(2014-10-14) October means Oktoberfest
October means Oktoberfest
Summary: Nothing like some beer and brot.
Date: 2014-10-14
Related: None
NPCs: Guy who gets tackled.
Scene Runner: NA
Social/Plot: Social

-==[ Flushing Meadows Park — Queens ]==------——
A large, sprawling expanse of green is one of the largest parks in New York City. Originally used as a dumping ground for the ash produced by all the coal-burning furnaces in the city, the park was cleared and cleaned up in preparation for the 1939 World's Fair. Remnants of that bygone era have been kept up and maintained meticulously all this time. The Perisphere and Trylon stand tall at the dead center of the park. While the attraction is closed to the public, many come by to witness the awe of what was considered a piece of the future as it now takes up a more prominent space in the city's nostalgia.
Aside from the Perisphere, Flushing Meadows also hosts various museums of art, history, and science. It also houses the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center and of course, Citi Field, home of your New York Mets!

Its Oktoberfest, in Queens, where else is Kurt gonna be then, unless there was another festival going on. Alas, this is the one to be at today. Its Flushing Meadow, cool big scuplture that MiB made into a space ship, he'd be remiss not to be hear. Its on the festivities along the main thoroughfare of the park itself. Where there are venders selling food and plenty of beer tents. The fuzzy blue elf isn't wearing a German pride shirt so much as cool hoodie for fall weather and some loose slacks for movement purposes with his agile body. Feet out and proud, tail swining, he's here to get a little drink on. In fact, he's got a dark bock in his hand in an area were there are drinks to be had (don't know if its beer gardens, or open drinking on festival rounds). Taking a swig, and grinning, having to wipe the froth from his face, the fuzz seems to attract it.


Under cover, Blackout, aka Agent Marc Daniels, is seen walking through the merryment wearing casual attire, jeans, black long sleeved t (darkforce) and a black jacket (darkforce) with black boots (darkforce). He meanders through the various persons and seems to be /off duty/ or not inclined to be tracking or observing. He holds a mug by the glass, not the handle.


Due to unforeseen circumstances, like work, Clint Barton missed his own neighborhood's Oktoberfest back in September. Only Brooklyn does something that specifically has Oktober in its name in September. Have to get with City Council on that one.

The air of 'party' is definitely in the air, and Barton is sporting a t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a light-weight jacket over all. On his head, he's sporting an old, faded, tired Jagermeister ball-cap. In one hand, one of the larger brats that can be found in city-limits dripping with all sorts of condiments (way over the sodium allowed by law), and in the other, a deep, chewy beer, held by the top of the glass so the drinking is a bit awkward, but it works anyway.

Barton is seated, more perched, on one of the many benches that dot the park for this auspicious day. In the background, the crowds seem to be making merry, (some even wearing liederhosen) and the boom-boxes blare accordion music.


Kurt isn't expecting to see anyone he knows, its a big city, especially not more Agents of SHIELD (tm). Good thing he isn't looking, though he's somewhere close to walking past Clint and perhaps towards Blackout? He lifts his glass to take a drink, ignoring the leiderhosen. He's not German American remembering old old world traditions and culture, but he gets a kick out of it the same. Curious if he should of brought some just to be festive though.

Then of course, with Clint perched and sticking out a little over there, Kurt notices him - he's not trying to hide, but he's just being Clint it would seem. The elf shakes his head, thinking about turning back, but decides against it, for all he knows they're tracking him again, doing SHIELD-ey stuff. So he moves towards the bench. "Is this like some code," Clint just being there at random, but coming from the paranoid elf, "You have to tell me something?"

Spotting Clint perched on a bench and Kurt joining the area, Marc decides to do something overt and makes his way across the small expanse and approaches from the left. He addresses Clint, "Barton, mind if I join you?" and doesn't wait for an actual answer, instead he takes a seat in the same perched manner as Clint. Giving him a clear view of the festivities beyond them and the fuzzy elf whom he offers a smirk.


There's lots of ways to do business in the city. Shady business doesn't always require shady locations. Sometimes bright, shiny, populated locations work just as well! Somewhere, amidst the people, music, and all sorts of drinking, there is an albino woman. She's about as inconspicuous as she can get with her complexion and sunglasses which don't do much at all to cover the black patch around her left eye, though the jeans shirt, and combat boots at least seem more down to Earth.

She's soon standing next to a scruffy looking fellow that's got half a foot on her height-wise and about three of her width-wise, coming to stand beneath the shade of a tree for a spot of conversation. One envelope goes one way, another envelope goes the other way, heads both dip once, then they part. Quick and easy.


Two-fisted eater and drinker, that Clint Barton. Bite of the brat is taken, which causes the periously perching stuff at the back of the dog to fall in a *splat* at his feet. If one was a good detective, one could discern the line of *splats* from the booth to the table.

Chew… chew… chew… swallow. Wash down with a good dark beer and re-


"Oh, hey Wagner." Barton's tones are light, conversational, and sound somewhat theatric. Either he is staking the guy out, or he's -thrilled- to see him. No really! "Fancy meeting you here." Beat. "At a German fest."

Marc's approach brings Clint's attention around and he scoots over a little. "Hey, hey. Not too close." He's got his beer to think about. "Yeah, sure. C'mon."

Remarkably, Barton doesn't yet notice Domino. Yet.


Kurt is still not sure how to take this Clint character and may not yet recognize Blackout sans darkforce shadows and such. "Ja, ja, nein - I will not play the accordion for you, but if you ask nice enough, I'll give you my mothers recipe for Black Forest German Chocolate Cake." Coincidently, he does not join the other two on the bench, perched, like a bunch of kids from Staten Island and the Jersey shore. He doesn't feel that masculine enough to just sit up their like a stalker, or a SHIELD agent.

"I'll be sure to celebrate your heritage at the 'stoic guys that show up at random festival when least expected'" He doesn't give a beat, but he's grinning all the same. "How's the braut, will I be sad to be so far from home, or disappointed that it wasn't done just right to make me proud?"


Marc has his feet on the bench seat, leaning slightly forward with fingertips on the mouth of his mug and his forearms on his knees while his backside is upon the tabletop itself. He listens to Kurt and Clint exchange words and doesn't bother to interrupt. He's often a man of few words when not wearing the mask.


Seeing this could get more snarky, even if they'll both enjoy it, Kurt shakes his head, "I'll leave that a mystery for whenever I see all the SHIELD files you're collecting right now, good day Agent and his friend." He bamfs out, taking the beer with him at least.


"Black Forest cake. Is that the one with the coconut on it?" Coconut? On a GERMAN cake? Really? "Or with the red cherries?" Barton's questions seem genuine enough, but for the gleam in his eyes behind his ever present sunglasses and maybe the nudge that is meant for Marc. SHIELD frat-boys on a day off.
Definitely. At least Barton.

"I appreciate the gesture though, Wagner. Not sure if the City is up for the craziness that is Iowa." So, Barton's from Iowa? I-o-w-a? The fuzzy blue guy's grin is noted, and at the question, Clint takes a swallow of his beer after a finger is lifted in a 'one sec' gesture from the top of the glass. Swallowed, the agent lifts the dog in question, bathed as it is in all sorts of coatings, and his tones sound a theatric question. "There's a brat under here? Really?"
The disappearance of the teleporter brings a cough at the whiff of brimstone; sulfur is always a good additive to beer and dog. The *bamf* surprises others, and surprised squeaks and screams happen at a rapid interval, as well as the 'ewwwws' from the public.

"Hate it when he does that," is deadpanned.


All's good and well in the merc's world. That is..until Domino's walking away and decides to take a peek inside of the envelope which had been handed her way.

Singles. Where there should have been twenties and fifties. -Singles.- (Oh, you son of a-)

The black on white woman spins about and catches sight of the bigger guy, who also notices her in turn. Then, he's running. She's running after him.
They're both running toward the SHIELD men and the weird fuzzy blue guy. (Wait, is that..?)

Dom knows that fuzzy blue guy, especially the instant he bamfs on out of the festival. It's too late for him but she's now looking very intently at that part of the grounds, and there's someone -else- there that she also recognizes. Sunglasses!

It's a long sprint. The big guy's got a longer stride, turns out he's one hell of a runner! This isn't where she wants to draw a gun and start shooting, either. What's a girl to do?

Call Barton's cellphone.


Marc waves his free hand to wash away the smell, "It's almost like he crop-dusts us."

Marc then nods to the approaching hostiles, "Isn't that Domino? What's she doing over there?"


"You'd think I'd be used to that, then. I swear, DDT smelled better than he does."


The call must have gone through because to look at Barton, he's trying to decide which to put down first… the dog or the beer. Dog doesn't have any protection, and he sure as hell doesn't want to put the beer down for too long. Still, it has to be the beer so he can awkwardly reach into his pocket with his right hand. A push of the screen, and he's got it tucked up against his ear. "Barton."

Clint looks next to him, brows rising before he looks down deep into the crowds to see the albino in hot pursuit of someone. Goddammit.

Barely any time is given for the guy to answer the call and introduce himself before Domino snaps out "Runner, four o'clock, big guy, owe you a beer!"
She doesn't notice Barton first putting his beer down in order to answer the phone.

Odds of Clint's beer not surviving the takedown: Sucker bet.


Marc notes the chase isn't a friendly one and will stand atop the bench seat to get a better view of the going's on. As he does, the darkforce of his shirt flows down beneath his jeans. His left hand reaches to Clint's shoulder. Marc says, "Looks like trouble. Hold still a sec." A second is all he needs as Clint will suddenly feel the darkforce from Marc running across his chest and shoulders beneath his own clothing. It is enough to stop small caliber bullets and knives, it's lightweight (nearly weightless) and completely flexible.


"Being the upstanding citizen she is, apparently," is given the moment Barton hits the 'end' button. Flipping the phone out of the way, he offers to his co-worker. "Big guy, four o'- damn." Okay, this is new, and.. "This the way Cap feels? Because, damn.."

Oh, oh yeah. Takedown.

Clint gets up from his perch and sets the dog onto the top of his glass of beer, praying nothing drips into the dark depths, and all that is needed as the guy barrels towards them, is an opportune foot. Too bad that it's a little high to tangle in the knee, and *crunch*. Hope the guy has insurance for knee-surgery.


Leaping into action, or rather stepping off the bench, Marc will say, "I'm going to call this in." In reality, it's a secret ID thing. He can't just leap into action. And by the time he gets suited up, Clint will have cleaned up the bad guys.



The big guy briefly goes airborne before faceplanting into the ground, sliding a bit further in a manner which can only be described as 'seriously uncomfortable.'

A moment later there's the sound of a "rrrrRRRRR!" coming closer before a black and white missile shoots past both Clint and Blackout only to leap into the air and -slam- down onto the big guy's back.

"Friends in high places, -suck it!-"

Somewhere between the downed runner and the Blackforce Duet is a crumpled plastic cup, some very dark brown stout spattered across the ground, and one very soggy and roughly disassembled condiment-filled bun.

Oh, and a half-eaten brat.

Most of the bystanders stare onward in stupefied silence.

One guy slowly starts to clap.

Before long, lots of people are clapping.

Domino sits upright atop the big guy's back, looks around, then ducks her head and raises a triumphant fist into the air. Hell, why not.


Even Clint is one of those that just stares as the black and white blur heads past, riding the road-rash express. First thought isn't the pair on the ground, oh no. It's his beer and dog; this sort of stuff happens every day. No, really it does.

It's when he realizes that the only casualty that means much of anything to him are those two items. There, Clint Barton stands, a brief wave given to the departing Marc, and his shoulders drop as the applause begins. It's… they're… dead. To look back at the triumphant Domino just in time for her to raise her fist into the air- his gesture is a little more subtle.

Face, meet palm.


Climbing off of the big fellow is simple enough. Pushing him onto his side, that takes a bit more effort. But, after a fortunate takedown Domino's taking back her envelope, dammitall.

And keeping the one filled with singles.

And keeping the big guy's wallet.

As the bystanders go back to their own business she blatantly flips open his wallet and starts picking through the bills before the entire wad is tugged out. Gutted, she tosses the worn brown leather shell back to the unconscious form.

Then she retrieves Barton's former plastic cup and relocates it near where the other guy fell. "Some guys just can't hold their beer," she tells Barton with a smirk. Holding up the wad of stolen money, she simply asks "Hammertime?" with what might be translated as a hopeful glint in her eyes. Except..that..huh. Clint's got some black gunk over part of his person. "Then..maybe we can have that looked at."

The two don't get very far before the albino sides to the archer, "Your partner's totally hot."

(feel free to tag the log with character names of those involved!)

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