1965-01-12 - Project Leo: Seek the Lost
Summary: Calling in Nick Fury and Jenny Sparks, the father of a missing soldier of the 107th Division isn't someone to be ignored.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
nick-fury jenny-sparks rogue 


1205 hours. Mott St Market. Chinatown.

At lunch, Mott Street is a blur of colours and transactions, puttering vehicles and handcarts laden by too much produce. Brightly colored spaces overflow with a diminished variety of fruit and veg, whereas butchers do a roaring trade in all kinds of meat and seafood. Scents and sounds collide. Oh, the Financial District might sparkle with the high commerce that makes New York the world's financial heart, but none of that has anything gonna the wild transactions on the frontier. This is living, breathing capitalism in action. Chefs as much as housewives congregate for a deal.

Noise, then, makes for an excellent cover. A newsstand hawks papers in seven languages, magazines in another four. Disregard the disinterested vendor taking coin and making changes, grumbling otherwise over the state of affairs in the sporting world. A boring landmark, but the one Jenny knows to meet a contact with news, news with a capital N. Meetings might be of nowadays, but how many handoffs like this were there to speak of in occupied Europe?

Is her contact the vendor? The Chinese man holding a coffee against the wall around the corner? The grandma watching her grandbaby do the potty dance? Possibly the grumbling gent reading the Bulletin. The housewife carting too many cabbages in a little net? Well, the only ones sticking around are grumbles and vendor.


Clad in white slacks, a white dress shirt, and a brown overcoat, Jenny settles in beside the man with the Bulletin and proceeds to take a long drag from her half-dead cigarette. As is the procedure, a coded message on her answering machine led to a loose brick behind a steakhouse, which brought her to Chinatown hungry for information in whatever form it might take.

Near the filter, she idly remarks, "Warm weather's not so far on the horizon, thank God," without glancing away from the locals and tourists going through their day.


Fury is skulking about as well. He's dressed rather plainly though the eye patch and cigar would give him away. But he's not in plain sight. Leaning against a cart by an alley and simply observing. His distinguishing features kept to the darkness of the dead end on his side. When he takes notice of Jenny that one eye squints. He grunts and slowly moves towards her. Being Nick one could assume he gets pretty close, close enough to pull his zippo and light it as he offers it towards her. "Looks like she's about dead." A nod given to her smoke. If she lets him he will casually light it then sit down. Right in her little meeting. His face is hard but he looks forward to see if she will continue or if she is familiar with the man and the fact that she is…..busted?


There's the expected signal, the encoded warning setting events in motion that might otherwise avoid notice. The vendor takes fifty cents for two papers purchased by the gentleman, grimly handing back a nickel. Housewife goes with her vegetables on her way. The grandma clicks at her grandbaby, and they edge down an alley where he's going to make a soggy mess so stand aside. Long enough for cigars to burn and smoke to cloud, anyways, before a move is made. Sharks can navigate the colourful reef environment without disturbing all the players, though anyone looking too hard will know Caesar Cicero before they see him. It's the cut of the clothes to betray him, and possibly the umbrella carried in case the intermittent clouds lead to a cold, grim downpour just this side of freezing. He does nothing to hide his dapper presence. What would be the point? Instead, he goes straight for Jenny and Fury unless they took pains to conceal themselves from his gimlet gaze, and those of the various men he's got scattered about to report on such things.


Jenny flicks a beat after Fury does, the near-butt getting trampled underfoot as the street shifts to make way for Cicero.

"'s a good thing she's got friends, then, innit?" the British-woman replies with a roll of the eyes and a brisk reach for an inner pocket. She waits until she's finished lighting, puffing, and stowing - all in a brisk, well-practiced motion - to wonder, "Little exposed out here, aren't we?" of Fury while keeping her eyes trained on Cicero.

Because really, what's the point of hiding from anyone, at the moment?

"'less that soup vendor who keeps giving me the eye's one of yours, anyway. I owe the pleasure to anything in particular? Sudden urge to remember the good ol' days, maybe?"


"Agreed." Fury grunts as a large puff of smoke is billowed out, temporairly distorting visuals. But yea, whats the point?! He slightly turns to her. " He aint." He says with authority regarding the soup guy. But he continues. "'Good'?" His tone is mocking. "Nah, but when your up ta' no good yer' up to nah' good. So, level with me." His eye darts over to the mobster and while a respectfull nod is given the shield agents back straightens and a deep breath is taken, minus the cigar as it is removed from his mouth.


Caesar does not move quickly. He barely needs to, a jaunty inevitability in his long camel coat. The lawyer closes in and announces himself without preamble. "Fine day, isn't it? Ma'am." He tips his hat to Jenny, a proof that some things don't survive the transition to America. His hair is still unfairly dark, raven smooth, those dark eyes sharp to detail. "We can dispense with a few of the niceties for expediency. Would you like to walk? Good for conversation, and I have something naturally bound to be of interest to you both." He smiles, mild as a caffe americano. "As it pertains to a amtter from the war."


"Just a lady looking to have a smoke— " Jenny dryly begins after another puff only to pause so she can offer a nod of acknowledgement towards Caesar.

"— and a walk," she finally tacks on once he brings it up, only to have to stop and shift a curious, sidelong look towards Fury as the lawyer finishes up.

"'When you're up to no good, you're up to no good,'" she mutters with an arching brow. "Heads up about the size've the guest list would've been nice," she then grouses to Caesar while resuming her stroll. "Let's have it, then, hm? Our walk and talk."


Fury does not falter. Though he says snothing. He stands and will keep himself surely incerted as they stand, and continue along. "I'm listening." He is apparently not going anywhere but where they are going. A few nods are given to his own agents in place and his hands will hit his pockets and he puffs along on his cigar. Wating to follow and swallow every bit of information they couldn't hope to keep him from obtaining.


The market is mostly open air. It's busy, too, full of souls and beings drawn by fish or a good deal, by all manner of products hawked at reasonable to horrifyingly high prices. Caesar blends in for all his natty clothes could cost a pretty penny. He walks the walk easily enough. "I remember those days," he says, quiet, enough to reminisce. "Worst and best of times. I wasn't at Utah or Omaha Beach, but lost friends who were. Then twenty years later, my son, in peacetime."

Grief makes a short, gritted end to the statement. He doesn't allow more than that to escape his iron grip. "Call me self-interested. But I assure you, it's a matter for you to care about. Four American soldiers disappeared in Normandy, no trace to be found. My resources go deep, my inquiries panned out with nothing. They vanished into thin air ten weeks ago." He shrugs his shoulders a degree, easing the scarf off his shoulder. In hand, his umbrella taps the ground. "My son was in the 107th. He and three friends from his unit were hired to survey sites in Normandy. Good money, solid work. A gig set up by a man who isn't real in a company that was a front, funded by a procession of bank accounts in very interesting cities. Johannesburg. Jakarta. Switzerland, Geneva, where it ends." A grim smile. "Rich people trying to cover their tracks. Unfriendly rich people. Then, a few days ago, four more Americans disappear… Including Steve Rogers."


The gears that began turning once Caesar began to describe the mystery of the disappearing soldiers hitch at Rogers' name. Brown eyes do a double-take, but it isn't until Jenny's released a long stream of smoke in a sigh that she actually responds:

"Hell— Normandy for them, too?" she wonders with arched brows. "Any ties to the first batch— even if it was only checking up after them? Takes a pair to fixate on hunting for soldiers, even for a rich bloke— begs the obvious question of what exactly he - they - are looking to get out of 'em. Whaddyou know about your boy's time in the service? Prior to Normandy."


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