Why Riot When You Can Proposition

May 15, 2016:

Elektra happens upon a riot in a better part of Hell's Kitchen. Instead of doing something, she propositions a newcomer.

Riverbank West


NPCs: Townsfolk



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…


The cries were loud enough to rouse Elektra from her hiding spot, donning her best pair of jeans, booted heels and tight leathers, she made her way from her rather expensive penthouse and out onto the block. It was only a street-block away, but the chill of Hell's Kitchen loomed and had her arms drawn along her chest. Such as, the wind cut through and allowed the darkness that made up her hair whipped around and covered her face, but red polished nails drew it back so that she could see the commotion.

Outside of the newly constructed building, Shakey's Gold, where earlier reports of a man tossing out a pregnant woman on her bottom because she couldn't pawn her wedding ring for a high price at which she bought. When she started the cry, the shopkeep slapped her and tossed her. Injuring her. She tried to sue but was 'misplaced', she was no where to be found. It was a small blurb on the news, actions of Heroes and other phenomina took the place of her disappearance.

Her husband led the rallying charge against the shopkeep and it's owner, even though he was once proven a suspect but was deemed innocent due to lack of evidence.


Picketers lined the shop and forbade entry, and by the time Elektra happened upon the scene, a small skirmish broke out and fists were flying. Glass was thrown, windows were broken, cars were damaged by bodies that were thrown atop of them and beaten.

Kieron O'Doyle sits on top of a car, the shattered web of the broken windshield fanning out from underneath his legs. The face that made those obvious impacts is laying on the ground beside it, bleeding and unconscious, his nose busted in by the scarlet-haired Irishman with the baseball bat. Not that he needed the bat in this case - a bit of good ol' fashioned tusslin' was enough to get the upper hand on that mook.

Hooligan has a cigarette dangling casually from his lips, another tucked behind his ear as he watches the chaos at hand with a big, shit-eating grin. He glances over at the beautiful woman and gives a whistle, drawing the smoke from his mouth. It's not just her physical appearance - it's the violence on her, the sense of death and pain and bone-breaking, ass-kicking misery that seeps out of every pore on her frame. Makes a man thirsty. "God damn, if you 'ad a beer in ye hand, lassie, I'd be thinkin' you an angel an' no doubts," he calls.

A man stumbles with a bat towards Elektra, swinging it properly. A woman of her stature would have screamed or drawn their hands up, but a quick sidestep and a push brings her a little bit closer to Hollidan than she intended. A few people were crying, some shouting to stop this nonsense, while others rushed into the shop to search for its owner and keeper.

His words were met with a steel stare, her lips forming a thin line as she watches as the fight carries on in the street, car alarms blazing, more shouting and screaming from inside the building which draws Elektra's eyes up, nearly wanting to help, but also wanting to watch and see what would transpire.

"I'm no angel." She says clearly, leaning back against the car, dusting off her shoulder as she watches. She didn't hear sirens, maybe someone didn't call..

"What is happening here?"

He grins, "Well, I gotta admit, me own ideas o' what constitutes an angel prob'ly differs with what pap the priests be jabberin' over their wine an' cookies. You seem like the kinda angel could cut a man t'ribbons. Dat's kind awhat I liked 'bout ya," he grins. He takes a long drag on his smoke before he answers, his own eyes showing red pupils when he turns to look at her.

"Good ol' fashioned housin' dispute, settled in de ol' school way. Dere's an old punk rock song called "Let's Lynch the Landlord" - if'n I had one o' them boombox doodaddies, I'd be playlin' it full blast right 'bout now."

"You're strange." Elektra wasn't much for talking; her methods of talking usually involved her speaking just to get close enough to kill a man. Or woman. Didn't matter the gender. The glowing eyes were studied for just those few moments, then she turns to stare into the building.

"Street justice. But for what." She questions, her shoulders lifting to twist her head left and right, dropping down again to move in a circular motion. She's been out of commission for a bit, and it seemed like an ample time to see what is what. For if the Hand is planning something for all parts of New York, this small upset would be the thing to stand in their way.

"Do you wish to see violence."

Kieron O'Doyle shrugs, "Cause don't mean much t'me - I don't keep up with politics. Where I come from, folks go tooth an' nail just cause you go to the wrong church or got the wrong last name or step into the wrong neighborhood. Most o' the American types ain't quite so volatile, but there's exceptions t'the rule an' yer lookin' at some o' 'em. I imagine it started wit' somebody gettin' kicked out or ripped off," he shrugs.

"I know somebody t'rew a toilet out de window at a fella from de t'ird story, t'ough."

"You live to breed chaos. Interesting."

There was a moment to consider, if Elektra wanted to be involved, if she wanted to save the lives of those inside or end it all. End it all by the blades that were tucked against her back, nestling, waiting to be used. If Kieron were so adept at feeling out the darkness then he could feel it then, with just those thoughts alone.

"Fascinating, I'm sure." She murmurs quietly, then boosts herself from the car, heading towards the crowd that hangs and nearly fights around the shop. For a moment, the clear moment, it looks as if she were about to interveine, but she doesn't. Her path takes her away soon after, arms still folded.

"We're in need of a drink."

He shrugs, "Ain't much breedin' needed. Chaos is a force o' nature, luv - I'm just like a surfer, ridin' da wave an' all dat," he says. He hops down off the car, moving to follow the deadly woman. The rioting and madness behind is good, but whatever clings to her skin like frosting on a cake is better, just pure murder, the raw shit, uncut. He's practically drooling just being around her.

He moves to catch up, pulling up his hood and walking backwards next to her, his bat jostling against his back, his hands in his pockets, "Me name's Kieron, by the way. 'fraid I didn't catch your particulars," he says.

It wasn't far to walk, even as people start to fill the street to watch, the screams and the glass breakage and the shouts slowly fading. Her strides were long in a sense that she wanted to get away quick to not feed the beast, as she had something special laying in wait for all of that pent up murder.

"Elektra." She murmurs cooly. If it was a pleasure to meet Kieron, she wasn't going to say. But oddly enough, where one would think that she would step into the swankiest bar that side of Hell's kitchen, she walks right into a coffee shop that was mostly empty, due to most with their phones out, ready to record the mini-riot to send to CNN..

"Name your poison."

Kieron shrugs and hops up to sit on the counter, propping his feet up on some stools. "Coffee's good, long as I can add my own little nip to it," he grins. "I got da fun flask wit' me, if ye care for a nip yerself," he says.

"So, ain't many a beautiful woman that bleeds straight-up murder like steam coming off a hot steak on a cold day," he says. "I imagine there's a story behind that. Not that you need t'share it. I don't need any excuses or explanations. You're a beauty just the way you are."

In this particular area, Elektra was a creature of habit. When Kieron sets himself upon the stool she takes the closer one to him, away from his feet but close to his shoulder. An elbow plants upon the counter top as she makes a gesture towards the barista for two coffees, and a wriggle of her hand which states that she'd only like sugar. No cream. If there was going to be an addition to her drink, she didn't want to sully it down with dairy.

"And you can tell this?" She asks, her gaze soon cutting towards him sideways, growing still as she examines him carefully. Her brows lift and lower then, jaw tensing as she glances up towards the barista with a smile that tells her to keep away. And her coffee was dragged closer, fingers outstretched to wriggle briefly.

"Thank you. You've come far from home. And you are not normal, in the sense that others would perceive as normal."

Kieron O'Doyle smirks, "And just what would you classify as normal, lass? I ain't seen much that would qualify, but, then, I am new to the States," he shrugs. "But, not to play so coy and in the spirit o' sharing information, I am, indeed, more than your average bloke. I got capabilities an' gifts, things that make me able to see the violence what lays in the heart an' soul of a person. An' I can bring it out o' them," he says. "Why, I could make that darlin' little waitress there turn into a snarlin' beastie, ready t'stab yer eyes out wit' yer teaspoon," he says.

"Certainly not us." It's been a long time since the amusement was heard within her voice, even the way a little smile curls her pale lips. She takes a sip of the coffee, her eyes darting up towards the woman as he gestures towards her, her eyes soon drawn to him with a matter-of-fact look. "You could."

"But then you know that as soon as the first bits of froth slips from her lips she would be dead." She nudges him with her shoulder, then rises to a stand. "They /all/ know this." Whether he would follow her out of the backdoor was anyones guess, but the offer for him to follow was there. Even if she was a creature of habit, she rarely, if ever.. stays in one place for a prolonged period of time.

"But perhaps I can use your attraction to me to my benefit. You seek chaos. You live for it. You breathe it. I have a proposition for you that I believe may be worth your while…"

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