12532/La Madrina: Questions of Conscience

La Madrina: Questions of Conscience
Date of Scene:	21 August 2022
Location:	Avengers Mansion - Recreation Room
Synopsis:	Robbie tracks Janet down at the Mansion, and has a few questions for her. He doesn't much like the answers.
Cast of Characters:	Robbie Reyes, Janet van Dyne

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Robbie Reyes has posed:
Ever since that last bit of business with the missing briefcase and the thugs from Miami, Robbie's been laying low. Sure, he's not been too difficult to find, if you're in the mood for dealing with what passes for 'customer service' from him at his boss's shop. But surely there are other places to get an oil change or your brakes serviced that don't come with a side of sharp-tongued Mexican kid.

Specifically, he's been avoiding Janet. Avoiding in the way people avoid when they've got something to say, and need to figure out how to say it.

He surges through the Mansion like a storm, boot heels marking a brisk rhythm against the floor. Dressed in his usual ensemble of leather and ripped denim, with a black racing helmet tucked under one arm, he doesn't look like he *entirely* planned on winding up here today. But here he is, checking the rooms he passes for some sign of the socialite.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet's in the rec room. She is not recreating. The socialite's taken over one of the tables and has design notes, sketches, plans and indexed folders tossed around all over the place. Her portable art tablet is sitting at an angle and she's leaned over it, sketching a number of fast concept designs one after another to get them all down as quick as she can.

She's dressed a little conservatively; a hip-hugging red dress with a knee-length hem, paired with a black bolero-style shirt and patent leather pumps. Rose gold and diamonds adorn her ears and wrist, and she wears an elabourate linked necklace that rides just beneath her collarbone.

At the sound of heavy biker boots stomping in, Janet looks up at Robbie and lifts a brow at him with a suspiciously placid expression on her face.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
*thump thump thump* Pause. *thump thump thump thump thump* Robbie's frame is tall but lanky, and doesn't take up much of the doorway he's presently loitering in as he studies Janet across the room.. drawing? He looks somewhat comically irritated at finding precisely what he was looking for, and glances over his shoulder briefly before redirecting his attention her way.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, he ventures in closer. "Hey." A flick of his eyes over the red dress, the jewelry, like he's self-conscious about his own scruffy attire. "You got a minute?" He makes a little moue with his mouth, gloved fingers tightening on his helmet. "Maybe a few minutes. Need'ta talk to you."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet looks Robbie over, then saves her work and points at the other chair at the table with the end of her stylus. "I can take a few minutes," she acknowledges. While Robbie gets himself settled Janet straightens up her stack of folders, some of which are labelled 'Pietro Wedding'.

Once done she half turns in her chair to face Robbie, smoothly crossing one leg over at the knee and resting her hands atop her thigh. The look she gives the young Avenger is one of great tolerance, making it very clear that her time is not something to be wasted.

It almost definitely has nothing to do with her recently being dumped by America's Ass.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The chair is eyed with about as much uncertainty as the socialite herself. But he does bump it out with the toe of his boot, and sink into it obligingly. Or, well, as obliging as Roberto Reyes ever gets.

Catching sight of the label on the top folder, he remarks curiously, "Quicksilver's gettin' married?" The helmet's set down in front of him atop the table, his fingers raked through the mess of dark curls fetchingly sticking out every which way. "Anyway, uh. That thing you sent me to get." His eyes flick to the door, then back to Janet. "It was a fuckin' shit show. You get me involved up to my ears, but you think I ain't worth explaining things to? It's fucking bullshit."

He leans forward with a soft creak of leather, mismatched eyes on hers. "So. You want any more of my help? You need to start talkin' to me, yeah?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Oh, I know it was a shit show," Janet assures Robbie.

She reaches in her purse and produces a sleek, pen-like device. It unfolds into a miniature antennae.

"JARVIS, I need room privacy," Janet orders the AI.

Just for good measure she turns on the vox scrambler also, because you never know with machine intelligences.

"I didn't cut you loose in Florida with a pile of money and not put eyes on you," Janet tells Robbie. "I wanted to see how you could handle it. You almost screwed the pooch hard, but you pulled through in the end. That's why you got a fat bonus in your back wallet," Janet reminds him. "And part of the fee you received is a tacit agreement to avoid asking potentially incriminating questions. Is your curiousity worth more than the loan on your property?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He waits patiently for Janet to do what she needs to do with the security whatnot, presumably so they can speak candidly. There's grime under his nails, probably grease from the shop, which he studies with a troubled frown until she's ready to address him.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You think I couldn't hack it? A few flat footed thugs outta Little Italy? Fuck you. You set me up or something? And what was that bitch about, you think maybe you could've mentioned her before you sent me in?"

His lip quivers slightly at her last words, his whole body visibly tense. "Yeah, well, maybe I wanna renegotiate our agreement."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet stares at Robbie with a frosty lack of expression. She's not strong like Carol Danvers, or unpredictable as Wanda Maximoff. But for a petite woman Janet owns the space around her like she's surrounded by a force field. And while someone like Steve can threaten someone-- Janet's sheer presence tickles that base-level instinct that urges the monkey brain to run and hide in a high-up tree.

Mostly because she looks like she wouldn't blink an eye at ripping someone's throat open if she thinks they're trying to intimidate her.

"I think you fucked up hard. First, you left a giant pile of bonds laying around. So-- lack of initiative." A hand lifts, index finger extending. "Second, you went in there underestimating your enemy. If they weren't such a bunch of useless idiots, they'd have scooped your blood bones out of that car and done something to put you in the ground permanently."

A third finger lifts. "And then you walked right into that trap with that... mambo, or whatever the fuck she's called," Janet tells Robbie.

"But I don't care about that," she says, and closes her fist to rest on her thigh. "I'm a results oriented person. Your job was to watch out for my interests. You delivered. If you didn't deliver because your ego was cutting checks you can't cash, I was ready. I'm not someone who leaves things up to chance, Robbie."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Presence is something Janet has plenty of. Witness the way Robbie shuts right up once she has him in his sights. Is he entirely certain of what she'd be willing to do to him, if he really pissed her off?

No. And therein lies the caution. Because he isn't a complete fucking idiot.

Once she finishes ragging him out though, she's met with a stony silence. He's still angry, that much is clear. But it's muddled with something else. Something not quite like wounded pride; though it could be mistaken for it. Disappointment? In *her*? No, in himself.

A solitary word, after what seems like an age: "Fine." It's as brittle as his self-control at the moment. But he doesn't get up and leave, just yet; as if there's something else that brought him and keeps him here.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet looks at Robbie for a few long moments, and releases him with a flicker of those intense green eyes.

"Robbie, I read your psych profile. I know how you came up. I know how much of this--" she gestures at the whole of the Mansion-- "is you running away from that life. Trying to make something better for yourself."

"And that's why I approached you. I needed someone who could speak their language. Who could blend. Someone who understands what is necessary to buy street cred on the spot. We're /Avengers/, Robbie," Janet says, gently underlining the 'we'. "We exist outside the law because the shit we run into is beyond the law. Because we have to keep secrets and play it close to the vest."

She sits back, then, fingers drumming on her thigh. "By my count you killed twenty to thirty wise guys, a few cholos, and you got me my product *and* my money back. I'm sure you skimmed a good amount from the mafia while you were raiding their stash house, too. That's all yours. Finders fee."

"So as much as being kept in the dark rubs your ego wrong, you have to admit that you did the Miami PD's Organized Crime unit a *huge* favor."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Her gaze is met squarely, for what it's worth, with a pair of eyes that don't match; one dark, one piercing green. He's no shrinking violet, at least, in the face of scrutiny.

His expression softens ever so slightly to one of uncertainty when she plays the Avengers card, though. "Does existing outside the law justify killin' civilians? Stealing money that don't belong to me?" It might even be an honest query. He glances down at his hands again, then back up at her.

"And if you think I give two shits about doing favours for la juda, then you're crazier than you look. Seguro que esos malditos cerdos nunca me hicieron ningun favor." He pauses again for another long, uncomfortable moment. Should he, shouldn't he? No. Yes. *Spit it out*.

"I need some more." He watches her steadily, like he's hoping she's figured out what he's talking about.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"You need some--" Janet's eyes widen as she translates, then narrow into thin lines of disapproval.

"One milk run to Florida, and you're hooked?" she says, sounding stunned. "I've been doing nose candy since I was fourteen, and I don't *need* it." She shakes her head, exhaling, then reaches into her purse for a makeup compact. It's unfolded to reveal a tiny set of tweezers; she uses them to pluck something near-microscopic from the case and set it on the table. She closes the compact and waves it over the object. A dime bag of white powder abruptly reverts to its normal size.

Janet's deft fingers get it first, and she holds it between index and middle finger near her temple to keep it out of Robbie's reach. "I can help you with that. But I have conditions."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He's not even going to comment on fourteen year olds snorting cocaine. If he wasn't who he was, and hadn't been where he's been and seen what he's seen, he might be shocked by her admission. Outraged, even. But drugs and guns and crime were the cornerstones of his upbringing, and none of it holds any shock value any longer. The only surprise is that he hasn't gotten hooked years ago.

"Look, I just broke up with my girlfriend, my apartment burned down, it's been a rough few weeks, okay? Why you of all people fuckin' judging me?" He jerks his chin up to her, like he's challenging her to top that.

He quiets though, while she does the thing with the compact. Clearly resists the urge to reach over and snatch the bag away from her when it's dangled just out of reach. Blowing a breath out his nose, he looks away and then back again. "Escupelo, entonces."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Dr. Lipshitz." Janet looks cooly at Robbie. "He's the director of rehabilitational therapy at The Dunes in East Hampton. You're going to call him, tell him I recommended you to him, and that you need to start addiction therapy. That's the first condition."

"Second, this is the last and only blow you get from me," she tells the Latino. "This will nurse you along until you get into therapy. Ration it out. And if you get to therapy with some, hand it over to the amnesty nurse. And I /will/ be following up on that," she warns him.

"And third, you're benched on milk runs. I will still have other work for you. A man with your talents is the next best thing to a nuclear weapon. I won't let that go to waste."

She starts to move the baggie over towards Robbie, but yanks it back at the last second, staring at him mercilessly with the teasing bag resting near her shoulder. "Do we understand each other?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The look on his face is one of mortified determination. Determination to get through all of her lecturing at him, so he can get what he came here for. Might even be a tint of colour on his cheeks, under all those ridiculous freckles.

"Are you for fucking real? What's it matter to you, anyway? It's just some fuckin' blow. I can't walk into some.. 'rehabilitation centre'--" He does indeed put air quotes around that with two fingers. "--for spoiled rich kids, and not draw any attention to myself. I'm an--" He can't even say it.

Nor does he bother to try to snatch the bag out of her hand; his expression remains one of chained frustration when she yanks it back. He watches her eyes, and listens to someone passing by out in the hall. Then relents quietly: "Fine." A gloved hand's held out, two fingers crooked in a 'give it' motion.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet puts the bag firmly in Robbie's hand. "I'm glad we understand each other," she tells him. "Now go home. Sober up. I'll send word when another job comes around."

Janet seems to mean that as a dismissal, and turns back to her work without another word, going through the files there.

She lets Robbie rise and get halfway to the door, before: "Robbie. Wait," she bids him. Janet gets out of her chair and smooths her skirt out, then walks over to Robbie and looks up at the young man.

"Last month, the dealer who works out of Circle was beaten almost to death. Some cartels wanted his turf. A few weeks later, people started OD'ing. My people. My /friends/. Others have had permanent nerve damage, seizues, and a bunch of other shit from contaminated drugs."

"I sent you to Florida to get the purest stuff on the East Coast. Clean. Unadulterated. I'm going to make sure that no one else gets their addiction exploited or dies with a needle under their arm because their dealer wrung them out dry."

She starts to speak again, closes her mouth. Instead one shoulder lifts in an elegant shrug. "Now you know something else about me, I hope."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The coke secured, he shoves it into a pocket of his jacket and collects his helmet, heading for the door with that sleek, liquid inertia.

But the sound of her voice and the report of her heels slows and then stops him in his tracks. He turns to watch her, and his brows furrow as he listens. This close, he smells like engine grease, and clove smoke, and that faint yet indefatigable scent of brimstone.

And what she wanted to tell him, what she felt was important enough to keep him from leaving, so she could say it.. well. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. He digs his teeth into his lower lip, and nods. "So you ain't completely the cold-hearted bitch you like to pretend you are, huh?" He too looks like he's got more to say, but that cat's sure got his tongue.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Oh I am," Janet says with a complete lack of rancor. "Don't get me wrong. I'm a winner, Robbie. A survivor."

"The Avengers are who we are because of who I am. I don't give bad guys a second shot at my back and I don't let rules get in the way of needs to be done. That might not make me a hero, but it doesn't make me a villain."

She shrugs again and turns on the ball of her foot, heading back to her table. "Goodnight, Robbie," she bids him over her shoulder.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie actually allows a small smile at that. He hefts his helmet under his arm, and takes a step back toward the door. "Ain't nobody a villain in their own story." Then the smile's gone like it was never there, and he watches her walk away. Softer, "Buenas noches."

He's gone by the time she sits back down.