11528/La Madrina: Special Courier Service

La Madrina: Special Courier Service
Date of Scene:	09 June 2022
Location:	Avengers Mansion - Study
Synopsis:	Robbie Reyes gets roped into smuggling something (probably illicit) for Janet van Dyne. The money's good, but is the work worth it?
Cast of Characters:	Janet van Dyne, Robbie Reyes

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Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Robbie. Robbie!" Janet's voice hails Robbie down the halls of the Avenger's mansion, and the socialite hopskips two steps to catch him up. One arm hooks into Robbie's elbow and she flashes a fast smile at him. "I've got a serious problem and I need your help," she says, with surprisingly clear enunciation despite speaking through her teeth without breaking her smile. There's a certain strained urgency to her tone. "You've got a fast car, right?" Janet's dressed relatively conservatively, in a blue sundress with white polka dots, puffy demisleeves, a knee-length skirt. Her lipstick and cosmetics set off her rossa-cossa red belt and pumps.

Before he can form an answer she applies pressure to Robbie's arm to encourage (pull) him through the doorway into the mansion's study.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie's not a terribly common sight around these parts. He does however pop up occasionally like a weird rash, spend most of his time tinkering and scowling at people in the mansion's underground garage, and then disappear again like he was never there.

Janet managing to snag him enroute to parts unknown is, then, more of a testament to her serendipitous timing than anything else.

In contrast to the socialite's cheerful, understated attire, the youngest Avenger is kitted out in his usual punk chic: black leather jacket festooned with metal fastenings, tight black jeans, ratty black tee shirt and combat boots. And let's not forget the half inch gauges in his ears.

"Uhhh.. sure," is about all he manages before he's steered into the study.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet closes and locks the door, and gestures at a chair. "Sit, please," she invites him. Janet's always well-postured, but with the visible tension in her neck she's holding herself with a positively aritocratic stiffness. Her palms work against each other in slow circles as a compromise against wringing her fingers. The socialite moves to a chair adjoining the same corner table, but elects to stand next to it, facing Robbie's seat with one arm on the back of the chair.

"I'm in a bind, and I need your help," she tells him without preamble. "I've got a... package, that I'm expecting. Unfortunately some, uh... /unsavoury/ individual figured out it's mine, and stole it. Now they're extorting me to get it back. I need someone to get down to Florida, pay the..." her lips press into a line. "The /fee/, and bring the package back up here. Like-- immediately. Right now. Tonight." Her head turns to the side a few degrees with a hawklike regard for the young Latino man. "The pay is six figures-- *if* I've got the right man for the job."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The kid sinks slowly into the offered chair, though with nothing resembling relaxation or comfort. He sort of.. perches awkwardly at the edge of it, like a cat about to scratch the nearest interloper and flee.

At 'need your help', his furrowed gaze travels from her hands, to her face; his confusion intensifies. What could she possibly need *his* help with, that one of the more public Avengers couldn't cover? But she clarifies that, too. "So you need a runner," he surmises, tonguetip skimming his lower lip as he considers that.

Then, gaze unwavering from hers, "What's in the package?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
\

"Runners don't need to know what's in the package," Janet says. "It's bonded and sealed with Customs tape so there's no way you *could* know what's in there. If you know what's in there, you no longer have plausible deniability."

Janet's neat dress apparently has pockets cleverly built into it, because she pulls a paper-thin sPhone out of nowhere and swiftly texts a message to someone. She walks to the door and unlocks it, but keeps one hand resting on the door handle. "In thirty seconds, my assistant's coming in here with a briefcase full of cash. Your cut's in there. If you're in, it's half up front, half when you finish. That's enough money to do... anything. Buy a custom bike. Finance a sports shop. I'll even help you clean it if you're one of those people who insists on being honest about their taxes."

"If not, then I'll have to find someone less reliable and less trustworthy, who is going to blow through that cash in a couple weeks of hard partying. So." She cracks the door.

"In or out?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He lowers his head when she says that: plausible deniability. Of course. Reyes already knew this, or he wouldn't have asked. Maybe he figured he'd prod a little, test the waters. See if she's serious, or just talking a big game about mysterious package deliveries. Smart of her to sweeten the deal with that kind of money, though. What's the kid making at the auto repair shop? Probably a fraction of that in a year.

"I'll do it," he murmurs, watching his hands. Then lifting his eyes to her face again, jaw tight. "On the condition this don't get out to anyone else. You got me?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet smiles. It's a small and subtle expression, and a surprisingly sly one for how boisterous she can be. "I was about to tell you the same thing," she informs him.

Smashcut, to: Miami, Florida, 20 hours later. 1200+ miles. At least a two-day drive, even for professional truckers. For the Ghost Rider, speed limits are more suggestions than threat. Long and empty stretches of highway let Robbie push his vehicle to incredible speeds, leaving sun-baked farmers gawking at flames licking the tire tracks the car puts down. It's nighttime by the time Robbie arrives in Miami, the humid air finally cooling down as the sun falls behind the Everglades. The meeting location Janet picked is in a bad enough area that Robbie's instincts must be twinging nonstop. Pimps, con-men, gangsters, and dealers all have their corners staked out, and they give his vehicle a suspicious regard as Robbie cruises towards the address.

It proves out to be a former cannery facility, long abandoned. The chainlink gates are falling off their hinges and the chain that once held them in place is covered in heavy layers of rust.

A van is parked inside, with men loitering near it. They cradle highly illegal automatic pistols; one has an AK-47 slung on his back. They're largely loafing until Robbie arrives, and rise up to face his vehicle.

Another man exits the van's cab. He's a big guy, with a barrel chest, bald scalp, and dusky sun-tanned skin that makes it hard to gauge his ethnicity. Unlike the bangers in their jeans and tee-shirts, he's in white linen pants and wears a too-tight brown dress shirt with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows.

"You the courier?" he calls to Robbie.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The drive might be pleasant, if Robbie wasn't doing someone's dirty work for a suspiciously large payout. But such as it is, he's focused on getting where he's going as quickly and expediently as possible. Roads laid waste to; daylight turned to an oppressively warm evening that has the sweat starting to bead on his skin.

He rolls up to the lot fairly casual-like, flicking from highbeams to low as he passes through the open gate, then killing the ignition with a disconsolate grumble from the Charger. Keys looped over a finger, he tosses them into his palm as he swings out, eyes on White Linen.

"Nah, man, I just thought I'd come check the place out." He glances away, smirking slightly, then meets the guy's gaze again. "Yeah, I'm the fucking courier. You got the delivery?" For all his youth, Robbie looks every bit like one of the street punks that hang out around here. The leather, the piercings, the tattoos. The East LA drawl.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The bald boss takes his time lighting a cigarette and stoking it to life with a few heavy drags. He uplifts his chin at the van and directs his men towards it with a glance. Two of the gangbangers open up the van's roll panel rear hatch and pull out a heavy wooden crate. It takes two of them to haul it out and carry it along, each holding one rope strap. It's marked with a number of customs and duty stamps; the package has taken a long trip and there's no clear way to tell where the point of origination was.

Before his men pass him on their way to Robbie's car, the boss signals them to drop it near his feet. He puts one foot on it, showing off custom gator-skin cowboy boots.

"Let's see the money first," he tells Robbie, and beckons him closer with an imperious two-fingered gesture.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
God, why does this feel so much like a bad heist movie? Robbie watches as the cargo's unloaded from the van, and it'd be a lie to say he isn't taking the measure of these guys one at a time, making little mental calculations of relative threat. Growing up like he did, the instinct's ingrained in him.

Then White Linen's talking to him again. Posturing a little, with that boot propped up on the box. The young man doesn't move for a few seconds, like he's assessing what the fallout might be if he simply took what he came here for, and the money be damned.

He flicks his keys again, tucks them into his jacket pocket, and favours the guy with a dimpled grin. "You got it." Moving off, he goes to pop the Charger's trunk and haul out a briefcase. It's set down beside the crate, and he steps back to dig out a cigarette while he waits for the guy to verify the money is all there.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The head hombre pops the clamshell case open and extracts a number of sheets of paper from it. They look very formal, with embossing and serial numbers stamped into the extra-thick paper itself. Each bears a wax seal attached to it. Bonds, issued by some bank, and there are ten of them altogether.

Janet had sent Robbie down south with a million dollars in negotiable bearer bonds riding shotgun in the cab.

"Your boss is good for the money. That's good," the bald guy says. He clicks the case shut and hands it to a guy behind him, and turns back to Robbie. He doesn't remove his foot from the container. "Now you go tell them, the price just doubled. I don't like people cutting into my business," he says, puffing his chest up threateningly. "I own that Customs warehouse. I pay a lot of money to keep them in line. So some no-name from New York decides to buy out one of my guys? That's not gonna fly. I want another million or I crack this box and see what's inside. And I get ten percent of anything else they run through here. If your boss don't like that--" he kisses the ring on his middle finger and flicks his thumb under his chin with a disdainful expression. "Then tell them to go fuck themselves. You got it?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie watches on in silence as the guy in the ridiculous crocodile skin boots does his due diligence. He thinks about cracking a joke to lighten the mood, but decides against it. These guys don't seem to have much of a sense of humour, and Reyes isn't in a mood to deal with shit going south, and the inevitable fallout.

Which, well, scratch that idea. Shit going south it is. "Yeah, see, that ain't gonna work for my boss," he replies after a drag off his cigarette. "Which means it ain't gonna work for me. But here, I'll cut you a deal. It's the best one you're gonna get, so you better listen real close." Here, he takes a step toward the guy. Then another.

"I give you the money. You give me the goods." He thumps the crate with the toe of his boot. "I go on my merry fuckin' way. And you and your terrible fuckin' fashion sense get to see tomorrow. You get me?"

Does he need to explain the alternative? The way he smiles all slow and predatory, maybe he doesn't.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
When Robbie squares up, so does the boss. He's quite a bit taller than Robbie, with probably a good sixty pound weight advantage. Like a lot of middle-aged men he carries his spare fat right in his gut, but there's a deceptive amount of muscle there all the same.

For a moment, something in Robbie's eyes makes him hesitate. The expression on the cocksure kid's features is a little too self-possessed. Not easily intimidated. And some instinct cues the bald guy into that fact.

But there's face to be had here. His men are watching. There is always something of the predator in criminal packs; waiting for the alpha lion to mis-step, to show his weakness. Bowing out would be the prudent thing... but Robbie would see in the man's gaze that he considers that idea just long enough to dismiss it. Imminent violence flashes in his features and he reaches for the piece in his shoulder holster.

"Let's see how you feel about it after I blow off your kneecaps," he says with as much menace as he can muster. Behind him his crew starts to laconically ready their weapons as well, though without any great hurry.

After all, six-on-one odds aren't really odds at all.

Right?

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Oh, Robbie knows this guy well enough by now. Not him, specifically; he doesn't know him from a hole in the ground. But he knows his *type*. He's dealt with countless variations on white linen shirt and crocodile skin boots in his time. He knows the look on the guy's face, he knows the mistake he's about to make, and he also knows what's at stake for a man in his position.

But he doesn't move as the weapon comes out. Doesn't even flinch, unless one counts the way his upper lip twitches. Like a junkyard dog angling for a fight. "You don't wanna do this," he tells him in a low, rough voice as his breathing ticks up a notch.

But apparently, he does. Self preservation be damned. The guy's as good as his word, and aims -- and then fires three rounds at Robbie's left knee. The kid stumbles back, roaring in rage and pain; from the bullet? Or from the change that quickly overtakes him, as the left side of his face is seared away, flesh igniting and turning to ash, as his features are replaced with a thoroughly alien looking metal faceplate. Like some kind of Terminator.

Then *pop, pop, pop* as the bullets extract themselves and hit the ground. "You shouldn't have done that," rasps the voice that isn't his at all. Like tearing metal, like a harpy's scream; as inhuman as his flaming face has become.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
All the blood drains out of the boss' face. "Jesus, what the FUCK!" he screams. "Kill this asshole!" He scrambles backwards in nearly blind panic, shooting so wildly at Robbie that several rounds miss him entirely-- though they do add some new holes to his car's exterior panels.

The other gangsters get their guns up and start shooting as well. It's a deafening cacophany of sound, the chattering of submachineguns echoing around the cannery. It gets even louder as the guy with the AK brings his weapon to his hip and pins the trigger down. *BLAM BLAM BLAM* The AK is not a particularly fast-firing gun, but those bullets are heavier, harder, and faster than the soft-nosed lead flying from the pistols. In the space of three seconds the gun runs dry; cursing, he starts the clumsy and slow process of reloading.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The car, unfortunately, is as possessed as its owner; the bullet holes close over in a matter of seconds. And Robbie? Well, he's not at the wheel any longer. Now the demon's in charge, and he has far fewer compunctions about killing.

The hail of bullets does nothing but put a mess of unsightly holes in his beloved leather jacket; holes that seem to be gone a moment later, and the bullets passed right through, smoking as they hit the ground. It doesn't slow or otherwise deter the Ghost Rider from his steady path forward, flaming scythe-tipped chain in hand -- where did he GET that? -- which is wielded in a savage whip intending to strike and sever the head from the guy with the AK.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
A gory and sudden decapitation takes the fight out of most of the gangsters. Horror-stricken, they panic and scatter in all directions. Like a good leader, White Pants is well ahead of the rest of them, leading the way in their tactical withdrawal.

But that's only most of them-- not all of them. And the one standing his ground makes his presence known by hurling a four-hundred pound piece of cannery machinery directly at Robbie.

The gun's tossed aside in favor of a jagged and rusty piece of old steel. The gangster's skin cracks into dark fissures and turns a shade of grey normally reserved for tombstones. With a guttural shout he rushes Robbie and swings for the stands with a two-handed grip on the heavy length of metal.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The fire-demon-thing advances on the guy in charge, kicking aside the dropped AK-47, flaming chain dragging behind him. Sparks pop from the curved blade as it scrapes the asphalt, and those hollow black pits that used to be eyes.. well, they're fixed right on his face. Up until he turns tail and runs, that is.

It looks for a moment like the Ghost Rider might chase him down, make him suffer a little before he puts him out of his misery. But instead, a new challenger presents itself in the form of four hundred pouonds of machinery slamming into his head, crushing the left side of his metal-armoured skull, and trailing flame as it craters into the ground.

The sound that comes out of him is one of those shrieking roars; pain and rage both, as bone and metal fuse themselves back together again slowly over the briefly unprotected, fang-like teeth. Then his chain comes up to parry the attempted hit from whatever-that-is, and try to tangle up his improvised weapon so he can disarm him.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The thug's long on strength but short on brains. He's got the durability, the strength, but no imagination in how he fights. There's a path A -> B in the gangster's brain and the shortest route between the two is to advance at Robbie directly. He blocks the lash of the chains but the supernatural weapons wrap around the improvised club and yank it back and forth in ways that don't let him use his strength to his advantage. A good yank pulls him off his feet and sends him rolling a good thirty paces away. The improvised club goes the other direction, skittering into the partially lit shadows.

He hisses through needle-sharp teeth at Robbie.

There is an abrupt whoopWHOOP of sirens and flashing lights from behind Robbie. No less than six patrol cars are piling into the vehicle ramp to block off escape.

"Miami police! Surrender and put your, uh, hands in the air!" someoen shouts from behind the blinding cover of light.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
That would be a mistake, of course; attempting to match force with force, when faced with a demon who can't actually die by any practical means. The club's discarded to one side, and the Ghost Rider closes in on his prey with slow, unhurried steps and the low roar of fire pouring off him as he approaches.

Then the sound of sirens piercing the air, lights washing across the compound as the cop cars skid to a stop just outside the open fence. He half-turns as if to look over his shoulder, pauses just a beat at the order given, *surrender*.

But he's going to do no such thing.

After some clear indecision, he steps away from the man on the ground, and dismisses the chains with a *crack* of metal, smoke washing over him briefly as the flames extinguish. Crouching down, he hefts up the crate he'd come here for. The one it took several men to unload; it barely seems to register as weight, to him.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The gangster decides discrection is the better part of valour, and scrambles into the shadows. He accelerates quickly, vaults over a 15' chain fence with a single bound, and is gone just like that.

"Open fire!" That's certainly a strange escalation; the cops didn't exactly give Robbie time to reconsider their orders. Bullets whip past like angry bees. There are distinct *thuds* of bullets striking bone-backed leather. The handguns and shotgun pellets are certainly annoying, but it's the rapid *boom boom boom* of a light rifle that sends real hate downrange at the Rider. Those hard, jacketed rounds don't exactly tickle.

Of course the cops aren't the crack shots they profess to be, and bullets start *thunk*ing into the crate on Robbie's shoulder.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The instinct to pursue is strong. The predator's drive to chase, and kill, and eat; it pushes out almost all other thought, like trying to swim upstream of a flood. The sound of footsteps scrambling, then the clank of chain link as his prey escapes, draws his attention for another scant moment; before bullets start slamming into him. Which, despite his durability, still fucking *hurt* when they penetrate his body.

A few rip through his arm, and more bury themselves in his thigh and back as he hauls the crate back to his car, and pushes it into the open trunk. He's going to need a goddamned word with that socialite bitch when he gets back.

Then he makes his way back around to the driver's side, still streaming hellfire and ash from a narrow plume in his armoured metal skullplate. A brief glance goes the cops' way, and the car's engine ignites before he's even swung inside and slammed the door. One gloved hand on the wheel, he backs up with a low whine of the supercharger, then guns the accelerator in a clear attempt to bust *through* the blockade with force.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"He won't do it!"

"He's gonna do it, Sarge!"

"No he-- oh shit move, he's gonna do it!"

The Rider's ride explodes into eldritch flame and when Robbie hits the pedal it responds with instant surging acceleration. The cops scatter in every directon as the vehicle's mighty fender slams through the hasty vehicle blockade, destroying two patrol cars and an SUV in the process. With that unnatural speed and power it's little effort for Robbie to tear through the dark, sultry Miami nights and evade the thoroughly befuddled cops until he's back safe on interstate roads. From there, it's just a day's drive through the sweltering coastal states of the Eastern USA back to New York.

Ten miles away from the border to New York, Robbie's phone pings with a new location. The detour is deeper into Jersey, into an abandoned industrial park. Two vehicles are waiting for him when he arrives. In contrast to the gangsters who tried to rob him, the reception here is men in smart grey suits and ties-- and carrying cutting-edge firearms partially hidden under their loose-fitting coats.

When Robbie rolls in, a lanky fellow with a military crewcut and grey in his goatee steps forward and uplifts his chin. "You get the merchandise?" he inquires with a no-nonsense voice.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The figure who climbs out of the still-smoking Charger -- her glossy black finish entirely unperturbed -- is not the same one who entered it. Gone is the sleek, alien looking armoured skull piece. Gone the fire and brimstone, gone the empty stare.

It's some Mexican-American punk kid in a leather jacket, ripped jeans and combat boots, and he doesn't look pleased at the detour. "Where the fuck's van Dyne?" he counter-questions, shoving his cell phone into the back pocket of said jeans, and lighting up a fresh cigarette as he slouches against his still-running car.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"You're new at this courier thing," the man says. "You're not paid to ask questions and it's bad tradecraft to namedrop your client. You never know who's listening." These guys must all be ex-spooks, former cops, or retired military. They're all just a little too comfortable with the weapons in their hands, and seem utterly unperturbed by Robbie's adolescent rejoinder.

"Now go get the crate out of the car so you can get paid. Unless you want to play 20 questions until some security guard wanders over here to see what this little confab is about."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Maybe he is new to this business. Maybe the money was just too good to pass up, but he's been having second, third, fourth and fifth thoughts about the wisdom (stupidity) of taking on a job with no questions asked. Fuck. *Fuck*.

He can probably take these guys. Burn the bodies, destroy the evidence. Crack open the crate and.. then what? Stroll back into Avengers mansion like nothing happened?

He drags off his cigarette once, twice, then pushes off the car and goes to open the trunk. "I'm gonna need some kind of proof that this'll get to my client." He over-enunciates the word, with a glance toward the spook who addressed him.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The guy with the goatee rolls his eyes minutely and digs a sPhone out of his pocket. There's a few taps on the screen and he slides it into his jacket once more. The other men start unloading the crate; it takes two of them to haul it to the back of the SUV. "Check the goods," Janet's hired gun tells them.

Robbie's phone beeps. "Looks like you got a text. Here's your remainder," the guy says, and reaches back to accept a plain brown bag from one of the other men. "The boss threw an extra ten Gs in. Heard you had some trouble down there, but you still beat the clock."

He almost hands it over, then pulls the wad back at the last second.

"But... she *is* gonna need that suitcase back. With everything in it, as it was," he adds. "Seeing as how you managed a five-finger discount on the goods."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Look, man, I don't got the fucking case." That note of aggrieved weariness enters his voice. The note that could so easily become a chord. A whole fucking melody of rage, to the tune of fire and brimstone. For now though, Robbie has control. And it's his better judgement that has him watching without intervening as the crate's hauled away, and the payout denied.

Though it's his desire to go put his fist into Janet's face that has him sending her a short, terse message before he climbs back into his car to head for New York:

Hablemos, perra.