Conversation Starter

November 26, 2017:

Taskmaster is employed once again to start recruiting for the "Society" it begins in Gotham with Catwoman.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Taskmaster has been here several occasions this is not a first for him to haunt it's streets but he's always got a purpose. Which, one again, hes got. The stride of the man is deliberate walk, one carrying him with booted feet, fatigue pants and a hoodie with a skull mask hidden underneath towards the Tin Roof Club. A location rumored to act as a connection point through this portion of the crime capital contender for New York. It's a pause outside and his hand opens up to stare down at it, eyes past that skull mask looking at what he holds there. A chip. A single black poker chip. Not his. He has his own this ones an invitation, maybe his target missed her last one but this time around… she won't be.
The deep blue sweater Taskmaster is wearing is almost black, almost but not quite, hes got a theme to maintain after all. Colors are coded to super villain namesake and trademarks.

Chilly Atlantic oceanic winds are making his desire to step inside just that much 'more'.

*

It's one of those nights in Gotham, the sort intelligent, sensible people really don't want to be outside in. Not only is it generally dangerous, the weather is not that good either. Catwoman's above it all, quite literally, as she's perched atop the club she has a particular. Interest in. The costume is in place, but the night's plans remain open. There'd been rumors of some kids missing, which may be worth looking into, but she's also watching those who approach the place.

*

The Tin Roof Club has always been one of the nicer dives in Taskmaster's opinion. The dancers not unsightly, the glasses not as dirty, the music a little more modern and the smells well, that speaks volumes alone. The mask doesn't stop a bouncer here or the opposite, its a place of masks around these parts. Almost a trend really but most recognize one masked gang member from another. Not that Taskmaster has any affiliation to himself and perhaps the most dangerous gang in the world if one sets aside governments.

A low whistle noise; his eyes scan and hes making way towards the nearer bar, not the fancy one towards the back. A fingertap /thumpthump/. "I heard you have a regular here or near here. A feline."

The tender, a squat man with make up on and clothes too tight but it works for him, the colors just mesh nice and he has an air, "What? I don't understand what that means. You looking for pussy, mister?"

Taskmaster sighs, he should have had a better plan about this. He was given a limited timeframe and told to go 'here' which doesn't work with the busy schedule of a mercenary. "Look pal, a fucking cat lady with a whip. Heard of her?"

"Not with that attitude. Check back outside."

Anger never gets anyone anywhere when dealing with the help. Of any sort. Outside… It's not as though he has any idea the woman is actually outside watching from a lofty 'birdseye' view.

*

A snort from said feline up on the roof, near a loft-style apartment that doubles as a safehouse when needed. Catwoman's got an audio feed available for different parts of the club, which she's tapped into in order to listen to a few things. When she catches that someone is looking for a regular that fits her general description, then the bartender gets quite blunt in response to the much more specific example given of what she looks like, she shakes her head. "Way to tell him," she comments to herself.

But, she makes her way around toward another part of the exterior, waiting to see if the visitor actually heeds the advice given. In fact, it's not so much advice as a direct answer, whether it's realized at the time or not.

*

"Any other given day and sparing the time… " Taskmaster's voice growls past his mask. A muffled sound.

"Look kid, get you kinds in here all the time, you lil gangbanger psychofanboys. I don't care who your boss is, we're neutral zone here and we pay our dues. Just go look somewhere else, if this 'regular' wants your company, she'll find you." A hand wave, a flippant gesture if Taskmaster ever seen one has him standing.
"I… yeah, today is your lucky day."

"Mhmm."

The exchange ends there and Taskmaster stalks on out the front, his walk this time a little more rough in the gait, annoyance rising as he steps out front, looks down at his palm and flips that black chip again. "Did what you said. She aint here."
A pause from the man as if hes actually awaiting a response and he starts to walk again, a whistle escaping him. Taskmaster isn't put off that quick though. No, he needs to reproach this with some effort.

*

"He wasn't lying, you know."

The voice, distinctly feminine, comes from somewhere above Taskmaster, where Catwoman is perched. Cats do like their high spots for surveillance, don't they?

"And he was telling you the truth. I was out here the whole time. If you caused trouble in there, this would be a different kind of conversation right now. What are you looking for me for?"

The catsuit is what he's probably heard it would be: black, sleek, and quite feline overall. The whip is coiled where it usually goes, the woman in a crouch.

*

The hooded man spins at the voice and she'll see the glint of steel a knife jutting from between fingers about to be thrown but it's not. It remains in grasp. Under that dark navy cowl she can see the bone white skull mask with the dark eyes beyond it.
"I could tell, usually good with spotting liars. Too many physical tells. A reason I didn't slap him in to Metropolis."

Taskmaster admires the woman in blacks pose a moment, the whip given a look before he slides that knife back up his sleeve back in to obscurity.

"My name is Taskmaster. You heard of me? We'll get that out of the way first." Ego has to be worked at a little. It's what he does.

*

Catwoman's right hand shifts toward the handle of the whip when she picks out the blade the man has drawn from within his sleeve or wherever it was hidden, but that's it. "Next time, leave the knives behind. I don't tolerate violence around here. The Tin Roof is meant to be a safe haven." It sounds like she means it, if the icy tone of her voice is any indication.

Rising from her crouch, the woman paces a few steps closer to the edge of the roof, but she does not yet leave it. Instead, she measures him with a look through the goggles she wears, crossing her arms haughtily. "Taskmaster? My last boss was one, but nope. Never heard of you before. Are you supposed to be important?" Whether she /has/ heard of him or not, if she's lying, /she/ isn't giving it away.

*

"Unfortunately for you, pussy cat. Violence is my favorite language." A look at the neon lighting of the club then back at her, subtle, its an eyeshift only. "This ain't one of those scenarios though, far as I am aware at least." A flex of gloved fingers and cold air turns the breath from his lungs in to mist before his mask.

"Important enough you should know who I am. I'm a businessman, I serve a wide range of clientele in a wide range of uh jobs, one in particular has taken serious interest in you and I was told we need to have a chat. You an' me."

A spread outwards of his arms and he shows the inside of that hooded sweater, zipper opening, no weapons visible, no firearms, the only thing hes got on him is the knife in the sleeve. At least from a glance. "I'm not exactly armed unless you're a fraid of some lil pigstickers."

"So, what say you? Lets make nice."

*

Catwoman strolls her way across the rooftop's edge, balancing along that precarious line that could leave her plunging some twenty feet with no more than a single misstep in this rotten weather. And yet, every one of those steps are placed just so. There is no fall.

"You sound like you think I can't handle a little tussle, but I mean what I said: I don't care if you want a fight with someone, but as long as you're /here?/ You take it somewhere else. Are we clear on that?"

Whether he is or isn't, she gives time for him to explain his visit, then she asks, "Who's looking for me, and why?" The rest is secondary, evidenced by her ignoring all other parts of the conversation so far.

*

"That is not a conversation we have out here in the open." Taskmaster motions around him, "Plus its titty freezing cold out here." His eyes never leave the Gotham master thief every subtle motion being processed.

"I am sure you can. You move like you can fight. Can put your hackles down though, pretty kitty. I'm not here to fight you. Not this go around, I wasn't paid for that. I'm just a messenger and we can't talk unless you meet me halfway here. Half way starts with getting us off the streets."

Catwoman makes no comment on the physical effects of the weather, but she doesn't appear to be out of sorts in any way due to that. It must be insulated well.

"That's fair. I'm not a big fan of having private conversations where anyone can overhear them." She goes into a forward flip from the rooftop, landing in a rolling stop before slowly rising back to an upright position. That was every bit a way of showing off. "So you were paid to find me and talk, hmm? Then by all means.." She gestures for him to lead the way.

"I'm not the local here but I suppose theres a place."

A pause like he is thinking, Taskmaster bunches his shoulders up in a shrug, "Yeah, why not. This way." A block and a half away of walking in silence will take them to a small apartment complex, she knows it. Shes from here it's a gun runners place. The man owns the whole building and doesn't play well with outsiders.

*

The buzzer at the front is approached, depressed and Taskmaster mumbles something in to it. Within seconds the gate opens. An unfriendly voice speaks through, "First floor. Stay off my stairs go to the third hall way and last door." *staticclick*
"Heard the man, private chat. You feeling flighty yet?" A question as the door opens revealing the hallways, Taskmaster is studying Catwoman. Maybe testing her in his own way.

*

"But you are the one who wanted to talk, so why should I be the one to find a place to do it?"

Sure, Catwoman knows the apartment complex they end up at, and she knows the owner. They've had agreements in some things, disagreements in others. It's enough of a reason to remain wary.

However, she enters the hallway first, showing no fear. "Why? Are you expecting me to cower in a corner like some little kitten? You must not know me very well."

*

"See. Usually there is a way to go about this. If I'd know you're out prancing the streets in your sexy leather pajamas I woulda joined you but I miscalculated. Bad intel." The man replies, "So it messes this up a lil, now we got to adapt. I'm good at that though." Taskmaster explains. He stands only long enough until Catwoman enters past him walking casually beside her. The apartment they are designated soon being opened up, no furniture, empty, dimly lit by lights from outside the windows that host bars. Whoever had lived here left a hell of a red stain on the floor.

"What a shit hole." The mercenary remarks.

"No, not cower just caution. I'm curious what kinda mettle you got. You Gotham types are crazy as fuck, I know this much but… shit, you're dressed up like a cat. It's hard yanno."

"This will do though."

*

Catwoman remarks, "Some girls only get dressed up once in a while, for special occasions. I like to get dressed up every night."

It's only once they're inside the bare apartment with the bloodstain that she adds, "Usually it's to go to places a little nicer than this, places that actually have chairs, but here we are." She positions herself so she has a way of seeing all ways in or out of the room, just in case anyone else is hiding in wait for them. That should be enough proof that she's exhibiting caution, which she does not address. Instead, it's to retort, "Says the guy with a skull for a face, assuming that's just a mask. Spend a little time around Gotham and you'll see Halloween isn't the only time people dress up."

*

Taskmaster examines the room with about as much attention as she is, scanning it with a level of disinterest until he's satisfied enough they can talk in some relative comfort. As much as can be in such a place.

"Here we are." The hitman confirms, "It's my face." He lies, "It has nothing to do with Halloween."

A hand produces, that black poker chip appears between two fingers then dances over his knuckles before it flips through the air at her. "You recognize that? It's how we begin this conversation. It'll be a short one don't worry."

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