February 24, 2015:

Kwabena manages to track down, with Rant's help, the thief who recently stole the pot at Two-Face's Double Down club.

Upper West Side - Manhattan


NPCs: Poets, musicians, cafe-goers


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The Upper West Side. The historical home of the beatniks, bohemians, artists of walks of life have flocked here to share their enthusiasm and brilliance. And so you have quite a few who still attempt to make their break here, offering their best in an attempt to be the next big thing.

Felicia Hardy doesn't consider herself an artist, but she appreciates the finer things in life. In her night-job she will help herself to famous (and priceless) pieces of art, but some art can't be stolen. For example, jazz. Currently Felicia Hardy sits on the heated porch of a boutique coffee shop where a band is playing their best rendition of 1920s Harlem hot jazz. It doesn't exactly set the world on fire, but it is a fairly lively arrangement. Enough so that Felicia sways her foot to the beat, clad in knee-high black leather boots, a pair of designer leggings tucked into the boots. A blouse top blooms out, the whole affair held within an oversized topcoat, worn open for the moment. As she sips her coffee, she sways her foot back and forth, enjoying a relatively quiet evening as the sun starts to set.

Not far from the cafe, a motorcycle rolls along through the cold New York streets. Harley Davidson Iron 883, 2013 model, all blacked out. The figure upon it, shrouded in denim and leather, pulls off to the side so that he might speak toward the cell phone worn inside the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

"Rant. I'm close. You still have dat signal?"

For once, fresh out of Gotham by way of escort, in her own humble abode to pay rent and other things in New York, Melody was all aglow, fiercely, as she sweeps up the cobwebs from the corners of her ceilings. And needing a stool to do it.

"What? Yes. I still have the signal. One hundred yards in front of you and then a hard left. Marco Polo it when you're on foot."

Multi-tasking at it's best!

"So, whenever you get what you're going to get, I really expect a burger or something for me expending my extra energy to help you out. Or, maybe you can teach me how to ride that motorcycle. Or you know.. actual combat like I've been asking.." There was a wince, and a cough. "Totally would hate to call Guy. Do you know that guy played GTA with five gangsters on the FIRST day we did business? And he blew up a cop car. Made me cry. I hate crying.."

The band rounds out their latest number, which leads to a smattering of applause from those invested enough to respond and not lost in their own jotting of poems and novels and whatever else might be the next big thing. Felicia for her part claps; the band says a few words before launching into their next tune, a jazzed up version of "Billie Jean" that gets a few chuckles from the crowd. For her part, the blonde simply cracks a smile as she pulls out her phone. Signing into a secure server over a darkweb image board, she starts to poke around for any potential victims for the evening. She's still living high off of the Gotham score, but the Cat has been out of action in NYC for too long and she is itching to get going on her home turf again.

A rueful smirk is given from behind the blacked out motorcycle helmet. "Yeah, yeah. I know. De list is stacking up, fast." The engine is gunned, directions followed, and soon enough, the beastly bike is legally parked, rider disembarking.

A few moments later, the rider quite simply takes a seat, uninvited, at Felicia's table. He's dressed in a fashionable set of designer jeans, oversized black riding boots, and a deep maroon turtleneck beneath a dark gray sweater. Silver eyes are exposed, contact-lens free, unashamed of exposing his mutant nature. "Drink?" he asks, before setting down a cocktail in front of her; whiskey, on the rocks. The other glass remains in his left hand, a whiskey, neat.

"You have something of mine." Kwabena does nothing to hide his Ghanaian accent, and his words are spoken without threat, but rather, a polite tone of voice. "I would like to have it back."

Melody could be heard coughing from the phone. "Add..*HACK* this to your list too. You're cleaning this crap next time." *COUGH*

There really wasn't much more commentary for her to add, she just grows silent as she continues to clean the apartment, her mind splitting so much that she tranverses the waves that form within the city, following the routes, each current connecting to the next as the street cams were accessed and zeroing in on their position.

Just in case.

The word catch Felicia off-guard, as does the fact that the strange makes himself at home at her table. She first looks at him, then the offered cocktail. Frowning, she tucks her phone away into her jacket and leans back. She reaches down and raises her coffee drink to her lip, taking a long sip before she responds. "Sorry friend, I think you have me mistaken for someone else," she says, her tone pleasant but firm as she fearlessly makes direct eye-contact with his distinct orbs. She's from New York, little shocks her, his unusual eyes included. "And I don't accept drinks from strangers. Again, sorry."

The drink that was offered to Felicia is pulled back toward the giver. He can drink it later, if it's not too watered down. "Oh," he answers, feigning disappointment for s moment. "Well, dat is smaht of you. Lots of strange peopah around, dese times."

Meanwhile, Kwabena produces a smartphone. He sets it down upon the table, face up, a blank screen visible until he taps a specific rhythm onto its touch screen.

Video footage from the Double Down club comes online, revealing the Black Cat as she makes good on her escapades. "Funny, because dere's dis problem I have. A ten-thousand dollah problem. It's something I would very much like to fix."

Leaving the phone to play out its telling tale, Kwabena takes a drink of whiskey. His eyes remain locked upon Felicia's the entire time, looking for any tells the woman may give.

Melody is going to need a finder's fee for this one, assuming she nailed the target. Kwabena is… confident in his partner's abilities.

Definitely a finders fee. Totally. Eight thousand dollars to be exact! Considering the fact she gave away 20 thousand and.. ah. Nevermind.

Still watching, still cleaning, still bitching quietly to herself. Which.. is all she could really do while inhaling bleach fumes.

Felicia watches the footage, her brow almost immediately furrowing as she does. The brunette woman in the video shares somes of her features to be sure, but she also made sure in addition to her wig to have some subtle changes in her make-up to give certain optical illusions to disguise the height of her cheeks, a slight slope to her nose thanks to some fleshy-colored putty. It's close, perhaps a sister. But she can reasonably say, "What does this have to do with me?" She looks up and leans back in her chair, pushing her lips out thoughtfully. "And ten-thousand dollars? That's quite a demand. Pretty careless to lose that much cash, Mister…?"

"Odame." Kwabena offers his actual last name, just in case Felicia should choose to do some research. The phone is finally withdrawn. "Dis pahson, in dat video? You are carrying her cellular phone." The Ghanaian nods indicatively toward Felicia's person, silver eyes dropping toward what purse or clutch she may carry. "And it hasn't left her possession since… dat evening." He smiles warmly toward Felicia, but it's a gesture that doesn't exactly meet his eyes. They, by contrast, are very cold.

"I have eyes everywhere." His tone has dropped low, a private decibel. "My winnings were in yah take. I only want what is mine."

Warmth comes back to Kwabena's tone. "Of course, I'm a generous pahson. Cooperation is, well, dis thing, it's a two way street."

Felicia's expression remains fairly even, unaffected for most of that. Easy enough to say that she lost her phone on a trip to Gotham…but the fact he calls her out for having kept it in her possession? That causes the corner of her lips to twist, ever so slightly, at his accusation. She clears her throat and leans forward a bit. "Well, Mr. Odame, I am all for cooperation. In school, they used to say I was excellent at playing well with others." She offers a wink at that before taking a slight sip of her drink. "So let's speak hypothetically. In theory, if I was able to drop your money off somewhere, what exactly can you offer to me? Again, hypotheticals only here."

In a similar fashion, Kwabena's lip curls upward. "Names, addresses, security system codes. Places where some few things of value are kept safe. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

There are a few people in the Tri-State who need a good screwing, after all.

"I'll get you in. Make it easy. Howevah, it's on you to make sure yah ass isn't so easily tracked." He sucks on his teeth for a moment, head shaking just a bit. "Pay-per-minute phones ah a beautiful thing."

There's a reason BOOST Mobile is so hot in the ghetto, after all.

Kwabena's cell phone comes back, and a message is sent to Rant: 'Give her a little show, would you?'

Ah. Last cobweb done. Now it was time to vacuum. That was, a message hits her phone, which was accessed and scrolled through her eyes like a rolling marquee. "A little show?" How li.. gah. She puts down the swiffer like broom then moves to sit into the nearby chair, her hands lifting to work at her temples as she pulls all of her mental resources into that little area surrounding the coffee shop. No, she wasn't going to play with traffic lights, that would be too mean. She didn't like hurting people as is.

Instead, she focuses on the band as they play their little number, the sharp sound of distortion blaring through the speakers that amplify their sounds; the little laser light show that they keep tucked behind curtains for the other band to perform immediately flashing as the curtains themselves draw open. Sure, the band keeps playing, the little gathering possibly assuming that the laser lights were apart of the show after all.

Then, in like some horrible hacker movie, cell phones begin to simultaneously ring, each phone playing the ringtones in their list of contacts of who could possibly be calling them, one second after the other. Even Kwabena's phone lights up, the screen flashing red, blue, and green until digitized words form upon the surface.

And it reads…


Cause Melody is totally original.

The offer is certainly tempting enough; a list of potential new clients would keep her from hitting the same old targets, which could spread the wealth, as well as the heat, a bit more evenly. She nods her head and purses her lips. "Well…that certainly could make for an interesting offer in theory. And if I were able to give you the sum you ask, I would assume that my identity would be kept quiet as well? Or would that cost extra?" She knows how much she has from the Gotham job, and honestly what he's asking is a small fraction of what she made away with. Offering a little extra, if he takes the bait, certainly can make him a loyal cohort.
Then the sudden flurry of action. First the quick light show, and then the cacophony of cell phones. The crowd is quick to pull out their phones, eyeing who is calling and seeming oblivious to the sudden and improbable mass calling. Felicia eventually looks down at the brief but pointed message displaying on her new friend's phone. She raises a brow at that and makes a sudden decision she no longer cares for cell phones. She slowly looks up towards his face. "Cute…and a bit scary. You work for Big Brother then?"

The display has Kwabena finally breaking eye contact, so that he might look around and enjoy Melody's song and dance. An earnest grin appears; he truly finds this part magical.

Back to Felicia, the Ghanaian laughs out loud at her question. "Big Broddah and I aren't de best bed pahtnahs, sistah." He shakes his head before storing his phone and leaning forward, resting his forearms upon the table and framing his drinks in the process.

"I gave you my name. I haven't asked fah yours." He lifts his eyebrows. If Felicia is clever as Kwabena hopes she is, she'll read between the lines. He, of anyone, understands the value of secrecy.

The little light show ceases, along with the cellular tampering and slight distortion. She pulls herself back enough to not use all of her resources on just that one area, her fingers lifting to lightly rub at her temples as she hisses a few ill words at the display. "Frickin' a."

"And I appreciate that," Felicia responds with a wink, watching as the commotion seems to die down just as quickly as it exploded. She finishes off her drink and slowly stands, pulling from her clutch a handful of rather crisp looking bills that she tosses onto the table. "I am assuming you're from out of town. Ever visited the Flatiron Building? Beautiful view of the city. Especially the rooftop, at night. Say 2 o'clock." She offers a friendly smile. "I might suggest you give it a visit tonight, might find something of interest to you." She starts to walk away. "Pleasure meeting you Mr. Odame. Perhaps our paths will cross again." As she walks away, she pulls out thin cell phone from her coat pocket. Dropping it, the screen instantly cracks apart, which is only half as impressive as what the heel of her boot does to the delicate electronic as she steps directly on it. "Oops, clumsy me," she mutters before she dips down, carefully scooping up the phone, leaving a small pool of glass in her wake as she pockets the remains of her phone and walks off, attempting to keep her breathing even.

Not a word is spoken until Felicia finishes telling Kwabena where the proverbial drop will take place. "Miss," is all he says, dipping his head in a respectful way.

As the woman departs, the Ghanaian's eyes remain upon her. When she disposes of the phone, a rueful smirk spreads across his face, partly concealed by a glass of whiskey. "Good girl," he murmurs to himself, before turning about to watch the band for a few minutes.

Melody receives a message. 'Burgers, beers, and a movie. Stay put. Got time to kill.'

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