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Betty strode out of the crowded, noisy, sunny afternoon into The Last Chance and sighed with relief when she walked into the blessedly quieter music, warm lighting, and a room full of more empty tables than occupied ones. Which made sense at 2:30. The lunch rush was done and the after-school surge hadn’t hit yet.
The glasses sparkled and the bar shone from recent polishing and smelled faintly of lemon, not harsher cleaners. When the bartender got to her, Betty didn't hesitate to order, "An Armagnac sidecar, please, and water with lime, if you would." Just because she was in a mood to commit a murder didn't mean she was going to take it out on (she checked the name tag) Annette.
"On it." Annette rolled a chilled glass through sugar, then set it by her station and put ice in the shaker. "And I’m just going to mention that whoever they are, it's not worth the prison sentence."
Betty had to laugh at that. "Oh, definitely not. And I'd be..." She considered. "Not the first suspect, but high up the list. No worries."
"Ah. Are we talking your classic murder mystery?" Annette asked her, fascinated as she measured out proper Armagnac and Cointreau to go with the lemon juice. "I mean, the kind of guy or gal where it's simpler to list who doesn't want to kill them?"
"Yes. However, since the problem is also my father, I'm not about to be that stupid. I did say prime suspect." Betty sighed and said, "So, a drink, catch my breath, then go change my phone number. Again."
Annette nodded once and asked easily, "You need an angel shot?" The biceps that flexed as she shook the drink suggested strongly that she didn’t believe in ever skipping arm day.
Given the offer, Betty appreciated that, but she wasn’t dragging a bartender or even a cop into this. If it came to that, she would call Pepper Potts and accept that job offer with Stark Industries. SI came with a side-benefit of making her father very miserable, after all. "No, but thank you," Betty told her, getting a quick appraisal followed by a smile.
Betty tipped well with cash when the drinks arrived, smiled back at Annette, and promised, "I'm all right. Thanks again." Betty automatically evaluated the room for trouble as she threaded her way to a four-top with a view of front and back doors and a chair against the wall.
Since she hadn't found any, she put the water down, took a sip of her sidecar and savored both the alcohol and the sugar. Her stomach rumbled, which... yeah, quarter of three. Fine. She'd get a bodega sandwich after this. For right now, she settled for keeping an eye on her drinks as she pulled a travel brush from her purse and began to unbraid and detangle her hair, for the self-soothing and also to remove any possibility of being grabbed by it if her father had tried to send one of his men again. Illegal though that was, so far she’d been blocked from pressing charges.
The drinks were almost gone by the time she tied off her braid again. The good news was that meant her hair was coiled around her head and out of her eyes as well as anyone’s grip. The bad news was that meant she'd had two shots of alcohol on a too-empty stomach.
Betty was quite sure, though, that she wasn't tipsy enough to be wrong: the guy who came through the door was mobile, sentient, and... fuzzy?
But he walked up to the bar, barely noticing the people clearing out of his way, hopped up on a barstool, and had no trouble producing an ID when Annette asked for one. "What I need," he said, "is more sanity. What I can hopefully get is a hurricane, please."
"I can do that for you," Annette agreed, making it quickly and smiling at him for the tip he offered.
Betty had planned to get her purse and get out -- weird was rarely calm, in her experience -- until she saw his eyes. She recognized that expression all too well and found herself lifting a hand to get his attention and waving to the other seat at her table, the one she'd already moved against the wall. She had to move her purse, slinging it crossbody, but that was all right.
He gave her a very dubious look. "I mean, it's nice of you, but you are way out of my league and honestly, it's been a day."
"I'm not looking to date," Betty told him, "and I bought a drink instead of going home to make tea and dinner. Betty Ross." She considered him, then added, "Dr. Betty Ross, actually."
"Oh, how cool. Scooter. Please.” He flopped onto the seat, more literally than most humans could, and asked, "Talk to me about something that isn't guest stars with ruptured appendix...es? ...ices?” He shrugged and gave up on that, "Or diva pigs, or sets being destroyed by lumbering but apologetic idiots? I couldn't even yell at Sweetums; he was already as upset as I was. It's not his fault Gonzo miscalculated the trajectory again and clipped him in the back of the knee."
Betty blinked. "Diva... no, I'm sorry, I have to ask: what was the trajectory supposed to be, what did he hit poor Sweetums with, and I'm an Army brat: would you like me to come lecture Gonzo on clearing his field of fire before he shoots?"
Scooter had been sipping his hurricane, a drink that came close enough to his shade of fuzz that it wouldn't even stain his mouth. He sat upright, ignoring his straw, and said, "If I had money I would pay you for that. I can offer a free ticket to this week's show, at least? Over to stage left; Gonzo always slews right. But it comes with Statler and Waldorf above you, so um, careful of the cleavage. They're usually just old men, not dirty, but um."
Betty waved that off. "I've been ignoring men without manners my entire life." Starting with her father, and his. She considered Scooter, taking in the worn, neatly mended clothes, the way he was clearly used to smiling at strangers... and she shrugged. "SIM card's out, battery's out, and I already checked for any bugs anywhere on me. Shall we go talk to this Gonzo when you're done with that drink? By way of a food truck, I’m afraid. I need dinner, and so will you after that." Compared to his size, the hurricane was almost the equivalent of the one she’d gotten in New Orleans one memorable Mardi Gras.
"I would really love that, but I get paid the small bucks, so I'll get dinner back at the theater.” Scooter waved that off, barely distracted at all. "Seriously, you're going to... wait. Field of fire still applies if it's not a gun, right?"
"You did say trajectory. What is he firing, then?" Betty asked, fascinated and trying not to lean in and loom over Scooter.
"Oh, Gonzo was shooting himself out of the cannon again. But he usually manages to at least clear the stage. Honestly, most of the time, he smacks into the back wall, but we can only patch that so many times, so he was trying a lower powder charge," Scooter explained while Betty stared and tried not to start laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole discussion.
"I... is Gonzo like you?" She gestured, meaning his fuzziness.
"Really, Gonzo is like Gonzo," Scooter sighed. "But if you mean is he human like you, then no. He's a muppet, sort of like me. Honestly, no one else is like Gonzo, even for us."
"Okay. Gonzo's small enough to fit in a cannon and crazy enough to do it repeatedly, Sweetums is over seven feet, and you also have a diva pig.” She shrugged. "If it makes you feel any better, I have a father who's an Army general and, sadly, an utter asshole. I also have practice dealing with the Hulk, so Sweetums should be no problem."
"Oh! You know the Hulk? Do you suppose he'd come do a show with us?" Scooter asked immediately, brightening almost literally. "I mean, we could do a fund-raiser, donate half the profits to the Harlem rebuilding fund. But he's huge, so Sweetums would love it, and our MC, Kermit, is a slightly lighter green and could maybe help with the anger issues? Kermit’s a frog and a really nice, chill guy even for an amphibian. God help him, seeing as, you know, he's also our MC," Scooter finishes and ducked his head to go back to his drink.
"Your Master of Ceremonies is a frog named Kermit." Betty finished her last sip, a little worried by how fast Scooter was going through his hurricane. She'd be buying for two at the food truck. "And I don't think Hulk would cope well with stage directions, but I'll mention the offer the next time I see him."
"I'll explain about the pig on the way to the theater," Scooter said, "but what kind of day did you have that you offered me a table? I mean, I know my last nerve had stiletto footprints on it and I probably looked like it."
"I recognized the expression from my mirror, yes,” Betty said dryly. "No, my father only wants me to come back to work for him. Never mind I spent more time in therapy talking about him than about the boyfriend who had to flee the country.”
She waved that away while Scooter was still staring. “He may be my father, but he is not a good example. Not of leadership, not of proper behavior, certainly not scientific or bio-ethics…. Mom was wonderful, and I miss her so damn much, but I swear, I think she died young to get away from him. Me, I'm just walking away so it doesn’t come to that."
Her smile sharpened to the edges of that one X-Man's claws. "But I'm set so that I can walk away, too."
Scooter sipped more of his hurricane, then asked, very politely, "Could you come smile at our landlord like that for me, as long as I'm trading you tickets for assistance? I mean, I'd happily give you a season subscription if you can terrorize him into actually doing the maintenance on the building. Instead of us having to do our best and hope it holds."
Betty laughed and said, "I'll change my lipstick after dinner and handle it for you, sure." She had a blood-crimson which would do the job very nicely; it always had at staff meetings. It might even be a nice consolation for not getting to destroy her father.
She smiled at Scooter and said, "Tell me about your show? A frog MC sounds like something the college crowd should love, and I might have to go back to teaching if I can't find a chemistry job instead."
Scooter perked up and said, "Oh! I'll have to introduce you to Dr. Honeydew! He's a genius at grant writing. Some years, he's all that holds our finances together. Of course, then he blows the roof off the stage."
Betty laughed and told him, "Scooter, this sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship."
They settled in to talk show business, busy shows, and Casablanca for a while.
Betty could look into the SI job offer later.