Rookie

January 16, 2019:

Slade 'visits' Lena for a follow up.

NYC

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

*

Lena didn't hear him coming after her. She even stands, waiting behind the door to her room. There's no pressure there, no muffling thumps of boots along carpet. Nothing. Her face twists up and with a growl, she kicks the door and slumps against it. "Idiot. Fucking idiot." She mutters, who she means is anyone's guess. Dragging her hood down, she unlatches the buttons of her coat, zipper splitting as she pulls the cover off and throws it on the bed. Digging under the fluff of her skirts, she removes her cold gun, looking it over carefully with a sneer on her lips. "Sorry if he hurt you, Jadis. He won't get away with that, I promise. Next time."

The room is simple, spacious enough with a pretty penny to get where she was in this area of the city. It has three separate rooms; one for sleeping, the restroom, and a family room where a sofa, TV system, and mini-kitchenette are all set up for its users needs. The space is kept clean and tidy, with only a closet left open, a bag on its floor, probably full of Lena's effects.

*

"You named the cold gun?" says a voice from the corner of the room where one of those complimentary lounge chairs sits, rarely used and tucked away just to the side of tolerable if somewhat bland colored drapes. "Leonard never got that sentimental about his, to be fair, it was often blown up or what have you so he was replacing it regularly. Flash is hard on gear when he's in the mood." It's not like the room was /dark/ persay, but it is a slightly dimmer corner, and damned if the man sitting in the chair almost lazily, wasn't still as a statue until he started speaking.

The only /good/ thing about having a guy just waiting in your hotel room is that at least this guy she should recognize, though when last she saw him he was bleeding from dozens of wounds and was hurling himself face first into a small contingent of Hand ninjas with a metal stick and a sword. Because of course people still fight with swords in this day and age. Because why wouldn't you? Perfectly sensible.

*

Said gun hums to life, its barrel blazing with azure light as she trains it on the spot that speaks to her. She listens, finger twitching on the trigger, before she grits her teeth and lowers the weapon. Pale eyes stare at the man, chest heaving as she was still attempted to settle down from whatever had happened prior to coming back to 'her' space. "Yes." She answers at length, before following up with a, "You knew my dad?" Eyeing her gun, she steps back, slipping the weapon away and working at the magstraps around her thigh where she often stores the gun when on the move. Tossing it aside, she works at the laces of her boots.

Glad your not dead." She comments after the fact, her gaze never leaving him all the while. "Coffee?"

*

Deathstroke is quiet for a long moment, "I do." he says, then tilts his head slightly to the side, apparently completely nonplussed by staring down the business end of the gun, "Did? I was unaware anything had happened to Snart. That sort of loss would have left ripples in the places where people like us congrigate. Admitedly I have been… out of touch for a time. Something happen to him?" he answers her question about coffee with a wave of his hand, a sort of 'sure, go ahead' gesture.

*

"Beats me." She says, finally taking her eyes away once her stocking feet are free, her toes wiggling against plush carpet. "Never met him." Padding away and toward another room, she shuffles about the kitchenette, setting the coffee marker up to do its job. "Always wanted to, and if no one's talking, I'll take that as a good sign." She calls out, eyeing the barrier between her and the bedroom where Slade sits. "You're not here for that, are you? Talking to some girl about her missing dad. What do you want?" Pause, "Cream? Sugar?"

*

Deathstroke ahs silently behind his mask, well that makes more sense, "He's a good man, in his own way. Hard to find a man of his word in this day and age, I respect them when I find them." he still thinks Snart's a bit of a chump, plays silly games in silly cities with silly stakes, but… but he's skilled, honorable in his own way, and won't double cross you. Say what you want, but that sort of dependibility is worthy of respect. Plus the man can just flat out /steal/ shit.

"I am not here for that, no." he says simply, "Black." answering her final question before continueing, "I'm here to know what your plans for the stone are."

*

Lena goes silent, listening to the man's praises all while lowering her gaze at the machine. Somehow, that'll make it work faster. Crossing her arms, she rests against the counter, smelling the aroma of java once it brews up and starts filling the pot. She doesn't say a word, simply breathes and starts to thank whatever may be for the devide of wall between her and her guest. Sniffling, lightly, she rubs at her eyes, dabbing to not ruin the liner that frames her frosty orbs, and then settles in to make their drinks. Black for him, vanilla and creamy for her.

Padding back in, she sets his on the small table by his side before taking a seat on the bed. "I don't know." She finally answers. "I was waiting to give it to a contact. Maybe the ninjas spooked them, but I have it now." Cradling her mug, she draws it up to her lips, blowing across it before taking a sip. "Why does it concern you? Not that I'm not thankful for what you did in Gotham. I owe you for that."

*

Deathstroke reaches up to lift the bottom of his mask, rolling it up to reveal the snow white goatee beneath and even tanned skin. He lifts the cup and sips the coffee, despite it still being scalding hot, "The stone may or may bring succor or power to an enemy of mine. My only concern is that they not get their hands on it, beyond that I care not a whit." he sips again and then nods, "And yes. Yes you do." owe him, he means.

*

Eyeing his face, or at least what she can see, her eyes blinks before her gaze tips away. Drawing up her legs, she tucks them under herself, going lotus position and resting her hands and cup down within the bowl of her lap. "I don't handle trust well, especially blind trust. You knew my dad, speak well of him, and you saved my skin when all you had to do to get what you want is to wait for me to die." Tapping her thumb on the mug, she pulls it up, blows, and sips. "I'm a girl of my word, so what do you propose?

*

Deathstroke's mask is unreadable, "We'll see." and she thinks she has issues with trust. Pfft. Rookie. "I propose you do not give it to Ares, god of war, nor to any of his minions, allies, or mediaries." sip. So it's gonna be one of those conversations. The kind where crazy people talk about gods like they were a thing.

*

Lena stares his way, her face sinking into an expression that was the spitting image of Snart himself. It was apathetic, annoyed, a rueful expression of knowing too much. "Fun." She muses, taking another drink back and holding in some comfort as the hot beverage rolls down her throat. "Done. Is there anything else you want from me?"

*

Deathstroke sets the coffee cup aside, "No." he says simply, "But when I do," he rises to his feet in a single graceful motion as if the whole of him were on invisible strings, "I'll let you know. I'm not the sort of man to be unclear in my expectations or intentions." he reaches up and slides his mask back into place, once more hiding every sign of human flesh away behind a sleek armored facade.

*

"It's funny. You leave Central City and you meet up with a number of men who hide their faces and give off vague threats and expectations. It's bred rampant down here, isn't it?" She looks up his way, settling her attention on his mask. "You should sit, finish your coffe. I have questions of my own." She advises. "Why did you do what you did? In Gotham?"

*

Deathstroke doesn't move, just stands there and stares at her for a long moment, "When I threaten you, it will not be vague." he says, and while the statement /might/ be construed as vague, it's certainly said in a tone that is not, "And when I expect something of you, you will not wonder what it is." he says simply. "When I leave this place and you pick up your phone and ask whatever pathetic minions or bookers you know about me you will understand how very foolish being flippant with me truely is." pause, "At least until you're better at quips." he does tend to allow for some of the newbies to get away with one liners, assuming they're good ones.

He doesn't move to sit again, but neither does he leave, "Because you had the stone, the Hand may have been contracted by my enemies to see it delievered. I wasn't willing to take the risk. And the Boy Wonder was there, his sudden return to the fold required evaluating. As did you." something about his tone suggests three 3 are not the /only/ reasons he did what he did, but they're the simplest and most forthright.

*

Lena sighs, looking down into what's left of her pale tan drink. "That statement wasn't only for you. It's better not to take things personally, hmm? I'd tell you to 'cool it', but you don't even like that I named my gun." She smirks weakly, her mode dropping shortly after. She listens, and nods, peering up at him as the reasons he gives off seem to linger, and lack something else.

"Fine." She relents. "I need better gear. Do you make your own or do you outsource it? You can move in your gear and I need something like that myself, with more than just bullets to deal with, I have to be better suited for my mission. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated."

*

Deathstroke nods his head, "What sort of resources do you have?" he asks simply, "There are more mad scientists in the world then is comfortable to contemplate, more genius mogals with next century tech, more magical gew gaws floating about then there are ancient civilizations to have manufactured them. But nothing worthwhile is free and most of the serious dealers only work by reference."

*

"What do you want? Cash? Gold? Crypto? I have my ways." She offers, shifting on the bedding just enough to get more comfortable. "I'm already asking around, but seeing things in action is the best seller I can think of. If I don't have what they want, I can get it." Another brush at her mug, she exhales and looks toward the man's eyes. Something is there, resting silent on the tip of her tongue.

*

Deathstroke exhales a puff of breath that speaks volumes without saying a word, "I take a one time ten percent referal fee from you, you get to pay for the tech from the dealer. Unless you're sitting on several million dollars you don't get armor like mine. Any of mine. But there are inumerable weapons platforms and defensive systems out there. How much you can pay defines what you get. Gimme a number for ready made cash, I can get you a list of names in that price range."

*

"One to Two Million." She offers out, keeping whatever thought she had on the back burner for now. Finishing off her drink, she moves to gather up his cup, once more padding off and into the kitchen area of the hotel room. Soon, he'll hear water running in a sink.

*

Deathstroke watches her go, silently and still as a tombstone until she's off washing out the cups, "That ought to get you something to get started with, something more then kevlar and a utility belt anyway. It's a good start. Be aware, if you get caught they'll take it, and unlike the gun, it's not technology you can likely recreate from spare parts." He's seen Snart reassemble a new cold gun from scratch with access to a Radio Shack, a hardware store, and three hours of uninterupted free time. He assumes the daughter can do something similar, or… maybe he's testing her.

When she returns from her little kitchenette he's gone, vanished without a sound and leaving only a single black and orange busness card on the bed where she was sitting earlier. One it is a name, a number to call, and a bank account number with a prefix for the Cayman Islands, presumably for his ten percent fee. Not one for long Q&A sessions or goodbyes it would appear…

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