Would You Like Fries With That?

July 13, 2015:

Kamala does a shady deal for a car in Gotham. Some drunk people show up. Pietro saves them all.

A Gotham Alley


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It cost a lot of her savings, but her parents chipped in half the money. It's a beater, it needs a paint job, it needs… a lot of work, actually, but nothing she can't manage. It's a slightly shabby Mazda hatchback with peeled-off bumper stickers and a slightly worrying moldy/applejuicey smell in the back seat, but Kamala has a car.

But here she is — in a slightly seedy neighborhood of Gotham City (though what neighborhood of Gotham isn't seedy?) passing the cash over for her very first car to a slightly weaselly-looking guy with bad facial hair. Hopefully an envelope of a cool grand in cash isn't temptation to anyone else on the street…

Psh. Who needs a car in New York? Who wants a car in New York unless you want to pick up extra cash delivering pizza or driving for Uber?
Pietro has been going here, there and everywhere searching for any trace of Kitty. But even with his speed, he can only cover so much ground. And what if she appeared where he just was? It's something of a futile effort. He's beginning to think either the worst has happened…or she just decided to leave town. He gives the second option more weight than the first, being a nomadic sort himself. Also, that's the less worrying option, if the slightly more heartbreaking one.
He's been searching for the last hour and now sits with his feet dangling off a fire escape. He's eating a cheeseburger. You know he's depressed because he's only eating it with the speed of a famished teenager rather than it disappearing in a silver blur. He's got half an eye on the exchange below, but he's not really paying too much attention.

This is one of those rare nights where Ollie decided to break out the bottle of vodka he's been carrying with him for so long. This time he shared some with Felicity. It took a while, but the CEO managed to talk the IT girl into having a drink with him in his office. For him, it's a relief to be able to have a drink and a decent conversation without having to hide anything.

One drink led to two, and then into a cab and to a nearby pub. It's now an hour later and Oliver is emerging with thoroughly pink cheeks and a twinkle in his eye. The kind of twinkle that you get from drinking too much vodka while not keeping secrets. "C'mon," he urges Felicity along behind him.

"Nooooo," Felicity is behind Oliver and is a little too drunk for polite company. "II think" She moves toward the curb nearby the weaselly-looking man, looking a bit green and as if she may throw up. "This is—-you are a bad CEO, Oliver Queen. A bad one. Why would you do this to someone?" A wobbly hand reaches out to grab at the possible ne'er do well to steady herself, perhaps thinking it was Oliver.

"I thought we were becoming friends, but I think you're actually trying to kill me." Her eyes glance upward, catching Pietro and his hamburger before they move downward toward the ground again.

The Kingpin comes into Midtown Manhattan from Lower Manhattan.

The Kingpin heads out to Upper Manhattan.

Strangely enough, Weaselly Guy doesn't appear to be trying to scam Kamala. At least, he actually has the title to the car and it seems to be in his name. But he is looking furtively up and down the street and jingling the keys and checking the time on his phone.

Which is more or less when another trio of guys who look distinctly less weaselly and distinctly more like bruisers come ambling out. Were they in an alley? In that old warehouse across the street that hasn't been gentrified into a nightclub? Was anyone really paying attention? One of them is idly hefting a baseball bat. Another one has a chain in hand. A third is twirling a butterfly knife.

Kamala, seeing this, swallows and settles her back against the car. Weaselly Guy, however, starts stammering and actually holds out the envelope of money to them. "G-guys," he begins, "I got the money. I got the money! I got the money you asked for; it's all of it right here."

"Yer late is the thing," says Baseball Bat. "You owed us on Friday. It's Monday. That's three days. There's surcharges."

"But I got you the money!" Weaselly wails.

"Guys," Kamala begins. "You really don't want to be doing this. Seriously?"

"Or what?" sneers Baseball Bat. "Who's gonna stop us?"

Quicksilver should have really known better than to stop for a snack in freaking Gotham. This is the place he goes when he's bored, not a place he goes to chill out. There's always some shit going down. He takes his time eating his burger (which is about five seconds in normal people time), then he stands. If Felicity or anyone else is looking his way, he'll be there one minute and gone the next, with nothing but the rustle of a dropped burger wrapper to indicate he was ever there. The wrapper drifts down to the alley below like a fall leaf, all yellow and crinkled. The question is…where did he disappear to?
There's a flurry of motion behind one of the toughs. Then, he…punches himself in the face? What the hell? Hard enough to leave a bruise, even.

"I AM a bad CEO," Oliver acknowledges. "And we're definitely friends. Hey, you should come work for me." He pauses and wrinkles his nose. "Well, you already work for me. But I mean, like, for ME."

He's looking almost straight up in the air when he runs chest-first into Felicity's back. "Oof. See, you should be my ass'tint." Cough. "Assassint." Squint. "My sidekick. It'll be fun. Why'd you stop? Why is it windy? C'monnnn, I want waffles."

This new flurry of activity brings a look of consternation to his face. "You boys mind your manners," he chides, wagging a finger. "I punched a bear one time. So I don't want any trouble from you."

And Felicity is right in the middle of whatever this fight and exchange of money might be. Great. The drunk IT woman looks between the approaching men with a few slow blinks as she starts to assess the situation. Then, she decides the most dangerous thing here is Oliver calling her an ass'tint. Or an Assassint. Whatever it is. "I have a degree from MIT, I'm not going to be some personal a-siss-tant." She sounds it out to make sure he gets it done properly. Then, she tilts her head. "Did you really punch a bear?"

In the blink of an eye, one of the men has their face punched. By…himself? What is going on? She must be drunker than she thinks.

"Holy — "

Chains rubs his jaw in bafflement. He just punched himself. He's confused. He's OFTEN confused, and when he gets confused, he gets angry. Angrier. Unsurprisingly, Chains is angry a lot.

Baseball Bat doesn't even glance back, though Knife Boy is looking anxiously and furtively around. He's the most wiry of the trio, and he twirls that little knife of his as if he knows what he's doing.

Kamala may be a little shocked, but this isn't the first time she's seen something like this happen. When in doubt, play along.

"You don't want the kind of trouble you're gonna get if you don't back off. You leave this guy alone or you'll get what's coming to you."

"What did you DO?" Chains bellows, clearly upset.

"Just a taste of what's coming if you don't back off," Kamala replies, bluffing like a champ. She elbows Weaselly: "You better clear out, buddy, before this gets ugly. Apparently there's someone in my posse who punches bears."

Baseball Bat is starting to lose control of the situation and he knows it. He points his bat at Oliver: "You just keep on moving, pretty boy. This don't concern you."

To the onlookers, the situation goes down like this:
One moment, all the thugs are posturing, snarling, getting angry, etc. The next, after a brief blur, all hell has broken loose. Chains has walloped himself in the face again, hard enough to draw blood, and the fist, well, the fist has been duct taped to his neck. Baseball Bat's titular bat is gone. If they listen hard enough, they might hear the sound of something wooden bouncing down the alley about thirty feet away. The man himself suddenly falls over out of nowhere and bounces his head hard off the sidewalk. Knife Boy? More like knife foot. The blade has been impaled through the man's foot and even a little distance into the ground, though it's shattered the handle in the process.
From Pietro's perspective, all this happens with the urgency of a walk in the park. He positions the man's fist and pushes it forward, so the momentum will continue and pummel him in his own face. Then he tears off long strips of duct tape and winds it around the man, taking his time to make sure it's arranged just so. He then darts over to Baseball Bat and plucks it from his hand, then hauls back and chucks it away. Then he aims a few solid kicks at the back of his legs, hard enough to make him lose his balance. Before he's even fallen more than an inch, he's on to his last victim. He snatches the knife out of his hand, and moves fast (even for him) to jam the blade downwards towards his foot. And then he darts out of the way to watch the results unfold back on his perch while he eats his fries. Damn. Gone cold.

"No, I never punched a bear," Ollie hisses. "But they don't know that. And why— you do IT stuff right now. In a closet." Rather than making it into an insult, he sounds a little sad. "What's wrong with being my 'sisstant?"

Another speedy whoosh and a bunch of pained groaning from the bad guys. Oliver spins in a half-circle to try and track the flurry of movement before he focuses in on the thug who had addressed him. "What? You. See, that's what you get. Shut up, you."

"Well!" Felicity looks at Oliver, drunkenly flummoxed and then back at the scene in front of her. "You could have told me that! And because I have a highly specialized degree that is not getting coffee for someone. I can get them their emails, but not their coffee." This makes sense.

As she's talking, Quicksilver has duct taped and started to beat up the would be muggers in front of them. It happens so fast that when she turns around and sees that they have been taken care of, she can't quite believe her eyes. "I-wait, did you guys do that?" She looks between Kamala and Oliver. "You are good."

Chains is PISSED, but he's also duct taped to his own neck, which means that he is kind of impotently pissed and howling up a storm, threatening thin air with what he's going to do with it if he ever gets his hands on it — which, given that at least one hand is super out of commission, is not likely. Knife Foot is similarly howling, but for a very different reason; he reaches down and clutches his bleeding foot, curling around it in his own private world of blood and pain. Baseball Bat-less is clearly no longer in control, but he shakes his fist at Kamala and Weaselly: "You haven't seen the last of me!" Weaselly is already making like a tree and getting the heck out of here, but Kamala just looks proud and amused until Baseball Bat-less drags Knife Foot and Chainfail away.

Kamala cracks her knuckles and winks at Ollie and Felicity. Then she cups her hands around her mouth and calls out: "Thanks, mysterious friend! I owe you one!"

"What you owe me is new fries," says a voice from above. Pietro hucks a set of fries at the back of Kamala's head. His feet, clad in silver chucks, dangle over the edge. "These've gone all cold. Blegh." But he keeps eating them anyway. Because he's a twenty year old dude. He'd eat them if they were day-olds.

Oliver looks well pleased with himself and more than willing to take the credit for… whatever it is that just happened. "There's a reason why I do what I do. And who said anything about coffee? I'd want you to do typey things. On your computer. And sometimes lie to my CFO about where I am."

When the bad guys haul themselves out of there, Ollie peers this way and that, in search of an explanation as to what went down. "Seriously, what actually just happened?"

"Isn't that what assistants do? Get people coffee? Make appointments? I don't have a degree in assistant, I have a degree in computers. I will gladly fix your computers." As the would-be muggers run in opposite directions and Felicity is left completely unharmed despite her very drunken state, she's amazed. Then, she gives a bit of a surprised shriek at the sudden voice from above. She looks at Oliver, echoing his sentiment, "What…what just happened?" Briefly afterward, her purse sounds as if it shouts, "MACGRUUUUUBER!" Scrambling, with drunk hands, she plies out her phone and then snortlaughs at the text Fitz sent her. Really, is this the time, Felicity?

"Gah!" Kamala rubs the back of her head where the fries landed. "You dork!" she shouts, looking up at the top of the lamp post where Quicksilver perches. "Nice kicks," she adds. "As many fries as you like, wherever you want, but I think I'd like to drive. Something tells me this block might not be a great place to leave my car parked just now."

Looking around to Ollie and Felicity, she calls: "You two okay? Bearpuncher? Computer MacGruber? I hope you're not going to try driving tonight."

"What happened is I beat up all the dudes while you stared slack-jaw, Six-Pack," says Pietro to Oliver. He flicks another fry down from his perch. Then he's gone in a blur, only to reappear by the three of them. He shoves the last fry (a particularly long one) into his mouth by folding it with his tongue. He arches an eyebrow and looks Felicity and Oliver over. "You two are fucking hosed. No wonder you were no help."
He glances over to Kamala. It takes a second, then he snaps. "Oh heeey, Bowling alley chick. Right. You even have my number so you can call me and tell me when you're going to bring me my fries."

By Oliver's reckoning, he just can't win tonight. "Not gonna drive," he says glumly. "I'ma go find a cab now."

He's not pouting. Not quite. That's when it starts raining fries. "Hey! You were all 'ZOOM'. That was you, right? What was I supposed to do? I can't ZOOM."

"Aw yeah, I remember you!" Kamala hefts her phone. "Shouldn't be long. Just… not gonna park in Gotham, for reasons." She holds back a laugh at Ollie's downcast protests, even though it's pretty obvious, and reaches out to clap his shoulder. "Hey man. Nobody's telling you you gotta ZOOM like Speedy over there. I bet you've got your own ZOOM somewhere inside."

With that, then, she opens her new car's door (hers!), slides in, and takes off.

"Especially not like that, man. You'd barf your guts out all down your nice shirt. And that'd be a crime against fashion." Which may sound like the utter height of snarky sarcasm, but that's actually sort of a compliment, given Pietro's newfound penchant for the world of high fashion.
As Kamala speeds out, he pulls out his phone. He tap-tap taps. A moment later, her phone will chirrup. He's sent a string of six fry emojis.

"Uh." Not only is Oliver not used to being talked to like this, he's fairly certain that most well-adjusted people aren't used to it either. "Thanks? Or screw you, depending on what you meant. Either way, I think it's time for us to take off."

He gives a little wave, loops his arm through Felicity's, and tugs her back the way they'd originally come from.

"I certainly was not driving," Felicity tells Kamala. She's a responsible young woman who certainly knows when she's had too much. At the raining fries, she puts a hand up as if sheltering herself from them. Her eyes focus upwards and then the voice is coming from somewhere else. Her eyes refocus in the spot where Pietro stops and blinks a few times. Kamala drives off and she tilts her head, hand still clutching her phone.

In moments, though, she's being tugged along by Oliver. "Take off? O-okay. Thank you for duct taping people in a blink of an eye? I think that was you? Okay, I'm walking!" Albeit very weavingly.

"Don't fall asleep in a ditch!" Pietro calls after the teetering pair. "I've hit my quota of good deeds for the night." He gives both a shit-eating grin, waggles his brows, tugs down his goggles, then zips off into the night. The hamburger wrapper is set flying again and drifts slowly to the ground to land squarely on a bloodstain on the ground.

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