11830/La Madrina: Missing Money

La Madrina: Missing Money
Date of Scene:	29 June 2022
Location:	Miami, FL
Synopsis:	Robbie Reyes makes a run to Miami to pick up some mysterious goods for Janet. A mistake on his part turns into a trip back to Miami. Robbie cuts a bloody swathe through the Miami mafia, both with and without Eli's help, and he returns to New York exultant. He is paid *very* handsomely for his efforts-- but is this 'simple job' going to lead to bigger problems later on?
Cast of Characters:	Janet van Dyne, Robbie Reyes

---

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Two trips to Miami in less than a week. That's a long haul for any roadster, even the Ghost Rider. The first trip had been to make an exchange for a mysterious briefcase that he'd retrieved and schlepped back northwards to deliver as contracted.

The second trip is for the leftover funds that Robbie had abandoned during his hasty retreat during the first exchange. Janet was apparently not happy with her bearer bonds going missing.

Finding the money, however, proved to be a bit more of a challenge. He'd been given a few suspiciously-crips stacks of new bills to take south, enough money to dole out some hefty bribes if it came to it. The cops didn't retrieve it; it turns out one of the local homeless had retrieved it. Not knowing what it was, and unable to open it, he'd pawned it off for drug money. From there it had landed in the hands of a different pawn broker before it was remanded to the Trafficanis, a Italian-descended mafia family who owned a great deal of the illegal industry in Dade County.

The only thing Janet's people could tell him for sure was that the briefcase was still locked. An apparent fail-safe for Janet's money if things went bad. Robbie's choice now: infiltrate the Mafia quarters and steal the case back, or make a direct play for it by confronting the lieutenant-- Charlie Barbieri, the son-in-law of Don Vincent LoScalzo.

Or head back to New York with empty hands.

It wasn't particularly hard to find Barbieri's house. A palatial estate that clearly doubles as a residence for various mafia soldiers and operatives. The guy running the corner mart at the entrance to the neighborhood knew the exact address. The question for Robbi, in the fast-cooling Miami night, is how he's going to play it from here.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Charlie fuckin' Barbieri. He'd asked about him, casual-like, when he stopped by the convenience store for smokes. "Ten bucks for a pack of Camels? Are you shitting me?" But the guy, at least, had been forthcoming about the location of his target. No need for a bribe, which suited Robbie just fine; he isn't really known for his ability to wheel and deal.

Now he's killing the ignition and swinging out into the fading heat. Slams his door, drops his keys into his jacket pocket and rolls out his shoulders. "Well, let's do this," he murmurs to himself. Is there a fence? He's scaling it, boots hitting the asphalt solidly on the other side. No attempt whatsoever to disguise his approach; it's the front door he's going to walk right up to and ring the bell for, like he's here to pay a social call over coffee and ciambellone.

Infiltration? Not so much.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Well, there is something to be said for the direct approach. There's no attempt to do an end-run around the Mafia, and to be fair-- most of the goons on-duty are so confident in their bosses' reputation that they're less on their guard than they perhaps should be. Because no one would be dumb enough to attack a Mafia home in broad daylight.

Right?

Robbie's at the top of the stairway when the door swings open ahead of him ringing the bell. The door guard is a big guy, at least three hundred pounds and not carrying a great deal of fat. A gun rides in his shoulder holster and he fixed Robbie with a furious glare.

"The fuck you doing on this property?" he demands of the young man.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
There's a lot to be said for the direct approach, if you're Roberto Reyes. Why beat around the bush if you can-- ah. Seems the welcoming committee's arrived. The lean, dark-haired Latino kid standing on the doorstep could easily be from around here, but he isn't. Not in that leather jacket; not with that sleek, vintage car that doesn't have so much as a scratch in its paint. And definitely not with that look in his eyes: hungry. Like a knife filed down to a killing edge.

"Lookin' for Charlie. You know where I might find him?" Robbie leans slightly to one side and looks over the big guy's shoulder, as if half hoping to spot the Lieutenant lounging about there.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Ain't no Charlie here," the bodyguard responds. "Who the fuck's askin'? You a fed? Nah, you're too skinny for a Fed. Bet you turned State's," he accuses. "Yeah, that looks about right. I'll make it real easy for ya, right now you're trespassin'. I got my legal right to shoot you. But I'mma give you a chance to get off the property. Now-- d'ya want a three-count, or youse just wants to know when my patience is run out?" He reaches for his shoulder holster to draw the heavy-barrel .44 magnum revolver clipped in place. It's a big gun, with a disturbingly big barrel from the perspective of anyone looking at the business end of it.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The kid's upper lip twitches, ever so slightly. "Kind of figured you might say that," he replies, when he's informed the guy isn't here. He doesn't bother standing around and waiting for the big guy to finish speaking, though; before he even reaches for that weapon, Robbie's eyes are starting to smoulder.

And then his hand closes around the gun, and the younger man lunges. Much, much faster than he ought to be able to; a blur of movement, smoking pits where his eyes were a second ago. He attempts to body in, snap the guy's arm by maneuvering wrist in opposition to elbow, and hopefully relieve him of the revolver.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The movement takes the big guy by surprise. He freezes, failing to transition between the intent to shoot and the intent to fight. It gives Robbie enough time to grab the gun and force the barrel away from him. The kid has superhuman strength but he's not at full 'go' quite yet; the big guy has a lot of hard-earned old muscle and the reflexes of someone who's done some hard time in prison. He swings his left hand in a wild haymaker and tries to wrestle the gun towards Robbie. Two shots ring out-- one sails off into the night, one *zips* through Robbie's trapezius, putting two neat holes in his immaculate leather jacket.

The pressure on the wrist and elbow proves too much and the man's arm snaps at the halfway point. He screams again, loud and bellowing with agony, and his numb fingers lose their grip on the gun.

"We got trouble! Get the boss outta here!" soomeone shouts from down the hallway. Hard-soled shoes can be heard beating time against the floor as reinforcements rush the little parlor landing.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Two shots, and the gun discharges close enough that Robbie can smell the smoke as the chamber clears. He kicks the weapon away and into a darkened corner, even as his transformation's completing. One side of his face ignites, flesh turning to ash; ash and embers powdering the still air.

The guy's screaming, and Robbie can feel the bloom of pain in his shoulder like he can feel it as his face peels away. He bellows, too, head fully on fire now as he grabs a fistful of the guy's shirt from behind in one hand, and his useless arm in the other, and attempts to lift all three hundred pounds of him off his feet-- and hurl him into the opposite wall like he weighs nothing.

Then he stalks past him, and into the hallway, streaming flames and black blood-smoke as he moves.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Up and over the mafioso goes, and he hits the wall hard enough that Robbie can hear bones break before the man falls through a table and a mirror. He ends up on his head, crumpled up in the nook like a discarded ragdoll.

"Jesus-- Tony!" someone shouts. Another mobster is standing at the corner to the hallway, gun in hand. When Robbie turns to him the mobster raises his semiauto pistol and start firing wildly with little effort to keep a steady aim. "What the fuck, what the fuck!" he screams over and over-- particularly when the demonic rider doesn't just... drop.

Upstairs there is movement and the sound of a stubby machine gun being loaded. The mobster on the upper landing leans over the rail, holding the gun with both hands, and starts laying down fire on Robbie. In this case accuracy matters very little compared to the sheer number of bullets raining down from above.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The bullets simply bounce off him, for the most part. They batter against his metal plated, armoured skull and plink away in streamers of flame; and the demon doesn't so much as slow his approach. A lightning-fast crack of the flaming, blade-tipped chain in his hand that.. wasn't there a moment ago, and he's aiming to sever the head of the guy who's pouring pistol rounds into him.

The body's stepped over, and up he goes, head like a torch to illuminate the dark stairwell. Some guy with a machine gun, RATATAT-- the bullets are midair when he starts to move. His lean, dark form becomes blurred like ink spilled in water, moving at twice the speed of sound. This time, a chain-wrapped fist cracked through the guy's face, and another, and another, until it's pulp.

Was he hit? Maybe. It doesn't matter. Keep moving. Doors kicked open as he comes to them, the hunt drives him forward.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Three down in less than 30 seconds. The rest of the mafiosos seem to decide discretion is the better part of valor, and can be heard smashing windows and leaping out of the second story to escape the oncoming storm. They rabbit in a half a dozen different directions at once.

Outside, near the far back edge of the opulent lot, there's a loud *crash* and the sound of a full-throated engine roaring. A green luxury sedan with full-black window tinting peels out of the rear drive, wheels screeching in their search for traction. It stops just long enough for the door to swing open, and a man in a dress shirt and slacks carrying a silver briefcase lunges out of the shadows and dives headfirst into the car.

It's a big old car with a heavy engine, and once those tires grab asphalt the vehicle tears away well in excess of local traffic laws, making a beeline for the highway interchange.

In the sedan, Barbieri has his cell phone to his ear. "Boss? Boss! It's Barbieri!" he says, voice tight with fear. "I just-- no, I know-- I-- Boss, listen! Some fuckin'... meta or something, he stormed my place! He killed three guys, I-I barely escaped with my life!"

Inaudible murmurs come from the other end of the line, and the boss' words seem to calm Barbieri somewhat. "Right, yeah, I -- okay. I'm headed to the old safehouse. An' boss, this guy, he's trouble," he says, with worry in his voice. "This might, uh, this might be one of those things you bring in a freelancer for, yeah?"

On the other side of the call, the line is disconnected and Don LoScalzo sets his phone back into the receiver cradle. He looks across his desk-- a rather plain, featureless thing for a man of his station-- and rests his hands on the chair's armrests. He looks to his consigliere, then to his #2, and exhales a steady breath.

"Call the witch."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
When the first, second and third door he opens yields nothing, the demon starts to get restless. Impatient. Downright *angry*. The next door is ripped off its hinges and flung aside-- and then in an instant, he knows. Green sedan hurtling past at speed, headed for the highway.

The Hellcharger comes online with a wash of white LEDs, shifts itself into reverse, spitting gravel for a moment before it roars off after the car. Moments later, a CRASH of glass splintering and exploding outward as the Ghost Rider autodefenestrates onto the courtyard. He tumbles violently a few times, then sprints across the grass and on an intercept course with the Charger.

Up the fence, he springs off the top and plummets down like a paraglider, phasing right through the roof and slamming into the passenger side seat. The car, perfectly capable of handling itself in its owner's absence, takes a hard left and guns it for the highway.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
It's a race to see who can get to the interchange first. Even the cops have lost suspects to the milling cloverleafs. Too many exits, turnbacks, hidden pathways. The mafioso's car has a solid lead, the driver is a local, it's got a full tank of gas and a powerhouse engine block.

Robbie has the Rider.

"Uh... boss... I think I see... behind us," the driver says, looking in his rearview mirror. The bright-white LEDs are a dead giveaway that a performance vehicle is on their tail.

Barbieri twists in place to look through the rear window. "Oh damn, oh shit, oh shit," he whispers, over and over. "We got any guns in here?"

"Uh... yeah," the bodyguard says, looking a little abashed. Barbieri turns to look at him, then smacks him upside the head.

"Where the fuck are they?"

"In the trunk!"

Barbieri looks behind him again, then picks up his phone and makes a call. "Yo, Tito, this is Barbieri," he says. "I'm near the interchange. I got mad heat on me bro. Some fuckin' meta is on my ass. Can you-- " a beat. "Yes! OK! Sendin' my GPS now," he says, and taps on his phone. He kicks the driver's seat. "Yo, get on the Canal exit, then exit to the dockyards," he says.

The driver starts to voice his confusion, and Barbieri kicks his seat violently. "Ain't a discussion!" the mobster shouts.

Barbieri pulls a little folding knife out of his pocket and gives it to his bodyguard. "Cut through the seats, get the guns," he orders.

"But that'll ruin the leather, boss!"

Five seconds later, the bodyguard is hastily cutting through the window with a bloody nose.

Robbie's car closes the gap fairly quickly. There's just no amount of motor that can keep up with the Rider's mighty steed. The driver starts maneuvering more aggressively, sideswiping cars and pushing civilian vehicles in the path to try and slow down Robbie's pursuit.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
In the thickening dusk, the Charger's profile is pure, unadulterated menace. The green sedan's able to pull away briefly; swerving in and out of traffic, and for a few heart-stopping seconds, there's no sign of the Rider. Not hide nor hair. Just the sound of the switchblade sawing at expensive leather upholstery, the engine straining at full throttle, the screech of the vehicle madly weaving between other slower-moving cars.

Then those sounds are joined by another: the distinctive whine of a supercharger going all out. In the rearview mirror, that beast of a black car comes roaring up fast, faster, too fast-- it swings into the lane beside the sedan, its front end slamming into the truck trying to scramble into the ditch, and flipping it. A van behind hits the brakes, and skids off the road as well. The Charger's interior is aflame, the wheels are aflame, and more is pouring out of the blower, like a comet hurtling earthward.

This is what they see, the instant before it veers sharply toward the green sedan and tries to sideswipe it off the road with a SCREEEEECH of sparks flying off metal.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
In the Rider's wake, various vehicles crash destructively. Is there any knowing who is in those vehicles? A delivery man working late? a family outing to the pizza place ending in a motorvehicle accident?

The Rider doesn't care. It's too close to the sedan, the vehicle itself looking like it wants to take a bite out of the getaway car.

The sedan's driver has clearly been in a high speed pursuit before. He jukes the wheel away from the Rider's approach. Hard as the Rider can hit, it's hard to push against a car that's not there. Sparks fly and the vehicles end up hubcap to hubcap, with the driver frantically trying to jam the vehicle over against the attempt to push him off the road.

The rear window of the sedan shatters as an illegal AK-47 starts spraying heavy, high-power bullets into the Charger and her rider.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He's well beyond the point of caring who he hurts; because it isn't Robbie in control any longer. Whatever vestige of it that he had, left him when he leaped out that window; when the only thought in his rageful mind was finding his car, and killing the ones who got away.

"We could call this off, tell her the money wasn't there."

"Do you think she'll let you get away with that? Failure? Some Avenger you are, boy."

"Avengers protect life. They don't throw it away--"

"She'll throw you away. They all will. Just a matter of time."

Another car is slammed into, flips, and crashes in the ditch as he forces it out of the left hand lane and plows through the hail of bullets. The windshield's punctured with a CRACK CRACK CRACK of high powered rounds that.. simply glance off the Rider's armoured skull and body when they hit it.

Then the Charger pulls away slightly.. and slams back in again. Harder, this time.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The hit caves in the side doors, knocks the gunmen back inside, and visibly breaks the driver's left arm. He shouts in pain and the sedan veers dangerously left and right. The front driver wheel is damaged and it starts to rattle and flap violently, making the whole car judder.

"Canal! Here! Turn here!" The driver grabs the wheel in his good hand and abruptly yanks it in the opposite direction of Robbie's car. The two vehicle separate at the last moment to avoid either of them slamming into the water barriers. They go down the overpass so quickly that the sidewall of the car scratches a long series of sparking scars on the safety barriers brackting the road.

They scrape around the offramp and start down a long, empty stretch of industrial road. It's the sort of place that every city has; a few bars, a strip club, and plenty of failed commercial and industrial efforts. The sedan limps along, barely able to go more than ten miles an hour.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon, he ain't that far behind!" Barbieri implores his driver, clapping his palms against the seatback in his urgency.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The Charger drops back, and the damage to its exterior has already begun to repair itself. Bulletholes in the glass filled in one at a time; gashes and dents and holes in the body simply.. burning away, paint washing over them.

Dusk becomes evening, and one without moon or stars. The sky is dark and overcast, and heavy with that muggy sort of heat that never quite lifts. The Hellcharger's lights are visible again in the rear view mirror as they hit that empty stretch of road. Like a predator playing with its prey; it could easily overtake the sedan, but prowls along on its tail instead, eight cylinders rumbling away.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Toying with your prey. It's a mistake that even animals make. They make sport with their target, they get confused or distracted. It pulls their attention, so eagerly fixated on the target that their vision narrows to a narrow funnel of focus.

Up the street, the side door of a bar opens. Four men walk out, all of whom look like authentic mobsters. One of them is carrying a heavy plastic military transport case.

"I see 'em, that's Barbieri's ride," one of the men says. The one with the case kneels down and pops the clips open as Barbieri's rig scrapes down the offramp, and limps towards them.

"Holy shit, is that car on fire?"

"Will be in a second." The guy with the crate rises with a heavy, alien weapon balanced on his shoulder.

A beam of eye-violating purple energy shoots from the weapon faster than a bullet. The sedan's proximity to the beam makes the paint bubble and boil from just a few feeet away.

The impact to the Rider's vehicle is singificantly more violent. It hits the front grille, and burns a two-foot wide hole out through the rear trunk of the vehicle.

Even for the Rider, there's a limit to how hard a hit it can take.

The men in the sedan abandon the vehicle and run towards the bar. "Get them to the safehouse," the gunner orders. He hands off the kit to someone else to pack it up.

"You know those Dominator cores cost like, fifty grand each, Barbieri?" The mobster lifts a brow at the Mafia lieutenant.

"Shit Sal, with what I've got in this case, I could buy you twenty of 'em," Barbieri retorts. He looks behind him, then back at Sal and tilts his head towards the line of cars strategically parked for a fast getaway. "And send one of your boys over to make sure that fucker's *dead*. Even if you gotta burn another one of 'em. I'll be you-know-where."

Salieri and his crew pile into a vehicle and tear out, disappearing into Miami's back alleys.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Jesus. What a waste of a sweet ride."

Four firemen are standing near the still-smouldering wreckage of a black Charger. A barrel-sized hole has been drilled lenghthwise through it, and a quarter-mile away there's a crescent-shaped chunk of the interstate through which the Miami night sky is visible. One of them gets the hose ready, and a fireman in a full mask and gear makes a cautious approach to the vehicle. "No fuel leaking," she shouts over her shoulder. "Lots of... burning rubber though, I can't see shit through the smoke."

The firefighter picks up a stick and starts probing the smoke-filled interior of the car, looking for any survivors. Off to the side, one of the junior firefighters is staring at the vehicle with a puzzled expression. "Yo, Lieutenant-- this doesn't look like some junkie lit it up," he says. "Look at this hole, this is-- You seen anything like this be--FO--!" He's yanked back by his collar and pinned to the ladder, the lieutenant bristling in his face.

"Of course I have, dumbass," the officer hisses in a low voice. "It's illegal space guns. There's a fuckin' mob bar at the end of the street. They toasted someone's ass. So yeah it all looks very weird and suspicious, and you're gonna mark it down as a leaky gas valve so we don't end up with some mobster paying the firestation a visit."

The lieutenant releases the junior firefighter, then gives the kid's coat an apologetic tug to straighten it out and backs away. "Besides, it ain't like anyone's dead in there."

He freezes when metal scrapes metal, and the burned-out ride starts to lurch like the center of gravity is moving around...

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The car is pretty well totaled. It's a pile of warped and smoking metal at the moment, barely recognisable as a car at all, much less the gorgeous vintage classic that it is.

As the firefighters poke around in their gear, trying to determine whether there's a body inside, one of them might catch movement in the driver's seat. There's definitely *something* in there. Maybe an animal looking for carrion? Though they don't make wildlife *this* big in these parts; it's human-sized, covered in blood, and smells like cooked-off flesh.

And, as the driver's side door's finally wrenched open, and the occupant tumbles out onto the ground trailing smoke, it's clear that it is in fact human. Kid looks maybe 18 or 20, dark-haired, brown-skinned. Good amount of his right arm's torn away, but he's alive and breathing. Somehow.

"You should get the fuck outta here," he whispers to the lieutenant in a rough, strained voice, looking right up at him. "Before I hurt you and your boys."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Holy mother of god," one of the firefighters invokes, and all four of them back away with their hands lifted in a universal gesture of non-violent intent. The lieutenant starts to lift his radio, then hesitates, and holds his free hand out in a warding gesture. "Listen, we're not here to hurt you," he tells the driver. "Firefighters. EMS. You were in-- a bad accident, and you've probably lost some blood. Let us help you, okay? We can get you patched up and into a hospital."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
His laughter sounds like rusty nails, and turns into violent coughing. Blood trickles from his mouth, his ear. The right hand, the one that's been mangled badly by the accident, he glances at. Tries to work the fingers into a fist, then straight again. Good enough. Tendon and bone are visible under seared away flesh, and the leather glove's soaked in blood and gore. He wipes it off on the thigh of his jeans, and gets to one foot, and the other unsteadily.

"I said get the fuck outta here. Pierdete de aqui. Don't you listen? I don't wanna--" He hisses in pain as he leans against the Charger. "Don't wanna hurt you. And I need to fix my fuckin' car."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Yo boss, this one's a meta," one of the fightfighters says. The one with the tool eyes Robbie warily, clearly not sharing her supervisor's interest in rendering aid to the man walking off the full-body third degree burns.

"Shit. ... all right, go," the lieutenant says, and backs waaaay out of Robbie's way to ensure he can't be perceived as obstructing the shambling semi-corpse.

"There's a hospital two miles from here. University of Miami. You are gonna want to get ... some bandages!" he says, raising his voice after Robbie's departure. "Those wounds get infected, you're gonna die of sepsis!"

There's a pregnant silence once Robbie is out of the picture, and the four firefighters look at each other. The youngest of them picks up the clipboard and props it against his hip, pen in hand.

"Gas... leak... no... fatalities."

No one seems prepared to object to his falsification.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It takes him a good few minutes, but with focus -- and some help from the Rider -- the seared-away flesh begins to reform. The shattered bones in his fingers start to repair themselves, and whatever internal damage he suffered is reversed. Not without significant discomfort; the young man grits his teeth through it all, whimpering now and then as muscle re-attaches itself to bone and the tear in his right lung closes up.

His car needs a little more work; the engine block's toast, as is the exhaust manifold. All of the tires are blown, the windshield's shattered. He climbs in, drops his head back in his seat, and pops open the glovebox, where a nest of wires spill out.

Wires that, when connected to, enable him to channel healing directly to the car. It must be a strange sight, almost like time going in reverse as the thing's restored to.. a largely driveable state. And then the engine growls to life, and it lurches away with a shriek of tires.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Some bloodhunters would be stymied by the mafiosos escape. Even if they'd survived such a calamitous encounter, the gangsters know Miami inside and out and how to evade and hide-- from the cops, from investigators, bounty hunters-- everyone and anyone.

They did not, perhaps, prepare to contend with the Rider. It doesn't take him long to sniff out Barbieri's psychic trail. The Rider hungers for the unpenitent and Barbieri fits that description well. Across Miami he goes, out of Miami proper and into Hialeah. It takes him no more than an hour to find where his quarry has hidden: it's a run-down old apartment building, clearly abandoned or something close to it. The trail leads right into the front door. Inside is a stinking miasma of malice, clearly palpable to the Rider. It's the sort of cloud that occurs when a lot of bad people do bad things inside a certain location.

It's a promise of a lot of unrepentant souls, ready to meet the Rider.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
An hour is small change to an entity that hunts across time and space, willing and able to cross dimensional portals to track down his prey. And this particular prey has made him hungry in a way he hasn't been in a long, long while. So hungry that he'll do anything and everything to keep his human host obedient, and capable of cooperation.

Which means that by the time he rolls up to the crumbling old apartment block, the damage Robbie's taken has all but healed completely. He cuts the headlights, kills the ignition and climbs out slowly. A gloved hand lingers on the vehicle's undamaged door a moment before closing it carefully, and sliding his keys away.

Eyes on the building, he prowls in under cover of dark. First, to do a quick perimeter check and then find a fire escape or back way in. Seems he's intending on employing some actual discretion, this time around.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The options for ingress aren't ideal. Most of the windows are partially broken; the ones fully destroyed have been boarded over. The fire escape is rusty and the ladder likely frozen in the 'up' position. It doesn't look structurally safe, nor quiet. The front door is likely well guarded; the steel back door, which only opens inwards and from the inside, might be less so. As he prowls around Robbie can hear various sounds and spot movement by how shadowy figures block the cracks leaking light into the humid Miami night.

One thing remains unmistakeably clear to the Rider: his quarry is 'in there', and there are a lot of similarly-dispositioned people in there with him.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Similarly dispositioned only means more fuel for the fire, which seems to suit Robbie just fine. He completes his slow circuit of the building, then backtracks around to the rear door. The one that looks like it opens inward, from his cursory observation of it.

Shoulder against it, he gives what he thinks is enough of a nudge to snap whatever mundane latch might be on the other side, and open it a crack. Just a crack, so he can get a sense for what he's immediately facing in terms of resistance.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The Rider encounters... nothing.

The first floor seems empty. The door opens into a nondescript room that's barely a hallway and a landing for the next set of stairs going to the second floor. There comes a murmuring of voices from the far end of the hall, the sound of men having a lazily emphatic argument. The words are too indistinct to make out.

Five, six paces Robbie takes inside-- and then the trap is sprung. The lights go out. The walls and stairs and doors disappear. For a moment it seems like the Rider is surrounded by nothingness. A few moments later a throbbing, weak purple light washes across the room. It seems to emanate from no visible light source. Instead of walls and doors there are now mangrove trees and swampy rivulets. The stink of old, rotting vegetable matter. A tombstsone or two sits at strange angles, some poor soul interrred in a pauper's grave only for the swamp to send their corpse churning over and over again.

"Ahhh, hah-hah, hah-hah," comes a rasping woman's voice. "Yuh too renk, boyo," she hisses. "Nah de Babylon, nah de babylon," she whispers. Something can be seen momentarily lurching from one distant shadow to another, disappearing into them. "Ayah, come yah for corn, yah ketch up? Best back 'way, little caballero done git clapped iffen he tink welcome here, no no no," she says, and the sibilant hisses disappear into the gurgling swamp.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
His hand is run along the wall as he moves. Cautiously, aware that he could at any moment be caught out; like a fox in the chicken coop, he does not belong here. He's just testing the first step on the way up, gaze cast to the second floor to check for interlopers who might've caught his scent-- when the room goes dark.

There's a split second between that, and reality warping and shifting around him, and in that split second he tries to scramble backwards, but the wall is gone. The floor's no longer there. He bumps into a grave marker, and jerks away from it without ceasing his voracious seeking for the source of that voice.

"You like hiding, huh?" His fingers clench and flex as he ventures forward a pace or two, testing the ground beneath his feet. "Why don't you come out and play? I ain't gonna bite." His lip twitches. "Not unless you make me."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Ooh, wah gan handsome," the woman cackles from some indiscernable point. "Weh yuh depon? Dis de swamp, bruddah man, dis my home. I here playin' before you come, I here playin' aftah you dead." It momentarily seems to be coming from a position about fifteen yards away from Robbie's current spot, but vanishes again just as quickly.

Something in the murk crawls past him, something that disappears into the roots of a rotten mangrove tree a moment later. A bird caws in the distance, singing a mournful song to a respondent who doesn't make itself known.

"Da Italy mon, he gwan ta friends. Said, you was dread, mon, truly dread. Dey call me, dey say 'ayah, the debbil walkin heah yas, ya empress de swamps you make de con-fron-tation'," she whispers.

A bug flits through the air just out of sight, lands on Robbie's neck and stings or bites him. When he swipes, it's already gone away, leaving a slowly-spreading purple mark on his skin.

"But I and I de mambo, I an I a obayifo who sing to de Obeah. An' I know the debbil, I seen the one what deals your soul." Fingertips rest on Robbie's shoulders and a woman lurches into place near his ear. Her skin is somewhere between olive and sepia; perhaps some ochre in the right light. Beads and bones and bits of plant are woven in her hair and into jewelry covering her hands and neck. It makes her look washed out, and the flash of stained teeth comes with the stench of rotting plant matter. "I know you carry only da empty mon," she whispers against Robbie's ear--

--and when he wheels around, she vanishes into the murky swamp, disappearing like her whispered words.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It's hard to make out some of the details of what the woman's saying. Her accent is thick, and the colloquialisms aren't familiar to him. Growling, he tries to slap at the insect that alights on his neck-- but only succeeds in catching thin air. Well, and himself. He glances at his hand, gloved fingers rubbed together absently as he continues scanning the haze for some sign of his adversary.

Another step forward, and another, his jaw tight when she starts talking about 'his devil'. She touches his shoulder and he lets out a bellow, whipping around with an elbow aimed for where he thinks her face might be-- "COME OUT AND FIGHT ME," he roars, eyes igniting, voice warping like sheet glass shattering and metal tearing.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
There is nothing. Just more lurid, soft cackling, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

~Kid, something... something ain't right~. The voice addressing Robbie comes from inside his own skull, not from without. He catches a glance of his reflection in a small, still pool of water. The Rider stares up at him for a beat-- then the fires fade, leaving the expression of a haggard older man grimacing up at his host. ~I can't.... I ain't got no juice, Robbie. I think that bitch did something ta us.~

Another pair of insects flit past Robbie's ear. One hits his cheek and vanishes, leaving a small dot of blood on his features. The other, however, hits one of his leather gloves, and Robbie gets an up-close look at a blowgun needle. Removing it elicits a single, welling drop of something green from the hollow syringe tip.

"Ayuh, you meet my friend. Him we call the swamp bee," the witch laughs from the shadows. "De Italy, dey know not'ing," she informs Robbie. A wave of dizziness overtakes him; when he stumbles, she steps out between a pair of trees, arms resting vertically on the trunks for support. "Him who give da medicine, call we, Bully Ben." She stoops, collects a bullfrog and holds it up for Robbie to see. A fingertip rests on a green pustule and a few drops of sinister green liquid bleed out of it. The swamp witch turns it around, croons at the amphibian, and kisses it's snout before returning it to the muck.

"Smoke drop de medicine, yas hear de ottah side. Lick de drop, yon see da duppy, spirit world."

She lifts a blowdart to her lips and drags it along her tongue, sneering at Robbie. The motion leaves a tiny red cut on her tongue, red blood mingling with the green poison. "For yah, I tinkin', 'who de real threat, de boy? Or de debbil inside de boy?'" she inquires with a whismical rhetoricism. "So for you now, sweetbird, I make up Mama Palmer little love bite from de ol Bufo. Yah old man gwan to sleep, den you restin', an' none ta whisperin' you ta wakin'." Green-stained teeth are bared in a grin at Robbie as the poison works its way through his blood.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
As quickly as it surged in him, it sputters out again. His left eye's blown out, trailing smoke and ash, while the right seems.. mostly intact still. He grits his teeth as he waits for his healing to kick in, like it always does-- but the Rider isn't answering him. The second voice in his head that he's never without is simply.. gone.

The feel of something landing on his cheek has him slapping at it, teeth bared, a glance at the back of his hand. He hisses as it's pulled out, and flicks it away into the cattails.

"So," he pants, fighting the pain in his blind eye and the vertigo that wants to drag him under the brackish water, "What do you get outta this? What is it you actually want?" He stumbles, going down onto his knees, head swimming as he tries to focus on the woman petting her bullfrog, before it too is released into the muck.

His head droops forward as a wave of nausea hits him, and his breathing ticks up a notch. "You and me. We both know they're gonna die. Just a matter of when I catch up to them. Why you workin' for them? What do you.." He forces himself to look at her again. "What do you want?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Dis no negotiation, mon," the witch says. She sounds almost puzzled to hear him put it that way. She walks closer, a swaying step that would be almost graceful were it not so utterly predatory. "I an I gots business. You want de Italy dead, Italy, he come to me an' say, 'Mama Palmer, I roll yah cheddah you make dis boy bleedin'." She walks a slow circle around Robbie as he keels over, fingertips brushing against his shoulder, his hair, gauging to see how the toxins are affecting him.

"Nah see got you de bukuru in yas, de Italy, 'oh mon dis Bakra, dis de debbil, help me please Ma-Ma'," she says, with mocking pantomime.

As Robbie sags back on his knees, she swings her leg over and straddles his thighs, fingers resting on his face and chest. That rotting, decrepit stink of the swamp rides on her every breath as she presses into him. This close, he can clearly see her green-stained teeth are filed into sharp points, and her skin is caked with mud and swamp scum. And her eyes are yellow slits, more feline than mortal.

"But yah know, I call de loa and say 'what dis man, dey say him the debbil', and the Loa tell me dis boy, he no' de Rider. He just..." she laughs against, a dry cackle that seems to scrape its way up her throat. "Him got a mans in his head. An' Lady Palmer, I an I know how to draw that ol poison out. So--" She lifts up a rather prosaic looking mason jar, and uncaps another syringe tip on her finger that looks big enough to bleed an elephant out. "You gon sleep, an maybe I get the old man out 'fore yon die, ya pup. An' maybe I tell Italy, you gone deaded, instead me cut yah throat an' drink ye meself."

She drags Robbie's weakend wrist over and, humming like a cook in her kitchen, starts dragging the large syringe tip up his wrist to find a meaty enough vein.

~.... kid ....~ The voice is weak and whispery. ~ Gotta... fight... her. She'll ... take ... me. Take.... Us.~

In the dark pools that are the witch's eyes, Robbie can almost make out Eli's features fading away.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It's so hard to think. Through the pain pounding like an iron spike in his eye socket, jangling all the tiny nerves that connect to it. Through the waves of vertigo making him feel like he's turning, turning, turning, no matter how much he tries to ground himself. Through the *smell* that has an almost visceral presence of its own, as he feels her weight against him, her fetid breath threatening to make him retch.

And through it all she keeps talking, talking, talking. No answers, just more questions. Something about taking the Rider away, and briefly, he thinks, "Take him, then. Good fuckin' riddance." Except.. nope, that wasn't your inside voice, Robbie. And if the Rider dies, he dies, and--

He moves quickly, trying to wrestle his arm free from her attempts to jab it with the syringe, and grasp her head in both hands, and twist it sharply to break her neck.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
*CRACK*.

There's no sound like breaking bones. The wet snap, the muted tearing. Muscles and tendons shredding so fast they almost vibrate against fingertips.

She gurgles at Robbie, eyes gone wide-- and then she shrieks. She shrieks like a banshee, an explosion of noise and sound. Wailing she flings herself backwards, head hanging at unnatural angles like a broken ragdoll, and she crabwalks backwards as limber as a spider. "Aieeee! Break my bones, my neck!" she wails, and scrambles up into a tree's low branches. "It hurt, ya bloodclot! You hurt Lady Palmer! I an I no forget dis, boy!" she says, and swings her broken head around on a rubbery neck to spit vaguely in his direction. "I comin' for yas again bruddah-- I pramise ya!"

Up she goes into the foliage. A few moments later the swamp starts to dissolve around Robbie. The darkness fades, the water disappears. Was it illusion? A conjuration? It's hard to say. All he knows at the moment is that he's sitting inside the interior of a building that was being gutted for remodelling. Nothing but scraps of drywall and timber framing scattered around. A camp chair and a cooler are tucked into a corner, and both look clean enough to have been brought it very recently.

Of the witch, there is no sign.

Outside of her conjured swamp some of the confusion and disorientation starts to fade. Her poison still courses through his blood, and the cost of that explosive movement is the curve silver syrette jammed into his forearm. It leaks a steady trickle of blood, though at least it's more nicked a vein than outright torn one. But if left untended, in his weakened condition, it could easily kill him still.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The boy's an accomplished murderer, though. He's gone up against all manner of things, and killed many of them. Things that don't exist in this plane; things he wishes he could scrub from his memory, but can't. Lady Palmer isn't the worst thing he's had to deal with; but the way he drops to his hands and knees, and dry heaves a couple of times once she's gone.. she might well be one of the most unpleasant.

He drags his hand over his eyes, feels charred flesh crumble into fine ash between his fingers. Then belatedly notices the syringe sticking out of his leather-covered arm. He yanks it out quickly and flicks it onto the floor. "C'mon," he mutters between gritted teeth. "I fuckin' need you, you don't get to leave me yet.."

In the meantime, he spots the purse lying by the cooler, and scrambles over on his hands and knees to try to snatch it up and hurriedly dig through it. The cash is stuffed into an inner pocket of his jacket; the phone is checked for messages quickly, or some sign of ownership.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The purse is shabby and old, filled with trash and junk and personal items and things that defy easy catalogue. It looks like what you'd expect a witch to haul around on her shoulder.

The phone gleans more useful information. No calls; just text messages between two numbers. One of the texts is a picture of Robbie. It seems to be a discussion about price, with half up front and half when Robbie's death was confirmed. The first drop point was in Miami; the second, near Brickell. It's not hard to figure out that Robbie's original prey must be holed up in the Italian district of Miami, and no doubt eagerly awaiting news of Robbie's death.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Sitting against the leg of the chair, Robbie skims through the phone's messages cursorily, lingering a moment on the picture that was sent of him. His tonguetip runs along his teeth slowly, and he moves on, going backwards in the conversation until he has the context he needs.

Still having trouble seeing with his left eye, he has to sort of squint at the screen as he goes to compose a reply:

The boy an mouri. I coming get my money now.

Fuck, good enough. He hits send, shoves the phone in his pocket as well.. and flips the lid on the cooler so he can take a peek inside.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The cooler's got a five-pack of beer, some cold gas station chicken, and a half a bottle of orange juice.

The rest of it is filled with swamp life. Rotting flowers, old chunks of driftwood, and some crawling worms and insects. The muck stirs and a small frog pokes its nose out. It looks at Robbie, croaks once, and then seizes a gadfly and dives back underwater with it. Either the witch needs these for spell components, or she *really* loves mangrove swamps.

The trip to Brickell isn't far. En route Robbie gets a text message, giving him a street address. The biggest inconvenience is that damned hole in his arm. Even with the syrette removed, it won't stop that slow, steady leak, blood welling into the bandages and dripping on the floor of his car.

The Brickell house even looks like a Mafia joint. Lots of vegetation, high fences, a couple of guys in polo shirts acting as nonchalant security at the front entrance and wandering the grounds.

And Robbie's sense for evil-doers assures him unequivocally that Barbieri is inside.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He parks, kills the engine again, and raps his fingers against the steering wheel as he considers the house he's parked out front of. Could go in guns blazing again, probably get shot full of holes, and god knows whether Eli'll pull his head out of his ass in time to keep his precious host from winding up a bloody corpse in some mafia don's hallway.

And like *fuck* he's going to die for Janet and her fucking cocaine.

But first-- Robbie leans around into the back seat to rummage for something to stop the bleeding, because bandages he does not have. An old tee shirt suffices, and is torn into strips with his teeth, and used to staunch the bleeding in his arm. Then he shucks off his leather jacket and tugs his hoodie on instead, pulling the hood over his head before trudging off to do another perimeter check of the property.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Robbie gets lucky; there's a section of old fencing that's collapsed due to rust. Somoeone propped up a sheet of metal roofing material to keep animals out, but it's child's play to reach past it, pushing the lumber propping it up, and move the whole thing to the side with minimal effort. Once inside the grounds, the thick vegetation serves to help him sneak past the bored and inattentive sentries. The front door is probably too well-guarded, but a glance in the kitchen suggests no one's standing watch over the back door that leads onto the yard. Breaking in shouldn't be too much trouble.

Hopefully.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The sheet metal is gripped in his hand and given an experimental shove. Finding it amenable to his simply pushing it aside, Robbie ducks through and slinks in closer to the side of the house, under cover of dark. Grass cracks softly under his boots, and he pauses when he thinks he might have startled some small animal in the underbrush. But nothing comes for him, and he creeps over to the back door. A shovel propped against the wall is caught up in his hand, and he braces his shoulder against the door. Count of three, then a solid *thump* of his weight against it to try to pry it open.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
It's an old lock with wood waterlogged by humidity. There's the sound of wood ripping and splintering, but no great CRACK of fresh timber.

"Yo, Vinny, you hear that?"
"I ain't hearin' shit man, clean your ears out." There's a mutter, and the sound of footsteps moving away from the back half of the house. Robbie's in, it seems. Most of the Mafia guys must be sleeping or at home, there's not a ton of them running around. Robbie's nose bids him Barbieri is upstairs, and the fleet-footed young man gets up the steps with little trouble and arrives on a landing that turns into a hallway. The far end of the hall has a door facing him, with lights on inside and the murmuring of a voice or two just past it. Surely, it's Barbieri's office, and the gangster is in.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Heart pounding in his ears (when last has it done that?), adrenaline coursing through his body like a flash flood, the kid's almost shaking by the time the voices die down to a murmur and he realises he's in. No idea if Eli's there to back him up, or if he's doing this on his own, and damn if it isn't even more of a rush, not knowing. And for a junkie like him, it's the best kind of fix.

He pulls his hood low over his eyes and twists his lean frame, sliding inside without so much as a creak of the door. Across the hall and up the stairs, and this time they're solid under his feet.

Reaching the office door, he pauses a moment. Then knocks, weapon held low to his side and at the ready.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The voices in the room pause. "Hang on, gotta put you on hold," Barbieri says. "This better be good, you dumbfuck," he calls from the other side of the door. "I told you putzes I'm on the phone with New York. What's so goddamn important you gotta interrupt me?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie lets out a soft hiss, and shoots a quick glance down the hall both ways. Left, then right, to make sure he hasn't drawn any unwanted attention. Whispered harshly between clenched teeth, "C'mon, Eli. Come ON."

But there's nothing. And his time's up. So in he goes.

Based on the direction of his voice, Robbie can guess where Barbieri's sitting. Knows that once he shoves the door open, he's got about two steps to reach his desk, and he *might* still have the element of surprise by the time he takes a big ol' swing with the shovel at the guy's head.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"What the fu--" Barbieri falls victim to the classic blunder: never split your focus. He can't decide if he should stand, yell for help, or go for the gun in his desk, and so he goes for all three and accomplishes nothing for it. The blow to his head splits his scalp open and he goes tumbling over his chair with a great clatter and *THUMP*. The hit has disoriented him though, and the discombobulation makes it difficult for him to articulate much more than a "hnnngh" of pain while he scrabbles at the desk for leverage with uncooperative limbs.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
In the same motion, the shovel's tossed to the floor with a noisy clatter, and Robbie stalks around the desk, rummaging for the gun he's certain this guy keeps in one of the drawers. He's a fucking mob boss; not a chance he doesn't have at least one piece in close proximity to his person. And Robbie's going to need it in approximately thirty seconds here, assuming his cadre comes storming up here like he expects.

Barbieri, meanwhile, is left grunting and scrabbling on the floor nearby while he madly tugs drawers open and rifles their contents; and given a vicious kick to the head if he gets too close for comfort.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
There it is; an old Glock, with the serial numbers partially ground off by inexpert hands. And it doesn't take Robbie long to figure out where the money must be; he's savvy enough to know that the Mafia doesn't hide money in safes or lockboxes. They hide it out of sight. A little knocking around and he pulls a picture off the wall to reveal a basic wall safe with a digital keypad.

"Boss? You ok? BOSS!" It takes them a few seconds to get momentum going, but the sound of feet jogging worriedly through the house is a prompt to action for Robbie. He has maybe ten seconds before the Mafiosos charge into the room, though at least he'll have the element of surprise and some tactical advantage for now as they single-file up the stairs and down the narrow hallway.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie's a street kid. Grew up in one of the slummiest barrios in East LA, and ran with the cholos until the cholos shot him full of bullets and tried to burn his body. Feeling the weight of the glock in his hand, it's like coming home.

He checks the clip quickly, then pivot and puts a round in the back of Barbieri's head. Can't take any chances, after all. The picture's set on the desk, and the keypad's squinted at a moment. Fuck. No time.

He moves to the wall beside the door, aiming to catch it as it opens inward, and put the next round in goon #1's throat if he can.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Boss!" It's the last thing the Mafioso ever says, hurring recklessly into the door at the sound of that gunshot. He's halfway through getting a snub-nosed revolver out of his waistband when Robbie caps him. The big guy drops like a marionette with cut strings, dead before he hits the ground.

No. 2 is a little more on the ball, trying to get his gun out, but his backpedalling is obstructed by the two guys bulling up behind him. Shouts of consternation and confusion go up as the trio collides with each other, momentarily hung up in the hallway's fatal funnel.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
There's no time to think about whether this poor fools deserve what's coming to them. No time to pause and consider some other, more heroic way of bringing this shit show to a conclusion. He's all in now, and he's never felt less like the Avenger he supposedly is.

His first shot goes wide, lodging itself into a wall when #2 surges forward and staggers into him roughly. But then the handgun's swung back around in a vicious pistolwhip aimed at the meaty guy's head, and followed up with two rounds to his chest.

In the midst of tussling, another round goes off-- but not from his gun. Pain blooms in his thigh, along with a quickly-spreading patch of dark blood. Where the actual *fuck* is Eli when he needs him?

Robbie pivots and fires on #3 and #4 in turn; two rounds each, but not before one of them puts another bullet in his gut. He staggers toward the desk, and sinks onto the edge of it, breathing heavily. Then drops to the floor with a loud *crash*.

When he comes to, the pain in his leg is gone. A quick pat-down tells him the blood soaking his tee shirt is.. his? But there's no bullet wound. He has no idea how long he's been slumped there, but it can't have been *too* long or he'd have bled out. Right?

Fuck. The safe. He hunts for some sign of a passcode, or a brute force way in.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Passcodes are funny. Everyone knows it should be something stupidly complex and hard to guess, randomized numbers that don't mean anything. But very few people actually want to deal with that, with memorizing a series of numbers that have no meaning or relevance. It doesn't take Robbie long to dig in Barbieri's back pocket for his wallet. After a few permutations thereof, it turns out the mafioso's birthday is the magic number. The safe pops open. There's a good amount of cash stacked in there, some drugs, a couple stacks of gold coins, and-- still neatly wrapped with red ribbon-- are a stack of bearer bonds sealed and stamped by the Credit Suisse of Switzerland.

There are sirens in the distance; the multiple gunshots must have prompted someone to call the cops. But they're a ways off, and there's no one around to complain about Robbie doing a little larceny!

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The cash and bonds are all stuffed in various pockets, of which he has a few. The coins, though, he doesn't bother with. After a moment's hesitation, he grabs the drugs as well, flicks Barbieri's wallet onto the desk, and steps over the bodies to hunt for a way down--

Aha. A window. It takes a couple of tries to shove it open, but a burst of strength from Eli does the trick. With a grin, he kicks out the grating, climbs out, drops down to the ground level -- a distance that would stand a good chance of breaking bones, were he not capable of withstanding far greater forces upon his body -- and takes off at a dead sprint for his car.

Time to get the fuck out.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Robbie's drive back to New York is indescribable. There are few highs like a violent clash, one with real risk and consequences, and especially when one goes mano y mano with another violent actor and comes out on top.

Robbie didn't just stare death in the face, he laughed and flung himself straight into it.

Normally it's a two-day drive to make the trip. The Charger spits in the face of such times, burning down asphalt through the night and leaving flame trails hot enough to melt tar in its wake. A state trooper tries to pull out and catch him after speeding through a speck of a small town, but Robbie vanishes into the distance as fast as a plane pullign away.

In fact it all feels so good, that when he takes a sniff of the white powder he found in the safe, Robbie's awareness hits a new level of ecstasy. The miles melt away and he's nearing the city in just four hours.

The same setup as before; Robbie's given GPS coordinates, to a new location in a sleepy little town well off the beaten track. It turns out to be an abandoned auto shop, and the second he approaches, one of the doors rattles open and a flashlight winks twice at him.

When he pulls in it closes again behind his ride. There are two blacked-out SUVs and more of Janet's team of 'fixers' waiting for Robbie to show up. The head honcho uplifts his chin at Robbie when the young man dismounts the vehicle, and steps towards him. All of them are strapped with military weapons and they look like they know how to use them.

This time he pauses, though, looking at Robbie's disheveled state, and a brow lifts at the kid. "Looks like you had a fun trip," he says with a dry amusement-- but the fact that Robbie's still standing with that much blood on him prompts a subtle note of respect, from one fighter to another.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
It's a minute before he pops the door and climbs out; and the bag of coke, or whatever the hell that shit is, is stuffed into the glovebox first. No reason to give these goons something else to hassle him over, after all.

And disheveled he most certainly is: blood spattering his cheek, a broad swath of his torn up tee shirt. The hoodie's gone, and his tattoos are on full display; ink down to the knuckles of his right hand, and the look on his face just *dares* the guy approaching him to give him shit.

"Todo en un dia de trabajo, gringo," he rumbles, flashing the guy a dimpled grin. The wrapped stack of bonds is held out between two fingers, eyes on the armed man in front of him.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Te tomo bastante tiempo," the fixer responds as he accepts the bearer bonds. He pages through them, counts all twenty, and hands them off to one of the men behind him. The bonds are exchanged for a paper bag and he hands it to Robbie. "You took some real risks, kid," the man tells him. "Don't know what all you can do, but our people in Miami told us some of what you went up against. Word of advice: no one's immortal," he tells Robbie. "You keep taking big risks, sooner or later, you'll come up short at the worst possible time." There's a total lack of condescension; the fixer seems actually concerned for Robbie's success now that he's 'vetted' himself in the bloodiest possible way.

"Little present from the boss in there," the fixer adds, and turns back to the SUVs. The men pile into them and in good military precision, pull out and head north.

Inside the bag: the rest of Robbie's money, plus another twenty-five grand, and a fist-sized box. Inside: a brand-new Tudor Black Bay timepiece on a handsome leather wrist strap.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie actually laughs at that, tonguetip touched to a canine before disappearing again with a flash of silver. "You want the job done fast, or you want it done proper?" he retorts without any bite whatsoever. Just some friendly banter between hooligans, right?

The advice, though, seems to sober him up a little. For all he's an inveterate adrenaline junkie with an appallingly self destructive streak.. somewhere in there is a damaged kid who knows that clock's ticking. He does not reply.

But what he does do, is take the money, tick two fingers off his temple when the men take their leave, and check the bag once they're gone. Huh. Not quite his style.. but it could be. He moseys back over to his car, climbs inside, and simply sits there for a while with his eyes closed as he processes everything, and prepares to head back to the Mansion.

But the baggie of coke is burning a hole in his glovebox. Gonna have to do something about that, first.