Bruno's Restaurant High class and a bit pretentious, this New York bistro is dimly lit and decorated with glass and metal sculpted furniture in a cool color pallette. There's a few hanging art pieces here and there. The wait staff are clad in tastefully understated serving outfits with bow ties and aprons and the menu is a combination of Italian traditional and New World cuisine. Clearly a bit uncomfortable with his surroundings, a young, yellow-haired man in a plain navy business suit sits alone at the bar, turned around on his seat and watching the people inside the restaurant. He's probably been nursing the brandy in his hand ever since he got here, whenever that was, judging by the tenseness he exudes. Every once in awhile, he catches a snippet of conversation, floating up from the ill-defined hum of pleasant voices - but he's not really listening to them. He's listening to the bartender behind him. Sandy Hawkins: Reasonably tall, but nonthreatening at first and second glances, this young blond man with touseled curls has an easygoing demeanor about him. His - Sand's - eyes are a bright cornflower blue, guarded yet friendly; his nose is straight and his clean-shaven jaw a bit pointed. The man's build is that of an adventurer, with powerful shoulders tapering down to a fit waist and stomach; for those that look more than twice, you can see that for all his apparent relaxation, he's extremely alert and aware of his surroundings. Sanderson's wearing a plain, standard navy blue heavy cotton suit and a black tie. The suit jacket is unbuttoned, exposing a spotless button-down shirt and loose black tie; his oxford collar is ironed straight, but also loose - it looks like the top button isn't even there. If he turns suddenly, you can see a leather gun harness under his jacket. On his feet are worn black dress shoes. Chris Chance: Standing at about 6' and having a lean and well cut physique, this man has a slightly aloof and secretive manner. He has dark brown hair, close cropped, feathered, and stylishly cut. He's going prematurely gray at his sideburns and around the lower back of his scalp. He has dark features that have been worn a little by experience and time, with a dimpled lantern jaw, slightly upturned nose, and a pair of thoughful steel gray eyes. He wears a profoundly tasteful and stylish outfit that manages to combine classic simplicity with modern fashion. A sharply tailored black sports jacket with a broad lapel is buttoned at the waist and worn over a sand colored turtleneck buttonless shirt that fits tightly over his chest. His slacks are crisp and clean and of the same black shade as his jacket. On his feet are a pair of dark tan socks and dark brown Italian loafers. A gold watch glitters on his right wrist. You also note a pair of mirror shades either worn over his eyes or dangling from his jacket's breast pocket. All in all, he looks like a man who is very conscious of his appearance. Possessing a self-assuredness verging on a swagger, this person carries himself well and presents a very fashionable and professional figure. His charming good looks and the canny look in his eye combine for an air of mystery and danger. The goateed brown haired bartender speaks on his cellphone to someone named 'Lola' like he's been doing off and on all night. "Lola, honey. No no, honey. Relax. She was just dropping off my watch. Left it..Lola, honey. Sweetheart. Lola, listen, I'm really swamped here..." Meanwhile, a cluster of young men and women clad in fashionable and 'arty' attire sit and discuss a play in which a man danced for three hours in a suit covered with Jello pudding packs. They've just finished resolving the Jungian aspect of the playwright's vision and are now delving into a discussion about the music, which was apparently played by a trained seal and a cellist. Here and there in other spots, men and women in couples talk in low voices in shadowy alcoves, chuckling in throaty voices. Quite a scene. Chris Chance enters quietly, looking relatively conservative compared to some of the others. Bland even. He has a coat around his arm which is quickly taken by a ducking and bowing maitre'd. The man says something in a thick Italian accent to Chance, escorting him to what must be his usual spot - a booth in a far corner, out of the light, facing the front door. "Thank you, Tony. Bruno in?" Tony ducks his head and nods, then goes off to the kitchen, presumably to fetch Bruno from his office. The lone suited man at the bar shifts a little in his seat, finally - and with a fatalistic reluctance - raising his glass and taking a slow sip of the brandy. He watches the obvious respect (bordering on obsequiousness) of the maitre'd with interest, taking in the appearance of the man he's seating with a silent, watchful eye. He's barely able to hear the exchange, not really able to make out the words - but he catches an inquisitive tone. For all out silent watcher knows, the fellow could be asking if there's a bottle of three-hundred-year-old red wine in the back. He certainly looks the type. Chris Chance removes a cigar from an inside pocket. He runs it under his nose, sniffing it like the tobacco connosseiur he is. He lights up with a snapped open lighter which is pointlessly expensive looking. He rests his arms on his elbows, hands before his chin, one palm laid over the fist of the other. He puffs away and the smoke obscures his features. Bruno appears finally - a portly man with black hair tied back in a ponytail, his features likable but well-worn. He has a briefcase in hand, which he sets down by Chris's side. He then pulls a chair up and takes a seat. Ooh. A deal - not Napoleon's booze. Okay, so that would only be two hundredish years or less, but still...a briefcase tends to indicate something interesting is about to go down. Sandy Hawkins polishes off his brandy and leans back, elbows against the counter's edge, able to mostly ignore the pretentious conversations and the bartender's love life now that he has a focus. He listens even more carefully, trying to catch whatever words he can from the dimly-lit corner; he orders another brandy. This could very well be the very situation he's looking for. Chris Chance's eyes turn to Bruno. Sandy can make out a few words through the hubub and by trying to read lips. He says some sort of greeting and then definitely says "Saunders". Its a statement of fact, a comment. He then taps the case with a disgustingly expensive shoe and adds something about "Extra" and "Unexpected". Bruno looks critically at Chris and shrugs meaningfully, as if to say 'So what's new?'. He then takes a piece of paper out, eyes it, says something referring to it, then passes it across the table to Chris, face down. Chris turns the slip over and eyes with with a pokerface. He then snicks ash from his smoking cigar into a nearby ashtray, still studying the paper. His suspicion confirmed, Sandy takes this moment to -stare- at Christopher Chance. He doesn't even remotely have the same build as the old Vigilante. Build, bearing, attitude - it's as if James Bond had taken on the guise of Santa Claus and fooled the bloody reindeer. Carefully, absently, the old crimefighter works on his second drink, giving all his attention to the exchange that's as much his business as a housewife's sexual liasions with the mailman are the business of an Iraqi spy. He's patient. He can wait for Bruno to leave Chance's table. Chris Chance asks for and recieves a pen from Bruno. He scribbles something on the piece of paper, then turns the mysterious slip back over and slides it across the table back to the bistro owner. He then goes back to watching the crowd and emitting clouds of tobacco smoke from his cuban cigar. Bruno eyes the slip. His eyebrows shoot up on his balding forehead, but he makes no futher comment, simply nodding. He gets up and waves at the smoke. He makes a smiling but biting comment about Chance's taste in vices, then pats his associate on the shoulder and walks to the bar. "Hey, Linus. Any calls for me?" The bartender (who has long since hung up on Lola) shakes his head and goes back to polishing the counter. Bruno glances around to see that all is in order and then heads towards the kitchen once more. Waiting calmly until Bruno heads into the kitchen, Sanderson finally stands, cracking his back and setting his brandy on the counter. Taking his time, he digs in his pockets and finally comes up with a beat-up pack of Luckies and his Zippo. Have to have -something- to combat the fearsome stench of a fine Cuban cigar, neh? Movements precise and understated, he lights his cigarette and once more pockets the pack and the lighter, then picks up the glass again and wanders nonchalantly over to Chance's booth. Enter sassy waitron number 33. The young man has a stylish air about him, and a disaffected manner that fits in perfectly with the rest. In fact, he's nearly indistinguishable, looking far too similar to so many of the other staff of the bistro. He heads straight up to the table where Sand and Chris are currently sitting, looking sufficiently bored (and yet so helpful...). With a slight smirk, he looks between the two of them. "Mr. Chance?" He doesn't appear to be able to tell which is which. Obviously he's not familiar with Chris's face. Chris Chance's eyes swivel up to regard first Sandy and then the other figure as they approach. He takes the cigar out of his mouth, exhales smoke, and sits it down on the lip of the glass ashtray and rests a hand on the table next to it. His brow creases a little as he studies them both briefly. They certainly don't -look- like they're together. His face betrays only a faint doubt. "Pardon me?" he asks, looking at the man as he speaks. Sandy Hawkins glances over to Number Thirty-Three, giving him a skeptical look and a vague sort of 'don't look at -me-' gesture. "I'm certainly not the one you're looking for," he says quietly, then pauses to take a drag of his cigarette. He blows the smoke ceilingward, then returns his attention to the waiter. "You got here first and I'll take longer, so you go ahead." Eyeing Chris for a second, the blond man proceeds to indicate the seat opposite Mr. Style with the hand holding the alcohol. "And since I don't have a Snickers bar, mind if I sit out the wait?" Chris Chance's register no hint of recognition as he motions Sandy to the chair wordlessly. He returns his attention to 33, looking studiously neutral about the presence of both men interrupting his quiet smoke. Seamlessly, the waiter produces a silver platter from behind his back. The kind with the large, shiny, bell shaped lids, and places it before Christopher. "A message for you, sir." Smiling at both Chris and Sand, the waiter doesn't go away. Perhaps he's just waiting to take the phone away after Chance is done. I mean, it's got to be a phone he's bringing...right? Chris Chance nods slowly to the waiter. "I see." He removes the lid and... Sandy Hawkins takes the seat wordlessly, sitting on the edge of the booth cushion so he can at least look at the door with very little effort, even though he can't face it. Ah, making himself right at home, is he? Sets his glass down on the table and eyes the platter, holding his cigarette away from him. No explosion. No nothing really. The platter lid moves seemlessly away from the platter itself. On the tray, a simple business card can be seen, face down. Hands behind his back, the waiter looks on. Is he expecting a tip of something? Another brief grin over to Sand, and then back to Chris, watching his actions casually while still attempting to look as bored and carefree as possible. Chris Chance reaches across and flips the card over, an eyebrow slanting a little upwards. And our terse interloping friend just sits there and smokes, waiting for Chris to finish up with the card and the waiter. Only problem is, he saw the lack of recognition in the other man's face, and suspected that he was in for a conversation filled with denial. Chris Chance looks up from the card, mouth dropping open into a small 'o' and his eyes widening signifigantly. All pretense of calm and ease of temper leaves his slackening features as he looks up towards the 'waiter'. "It's a message from Don Vittoni." Whipping out what appears to be a automatic pistol from his waistband, the guy that was assumed to be a waiter points at Chris and fires. His movements are smooth and assured, and should take those around him completely by surprise. "Rest in peace, sucker!" Human Target, indeed. Right. No one but the Flash is fast enough to stop the firing of a gun at point blank range. Sandy, however, is fast enough to at least make a grab for the mook - or more like a leg extended behind the man and a shove at his chest. "You -moron-!" he exclaims as he does so, standing and drawing his gasgun with his other hand. Ouch - that means the cigarette hand did the shoving. There's a SPANG and a hole appears in the platter that Chance has poised suddenly over his chest. He tosses it aside as Sandy reaches for the hitman. Suffieciently shoved...and burned, no less, by Sand, the waiter pitches backward with a grimace. He was expecting trouble, but he obviously didn't realize how much. His eyes go wild as he sees Chris's quick relexes...as does his aim, knocking a bit of plaster out of the roof with a couple more shots. The crowd inside the bistro has varied reactions. Some panic, some hit the ground reflexively. There's even a few screams of terror. It doesn't take long for the assassin to recover. On the ground, he pulls out a long boot knife, and swipes toward Sand's shin. As the guy on the ground does a situp, reaching for the shin of the man standing at his feet, Sandy resolves to always wear his combat boots from now on. Always. Screw image, leather is a good thing to have protecting muscle and tendon. Shuffling back slightly, just in case, the irate ex-All-Star leans forward a bit and fires a thick, brief stream of knockout/nightmare gas into the face of the attacker. Again, it's concentrated, and again, it's quick-working. Chris Chance gets to his feet and looks from the killer Sandy's dealing with towards the rest of the restaurant, looking for other trouble. He then covers his mouth as the gas is shot out from the strange weapon Sandy weilds. Quickly shoving his gasgun back in its holster, Sandy looks a tad disgustedly at the fellow on the floor. Then, easy as you please, back goes the cigarette for another drag. "You get that a lot?" he asks around the butt, glancing up at Chris. Chris Chance takes a moment to sniff the air experimentally, then says "Saunders talked." He walks around from behind the table, absently adjusting his collar and looking down at the fallen mobster. "You expected him to keep his mouth shut?" asks Sandy, surprised. "You knew his mannerisms well enough to fool me - you should have known no one'd entrust him with CIA secrets," he adds in a very low voice, almost to himself, eyes getting a little distant. Then abruptly, conversationally, "Very good man. Enthusiastic." Bruno appears and looks aghast at what the still shaking wait staff must have told him. He walks over. "Chris - I don't know how he got past security. I'm so..." "Skip it, Bruno. We've got bigger problems." Christopher says, motioning down at the mobster. "Cops'll be here soon." He looks up at Sandy, looking thoroughly disgusted. "Lets try and get our story straight and then we can talk, Hawkins." Sand Hawkins holds his hands up and takes his cigarette from his mouth, raising his eyebrows. "It's your party," he says easily. "I'm just in it for the free beer." Unable to resist, he adds, "And at least he's not dead." Hours later.... Bruno's is dark now. Tables and chairs are turned up into resting positions until the next day's business. The few lights that are on illuminate the bar - and that illumination is faint and dim. A soft sound of Mediterranean jazz from a radio behind the bar provides the only sounds other than the clink of Bruno working behind the bar and checking the stock. Chris Chance sits hunked over the bar, looking a bit fatigued and less well-kept than before. He has a martini glass on the counter in front of him. He checks his watch. "Must be signing autographs." "Don't be an ass," says Sand's voice pleasantly from behind Chris. The freedom fighter swings into the barstool next to the Human Target, tucking something into the breast pocket on the inside of his jacket. He raises a hand slightly and briefly to the tender and inclines his head. "Another brandy, willya? I'm on a roll tonight." Bruno looks over, casting a dubious glance at Chris before he goes about fixing the drink. And one for himself (from the good stuff). He looks more beat than Chris. Chris Chance glances at Sandy with a canny and slightly amused expression, like a man observing a stand up comic he doesn't quite understand. He sips from his martini glass, gingerly balancing it as he drinks. Setting it down gently, he says "On my tab, Bruno. I may owe Mr. Hawkins here. Or I might not. Haven't decided yet, but I'm letting the better angels of my nature take the rein after what happened." Putting it right out there on the table, metaphorically speaking, Sandy grins slightly and shakes his head. "Thanks...like I said, I'm never one to refuse free liquor - but I seriously doubt I owe you. You're obviously more than capable of handling whatever gets thrown in your lap." He pauses, nodding his thanks to Bruno, then quickly tossing back a mouthful. "All the same, I don't believe my curiosity's cost you anything." The Human Target regards Sandy's face curiously, reading the wrinkles, the eye movements - stocking a personal catalog, perhaps. He speaks amiably, but there's a stubborn edge to his voice. "Maybe not, Hawkins. But I'm a man who likes to keep his activities and his clientele a dead secret. No fault of your own that you discerned the fact that I wasn't the Greg Saunders you know, I admit. Still, I'm not a freelance volunteer. I work for a profit. I keep a list of business contacts. And, frankly, if they ever hear about what happened, my reputation's going in the toilet." He motions to the martini glass. "Hit me, Bruno." Bruno accedes with a pouring of more juice into the glass. "Maybe you do owe me, then," says the blond man very quietly. "I wasn't -that- sure Mr.- Greg wouldn't kill someone. Like I said, I don't know what he did when he was back in time. But when I knew him, he wouldn't have, and that was the only thing that set me off." Sandy stares into his brandy for a moment, then looks up and watches Chance's face as he speaks carefully, cautiously. "If you're worried about me taking advantage of my knowledge...I have to figure out some way to make you believe I wouldn't. But you don't strike me as a particularly trusting man." He takes another sip of his drink, then grins suddenly. "Please, correct me if I'm wrong." Chris Chance shakes his head, smiling humorlessly. "No, Mr. Hawkins. You're on the money. I've learned to establish a certain degree of respect for distance and enigmas. And I don't appreciate the thought of that veil being broken. Meaningfully or not." He leans an elbow on the counter. "So - impress me with your ability to keep a secret." Laughing slightly - tinged with irony, but honestly entertained - Sandy finishes his glass of Brandy. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that? I can tell you how long I've kept secrets, I can tell you I know things from before you were born that would make even someone like you wish they'd gone easier on their lunch; I can tell you I know the secret identities of most of the old All-Star Squadron and quite a number of modern masks; I can tell you anything I like, but why would you believe me?" He shakes his head, setting the glass down, and rubs his nose between his eyes tiredly. "No, Mr. Chance, you need to suggest the means." There's a significant pause, and he looks up again, watching once more, letting the Human Target know that he knows precisely what he's offering. Chris Chance's mouth settles into a fine line, eyes observant and wary still. He then he makes a vague sort of shrug. "Hawkins - you want to make a deal of some sort?" Sand Hawkins sighs almost imperceptibly, disappointed - but also impressed, if it can be believed. Chance didn't provide him with a means of trust...but he also didn't make like a complete and total bastard and take advantage of the opportunity Sandy presented. "No, I don't want to make a deal. I don't -make- deals." There's a pause, as the younger-looking man glances at his empty glass, then apparently decides against getting more. "The best I have to offer you is my word that I won't be indiscreet. My word, or whatever oath you'll take from me." It's obvious he takes this, at least, deadly seriously. Chris Chance shifts his head as Sand speaks, weighing the words and the validity of them. The truth and earnestness of the voice. "I'm almost inclined to take you at your word, there, Hawkins. I know you and your old crew well enough from research to not doubt that you mean it. Only thing is," He removes a cigar from inside of his jacket and lights up with a match from a matchbook on the bar. "I know how impressive a good front can be. I put them on all the time. Sometimes I can be downright honorable. Most of the time, though, I'm more interested in what I can benefit from any association I choose to make." He takes a long drag on his cigar. "Maybe - well, you have certain associations that might be useful to me. I don't ask this lightly or of anyone I have doubts about, but; can I borrow your face sometime?" Considering this equally as gravely as Chance had considered him, Sand is silent for a long moment. He'd already made up his mind to begin to trust the other man, as certain things about him - things Sand held as nearly irrefutable, even though they're hard to even find a word for - indicated strongly that no matter what impressive front he put up, beneath it all was one of the Good Guys. Naturally, he'd be loathe to even think that consciously, nevermind say it out loud. Finally he meets Christopher Chance's eyes again and inclines his head. "Before I agree, will you swear not to kill anyone while wearing my face?" He's fairly certain he's a good enough judge of character that he wouldn't have to worry about any other things he'd consider morally reprehensible. Chris Chance nods, simply. "I assure you that I will not use lethal force unless another person's life is in danger or I have no other recourse." Contractually obligated to add those last bits, from the sound of it. Sand Hawkins stands, then, and straightens his suit jacket. He extends his hand and raises his eyebrows. "You have my permission, and I assume I have at least enough trust from you that you don't consider me a loose end." He looks slightly pained. "And this certainly isn't a deal, since you got out of it with far more than you came in carrying." Chris Chance shakes the hand. A firm and dry handshake, like Fleming used to talk about. He smiles with a faint glimmer in his eye. "Did I?" "In my opinion, yes," says Sandy frankly, hooking his thumbs into his pockets once his hand is disengaged. "But then, I'm used to being taken simply at my word. Maybe I'd better get used to it," he adds as a slightly bitter afterthought. A pause. "Good evening to you, Mr. Chance." Chris Chance nods and says "Good evening to you, Mr. Hawkins." He raises his cigar in a sort of toast and starts puffing once more. "Keep in touch."