Mercs and Mercy
Roleplaying Log: Mercs and Mercy
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Trish finds her way to a mercenary bar where she runs into Logan, who takes pity on her and keeps her out of trouble.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: July 17, 2019
IC Location: Ilya's Merc Bar, Brooklyn
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 20 Jul 2019 04:39
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, possibly some swearing
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

* * *

Ilya's down on 38th just south of Little Odessa isn't a place that gets a lot of foot traffic. Most people wouldn't know it was there unless they had a particular affection for the smell of saw dust, alcohol, and gun oil. It was a long thin bar that seemed like it wasn't wide enough to have tables, and to be fair it didn't have many. Just a line of booths on one side against the wall, on the other side of the wall was the bar itself. Sure it opened up towards the back, where Ilya sat in the pool room and held court like some pocket dictator, chomping on his cigar and barely able to see through his coke bottle glasses. Ages ago a city accountant tried to run an audit on his bar and his business and had no idea how the man stayed in out of the red.
But Ilya had two solutions for such problems. Money and bullets. And luckily the city accountant took the former.
This late at night the place was fairly busy. The out of state clientele would come in, take a seat, get seen to and get their assignments from old man Ilya. Sometimes they'd end up waiting for a while in one of the booths, depending on how much the old Ukrainian man liked them. Tonight he didn't seem to like anyone since a lot of the booths were full…
And then the rough looking haggard man slipped through the front door only for a big meaty hand to grab his shoulder. "Oh fuck no, Logan. Not tonight. No fuckin' way."
The bouncer was just shaking his head ruefully and incredulous as he looks at the mutant man, his features all but screaming 'hell naw' in the worst possible way. "We got too many people in here, you start shit and we'll be down for months, man."
Logan, for his part, sort of just looked at the hand, then back up at the bouncer, then the hand again and quirked his eyebrow. The hand was quickly withdrawn and that's when he answered. "Ain't here for trouble, Jenkins. Just got a few questions fer yer boss."
"I'm serious, man. Don't start shit."
"Uh huh." But that's all he'd get before the grim looking man stepped further inside.

* * *

It's not often that a certain blonde celebrity and talk show host would make an appearance in a place like this. How Trish Walker found out about it? Well, more money probably passed through a few more hands than she would have liked, and a favor or two called in. But she's curious about mercs, their lives, how their do it all and still come out on top…as much as they can.

The blonde walks up, appearing almost immediately after Logan. Tonight she wears practical clothing. Runners, jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. "Evenin'." She tries to say casually as she makes an attempt to just walk into the establishment behind the man the bouncer seems to have issues with, flipping a strand of wavy hair over her shoulder.

* * *

At first the bouncer buys it, the woman steps through with enough confidence and casual aplomb that it almost seems like she might be alright being there, so long as she's with Logan. But there's something about it that rubs him the wrong way.
It's just as the X-Man is turning to the side and she'll catch the first look from those hazel eyes of his, just a quick glance as he catches the slightly hurried movements of the erstwhile child star now talkshow host. She can just read the incredulity on his features, the furrowed brow. But any words he's about to offer are cut off when the bouncer calls across the way.
"Yo, Logan! She with you?"
To which he glances over at the bouncer, then at her…

* * *

There's a moment of pause, the blonde's eyes widen slightly. She doesn't dare look at the bouncer, she'd give herself away immediately. "Please, please please please?" She mouths silently, almost begging of the man who's name is apparently Logan. Hopefully Trish can somehow convince him that she's worthy of his time. Or at least worthy enough to give a small kindness to.

She lightly chews on her lower lip. Whatever happens now, she's definitely put herself in this random man's hands. Of course, he doesn't owe her a thing, and she'd owe him a tonne if he plays along. She takes a deep breath in and unconsciously holds it, awaiting the answer of the long lived X-Man.

* * *

One of his eyes narrows a bit, his jaw tightening for some reason then he lifts a hand and waves it in the bouncer's direction. "Yeah. She's good." For whatever reason he gives her that even as some of the more serious looking bar patrons glance her way. They're not exactly her audience, not the kind of folks that might tune her in on their down time. Then again… fame can be a fickle thing.
As for the guy that covered for her he turns and starts to head back down the aisle, stepping around one of the two seater tables as he reaches the back area where Ilya does his business. He lifts a hand to one of the bodyguards that stands just outside the pool room, gives him a nod. The nod's returned. He pulls out one of the chairs and takes a seat. It's then that he looks at her again, gestures to the other seat.
"Alright, darlin'." He eyes her up and down for a moment, then tilts his head to the side, "Spill it."

* * *

And release. She emits a tiny sigh, hoping it's not too obvious, though of course it probably is to all her have just watched her little performance. She looks back to the bouncer and flashes him little smile and a wave of her fingers. Her life is a roller coaster, that's for certain. There would have been a point in Trish's life where she'd find it impossible to imagine herself in a merc bar, letting alone basically sneaking in pretending to be with someone else. Then again, there was a point in her life where sh wouldn't even have known what a merc bar was.

She hesitantly follows Logan, unsure if she should actually still be following him, but wanting to keep up the ruse that she really does belong here. She places her hands in her jacket pockets as she watches Logan for a moment. When he does motion to the free seat at his table, she smiles, a genuine smile, and she almost skips to the table nudging the seat out with her food and sitting down.

"First of all, thank you sooo much. All drinks are on me. Bottom shelf, top shelf, doesn't matter." She's serious, to boot. "So uh…I'm doing research on mercenaries." She says in a bit of a lowered voice. "I'm a reporter." She explains. "I'm uh…I'm doing a story on how mercs live, how they work, how they get work, finding out what kind of training a person has to even consider having before taking a job like this." She takes another deep breath in. "I hope that's okay and doesn't get you in trouble. That's the last thing I'd want."

* * *

When they take their seats they both get some eyeballing from other seats. Severe men and some women all take their measure and some shoot a nod in Logan's direction. Trish, she can tell she's making some waves. The reason for them might be hard to discern, but she definitely doesn't exactly fit the demographic. But with him there it at least covers it somewhat.
Logan, though, he watches her and listens to her. Skeptical, assuredly, but when she finishes speaking he gives a small nod and answers her with a small 'hnh'. And that's it, he perhaps buys it, or most of it. Some reason accepting what she tells him as he looks away and then murmurs, "You lucked out pickin' this one. Some of the others aren't quite as friendly as Ilya's." Which might seem a hard bar to pass.
He looks back to her and perhaps for the first time she gets a clear look at him. Thirty something probably, unkempt, haggard. Definitely looks like she might imagine a mercenary would, or someone that is outside often. He has that weathered look and the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a hard man that's seen much. His nostrils flare slightly as he leans forwards and his voice lowers so it doesn't carry as much.
"I'd advise you ta maybe go after a different story, or get yer editor to cough up some coin and just straight up hire some. There're mercs out there that are what you might call reputable. Then there're these people."

* * *

It's not hard to notice people staring at you. Of course, Trish is used to that to some extent, just not in a place like this. It's enough to make her somewhat uneasy, in fact. These are certainly not the types of people she's accustomed to dealing with. She offers Logan a shrug. "This is good. This is nice, exactly what I'm looking for. I could have gone the 'reputable' way, but 'white collar' doesn't always do what needs to be done, and I'm interested in those who are sometimes willing step out of the black and white and go into that bit of grey. I know it sounds cliche." She didn't mean to rhyme, but her words hold true.

"I want to know…why be a merc? Why come to a place like this? What makes a merc work?"

* * *

It's at that moment that the waitress comes over and asks then, "Hey guys, what's your posions?" She affixes them with a tired gaze though manages to smile.
"A Molson." He glances at Trish and asks, "Two?" But then whatever she decides the waitress will accept it and move off, leaving them back to continue their conversation.
Once she's clear, Logan says, "Well fer some of these people it's all they know." He settles back in his chair, arms folding over his broad chest as he looks to her and manages to clouch a little in his seat. "If you read the dossiers for most anyone in this bar you'd see most of 'em had a crappy home life, didn't take ta school, went into the military. From there it might drift some but not much."
He takes a moment to look the place over, as if trying to remember what he could about the people that were there, but then turns his attention back to her. "Motivation though, some of 'em it's the only thing they're any good at. Some of 'em like it."

* * *

Oh right! This is a bar. She just mentioned drinking. She shouldn't be surprised that someone would ask what they want. "Drink?" Trish glances over to Logan and then back to the waitress. She nods. "A Molson, thanks." She's never had a Molson, and could tell you that it is, in fact, a beer. But she'll find out soon enough.

"Interesting…" Probably not to them. She starts to reach toward her side pocket for her small notepad and pencil, but pauses as she looks around. Mental notes. She'll take mental notes. It's probably bad enough that she's asking questions, but it would likely be worse if she started writing things down.

"Crappy home life? Well, that at least we have in common." She says softly, more to herself than to Logan. "Hard for them to figure out something else to do in the greater world? Well, nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Especially if they're helping people." She looks around, though she raises an eyebrow when she turns back to Logan. "This your story, too?"

* * *

A small snort comes from him and he looks away shaking his head. Then he looks back and says, "That'll cost ya more than a few beers, kid." But the corner of his mouth curls into a half-smirk to at least let her know she didn't cause any umbrage. He does, however, lean forwards to grab some of the positively ancient peanuts from the small bowl in the middle of the table and starts tossing a few into his mouth now and again, taking the time to chew thoughtfully.
"Most of the people here though aren't exactly the types ta pay taxes or adhere to the rule of law. So yeah," He takes another look around then adds, "I figure they're grey enough for ya. Still." Another peanut is popped into his mouth. "I'd pick a different story ta write about if I were you."
At that moment the waitress comes back with the two bottles setting them down with a glassy clink upon the tabletop, not stopping as she heads on to another of her tables to take their order.

* * *

"I'm good for it." Trish grins, regarding the 'more than a few beers'. "Though I'm not exactly a kid." She gives him a wink, hopefully to convey her lightheartedness. "Different stories are boring, though, aren't they? Who wants to hear about the guy who was hired to find some rich kid's pet anaconda? I'd rather write about the types of people here."

She looks around the room quietly for a moment. "If you were me, what story would you write about? Is it just because these aren't the talking type? I can be persuasive. Or is it that you don't think they'll trust me?" She looks around again, "But you trust me." She looks back to Logan. "At least enough to let me in and talk to me."

* * *

"Mmm," Is all he says for a bit. He takes up the time considering his response by reaching for his beer and dragging it across the table with the bottom of it scraping on the table's surface. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment as if pondering the variables, the situation, her, then says. "Trust's a long way's comin', more maybe I think you believe what yer sayin' and right now…" He looks around the room.
"Yer more in danger than I am." He holds up a hand as if to stay any anxiety or to ask for her to give him a chance to explain, but he takes a sip of his beer before he does so. "Maybe ya caught me in a charitable moment, but I figured if I can answer yer questions maybe you won't go hasslin' some of the other folks who aren't exactly amenable to it."
He lifts his chin and gestures sidelong, "Big Tom over there," He motions to someone sitting at the bar with his back to them, "Last time someone asked him a question he put 'em through that wall over there."
But then he waves a hand to the side, "In any case, if I were you?" His lip twists as a few responses spring to mind but die on his lips unuttered, instead he goes with, "I'd try and get as much as I could from this Logan guy then skedaddle and make up the rest in hopes that my editor'll be satisfied. Then mebbe look for another job."

* * *

"Maybe that's because I do believe what I'm saying." Trish raises an eyebrow, smiles ever so slyly, and takes a sip of the beer in front of her. "But hey, I get it. Trust isn't just given, right? It has to be earned?" No doubt she knows a few people who have a similar mindset. "And believe me, I am thankful for you helping me out here." Last think she wants is to be thrown into a wall for asking the wrong questions.

"Although I can be feisty and claw my way through a…" She glances toward a rather large looking man and nearly chokes on her words, "a fight, I'm probably better off not testing my skills in a place like this." She says softly.

"I do appreciate any more you, Mr. Logan, could tell me about the life of a merc. Like how you decide on your jobs. Why would you say no to a job? Do people ever say no to a job?"

* * *

"Mm," Logan's arms again tighten over his chest, the beer left for now upon the tabletop for it to sweat slowly and leave that faint ring of moisture upon the table's surface. He tilts his head away, then gives her a side eye glance as if taking her measure when she makes that comment about able to hold her own in a fight. His eyebrows lift, but he doesn't say anything then.
It's when she starts to speak to him as if he were a merc, that he holds up a hand as if trying to stay that particular line of inquiry. "I can do my best, but I ain't exactly in the runnin' anymore, kid." He lets those hazel eyes slide away as a group of three men enter through the door. His gaze lingers a bit before he returns his attention. "But everyone has their standards."
The older haggard man chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully for a moment then looks back to her and answers as he can, however. "People say no to a job often, sure. Some still try to make sure they're on the side of 'right' others just look at the bottom line and the pay day. Some won't work in particular theaters, others back an ideology."
He flares one hand to the side as if waving away his words. "Anyways."

* * *

"Oh?" Trish still has her beer in hand, taking another sip as she listens. "I guess I thought…" She looks around. "I mean, since we're here of all places." She seems a bit caught off guard that he's not a merc. Not any more. "Then…I've fuddled up a bit of business you were trying to have, didn't I?" If that hadn't already been obvious before.

While she takes in what he says about the job, she can't help but glance, too, toward the new men who have just arrived. They're big. They're scary. They fit right in. Is this one of those times Trish has gotten herself in over her head? Maybe. But luckily she seems to have gotten into the somewhat good graces of the one man in here who might try to usher her to safety should anything go wrong.

"Do you know those men?" She practically whispers, with a barely noticeable nod toward the bar's newest customers.

* * *

A small shake of his head is given to her and technically that's not a lie. He knows /of/ those men, and the way he's looking at them it might seem he does have some business with them, but instead he finally leans forwards and takes a long pull on his beer, tilting it back to swallow several times and down it mostly. Then he sets the empty down with a 'clink' and straightens up.
"C'mon, think you got enough ta write about. I'll see you to yer…" He looks at her then as if just then really /seeing/ her and he says, "Prius, or scooter, or whatever." It's then that he pushes himself to his feet, the chair scraping the floor for a moment.
"Prolly a good idea for you to mosey." And with that presumption the jerk seems inclined to usher her off before anything has a chance to get good.

* * *

Flattening the jeans she chose to wear today, and straightening out the shirt and leather jacket, Trish clears her throat and stands. "Uh, well, I could do with more. But…" But she can take a hint when it's being given. "Here, let me pay for uh…for these." She digs into her pocket, pulls out a twenty dollar bill and puts it on the table.

"You think I could call you up with more questions?" She could always use people from all walks of life that can provide information on any number of subjects. "Or I could give you my card?" She digs through her pockets again, a small card being produced. If he takes it, it will have her name, her radio show name, the radio station name, and two phone numbers. One number with next to an O in brackets, most likely for Office, and one next to a C in brackets, most likely for Cell.

"At the very least I can compensate you for your time, sometime." She looks at him doe-eyed.

She pushes her card into his hand. "I'll mosey. Just don't be a stranger."

* * *

The card is accepted and he starts to make towards the door with her, giving a nod towards the waitress who served them in passing. He looks at the card for a moment even as they make their way to that door, passing by the group of three men who are now at the bar.
"Sure thing," He murmurs to her and once they get there and step outside into the evening air… she can feel a subtle shift in the tension there. Not entirely gone but he seems at the least a little more at ease.
Turning to her he tilts his head, "I dunno what else I could give ya on this. But sure. I'll give you a ring some time down the line."

* * *

A sigh emits from her lips as they leave the bar, walking toward the exit of the alley. "Thank you. For everything. I mean it, Mr. Logan." She flashes him a genuine wide smile. "You've been a great help, and probably saved me from a great deal of heartache and headache…" She pauses and grins. "Okay, maybe not heartache, but definitely plenty of headache."

She does a quick tilt of her head with a shrug. "Do with the card what you will. I honestly owe you won. Call in a favour for all I care. Just don't be a stranger. I have a good feeling about you." She stops and looks Logan in the eye. "Plus, I hate to loose a good source of information on anything. Especially one that's good at knowing when to escape the thugs of the bar." She chuckles. "I'll call a car service, but thank you for your help, again, Mr. Logan."


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