Participants:
| Scene Title | Monsters Playing Heroes |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It all depends on your point of view. An American fugitive gets tangled up in something he wants nothing to do with. |
| Date | April 23, 2009 |
Somewhere in Argentina…
In a small town outside of the tourist center that is Puerto Iguazú, there is a small bar with rickety wooden tables and a dark polished bar, and in this small bar is a small, stout man who looks the sort to argue with such a pejorative classification. He is in a three piece suit that is a patently unwise but very neatly pressed shade of sangria with carefully shined shoes, frosted hair, light eyes and a tidily trimmed goatee. He is also leaning against the sparsely occupied bar and looking very nearly ludicrously out of place while he waits for his order to be filled ("Dos margaritas, por favor, and — no — only one of them with the frilly umbrella if you don't mind, actually.")
Hard to say exactly how long he's been here — not more than ten minutes, surely, but long enough that those who initially had cause to stare have since found spans of wall to stare at or empty glasses to peer into instead.
The back wall is open to the onset of a cool, humid dusk and all manner of tropical growth lurching in around ancient seating arrangements set onto the patio out there . A massive stone fireplace is the bar's piece de resistance, which is fortunate because it's starting to get a little chilly in here now that the sun is fading fast from yellow to orange somewhere out've easy sight on the horizon. Otherwise the decor is lazy and local. A few coils of mouldering rope nailed to a wall here, a bleached caiman skull over there, something that might have been a stuffed parrot at some point. What passes for the door in that it is open and there are no trees there and people can walk in and out of it has no actual hinged closey structure built into it, and the man in the bad suit at the bar looks to it often while he waits.
The sun has been particularly hot today, something that just beats down on you and reminds you how horrible the day is, but with its fading brings on the promise of night. A hint of the humid dusk, making the air thick, but cooler than the morning and afternoon which just seemed to swelter. The sun's setting and this cantina make for the perfect respite. Soon enough as one middle aged gentleman leaves, anther is coming in fresh from a day's work. Unlike the other-more out of place gentleman at the bar, this fellow seems to be more 'local' in his looks. Meaning, his own dress is not nearly as fancy. A faded tan t-shirt, and green cargo pants, if anything he looks like he just got in from working either outside the city, or in one of the city's more industrialized places. His hair is unkempt and wild, left to its own defenses, where as a untidy goatee is worn. Sunken eyes seem to just stare dead ahead to the bar, as one hand drags a dirty cloth over his dry brow. Once up to the bar, he's easing himself down on a stool, the rag stowed away as a short and sweet conversation follows, "Buenos Noches, Una Cervesa, gracias." Nothing else as money is counted out, ensuring he has enough for this, which well he does-and then some.
Wallet folded up, and a sigh, Canfield finally takes time to take in the bar. Nothing, seems out of place, not really-that is till Stephen does see our sharp dressed man. There's a slight double take, but the his notice of the other man is gone, eyes preferring to stare straight into nothing ness, or rather the bottle on the back shelf.
There's the sound of conversation by the fireplace, three men of Latino blood enjoying each other's company in casual Spanish exchanged between them. Any bigness, toughness, and meanness that they might have otherwise carried with them is bled out, minorly, from their reclined poses and easy laughter that punctuates their words, two toting beer bottles and the other with his hand spidered over a near emptied glass of scotch. There's an emptied chair furthest down their table, vacated not a couple of minutes ago.
It's the scotch drinker that seems to have the attention of the other two, though he has few words to contribute to the conversation. Dressed in black despite the weather, though the cut of his clothes seems to be expensive. Reclining right back into his rickety wooden chair, he has his other leg propped up on another nearest the fireplace, boot heavy and mud tracked. Every now and then, he leans forward to pick up the scorched wooden handle of the poker in the fireplace, and jostles the flames so that they spit sparks into the cooling air.
Much like Mr. Three Piece Suit at the bar, he too spares his attention towards the door now and then, curling his knuckles to graze them restless against his heavily stubbled lantern jaw. Upon Canfield's entrance, the man gains Iago Ramirez's attention for half a second, but whatever it is he's looking for, it's not him, and his trek to the bar goes unwatched as the Latino instead regards the fire once more.
Standing tall and slightly lanky, this middle aged man doesn't seem anything special. A body that shows signs of a hard life, from some muscle, to a scar on his left temple. His complexion is dark, and he could be mistaken for cuban, or African American. His head is covered in brown hair, which has manifested itself in unkempt and uncontrolled dreads. Side burns stretch down to his jaw, and a scruffy goatee is worn about his mouth. Eyes are bagged and seem almost to give him a hollowed out look. A man early in his grave. And his last scar is on his chin. A pockmark from a vaccine, or so it would look like.
His clothes are plain and unassuming. A dark t-shirt worn under a worn out old grey hooded sweatshirt. An overwhelming green army issued coat has been thrown over this. Something one can easily get at a surplus store. Brownish sneakers are laced up. And on his left hand a dull silver ring rests.
"No — señor, only one — with the umbrella. With this. This is an 'umbrella,' here — " Hector, short, British, middle-aged and dressed for business in a different setting, country or planet, gestures a little helplessly for a nearby example and finds none, because the native bartender is hoarding the rest of his colorful tissue paper umbrella stock somewhere behind the bar itself. That's not to say the 'tender doesn't try! He lifts a bottle of tequila, reaches for ice, and eventually starts to pour the entire thing out before Mister (Doctor, actually) Red Suit holds up a staying hand. " — no, no. Fuck it, just give me 'em both."
The bartender does, fantastically enough, dark brows hooded down into a dubious knit when both glasses of lime green liquid ice are pushed forth so that Hector can make the necessary transfer himself, one umbrella into the other glass so that the first has two and the second has none at all. Canfield is glanced at sideways while he acquires a pair of paper napkins, sized up and very nearly dismissed. What terrible pants. :(
In the end though, the table waiting for him back at the fire place proves to be an intimidating enough prospect that he lingers, some several inches shorter than his lanky companion and a bit softer about the edges as well, left elbow and back hooked into a casual lean against the bar while he procrastinates. "Fuckin' Mexicans, eh? They should all learn English or get out of the Western Hemisphere. That's what I think."
He dictates so clearly and carefully and loudly that it is quite obvious that he does not expect Canfield to understand what he is saying at all.
The man sitting by the fire, and his companions are not noticed, or if they were, Canfield is not giving off the appearance of it. Instead there seems to just be a reach for the bottle, that the bartender hands over to him. "Gracias." said, a little louder this time before he is reaching to place the cool surface of the bottle against his forehead. Eyes close, and he takes in a breath. Another day done, means becoming another day closer to his goal, and another day that earned wages are saved so as to bring him home. A day closer to see his wife, and his kid.
Finally, Canfield lowers his beer down only to take a sip from it, eyes closed, before he's swallowing that good pull down, and looking back over his shoulder to look to the group gathered by the fire, taking in the clothes, and well the looks of the others. And like that nothing, as if Stephen knows better than to look too long, or too hard. Living in a new country you learn new things, such as who you talk to and who you don't. Who you make eye contact with, and who you don't. In a way it is like prison, just the walls are different, as are the dogs in the yard.
And as he almost is able to escape into his thoughts, the journey is halted, and well smashed when Red Suit speaks right back up. And that brings a blink and a look which could read: The Fuck You Say? There's a deep breath as his grip lightly tightens on the bottle, but really its nothing. Just some loud british dude, right? Right. "We're in Argentina." said back softly, so it might come as a surprise to Hector, that Canfield understands him, and B: Just replied to him. "So they're not Mexicans, I am not Mexican, and given that the official language is Spanish, they really don't have to learn.." Shit "English." and then a sip of his beer. Well there hopefully goes his word quota for the evening. "So, just be cool, man. Tone it down."
"Oh, are we?" is fired back out've Hector's saucy mouth before he's had a chance to register that his stalwart Mexican companion has just corrected him in English. He doubletakes, twice umbrella'd margarita in one hand and lonely umbrellaless margarita in the other, brows tilted at a hint of an odd angle when he looks Canfield over for the second time. "You're American!" sounds almost like an accusation, what with layers of mild surprise and incredulousness burrowed into voice and muddled expression alike. They are close to the river here but he doesn't look at all the part of the porky tourist with the — sneakers and overlarge camera —
"Did'jyou fall out've a bus going through the national park and get stuck here or what? No offense meant with the thing about Mexicans by the way — just being a bastard s'all." At least he's turned down the volume a notch or two. Meanwhile a scrawny-looking coati has crept its way up onto the low fencing patched in 'round the patio and Hector looks to it rather than Canfield as he sips at the fancier of his two margaritas, all grasping fingers and beady eyes and ring-ed tail.
"We are." And there he's looking right back to Hector, still Stephen is not ready for the double take he gets and then the rest that seemingly falls together. "Yeah." Canfield adds, "But you don't see me acting like a damn fool." No, Canfield doesn't look any part of the tourist with his white sneakers and gut to go with. A sip of his beer, And his free hand moves to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, as if that might help relief the stress of the day, and well the added stress that comes with dealing, as Hector put it, a bastard.
A faint shrug, and Canfield finds himself focusing in on the coati which has come scrounging around, turning to better, face it, and well open himself up a little more towards Hector without seeming too chummy. "Something like that." More like, I got sent here when an Evolved had a bit of a backfiring with an ability-Well, lets not get into schematics. "And just a word to the wise, man." A look over to Hector, sizing the man up once. "But, just because someone chooses to speak Spanish, doesn't mean they don't understand English..Specially in a place that sees a lot of tourists." another sip as he goes back to watching the Coati-better company there.
There's another one come inside, now - a woman, past the hurdle of 30 with dark hair bound back into a braid, her jeans worn and her blouse tucked into the hem. Her skin is olive, and she appears weary, headed directly towards the bar some few feet from where Stephen and Hector exchange words, and speaks rapid fire Spanish to the bartender.
"«Don't say a word, I got here as soon as I could. It's not like this shack sees a crowd.»"
The bartender steps towards her, his smile smirky as he sets down his cloth as if to leave for the evening, wiping his hands. "«I didn't say a thing. You enjoy your shift, I'm going outside for some air.»"
It'd a quiet exchange, mundane, and nothing designed to draw attention, not from the men at the bar or those at the fireplace. Except that it has, for the latter, or perhaps its coincidence that all three get to their feet. The two beer drinkers meander casual for the open doorless door, one hand clapping a shoulder in a friendly gesture. Iago knocks back his dregs of scotch, abandons poke to fireplace, and gets to his feet.
There's an uneven quality to thunk-thunk of his steps against the ground. A minor limp that only emphasises his swagger, a different sound to each foot fall. "Senorita?" he hails the woman as he passes by both Canfield and Hector. She doesn't immediately respond, headed for around the bar, before Iago's hand snags out rough to grip her elbow, which gets a shocked, flared eyed look from the woman. Iago's smile, a cut of white teeth, doesn't really help, even as his grip loosens. "Elena Vasquez?"
"Si?"
This simple affirmation is met with a response that doesn't require words. A fist cocked back is steered sharply towards her mouth, snapping her head towards the side to the bar, her arm grabbed once more. This calmly executed show of violence turns heads, induces some silence of those within the bar. A pistol slides out from the pocket of one of the men at the door, as the atmosphere changes dramatically.
Hector chuckles there, dark humor making the overall effect one that's less pleasant than it could be whilst the coati skitter slides down the fence's interior and moves into the bar proper to fish for scraps between feet and under tables. "We're a ways out from the tourist camp, mate. Not to give you the impression that I particularly care one way or the other." Still, he opens up in turn with a natural~ sort of social inclination, shoulders angled over Canfieldwards and slouch easing deeper into bar. "Hey, camarero," he's ready to start up again, goatee'd chin angled back over his shoulder after the retreating 'tender, "…you're a fuckhead."
The man ignores him without real effort, and Hector is left to shrug as if his point's been proven, umbrellaless margarita set down so that some feeling might be restored to the frosted tips of his fingers. "See? 'e doesn't care. I'm the one in a fancy suit; I have the money. He spits in my drink, I tip him anyway, and that's…" And that's…what? Who knows. The Englishman trails off when Iago paces unevenly past and doesn't look immediately likely to speak up again, teeth bit together into the ghost of an anticipatory wince. Or grimace.
In a matter of terse seconds, Elena Vasquez has been punched boldly square in the face and Hector is gesturing broadly to the patio with his remaining margarita, not quite apologetic in the furrow of his brow. "Would you like to sit?"
"I know that, but I work here and live here." which could be a stretch of anything. Still Canfield isn't getting into particulars. The switch of the bar crew really isn't noticed by Stephen any more than it seems to be by other patrons. Well, if you discount the group by the fire. No, Canfield, is more or less focused on the coati, though the younger woman does get a look over, as would anyone coming up to the bar, but that's it. Nothing more. So when the group from the fire moves, its not so much noticed, save when Iago crosses his path and again a customary look, before he's taking a sip of beer.
Or he was, when the fist moves out to catch the woman in the jaw Stephen's first reaction is to stand up from where he was And allow his mouth to open-"Hey-" said too late, as now he is looking back to the door catching the other two over there. And a deep breath. Some dude has a gun and the air just feels…tense. There's a blank look from Iago and Elena, over to Hector as if the lanky black man just realized he stepped into some situation he wasn't exactly ready for.
The woman is tossed to the ground, as much as her own strength would prevent it at a stagger, there's a catch of Iago's foot at her ankle to help the tumble down. Two strides has his boot coming down on her snaky braid, catching hair to the floorboards beneath his heel, the woman giving a shocked cry as she attempts to lift her head. She twists like a cat, a fist coming around to beat against his shin— a gasping when it seems to pain her, a dull, unfleshy thunk sounding at the connection of knuckle to leg.
"Perhaps you should sit down," Iago says, angling a look to Canfield, that aborted protest catching the man's attention. "And watch. Tell your friends. Don't worry— " is address to the room at large, his voice going more emphatic rather than loud. "We're not staying for long."
Where the woman's hand has come down against the ground, water seems to be leaking out from the press of her fingers to the wooden floor, rippling out in a useless puddle generated from no where but her own hand. There's a sharp snap, Iago's fingers clicking together before pointing towards Hector, a gesture steered towards the fireplace. The instruction is silent but clear.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," drawls Hector, who has managed to make himself look at least mildly crestfallen about the prospect of further friendly English conversation having been lopped off at the knees. Iago is always so rude with his timing these days. If he had a spine he would almost certainly tell him so.
It's difficult to watch dear Elena having the everloving mess beaten out of her, elegant braid tramped on etc etc etc, and crestfallen disappointment molds gradually into something more uncomfortably distracted. Distant misery is a subtle thing to discern under current conditions, granted, made all the more indistinct (and perhaps baffling) by the fact that Hector sips absently at his pretty green drink as he watches water spring forth from an impossible source.
Then Iago snaps, and he stirs as if from a trance to belatedly follow that last gesture…all the way to the fireplace. Oh. The — oh. …Really? Hector echoes Iago's gesture himself in a doubtful tilt of his glass, but as there seems to be no clarification or easy way out immediately forthcoming, he is forced to move. Left shoe crossed slowly over the right, he picks up the pace a hair after that initial hesitation and drag, brows fallen into an unguarded knit while he fishes after the poker's warm wooden handle with his free hand and instinctively holds his frozen beverage out away from the fire with the other. Priorities, you know.
Doesn't take him long, and by the time he's got the molten-hot glowy end of the iron dragged free, his movements have adopted a more business-like clip and he's quickly on his way past Canfield with only the barest of sidelong glances.
Eyes are wide for just a minute before everything seems to be clicking in. The gun, and the woman on the ground, getting the ever loving-yeah well you know. There's a turn as Hector goes by to fetch the poker and his eyes are looking back down towards Elena-more importantly the water that seems to be sprouting from just where her hand lies. There's a part of him inside, and he can feel it- that rage, something clicking and snapping into rapid fire action, where the other part of him seems almost trapped in a shell shocked memory. Canfield however, is not sitting down as he was suggested too.
Bottle is dropped instead as he reaches over for Hector who is passing him, in hoped of grabbing the man by the collar and yanking his white ass back. Its hard to sa where the snap comes, but it is there.
"No."
No he's not going to sit down. Hopefully if anything he is lucky enough to make sure that his new 'comrade' is not going to go burn some woman he doesn't know. Still Canfield's eyes are flashing over to Iago. "You're going to let her go." An edge there that's building, but then Canfield isn't that imposing of a figure- nor is he holding a gun. Still there is no, or what. "And you're going to walk back out that door." Shit, won't you look at this? Someone is trying to play fucking Hero, here.
Iago steers a look that could be interpreted as boredom to Canfield. It's in the hood of his eyes, jaw a little slack and shoulders without tension that would say as such, but there's focus, too, predatory and as far as Iago goes, that counts for interested. The two men at the door have their focus on Canfield now, too, glancing at each other with distinct unease. There's another man, possibly one of them, who rises up from a corner behind Iago.
Slowly, Iago drags his gaze up and down Canfield, before he tilts a chin up at him. "You're going to stop us?" he asks, his accent halting, and an unpleasant smile crosses his face. "You're a sympathiser of these mutants? We'll mark you too, after we shoot you like a dog. Or you follow your own advice.
"Easy choice, I think."
He holds out a broad hand towards Hector, expectant that either Canfield will let go or Hector will otherwise give him the brander. Either way, Iago keeps his eyes on Canfield. Water continues to flood out from the woman's hands, her bloodied mouth twisted in a snarl.
Well this is uncomfortable, isn't it? Caught by the collar midstride and given a bit of a stiff jerk backwards, Hector finds his forward progress effectively retarded some three or four meters short of Iago's easy reach.
For a moment he just stands there, sort of awkward-like with his damp margarita glass (part've the contents sloshed out over the rim during rapid deceleration) and his smoldering brand that he doesn't really want to be holding onto anyway. There is a tall black man holding onto his collar and he is short and his hands are full so that he cannot grasp at his gun if he has one.
"Er," he says at length, sort of drawly, stuttery, still trying to be somewhat polite. Errr. "Could you let go've me, please?"
"It is about to be the wrong choice."
"Man, Shut the fuck up." And eyes are right there on the back of Hector's skull, as if waiting to see if the other man is going to pass over the poker, or not. As for letting Hector go? That's not going to happen. At least immediately-as his fingers curl into the man's collar. Canfield's eyes though are now on the men at the door and then flick quickly over to the other that stands up. Outnumbered, and the exit that he knows about is effectively blocked.
A lick to his lips, and that anger just seems to build, probably helps the cold sweat coming down his back is keeping him heightened as it were. He hasn't felt like this for some time, hasn't had that sick pit in his stomach feeling like he did when he went over to his neighbors to get into a damned yelling match. However, right now he knows he looks to be in the weak position despite having a hold on Hector. Its a hasty, and not entirely well thought out plan of action, but he does move himself slightly, coming towards the side of Hector where the poker is being held. The grip exchanged quickly, as the other hand quickly just out-But that doesn't touch the poker.
Instead he holds onto Hector tightly, as suddenly with a crackle of the air, something SnApS, and a vortex is opened right there to suck poker free from his 'shield's hand. Close enough that Hector might feel the tug, and the harder grip of Canfield's hand on his collar. Once the poker is gone-vortex shuts and the pressure and force is gone.
"You won't be doing shit, except backing off her and letting her go-Now." and now it seems that rage-that classic temper is puking forth. "Because if you don't I'll kill your friend here first, and then you- then everyone in this god damned room. You understand me?"
Canfield, gives a pause, before adding. "Move, off her damnit!"
There's a wolfish manner to the way Iago's lips curl back at the sudden appearance and vanishing of the wormhole, that foot coming off the woman's braid, priorities shifted. Especially with the disappearance of his branding iron. :( Elena's fingers dig against the hardwood floor as she scrabbles away, her back hitting the edge of the bar, where she's scurried. Though Hector is still being manhandled by the collar, a bullet puts itself in the wall only so far above Canfield's head, a shattering of glass as it clips a bottle of tequila.
Iago puts a hand out towards the shooter, who takes a step back towards the door, at the prospect of being sucked into one of those things. "The honourable thing would be to have put yourself in her place. Monster for a monster. She would have lived."
The back of Hector's skull is nicely frosted blonde over brown with the slightest hint of natural ~ginger~. He frowns sullenly upon being told to shut-the-fuck-up, probably on account of that isn't very nice at all and — yes alright he's being jostled around now, grip exchanged for better grip while he stands there like a cat who is very used to baths but still does not necessarily care for them.
The vortex gets his attention, though! It sort of has to with the way the brand is wrenched out of his grip by unseen forces and he can feel the rest of himself wanting to tag along with it despite the sudden and emphatic NNNOOOOO his brain has to input on the subject. He leans back into Canfield as well as he can, abruptly far more interested in keeping his company than he was ten minutes ago when they first got a load've each other.
"Oh, so unwise," is all he can think to say once the vortex has collapsed, light eyes flicking uneasily back up after the tick of a bullet over both of their heads before they settle more warily upon Iago. "I think we should all take a deep breath, maybe do a few shots, get the radio going — "
The Bullet clips and Canfield's eyes are to the door. Is he shaking, can't tell right now-but he does want to bend over and just wretch all over the floor. No time for that, even as he can taste that metallic signal of nerves getting the best of him. Eyes don't look away as he spits to the floor. As if nerves weren't the worst thing, when gets called a monster it seems like he momentarily shuts down.
Prisons just got different walls.
"No, Nothing would have changed. You still would have killed her.."
He is snapped back into reality
And there he is moving to shove Hector right on towards Iago, with one thrust of his arm. Hopefully, this works, if now If it doesn't well. Nice knowing you all. "You might want to hold onto something." comes Canfield's next words as there is a flick of his hands down to the middle of the room. Hopefully enough time for the assailants to have to react and reach for something, lest they too are sucked down into the newly appeared 'black hole'. The power of it, would start dragging glasses, tables, chairs, boards- you name it, it will be ripping and sucking it into that mass of swirling gravity in the center. However, as long as you have something heavy, or stable to hold onto, you should be al right.
Next move is to grab the bartender, and yank her to her feet, and towards the back His own Spanish broken, but coming out in the jostle and commotion. «You got an exit?» Because well they can't go out the front door right now, and as soon as they leave the room they got a minute to get out and run. Needless to say, he can't stay here at all anymore. Likely the same is going for her.
Oh Cans? Next time you wanna play boy hero, think it out.
Hector stumbles away at a short-legged stagger to reach fumblingly into his coat, and thwip - the coati is the first casualty, a blur of reddish fur barrel-rolling into oblivion, stolen bread crust and all. Where did he put - oh god, was that the coati? :c
A glass (no umbrella) goes whinging past his head and he decides to worry about it another time. Maybe when he's dressing down the dumb bastard who decided to shoot at them when he was inches away from being threaded through a hole several sizes too small. So far as the present is concerned, he twists and jerks his wrist with a stiff snap and takes aim at the far wall. Furniture is flying, now. The bloody red of his coat is flagging.
Hopefully Iago has calculated his own means of escape. He didn't bring enough emergency grappling hooks for everyone.