Description: When you want a bars with standards in Metro City, you go to Harvey's. If you want an assassin with standards? Then you ask for none other than Lien Neville, mercenary assassin. Looking for only the best in his war against Kain, Duke meets with his former protege to hire her for wetwork in Southtown. But their meeting is disrupted as some of Lien's old friends show up to play....
If you're a visitor to Metro City and you're looking to have a drink, chances are you're a tourist, on a limited budget, and you're probably at some Metro Square place filled with sports tchotchkes and guffawing construction workers slamming down something beer-like (and that's by a charitable standard). And there's nothing wrong with a good working-class pub experience a la United States, but there's a certain type of tourist who probably isn't here for the bar's endless buffalo wing night and a Knicks game.
That's how you get bars like Harvey's, up in the financial district. It's not very big, but it's ancient, it's got real lacquered hardwood *everything*, and if you are a person of a certain... wealth, it is one of the only nice, upscale places to get a drink near Wall Street that isn't full of snot-nosed 20-something stockbrokers who demand alcoholic drinks laced with Red Bull they can take away in a Starbucks up.
Lien Neville is a contract assassin. She's an *amazingly good* contract assassin, an assertion proven by the fact that she's still alive after doing it for approximately 10 years plus. And if you are an excellent contract killer you tend to become incredibly wealthy. Which is why Lien, clad head to toe in skin-tight black leather, the front zipper of her top undone to a lasciviously tempting yet still constraining point, is sitting at the bar at Harvey's. She accepts a drink of a rich brown color from the aged-looking barkeep with a smile, crossing one leg over another with the creak of tight leather as she takes a sip.
"Marvelous," the assassin says in her husky British-accented alto. "Woodhouse, I'd tip my hat to you if I wore one." There's a moment of pause as she sips her chocolate martini, glancing at the door -- is she waiting for someone? -- and then back at the bartender. "Thank god nobody does anymore."
Tap, Tap, Tap.
The sound of wood snapping against wood heralds the arrival before the door even opens. The ring of the bell as the doorway to the bar swings open. There at the entrance, the broad-form of a well-dressed man stands astride. Eyes smoldering, the dark-skinned man moves with the confident air of nobility. In the base of his palm was the dark iron head of a mahogony cane, stuck firmly to the ground by his side. Dressed in a three-piece suit of red and black, he looks down across the bar with yellow eyes, a scowl spread across his face.
And on his head, a black fedora.
Tap, tap, tap goes the cane as the figure strides across the hardwood flooring, just a hint of swagger in his form. Harvey's was a placed he learned about, not a place he knew. But it was his kind of place; classy. Refined. Professional. Duke removes his hat as he approaches the bar. Walking past Lien, he moves behind a stool beside the assassin. As he begins to take his seat, the hulking figure of a man looks straight into Woodhouse's eyes, a rumbles in a baritone.
"Tom Collins."
It's not as if Duke is taking any steps to conceal himself. This is public, after all, and more to the point Metro is in many ways Duke's city. He can walk these streets more or less with total impunity, or if not 'total' then at least 'functional.' Still, a professional killer stays alive in their line of work by having perception that functions well above the average, and thus Lien 'feels' Duke approach well before he is standing at her side. It's a skill that's useful in keeping gunmen and ninjas off your back, but it's also handy for little things like what Lien does right now: she doesn't turn, doesn't look, and in many ways doesn't even ACKNOWLEDGE Duke's presence in the room until he is literally inches away, ordering a drink.
"Ha! Well," she says, mentally going over the ingredient list of a Tom Collins and then matching the fruity, bubbly result to the looming iceberg of Duke Berghoff standing next to her before giving that little laugh, "at least I know you're not worried about being followed." Not that Duke would take guff from his subordinates about his choice in alcohol... well, not twice anyway. "When someone suggested THIS bloody thing," Lien continues, still looking at the back of the bar rather than at Duke, and holding up her martini glass, "I thought, 'what sort of colonial fool would create a chocolate martini,' but to my horror I've discovered I like the damned things." She pauses to take a sip, place the glass on the counter, and sigh. "Unfortunate."
Only after all this does she turn to Duke with a raised eyebrow, brushing a lock of strawberry-blonde hair out of her eyes. "So? What do you want?"
Duke is silent, at first.
Why would Duke need to conceal himself? Metro City, despite the worst being purged out by Haggar, still had a chewy scum center around an urban shell. Duke merely exploited it in style. It was dangerous, in a sense that there was risk of him being found. Or a risk that assassins would arrive to take a bounty on his head. Of course, he normally would not come alone. He normally would be with his aide de camp. But with Mr. Brown MIA, he had to do his work alone. No matter. Duke did not fear any ambush, any hitmen. After all.
You can't kill the immortal.
Duke places the hat and cane across his lap as he lowers his ponderous form on the stool beside Lien. "I pay people to worry for me." Duke responds tersely, not looking aside at the assassin. The stern-faced crime boss, waits in silence, letting Lien make small talk about the martini. Duke enjoyed martinis. Cocktails were the choice of gentlemen. Leave whiskey for insecure poseurs and the Irish. As the Tom Collins comes in a highball glass, Duke delicately plucks it up between index finger and thumb. Shaking it around a bit, he takes a single sip, before answering Lien with the detail that she could expect from him.
"A professional."
"How specific," Lien quips, taking another sip of her drink. The conversation is fencing, if not friendly then at least amicable. She knows what Duke's capable of... to a hair's fineness, considering he killed her parents in front of her very eyes and then beat her within an inch of her life at a very young age indeed. She knows what business he's in, and more to the point what business *she's* in. He's a criminal and she's a killer so when she got the message about meeting, she already knew what it was about. Everything else, the woman surmises as she looks at Duke for a moment, is more or less foreplay.
This is when her eyes dart to the mirror above the bar. The movement of her gaze is quick, barely perceptible to a normal person, but nevertheless it happens. Duke may even pick up on the brief flicker of tension, which has a thousand subtle tells: Lien's glance, the faint creak of good tight leather as her body shifts position, the barely-a-second change in her breathing. And then in an instant it's all over and she's back to being languid, businesslike, calmly cold and efficient.
"And how fortunate for you that you found one. Be more specific, love," Lien adds, picking her drink back up.
Outside, on the street, 4 VW bugs in slate grey with a bright gold center stripe are pulling into mysteriously empty street parking. They've all got numbers painted on the door, and tinted windows to hide the occupants.
Oh, Duke respected Lien.
There is a certain level of respect that's given when you kill a woman's parents. It's the least that Duke owed her. Of course, raising her to be the killer she was might be more than enough. Duke made Lien the woman she was today, up to a point. Their relationship was purely professional, as Duke was quick and violent to explain.
But at this point, she was essentially family.
Duke takes another sip of the drink, savoring the flavor. Looking off in to the distance, he sees the snap out of the corner of his eye. The sound of the leather. Movement. He knew that sign, that response. Duke was old, his senses may be dulled from the long years. Almost as dull as his sense of danger. But he knew when someone's intuition had a hint of apprehension, a reflection of fear.
Duke always could recognize the fear.
Calmly, Duke places the drink down. Taking a deep breath in, his tone softens just a hint. "Be patient, my dear. A man can enjoy his drink, can he not?" Was the bemused growl. But the shift of his cane and hat to the nearby stool suggests that maybe he did spy the woman's sleight of hand. "The job is simple. I am seeking to make a move of Southtown. Kain Heinlein is in my way."
"And I need you to fix that for me."
Fear?
Heh.
"I'd whistle but a lady never does in public," Lien says, in response to Duke's rather succinct outline of his plan. Certainly, it makes the Immortal's actions lately make slightly more sense. The 'blood sport,' for one. What better way to test potential recruits and weed out enemies than with an underground tournament? Lord knows the crime bosses of the world have been using more overt but similar methods for decades. But there were other things. Movements of criminals, shifting resources, personnel and supplies around the globe. Strategic placements, all on the down low and probably undetectable unless you knew where to look.
Lien knows where to look.
Rubbing her finger around the rim of her now-empty martini glass, Lien gives Duke a sly smile. "How thoughtful. You got the suicidal urge to have Kain Heinlein kill you, but you wanted me to have first dibs? Woodhouse!" The bartender looks Lien's way at the call of his name, even as men in -- of all things -- tracksuits start pouring out of the cars and into the bar, milling around, saying nothing, simply looking Eastern European and deeply incongruous to the setting. "Champagne. I want to toast my friend's, ha, continued good fortune."
A moment gone, and then the bartender is back with a bottle of a beautiful deep emerald green, capped with bright gold foil. "Oh my goodness, a 1990 Bollinger RD."
There's a *woosh!* as Lien flips the bottle in midair, grips it by the neck, and then swings it into the nearest lingering man, who goes down in a swift heap of broken glass and spilled champagne.
The rest of the men stare at Lien as she looks at the broken neck, still in her hand, with a sigh of deep resignation. "That was a bloody excellent year. What a _waste_."
The silence is palpable for a surprisingly long time before the thugs -- and they can be nothing but -- rush the Brit assassin in a screaming, whirling crowd. Snagging the closest one, Lien grips him by the arms, turns him around so that the hapless man absorbs the next nearest's incoming punch, and then swiftly snaps his neck.
And meanwhile she's having a perfectly calm conversation with Duke. "I'm not a mercenary. I'm an assassin. And you're going to need an *army* for what you're planning."
Well, of course it was a tall order.
Duke finishes his drink as Lien gives him a piece of her mind on the matter. Frankly, he didn't care what the assassin's opinions on his gangland politics were. Hell, he did not care what the whole of the Syndicate thought of his mad scheme. They had grown soft, compliant following that coward Geese. If the only reason they weren't returning was because of Geese, then maybe the whole organization was better off without him.
Maybe they would be better off with Duke in charge.
Despite this, as champaine is suggested, hopes of a celebration are dashed by more guests. Duke doesn't bat an eye as they stream in. Placing the drink down, he simply casts a glower towards them... and then, to the smashed bottle upon the first of what would be countless victims. The crime boss doesn't not intervene. He doesn't even stand up. He pays people for that. Besides, as Lien snaps the neck of own of the goons, Duke simply shrugs.
Duke knows better than to get in the way of work.
"I know very well what I need, Lien." Duke begins, as Lien goes to work. "It's not an army I need, it is a professional! I just had one of my closest men botch a job out in Southtown, a simple hit; not only did he get all his associates arrested, but he managed to disappear before doing anything useful. By hell's own, I even had a highly-recommended ninja, a -ninja-, give me a phone call that yes, she got me my ship, but it is now adrift somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. There are just. No. -Standards!-" Duke crushes the high ball glass in his massive palm, rolling his fingers tightly, before releasing the shards carefully on the bar counter. And then, with an eyebrow twitch, he turns his head towards the british hitwoman. And with it, the delicate eloquence of a knife to the throat, he snarls.
"Are they for you, or for me, dear?"
The tracksuits, they are... currently regretting this choice of action. You would think that Woodhouse would be too, since he just lost a massively expensive bottle of the finest champagne, a highball glass -- oh, and a barstool, which Lien JUST used to tangle up an advancing thug before driving her elbow into his throat, sending both man and stool tumbling onto the ground in a gasping, breathless heap. But the truth is, Lien's probably had a drink at Harvey's before and really, anywhere that Lien Neville frequents as a business locale either has good insurance, knows Lien is good for the damages, or possibly both.
This may be why when Lien is driven back to the bar by a flurry of wild attacks, she extends her open palm back to the bar and is rewarded with a pair of ordinary scissors that the bartender has put in said palm, and which she subsequently drives into the chest of the unlucky thug.
'Are they for you, or for me?' Duke asks.
TWO WEEKS AGO:
Lien is standing in, of all places, a bombed out-looking bar in Serbia. Surrounded by men with guns and... well, tracksuits... she looks at their boss, a massive man sitting on a worn leather love seat like Jabba the Hutt, appraising the leather-clad assassin... again, like Jabba the Hutt. "Ha! They are saying you are thinking of killing me, little girl. But I think you come to be dancer? How you like to, as they say, ride disco stick?" he slurs out in drunken, accented English.
One minute, 33 seconds later Lien is standing over the rapidly-cooling corpse of Jabba the Thug while ten guards with Kalashnikovs are nursing serious head injuries... or worse.
"No bloody money is worth this trouble."
NOW:
"I have no idea," she says smoothly, talking onward as the melee continues... and the remaining tracksuited thugs are finding this course of action to be less advisable than they initially believed. "You know my price, and my capabilities. Give me a task, a target?" There's a pause as she kicks one thug so hard in the head that his lower jaw dislocates... visually. "I can do those things. But don't ask me to waltz into Kain's estate and die alongside you."
Oh, he has heard that lie before.
The crime lord's scowl doesn't change as Lien rips apart the hit squad. As the hitwoman catches the attention of the bartender, Duke brings up a finger. "Greyhound, no salt." He orders bluntly as he watches Lien goes to work. "I wouldn't task you with Kain himself. I am too fond of you. Your prey would be his lieutenents, the government officials who foolishly place their trust in him. Soft prey. I wouldn't want to task you with anything that fights back." Duke states with almost just a hint of babying in his voice. "As for the price..."
But then, a flicker of hesitation.
Funding an army was expensive. Painfully expensive. Duke's ambitions were admirable, his resolve unceasing. But if there was anything to derail his plans for overthrowing criminal empires, it wasn't a lack of willpower. It was money. A great lack of money as of now, in fact; Duke owed R a large sum of money, and the prospects of paying for Lien was going to be difficult. Now was better than any time to break the news to her.
"About that, Lien..."
Duke body tightens, as he stops his question short. As she remains to deal with these mysterious thugs, the enforcer scratches his neck scar. "... Normally I would have simply called you, but there is something else about this contract... How to put it.... I have known you for so long...." Muscles were trembling now, a flame building in his eyes. He just couldn't -ask-. He was too proud for that. Rage was building in his heart, his pride manifesting with streams of crimson energy beginning to coarse and flicker over his body.
Fortunately, a nearby thug stumbles within reach.
As the thug smashes into the counter next to Duke, in the spot where Lien once was, the crime boss doesn't hesitate, he doesn't look over. He simply grips the man by his arm, and gives a sharp, violent slam across the hard wooden counter, as if he was breaking a bottle There isn't even a scream. There isn't even a peep. All that comes is a dull crunch, a small scatter of splinter, and a flash of violet energy. Duke releases the man, or at least, what was left of him. The intact lower torso of the man sinks down to the bronze bar set at the base of the counter, his upper torso dangling loose over the hips, looking like it had fallen in to a piece of industrial equipment. Duke adjusts his collar briefly, his temper subsided, as he finally musters the question in full.
"I was hoping to discuss with you a -discount-"
Well, now he went and said a dirty word.
Despite the progressing melee, the Brit whirls on her more-than-occasional source of work, eyes flashing. "A _what_?!" she exclaims, while extending her arm sidelong and clotheslining a thug rushing her from behind. "Now you know that's not how I..." There's a pause, and then the very barely discernible *whirr!* of a vibrating cell phone, accompanied by a very muted playback of the chorus from "Killer Queen." Withdrawing her phone from... somewhere in that outfit... Lien simply raises a finger to Duke and then turns back to the last two thugs, one of which is now wielding, against all logic, an actual samurai sword.
"Hello, Artemisia... what? No, I'm not busy,"
*sound of splintering wood as barstool is kicked apart*
"Oh, some crime drama on the telly. Yes, I'm in town. No, I'm not doing anything par-TIC-ular..."
*repeated WHACK/CLANG of wood on metal parrying*
"Arty, li-- no, Artemisia, listen. I know you're a fan..."
*loud CRACK followed by dull THUD and CLANG as sword-thug goes down*
"But I just... no, I find that tiny albino troll boy who plays Joffrey perfectly revolting. So no, I'm not attending a 'Game of Thrones catchup party.'"
*loud inarticulate yell followed by sound of thug being kicked into a table, both falling over*
"Yes, sweetie. Still on for brunch Sunday. I know, dear. Enjoy your programme."
Taking a deep breath, Lien slips her phone back into her pocket and then turns to Duke, tugging on the bottom of her jacket and clearing her throat. "I'll tell you what. Get the -- I'll have an Orange Blossom, please, Woodhouse -- get the pencil pushers in one place and I'll give you the bulk rate."
Outside, a massive bald Serbian, wearing nothing but jeans and a white tank top, lumbers out of a van parked across the street. Gesturing with the glass containing her new drink, she indicates the oncoming end to her troubles and then sips, looking at Duke over the rim of the glass, before sighing and leaning back, crossing her legs again. "Bloody Game of bloody Thrones. Lord."
Those words were dirty to Duke as well.
As Lien has her chat on the phone, cleaning up the rest of the goons, the crime boss's face goes hot. The only thing worse than asking for a special favor, demeaning himself, was being told no. And there she was, talking about some Game of Thrones. What was a Game of Thrones! Duke could only assume it was the newest in a line of twisted competitions assassins throw for each other. For some reason, Duke was quite interested in this Artemisia person. He could have agreed, and changed the topic to this Artemisia person that Lien never mentioned. But no. Duke couldn't do it. And with great pain, he finally pleads to Lien, spitting out his response.
"I'm sorry, but I just can't do the bulk rate!"
Duke grabs an imaginary skull with his hands, bending his fingers as he crushes the skull, arms trembling in anger. "Why can't you go lower, just this one time! I practically raised you! I am family! I can't do the bulk rate! Don't you know how hard it will be to get them all in one place? What do you expect me to do, throw a tournament in Southtown? I am not made of tournaments, young lady!" Duke finishes smashing the imaginary skull, clasping his hands together. Unclasping them, he rubs his temple sullenly, casting a glance at the man coming in as the bartender places his greyhound down in a tall, baby blue glass. "Isn't there anything I could do to make it the -old- rate? Like when you were starting out on your own?" And then, his voice lowers as he grips the drink. It is not soft, but it is as soft as his voice can be, a gravelly, sentimental tone.
"Please, Lien, just this once?"
There's a moment while Lien sips her drink and just sort of studies Duke for a moment. This MIGHT be the most humble the Syndicate enforcer has ever been, that she can see.... well. For given values of "humble." Still, it's a surprisingly pleasant change, if only for the schadenfreude alone. And 'like family' is an interesting turn of phrase, the Brit considers to herself, since 1.) her biological family is dead and 2.) even if they were alive she'd probably have good reasons to kill both of them, let alone her long-ago sublimated desire to turn Duke inside out using a melon baller.
Gosh, that brute is getting closer. He's walking terribly slowly, mostly because he keeps changing direction in a random way and the remaining thugs keep having to shepherd him back toward the bar.
"I suppose I could see my way clear... if only I wasn't exhausted from fighting off all these _crazed Serbians_."
She puts a particularly strong emphasis on those last two words, while looking *straight at Duke* and sipping her drink.
Take the hint, bro.
Duke felt like he was rolling over and showing Lien his belly.
Was she really implying that he had to do her dirty work? To protect -her- from some thugs that likely had every reason to put a bullet in the back of her head? Duke can be seen swallowing every impulse to smash Lien against the floorboards, and turning this bar in a crater. But the fact remained. He was not in power in this negotiation. He needed Lien more than Lien needed him. Duke face tightens. He scowls fiercely. And finally, he rises up, leaving his cane and hat behind on the stool. There is so much bitterness, so much insult, so much raw spite when he spits out a response to Lien's innocent request.
"Watch my drink."
Every step thunders through the building as Duke walks towards the door. The looming form of the crime boss had already had the taste of blood. The Serbian thug was the beginning. But he knew that by the end of this, he was going to ruin his suit. There wasn't even any promise that Lien would cooperate. He knew that she was taking great delight in making him twist in the wind. He was angry. And as he steps outside, he sees just the man to help him relieve his anger. From within the bar, one could see another flash of violet energy outside. One could hear the sound of crunching, just like Duke's previous victim.
But this time, there is screaming.
"HNGRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOHGODMYSPI--" And then silence.
Behind the bar, Woodhouse silently polishes a glass, the old fashioned way, with a rag. "The truth is," Lien says patiently, sipping her drink and then producing a checkbook, writing the barkeep enough renumeration for her drinks, Duke's drinks, two ruined tables, two ruined barstools, one highball glass, and a pair of scissors. Plus tip.
As she's putting the passbook away, the Brit finishes her thought: "...the man's an artist when he wants to be. Sometimes I enjoy watching him work."
It's not like Lien would have needed help with the hulking, brutish Serb. Plus Duke got to work out all that anger that's been bubbling up this entire time. It was probably deeply therapeutic. Whereas for Lien, killing and/or seriously injuring a number of pointless thugs was about as boring as an afternoon can get.
It's a twisted kind of love.
Stepping outside the bar, Lien surveys what is probably considerable carnage as she pulls on a real fur coat (bougeoise bitch that she is) and pulls her car keys out of a pocket. Waving to Duke, she simply says, "See you in Japan," and then heads off.
It was, in fact, very therapeutic.
Duke tosses the last of the VW's shell aside, the frame of the vehicle coming to a crunch at the side of the pile of Beetles, black smoke rising up from them. Dusting off his hands, he steps over the hulking, brutish stain, still roasting from the chi energy. Kicking aside the mound of broken bones and flesh, he has his arms crossed by the time Lien emerges out. Duke's suit jacket was not torn. But it had oil on it. Just as bad. He turns to look at her. He wasn't angry. As angry, actually. He opens his mouth, just to tell her what his terms were now, and what he expected.
But instead, she just waves goodbye.
Lien was an awful human being. But she was not scum. Scum is what was those men. As Duke scrapes some of the scum off the bottom of his shove at the side of the sidewalk gutter, he growls again. It seemed he managed to talk himself out of payment. He had so many problems now. Arranging officials to be assassinated. Paying off war profiteers. Recruiting an army of crazed gangster. He returned back within the bar, the pile of cars exploding as sirens wailed in the distance.
He just hoped his drink was still there.
Log created on 19:08:13 05/24/2013 by Duke, and last modified on 00:49:54 05/25/2013.