silence falls over the bar for what's bound to happen next. "Or better yet. Let me help you out." He balls up a fist and, with far too much telegraphing makes a punch for Jon's head. He's surprisingly quick for his size and against your standard thug or your typical mark he'd likely be a real menance. Unfortunately for Buck, Jon is no standard thug or typical mark.
Jonathan Sims	Nearly every day of the past seven months, Jon has spent at least an hour training in hand-to-hand combat with someone better than he is. Cael Becker getting the amulet midway through the battles with the angels only enhanced her ability at fighting, and he's had to focus and practice to keep up. But even before that, the Archivist has been in his share of bar fights--admittedly, well after everyone was drunk and usually over some stupid argument he double- and tripled-down on. Add the siege he fought in and the regular patrols and training sessions, and he can hold his own. It's not that it's easy or supremely graceul, the way Jon moves, but it gets the job done. He's usually the taller one getting wrapped up by someone smaller and lighter; now he uses those tactics against the large man, stepping aside as the blow comes in and grabbing the fist as it comes by. He moves in the direction of the flow of energy, twisting around, and in short order he has the man's arm twisted up behind his back in what he's aware is a /very/ painful manner. He follows this up by slamming the man's head down on the bar, neatly missing crushing his own glasses by about three inches. He glances up at the board above the bar, briefly, then down at the man he has pinned to the bar itself. "I take it you're a mercenary? I can't imagine you go after difficult targets, telegraphing your punches that broadly. I'd suggest you take some courses. All warfare is based on deception." A pause. "Now. Are you going to give this up so I can have a damn pint? Don't make me start using magic," he says in an almost chiding tone. "That's just not going to end well for anyone.
Wade Wilson	Buck struggles for about all of five seconds before he's tapping his free hand on the bar in the tell tale signal for a surrender. A round of applauds and whoops move around the bar, along with a few disparaging sounds of defeat as money is exchanging hands. Jon would recognize a number of the takers as members of the militia back during the Manhattan occupation. A number of men are leaving bills on the table where Deadpool is seated as well with gracious nods from the Merc with a Mouth. The masked man wave a hand for Jon to join him at his raised table and he calls out, "Hey, Weasel, get the man a beer" he taps on the table. "On me." The bespectacled man grabs a brown bottle and sets it on the bar where Jon can get it on the way to Wade's table. Jon receives more than a few pats on the back from the large men on his way and nods with phrases like, "Good job, Commander Sims" and "Nice one, Archivist" following in his wake. It seems that he's a known commodity to a number of the mercs who frequent the establishment.
Jonathan Sims	Jon goes ahead and lets Buck up, then picks up his glasses and settles them back on his face with a glower. Well, a glower at first. He looks annoyed, more than anything, at having to perform a show of force, but as he moves toward Wade's table the pats on the back and 'good job' and 'nice one' mollify him a bit. Even if he cares a lot less what others think of him than he used to, it's nice to receive the praise. So it's a sort of half-glower he gives Wade as he sits down and grabs the beer Weasel offers with a nod of thanks. "I presume if you ever invite me out here in future I won't have to go through that little ritual all over again?" He raises his eyebrows.
Wade Wilson	Deadpool shakes his head. "Unlikely... unless someone upsets Buck as the door man, which... is about as likely as me dying for good" he replies. "How've you been Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London?" He grins at his own in joke. "And what can you tell me about your side of -the incident- we took care of a couple days ago?" he adds. He sips more of his beer. This might be the first time Jon's seen the man's skin under the mask and from he can see there is nothing about it that doesn't look like scar tissue, from burns or lesions of some sort. It seems that his mutation, whatever it may be, comes with the price of conventional physical attractiveness.
Jonathan Sims	Jon /does/ glower at Wade, and snaps, "That's not /me/ and you know it. Whoever that may be, or have been, whatever life that may have been... it's not mine. Not least because Cael's not in that world." And what, he wonders, is the /point/ of a world without both Cael and Martin? He takes a pull on the beer and says, "I've been... doing better that I was, really. I died and came back, we saved the universe, Martin went off to another dimension to find his father but Cael moved in with me. Once Martin's back things should be... really good, actually." There's obviously more to say there but he takes another drink of the beer. "As for the other side of the incident? There was a big ball of pieces of people's spirits that tried to roll toward the sanctuary Dr. Xavier created. It was horrific. We managed to push them apart, but I had to take on a /huge/ influx of souls to the Archive." He shakes his head. "Slept for a good 15 hours after all that, and that was /after/ Astral travelling. I spent most of yesterday recovering." He lifts his brows. "How did /you/ get involved in that whole... business?" He looks faintly queasy, talking about the subject.
Wade Wilson	Wade shrugs. "I'm sort of a gray hat these days, what with my own crew doing dirty work for Charles' side of the mutant-human relations problem. So... Chuck sent me a text, said to be at the theat at -this time- and that I was to use the utmost restraint. Which I took to mean, no killing." He takes another pull, finishing it off and lifts it until Weasel sees the gesture, after which he shakes it as a sign that he wants another. He returns his focus to Jon and smiles. The smile does interesting things to the scar tissue around his mouth. "And I will reiterate that I didn't kill a single person in that theater." He grimaces a bit in feigned embarassment, and his tone indicates the same emotion. "I -may- have done significant damage to a number of eardrums civilan and villain alike, but I had to disrupt the ritual somehow and a flash bang is -hands down- one of the best disruptions you can have on your person." He nods and adds. "I happened to have five of them." He waves a hand dismissively. "Eardrums grow back... it's not like it's permenant." A pause. "Probably."
Jonathan Sims	Jon snorts and takes another drink of his beer. "You remind me of Caitlin Fairchild and her 'non-lethal deterrents' that left people bleeding from the ears." A pause. "I mean, eardrums can be healed or people can live without hearing. Dead is... not always dead, but usually. 99 percent of the time, I'd say." They frown at Wade. "Wait you... had five of what? The spirits? ...How?" They blink at Wade. "You're not a psychic, are you?"
Wade Wilson	"No, Jon, I've got like 35 or 40 of the spirits in my head" Wade replies nonchalantly with a wave of his hand. "Jean, Ruth, and Chuck put them there for the time being while Chuck works on his extension." He shrugs. "They're alright. I had five flashbangs... just in case..." Because one isn't ever enough? "They're alright. Little chatty but what else is new, right?" He smiles. Weasel comes by the table with a beer for Wade and a trio of shot glasses with different colored liquids in each. One is a light gold color, one is clear, and one is amber. He sets in front of Jon and says, "From Lucy, Deirdre, and Lang over there. In order." He directs Jon's attention to a trio of East Asians at a table, two women and a man, who offer Jon friendlty but explicit looks and finger waves if he turns his attention to them. "Ooh, looks like your celebrity status follows you even here" wade says with a whistle. "Go get 'em tiger... after we talk of course." It's hard to tell if he's serious or joking, which is pretty par for the course with this man, Jon knows.
Jonathan Sims	Jon peers at Wade for a moment, entirely distracted from the offers of shots by whatever he's seeing. "Well... that explains the utter /weirdness/ of your aura," he mutters, frowning to himself. Then he blinks at the shots. "I..." A pause. He peers over at the table. "What do they... want? Not... I mean... celebrity? Well. Maybe a little. But..." He eyes the shots with a frown, clearly confused. Glances over and waves at the table, at least to... acknowledge them. Then he looks back at Wade almost earnest expression. "It wouldn't be /terribly/ impolite to turn them down, would it? I don't... do that. And even if I did, I'm married and I have a girlfriend. I wouldn't be interested."
Wade Wilson	Weasel shrugs and answers instead of Deadpool. "They bought you the shots man. Whether you drink them and not go to bed with them drink them and do go to bed with them or don't drink them and do either of the actions is up to you... I think they'd be happy if you drank them though... just to say 'The Archivist drank they liquor I bought for him!' to their posse." He shrugs and moves back to the bar. Wade eyes Jon. "Could've been worse. The could've each ordered you a blowjob and then Weasel would have to tell you that they each gave you a blowjob and that would just be awkward wouldn't it?" he says conspiratorially with a grin before leaning back. "I've been in your shoes" he adds. "Married and a girlfriend. Not so much anymore, but still got the married life going for me so better than nothing, right?"
Jonathan Sims	"I... presume that's the name of a drink?" Jon quirks a brow. "Well, now I'm curious. But, ahh..." He shrugs and lifts the gold shot, raising it toward the table so they can see he's drinking it and then taking a sip. "This is /weird/," he mutters. "Just... odd. People knowing me on sight. A couple of Trinitarios called me the Antichrist." He shakes his head, and then blinks at the shot. "Oh... this is the same whiskey I drank with Cael, the night before..." He stops, and shudders, and focuses on Wade again. "So... no girlfriend? You and Sara... on the outs, then?" He raises his brows. "I haven't spoken to her much, lately. She's terribly busy with NYPD work."
Wade Wilson	"Which is the prime reason why we're on the outs..." Wade replies. "I can't in good conscience date a cop when I am out there murdering people on the regular and committing grand arson. There's an interpol file on me, did you know that? For some work I did in France a few years back." He shrugs. "What are you going to do? Snakes on a mother fucking plane, right?" "But Inez... she's good girl. Bounty hunter. Mutant and likes me for me." He says with a smile as he sips his beer. "So you and Cael still doing your thing huh? How's Becker been? I don't see her much, which is probably good for the both of us... but she's a friend and I like to hear that she's good."
Jonathan Sims	"She likes you more than you know," Jon says. "I wouldn't be surprised if she'd be willing to admit that you're friends, even if you'd have to get her pretty drunk to get there." He's sipping the whiskey slowly, enjoying it. Perks of celebrity, right? After a pause, he adds, "She... was shot last month. Some old gang members from her former life. She... died, actually, briefly, but she came back. Her sister, the ghost, Alis... went to Duat in her place." They frown, and peer down at their beer. "It's been... hard, recovering from that. But we're managing, I think."
Wade Wilson	Wade has stopped drinking his beer. He nods to and says, vaguely distractedly. "Shut it. I'm weighing my options. Yeah, yeah I know... okay? I know" he looks back up at Jon. "I need a name. Of the gang." His tone is strangely serious. In a way that Jon's likely not heard before. The direct stare he gives Jon is also different. Gone is the continuous grin and playful demeanor; the man is all business now and it might be more believeable as to how he is one of the most feared mercenaries in the country, if not the world by his attitude at this very moment. "Give me the name of the gang and I will see that they're no longer a problem for you, Becker, or anyone else for that matter."
Jonathan Sims	Jon raises his eyebrows. Hesitates, for just a moment, as he takes a long sip from the whiskey. "Rien told me the same thing. Rien d'Arqueness," he explains. "I already killed the man who shot her. Tracked him down and judged him in Ma'at's name." There's a brief, haunted look in the man's eyes. Unlike Wade, he has trouble with killing people. "She said she and Robbie could handle it. Make people disappear, and I could 'wash my hands of it.' Keep a clean conscience." He shakes his head. "I don't work that way. I /cannot/ work that way. I am an avatar of a goddess of Truth and Justice, now. To send people down to Arizona and pretend that I don't know /precisely/ what they're going to do? If I give you that name, or send Rien and Robbie down there, I'm as good as pulling the trigger mytself." He takes another sip of the whiskey, as if waiting to see what Wade says to that.
Wade Wilson	"Then fucking pull it," Wade says without hesitation. "I'm probably going to grab America's favorite Dump Truck--Steve Rogers--to help out if that makes the pot any sweeter." He shakes his head. "You don't get it. You can't go down there... you're face is known to everyone in America if not the world. We go down, incognito and take them out; sure you pulled the trigger, that's your right. But you don't take the publicity." He pauses considering the names. "Rien... that's Logan's kinda-sorta-kid from another time and place, right? And Robbie Reyes?" He forwns. The name rings a bell but he can't place it and shakes his head. "Even if I don't know him I suspect I will. Then, what you do is, wait a week and go down yourself with a posse of your own. Make a big show of telling them that they don't fuck with you and yours anymore and you -stay the hero-."
Jonathan Sims	Jon smiles as he takes another sip of the whiskey. "We understand each other then. That is my thinking precisely. I'm not precisely stealthy--though I'm not certain how /Captain America/ is stealthy, but I suppose he /was/ a soldier." A shrug. "I would balk at doing many of the things that need to be done, and thus jeopardize the mission. I cannot have plausible deniability... but I can keep my face out of the matter, and use the terror of not knowing precisely who or how many came in to strike as leverage." He pauses, and adds, quietly, "I'll ask only one thing: that you give me a statement of what happens, so that I will know what I've unleashed." The moralizing, Wade knows, is both like and unlike his "canon" counterpart. This Jonathan Sims clearly has other influences, including ones that do not share his name, but some degree of that need to be /personally/ accountable for things he shares with the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Or maybe he's just hungry for a live statement. But, then, that would be in keeping with his canon counterpart too.
Wade Wilson	Wade nods. "You want to try and pick my brain when this is said and done? I hope you have a good editor" he replies, the more amused and playful demeanor returning once he's satisfied that his plan is agreed upon. "But that's fair enough. And I'm -pretty sure- Cap has more than enough experience under his belt to be stealthy if he so cares to be." He pauses and considers for a moment. "So here's the deal" he says plainly. "I'll get with him and try and find Rien and this Robbie guy you spoke about as well, unless you want to give me their numbers right here and now." He seems faitly confident in his ability to find them if he is so inclinded to. "It saves me a bit of time if that's the route we go, is all I'm saying. After that we meet discuss the plan and by this weekened, they won't be your problem anymore. Sound good?" He arches a brow in question. "Oh... and before you ask, yes this is pro bono." Wade Wilson is -ever- the consumate businessman.
Jonathan Sims	Jon keeps sipping his whiskey as he listens, and finally finishes it off. He picks up the clear shot, and takes a sip as well. "Ohh, vodka," he murmurs. "High end, too." This is a man who likes his fancy expensive alcohols. Then he says, "The gang is the Alhambras. Cael's real name is Shelley Mason--she's been in Witness Protection because when she left the gang she turned state's evidence and put a bunch of them in jail." They sigh. "Being on televison next to me, saving the city? It got her too much attention." He swallows. "She died in my arms. Drowned in her own blood. We'd just... we'd put the amulet back. I said goodbye to Gaea and the new Saint Michael. We went to roller derby. We... things were /good/. And then this /asshole/ shot her." He frowns, the fist not holding the shot clenching. "I suppose I'm saying... there's no need to hold back on whatever your normal methods are. These people let a teenage girl die because they refused to risk even an ambulance, and they were /stupid/ enough to send a guy here to New York to shoot... well... /Cael/." A pause. "But you needn't tell Cael how bad things might get, hmm? She's... had trouble with the more creative methods of..." He frowns. "I burned the shooter alive. She wasn't happy about it." After a moment, they shake themself, and add, "I can give you Rien's number. Be sure to tell her I sent you, hmm?"
Wade Wilson	Wade nods and takes the number. "I will do so" he smiles at Jon after taking another sip. "You did the right thing in my book. Gave him what he deserved... maybe a bit too fast for what I would do, but you are you and I am me so... different strokes, different folks." He sips again. "We'll do what needs to be done and ensure that we make the message loud and clear." He sips more. "Messing with her will be met with swift punishment." It's clear to Jon that Wade is doing this out of a perverse sense of romanticism. He sees the actions of Jon as a very chivalrous act and in turn being the weapon Jon uses to strike fear into this gang for their damage to Cael is a perfectly justified and honorable act. It's not classical, but in it's own way it makes sense.
Jonathan Sims	Jon peers at Wade for a long moment, brow furrowing slightly. "I don't know whether I should be disturbed or comforted that you, of all people, think this is the /right/ way to do things. But..." He shrugs. "I am, for the moment, unwilling to worry about it too much further. I trust you'll all take care of the matter." He sits back a bit, still holding the shot of vodka that he's nursing. "You can do this pro bono if you like. I /am/, however, going to buy you a bottle of whatever alcohol you like best, and we can chat while you drink." He gestures toward Weasel, to get his attention. "Specifically, you can tell me about your wife. Inez, you said her name was? How'd you meet her?"
Wade Wilson	"That is a very long story with a great many characters but if you want to hear it... we can get on with it" Wade says smiling to Weasel. "Dr. Sims here has agreed to buy me a bottle of my favorite drink." Weasel rolls his eyes. "Oh great... this again..." he sighs. "It's not anything special to write home about--" Wade cuts him off with a slap of the table. "You shut your whore mouth, Jack Mason Hammer! It is -by far- the best drink on the goddamn planet, and you will -respect it!-" Weasel cringes slightly at Wade's tone. "Fine, fine. Didn't have to go using my whole fucking name... fuck.." he mutters. "I'll get the bottle." Wade claps his hands like a school girl and a moment later Weasel comes back with a tray. On the tray are two bottles, a small bowl and a glass. One of the bottles is filled with a clear liquid with the words 'Aviation American Gin' on the black label of it. The other is also filled with a clear liquid and the yellow labels mark it as citrus tonic water. The bowl is filled with cut strawberries. Weasel sets it down on the table. "It's like... 35 bucks for the whole tray" he whispers to Jon. "But it swears by it so... I guess luck for your wallet or something, right?" he says. He looks back up and Wade has a dagger pointed at him. He backs up very quickly. "Whore. Mouth. Hammer. Go. Shoo shoo" the Merc says with a wave of the blade. Once Weasel is gone, Deadpool sets to making his drink. "So let me tell you about a man named Taskmaster" he begins.