Molotov

"Hey, boys, listen up. This next job ain't gonna take ya far."

"How far, Mr. Master?"

"I told ya, it's not 'Mr. Mast-- listen, this job's takin' ya right across the road."

"We tryin' tah take over the bakery again, Mr. Tasker?"

"It's NOT -- no, I'm not sendin youse guys back over to the bakery, those Koreans kicked your ass three ways to Coney Island!"

"But Master Taker, we told you, that old lady had a rolling pin and an arm like a --"

"CAN IT! Listen, you guys notice the crowds outside Yankee Stadium? And all those friendly faces that pop up to sell tickets to the needy and steal tickets from the lonely? We're gonna start playing that game. And not only are we gonna start playing that game, we're gonna be the best at that game, 'cos we're working TOGETHER. Right?"

"Right Tasky Mister!"

"TickMaster!"

"I...no, actually, don't use that one, it's too close to someone else who cheats even more people looking to get to a baseball game"

"Boys! BOYS!"

"Hey Mister Tisker, this ticket scalping ain't such bad work after a while."

"Yeah? Good ta here, cos yer all about to be part of our expansion."

"Oh boy, we gonna be scalpin' for the Giants?"

"Nah, it's - "

"Aw, crap, the Jets? Okay Master Tusky!"

"No! You're gonna sell - "

"AW NOT THE METS."

"NO. SHUT IT. Yer all gonna start getting some culture, y'hear? I want youse all to spread up and down Broadway."

"...Broadway?"

"Of course! Sports fans might love the Yankees, but the tourists in this city wanna see a show!"

"So, a little birdie told me that this is the place to go to if I have a less than strictly legal job that needs to be done while making sure that my employer isn't implicated in anything that happens. That sound about right, or should I find someone else instead?"

"Sure, we talking World Series, or you want Streetcar Named Desire?"

"NO you moron, he wants to talk to the boss!"

"Are you sure? I think he wants Bye Bye Birdie tickets."

"THAT SHOW ENDED TWO YEARS AGO."

"...oh. So does he want tickets for--"

"He WANTS the BOSS."

"...okay, I'll go get him."

Taskmaster: "It's fine I've been standing here the whole time. Why don't you come into my office, right this way."

A room that was once a doctor's office, now packed with cardboard boxes, stacks of paper, and a bunch of pens.

"So, what can I do for youse?"

Well, this was ranking up on one of his more awkward days. He'd come to talk to a mercenary or something, and instead he was getting hustled for sports tickets by a couple thugs. In an insane asylum. Yeah, this didn't fit his normal day. But at least it made the raise worth it.

But at last the man running this place arrived, and together they headed into his office. Not that it was much of an office, but at least they had some privacy here. It was better than nothing.

Jack White coughed once as Taskmaster asked him what he wanted, the bodyguard looking very out of place amidst so many office supplies. Well, it was time to make the pitch.

""I'm here because I've been told you're good at what you do. My boss had something important stolen from him, and so far the police are proving useless at getting it back. That leaves less than legal venues to try, such as yours. Recover probably isn't something you usually do, but I take it you're up to the task?"

"Lucky for youses, I've already caught every matinee for the next four days. You tell me what it is you lost, what part of the city you lost it in, and who you think mighta tooken it. What are we looking for here, like, some puppies? A chocoalte bird of prey? Some sorta Malteaser Falcon? I wouldn't mind a pet bird, actually -- hang on -- I'm gonna write that down. Pet bird. I like that. Hey, you ever seen Bye Bye Birdie?"

Clearly, this was some sort of low-level-drug-deal gone bad, and it was gonna be up to Taskmaster to hunt down a stash of drugs. This was good, he thought, as he slid his ornate wooden cabinet of weaponry open. He absent mindedly grabbed a box of ammo, popping open the top and spilling bullets across the floor.

"DAMMIT REY REY!"



"Sorry - so sorry - there should be 800 bullets in this box. Only 742 fell on the floor. This means - I mean, you can do the math. Sorry, he's an intern. I'll let you punch him once one the way out - twice if you use your bad hand."

It was seeming more and more like the people that he was here to meet were inmates of the asylum, rather than people merely squatting in it. Jack was starting to doubt their competence, but it did seem like they were fairly well armed. Not that that was an indicator of quality, but it was better than nothing.

Well, best to get to work with the specifics, lest this guy think he was just investigating a petty crime. "Missiles, actually," he replied, hands clasped in front of him. "High tech, a case of them. Each is about the size of a Cuban cigar. Bunker buster yield when they're fired at the right range."

This guy might have heard of the heist that had happened, but if he was any kind of professional then he would know to keep that to himself. Not that he had any proof anyway. "You known Advance Idea Mechanics? One of our leads indicated that someone with the access to carry out this kind of robbery works for them. But we can't just walk up and ask Killian if he was the one who did it without proof. So we need someone who can break in and see if it was them, and recover the missiles if possible."

Hopefully that earned his attention.

"A break-in, huh? Let me think about it for a second. Okay, I'll do it. This those ex-wife missiles, right? Heh. I had an ex-wife. I think. Not too sure. How much is the job worth, and more importantly, when I find the cigars, what's the best way to bring them back home without...y'know, blowing up half a city block?"

That had gone easier than Jack had expected it would, truth be told. It was unfortunate that this 'Taskmaster' had figured out who was looking for the goods, but as long as he didn't talk then it should be fine. That was the whole point of this meeting after all, to ensure to plausible deniability in the situation.

The only thing left was the minor details of the plan. "I'm not quite sure what your going rate for jobs is. How does [60 credits] sound?" He figured they would have to work it out, but that should be a reasonable opening bid.

"As for the missiles, they only make a big boom if they're moving fast enough. So as long as you don't shoot them at something far away you should be fine." Now there was the small possibility that he might accidentally blow his hand off, but Jack wasn't entirely convinced that that was a bad thing right now.