Old Man of the Mountain: No Accounting For Taste

[x-dominion.livejournal.com]

The Madripoor squad meet Tim 'Dum-Dum' Dugan, and he's not entirely what they expected.



Madripoor steamed in the tropical sun. The Malacca Straits were under the glare of the coming summer heat, and the city curled around the bowl of the Victoria Harbour was surrounded by a humid haze. The wet heat hit them the second they stepped from the international airport like a soaked flannel, and traveled with them through the non-air conditioned cabs that took them up into Kingstown, known to the locals as Hightown. The Royal Alexandria Hotel was perched on the edge of the unofficial demarcation between Kingstown and Victoria Harbour, or Hightown and Lowtown to the natives, a formerly luxury hotel that had been long eclipsed by newer resorts, and was in a slow, genial decline.

Their bookings were all under assumed names, and once checked in, Kane had related the information his father had given him. Their local contact, an ex-SHIELD operative of some reknown, would meet them on the hotel's extensive veranda. The veranda had a magnificant view of the blue Pacific waters, and the dirty crouching chaos that was Lowtown and the massive docking complex for sea traffic. Waiters in white coats plied drinks to the guests, mostly older British and Indian couples, and each table was shaded by a starched white canopy to protect from the mid-day sun.

"At least this place makes a passable martini," Adrienne grumbled, downing the contents of the glass in her hand as the waiter delivered her another. "Perhaps being drunk will allow me to forget the fact that we're staying what basically amounts to a godforsaken hellhole where there's not even a decent satellite to watch baseball." And remaining drunk, she hoped, would allow her to forget the fact that she was expected to work with Garrison and Jake. The barely-maintained civility she was holding on to would probably be forgotten after a couple more drinks, but no one said she had to be civil. At least, Adrienne didn't remember anyone saying that specifically. "Why did I agree to do this, exactly?"

"I believe I appealed to your sense of patriotism and duty," Jake said, sipping at his coffee. He was still wearing the face on the passport he'd used to get into the country. The only concessions he'd made to the heat and glare were the sunglasses on his nose and the open collar of his shirt. "'For king and country,' or some rubbish like that." He grinned at her over the rim of his cup. As much as he hated Madripoor, it was nice to be on a real job for a change.

Morgan lounged in her chair claid in a pair of shorts and her usual tank top. She was wearing Aoife for the moment, not sure whether or not walking around her in her own body was a good idea yet or not. She'd had to slather herself in sunblock to keep Aoife's pale skin from burning, but the sun made her red hair gleam. "I may retire here," she said in Aoife's thick, Irish accent and sipped a glass of ice tea. "The heat's lovely, innit?" She fixed her gaze on Betsy, though it would have been hard to tell with the sunglasses in the way. "When's our date arriving, do you know?"

"Momentarily," she said, hiding her exasperation behind her shades as she began her count again. It'd only been 37 seconds since someone had inadvertently asked the same question. She was positive she could feel her right eye twitching. Betsy's fingers moved casually over to Adrienne's glass and removed it from her grasp. Following the motion, she tipped the contents of the glass into the nearest bush. No one outside of the table aware of what she'd just done. "Drink on your own time." In a hushed but clipped and strained voice, Betsy addressed Adrienne somewhat forcefully. "Your well-being and yes, your liver are my concern until I firmly return your arse back home. Is that understood?"

"Whatever you say, Mom," Adrienne responded with false cheerfulness, not at all surprised Betsy wasn't going to allow her to spend the mission drunk. Honestly, Adrienne would have been worried if she hadn't been reprimanded. But it was fun to see how far she could push people, and alcohol and missions was always an amusing button. "Even though," she pointed out good-naturedly, "since I don't work for your organization and am here out of, as was so elegantly stated, a sense of patriotism and duty, I believe I am on my own time. But that's merely a technicality, of course. I'm always happy to travel halfway around the world in the name of peace and justice and take orders from you people while trying to avoid being shot."

"I see our team building exercises have already started." Garrison muttered, keeping an eye open. Unfortunately, his father hadn't passed along a description of Dugan, just a time and place to meet him. He should at least know what Betsy looked like from her STRIKE days, but ultimately, they'd managed to start a mission hinging on some old operative sitting down at the right table.

"You know this place makes a damn good mojito. Not worth wasting on the plants." A gentlemen at the next table leaned over to mention to Betsy. He was older and unshaven, white stubble forecasting the future for his salt and pepper hair. His white pants, sandals, and loud shirt all but announced him as American to the patio at large, and he looked like a dentist from Cleveland on the tail end of his first trip to the tropics. "Want me to get a waiter? Hey! Garcon!" He bellowed, and gave her a wide grin.

"I was wondering if you were actually going to say something, Dum-Dum," Betsy said dryly, the corners of her lips turning upward. Dealing with Dugen was an artform, tit for tat. They'd stay connected over the years, a regular contact in her work but it'd been some time since they'd seen one another but he looked good - for his age. "In good conscious, I don't think I could've kept quiet for much longer. Seriously, is that shirt a cotton blend?"

"Of course. Real men don't iron. Spies might, but we all know spies are a bunch of bitchy little girls in general." Dugan said with a wink at Betsy. He looked over the rest of the table, a smile on his face, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. "So, this is your crew? Doesn't exactly look like your STRIKE team, that's for sure."

"This is Tim Dugan? Great..." Garrison muttered, looking at the less than impressive looking man sprawled in the chair across from them.

"You must be Christian's kid. Your Old Man was a mouthy one too. Down to business, Braddock? My lady friend wants a quiet, romantic and ridiculously expensive dinner later, and I don't want to miss one of those. Especially when I'm not paying for it."

Betsy tipped her head in acknowledgment. "Thank you." The waiter appeared with the mojito and deposited it in front of Dugan. She waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. "A friend of ours has requested we locate a parcel that has fallen off the grid. We assume that it is still in transit here. Unfortunately, we're not the only ones in pursuit and we will need someone who knows the courier services in Madripoor best to help us do this with the least amount of eyes in our direction. Our friend wouldn't appreciate any unnecessary person to be made aware of this incident, losing luggage while traveling can be a tad embarrassing."

She watched as Dugan brought the drink to his lips. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you," Betsy removed her shades, eyes looking to her left before turning back on him. "I think the gentleman by the bar is eager for whatever he placed in that drink to take affect. He's hoping to have his way with you and I don't mean that in the romantic sense either."

"Although he might be hoping for that, too," Jake murmured, eying the man from behind his own sunglasses, then letting his eyes flick back to their ontact. He'd seen worse, he thought, although it occurred to him that his opinion of the man was likely being inversely affected by Kane's negative one. "Friend of yours, or do you suppose he's looking for our package as well?"

"Huh? Not necessarily. My ex-wife has been trying to have me killed for ages. If it's a poison mojito or another month with her, I'm taking the mojito." Dugan made a nod to the bartender, who nodded back and disappeared. "So, since this is all about a package, let's talk seriously. I did a little digging at the request of our mutual friend, and I have some details."

Dugan leaned forward, his bulk thwarting any would be lipreaders. "I know the guy is in country. Got a rough idea when he caught a smuggling flight in. Chances are he had to pass customs under an assumed name, although I haven't gotten any further with that. If he's lying low, there are a few friends that might cough up some safehouse locations for the right highly illegal persuasion." He winked at Betsy. "This one is your call. I'll show you our less savory friends, and you can dig around the airport if you want."

"Because everyone loves the airport so much when they have to be there for traveling that they're just dying to go back when they're not," Morgan muttered to herself in a whisper that did not carry far thanks to how very softly Aoife spoke. She sighed and sipped at her tea. She was watching those around them, but she didn't have much to add to the dialogue. Mostly she just wanted the guy who spit out what they needed to know so Betsy could give her something to do already. If she was going to sit on her ass she could think of better places to do it. Otherwise, actually doing something would be nice.

Betsy's was staring at Morgan, shaking her head at the comment but understanding the sentiment. "This isn't the best part of the mission but it needs to be done. We have two avenues to explore, the legal route and the not so legal." She eyed team one. "Jake, Adrienne and Garrison, I'll need you to follow all legitimate routes our diplomat may have taken, including the airport. Morgan, Dugan, and myself will visit the seedier parts of the city, I'm sure between the two of us," she nods to Dugan. "We can find someone who can point us in the right direction."

"Sounds like fun. I haven't kicked someone's head in for freedom in ages." Dum-Dum said, looking satisfied as the bartender returned with a pair of hotel security guards, and the man that had been watching him was silently yanked from the bar and hustled into the hotel. There was something to be said for some elements of a corrupt society. "If we can find this Lhatsun, whatever information he's got can likely be bartered to get Neramani off your man's back. That's assuming we find him first."

Dugan got up and pulled out his phone. "Just let me tell my lady friend that I'll be missing dinner tonight for dangerous and possible heroic reasons." He put a hand over the phone for a second and whispered to Betsy. "She thinks it's hot."

"There's no accounting for taste," Betsy said loud enough for everyone to hear. She nodded to the team discretely, sending them the same telepathic message as she met their eyes. #Watch out for each other. Despite appearances, Madripoor isn't all tourists and sailors. Trust no one outside our circle and good luck to you all.#