13431/If Vogue Ever Comes Calling...

If Vogue Ever Comes Calling...
Date of Scene:	24 November 2022
Location:	The Narrows - Miagani Island
Synopsis:	A delivery job turns into something far more interesting and potentially profitable for the future. Deals are made and clothes are tumble dried.
Cast of Characters:	Veronique Lalonde, Caleb Dykstra

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Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    There's a sound of honking horns and raised voices out on the street. Nothing out of the ordinary, and doesn't come with the hallmarks that cops would. Surely spotters would have given out the appropriate calls, subtle or strident, to tip off the residents. This is some other thing, perhaps a reckless driver or a drunk one at that. The disruption comes on down the street, deeper and deeper into the narrows, whipping up soggy newspapers and debris in the wake of a heat-blur. And then it stops, very suddenly, and there's the sound of trainers on an indoor basketball court. ~Squeeeee-chirp~

    Veronique's hoodie has long since fallen back from her face, the air friction having tugged her clothes like a dozen hands hand been trying to yank her back from whence she came. Tears streak the corners of her eyes and her cheeks are a bit rouged up. "Fwaaaah...Yeah...gotta be close this time." The smell of burnt rubber from her stolen spiffy trainers of some glorified sneaker designer sizzle in a Gotham puddle as she peers down to the bundled package she cradles. The address has her tilting her head, making her rabbit headphones tilt, the hiss of white-noise escaping as they are dropped to hang about her neck. Veronique shakes out her legs and eyes the nearby addresses and locales, a bit wind-burnt and practically steaming with a mirage-haze. The shades she wears over her face aren't in the best shape either, nor are her shorts or short jean-jacket. "God-DAMN." she shakes her hips and does an impromptu chicken-dance to help dissipate some of that hotness that threatens to make her dizzy.

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
But what do you know? The speedster actually comes to stop just in front of a place that, although its glory days are over, still is clean and maintained well enough to be presentable to the public, according to the safety standards. (Or is it? With corruption in this city, you can never tell.) The place is a garage, with some three or four cars inside in various stages of processing.

Attracted by the noise from the outside, a young man appears by the entrance, sporting a greasemonkey outfit and protection goggles. He looks at what seems to be like a mix of a bit of a spectacle with someone actually in distress.

He asks, keeping a neutral stance, "You alright there, Miss?"

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique cants her head to side, like a dog hearing a sound beyond human ken, and her eyes take in Caleb with a look that's a mix of stranger danger and curiosity. She does seem a bit singed or steamy, and the freckles on her face need to challenge the wind burn for just who is the most red. Dear Gods, her backside might actually be smoking. She's far too young to have literal heat flashes, but here she is! At least the jacket looks durable, but those buttons look nice and...not shiny...glowing.

    Veronique stalks up towards Caleb like some Karen about to ask for the manager. "What?" It's a wonder her hair and skin is doing better than her attire. Strange ain't it? But then...Gotham. "Hey!" she carries the package on over like a quarterback about to spike a ball, or other sports analogy. "Hey, this must be the place! I've got this package f-" She shrieks. As her pants, or the zipper/buttons about her person, let their hotness become known.

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"Okay, just set it down there, pl..." He gets interrupted and blinks at the sight. "O-ookay, this may look like the most awkward shit of the week, but..." He rushes to a water hose, which he quickly opens...

And douses poor Veronique in gallons of water, the notion to whatever passer-by being that of no rhyme or reason!

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique is fast. But she's just slowed down all the way after a pretty good zip-zip-zoom, and she's in no condition to fire up the feet so fast. So when the hose is pointed at her, one of her free hands raises up like she's had a gun drawn on her. And the water that sprays her has her gasp in surprise and hold the pose. Vogue, vogue.

    Recreating the famous painting, the scream, she's quickly drenched and the too-hot bits on her person. The sizzle and sazzle of steam generated is mercifully quick, and whatever is simmering elsewhere is also simmered down quite a bit. Her red hair plasters down the side of her face and forehead like damp kelp, and her clothes cling in a more shapely fashion. "Wh...wha...wha...." she breathes and sputters. But she is 'not' in danger of cooking anymore.

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"I'm sorry!", Caleb exclaims, turning off the hose. "You were so damned hot, you seemed like you were about to flare up." He continues after a brief pause, where the double-entendre is just right to sink in, "That, or your clothes." He looks at the amount of steam coming off of the speedster. "Of course, after this, it's only natural a woman would be fuming...", he grimaces a bit. "I tell this back home, no-one believes me."

He looks at Veronique. "How're you feeling, there?"

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
"Tabernac!" Roni curses and shakes an arm and steps from foot to foot. Water drip drops off her chin and nose, ears, all the way down to her toes. She takes in great heaving breaths and then starts to shiver hard. Gooseflesh appearing on her exposed flesh. She chatters her teeth and swallows, nodding emphatically. "C'est formidable." From too hot to too cold, the shift is dramatic. More swearing in Quebecois and she soggily approaches and extends her bundle. "C-c-cold."

    Without much sense of decorum, she pulls off her jacket and toes off her sneakers, letting them ~plap~ to the ground. The headphones around her neck give a parrot-like ~sqwark~ and the white noise hiss squelches to silence. "Stupid stupid...I went too fast. Too fast too long. Is package okay?"

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
Having no idea what she just said in french, Caleb hazzards a guess that it's not nice things. That's of course, to be expected. When Roni takes off her jacket, he diverts his gaze - see?, he's a gentleman! -, heading to a locker and pulling up a towel with the intent of giving it to her. "Here, dry yourself." He also pulls out a greasemonkey suit for her, "Use can use this while you wait for your clothes to dry up." He points to a door, "Change room's over there." He heads to an industrial dryer, dedicated to accelerate paint drying on cars, and turning it on, this one starts to blow from multiple directions at some relatively high temperatures. "Fifteen minutes should do the trick for your clothes; just let it warm up until you hear the signal", he says.

His least concern ends up being the package, which he sets aside. "Oh, I'm sure the package's doing better than you are right now."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    The Courier quirks the corners of her mouth and accepts the towel, pushing it up against her face so that only her eyes are visible. A muffled, "Merci." can be heard. Her green eyes bore into Caleb as she listens. Patting dry the lower part of her face, she gives a nod as she moves further into the garage with towel and suit. Her bare feet daintily tip toe around this and that as she scopes out the place. She's actually casing the place, either looking for a co-worker or cameras. She doesn't go into the indicated change room, but she does go to a corner that's not completely out of sight. "Is okay, be a jiffy."

    True to her word, at least this small burst of speed sees her shedding the rest of her things. Apparently this isn't too long or too challenging, chilly as she is, and the next thing is her freckled form pulling the coveralls up her legs and then following suit with arms until she's hauling her wet things towards the dryer and plopping them down nearby, waiting for the signal. Bent over and the coveralls partially done up, she wrings her red hair in both hands to remove more water. "Ooof...Now I can fit in Gotham perfectly, yes? A soggy girl in a soggy town." She lifts her chin to peer over towards Caleb. "Got a bag of rice? My headphones...Frig, will that even work on them? They're terrible, I think the electrical tape has given up or melted. Ugggghhh, you know a BestBuoy or a FutureChop store around here?"

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"There's a FutureShop four blocks from here, but - surprise, surprise - it got robbed last week", Caleb explains, while taking the time to examine the contents of the package, and not look in the changing girl's direction. "It's closed until the insurance guys evaluate the damage - which, in Gotham, can take a while." He thinks for a moment, "You wouldn't mind dropping them here for a few days? I might be able to get something done about them."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique straightens and whips her hair over the other shoulder and starts attacking it with the towel with some quick swipes. "What?" She scrunches up her face, and then that expression relaxes and her mouth makes a round hole as she understands. She pads over on her insteps, bypassing this or that which may be underfoot. Two fingers curl under the headphones' headband and she brings it over for inspection as would a cat with a dead mouse. "Too bad someone got to the store before I could." she offers a cheery and cheeky smile. She extends her headphones, rabbit-themed. Probably better suited for a younger teen, but altered in a very rough manner to extend a bit farther to cover Veronique's ears. They're not just headphones if Caleb inspects closely, they're noise-cancelling thingamajigs as well. Or were. There's multiple cables threading from it, presumably to hook up to recharge, stream music or whatnot. It's a bit of a mess and looks like it's not had a gentle owner. "You can look and see, but I'll probably end up needing to st-...borrow another from someone. Nothing lasts. Not clothes, not gadgets, jamais assez bon...I don't like too loud." She blows out her cheeks and appraises Caleb like she did the shop. "Too loud, too sweet, too hot, too cold...too ~weak~." she sniffs, grimacing about her situation.

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
The young mechanic looks at the headset, looking at it from several angles. He stops to look at Veronique when she almost slips the stealing word - he's heard the break multiple times to know the story. "I'll, uh, pretend I didn't hear that." He resumes his analysis. "So, exactly how fast can you go, if you don't mind my asking?"

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique purses her lips at the question, like it's something pout-worthy. She towel-dries her temples and roughly rakes her fingers through her locks while she mulls things. "Well..." Blink-blinks. "I never been caught by the cops to get a ticket. Faster than cars...but not fastest car. Would not win against Formula 1 on straight road maybe. Never tried though!" she winces. "But surely would need large meal before. And as you see, perhaps too much friction. I not like to train though. Time could be spent having fun, right?" she shrugs and licks at her chops. "You have anything to munch on here? So you think you could maybe fix something for me? I would pay, if you do good work for me? Pay in barter or funds if you give me a few days in town."

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
Caleb sits down, and grabs a piece of paper along with a pencil. And he starts to draw, "The first thing you'd need that could fix your problem... Is a helmet." Slowly, the lines pile up to make a rough sketch of a helmet, the 'bunny ears' pointed backwards to reduce drag over the surface. "A helmet with a stereo vision visor, because eyesight likes to work like that..." And he adds the detail for a mask, detacheable lower half. "And this mask, to keep you from mainly... Swallowing bugs." He shows the drawing he made, coupled with a granola bar on the hand holding it.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique leans in, peering this way and that at the drawing that Caleb creates. She idly toys with the zipper on the garage coveralls she's wearing, flicking, pulling, creating an annoying zrrrp-zrrrp as she gobbles up this with her eyes. "Ah! I like this!" She hovers and shifts around to eye the 2-d drawing from different angles, as this makes a difference. "You're quite right, bugs are not on my favourite list to eat. Not enough calories, heh." she half-jokes and runs her tongue over her teeth subconsciously. Her eyes lock onto the granola bar. "For me?" she makes grabby hands for it.

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"Might as well", he kids, shaking the granola bar, "Tip for the service? Much tastier than bugs."

Then, he realizes: he hasn't even given her his name! "I'm Caleb, by the way."

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
Veronique happily snags the the granola bar and tears the wrapper off with her teeth. "Mronikike" she mumbles around the coating before freeing her mouth of the inedible stuff. "Ah, Monsieur Caleb. My name is Veronique." she nods and takes a large chew. She eats with gusto, and her eyelids flutter at the rush of calories like it's ambrosia of the Gods or something. "So, can you do all of this? A picture is lovely, but a thing is another. And what would it cost me?"

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"Pleased to meet you, Veronique", he smiles. Returning to the subject at hand, that's where his smile dims somewhat. "Well, not to make this the 'devil's bargain', this is something that is otherwise costly, because of the materials in mind - they have to be lightweight yet rigid -, the access to such materials - some don't come cheap -, their preparation, since most are in their rough state, and the work hours to mold them, glue them, shape them, sculpt them, fit them and trying out the end product for possible kinks and refits to work out", Caleb enumerates.

He pauses, looking at the sketch, "Then there's the suit, too..." Then flicks a finger as if that lightbulb in his head had lit up. "Oh!, and I almost forgot... If the project goes forward, I'll need to take measurements."

Yup. Vogue comes calling.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique tilts her head to the other side as she finishes chewing up her snack. Her tongue works hungrily along her gumline and between her teeth, ferreting out each and every last morsel. The maw must be satiated. "Measurements? Materials? Marche du diable?" She mentally chews this over. Her fingers come up to suck and pull at each for a brief second, ending at her thumb like she needed to rub a little contraband in along her gums. She releases the digit with a wet smack of her lips. "Monsieur Caleb, if the devil himself is willing to help me, I will polish his pitchfork. A pact is a pact, halo or horns, I will have what I want and pay what I must." She raises her chin, trying to look all haughty and totally cool as a cucumber. Hard to pull off after getting into an impromptu hot t-shirt contest.

    "And you say a suit as well, I suppose this would solve a wardrobe problem, no?" She leans in, tossing her wet tangle of hair along her other shoulder. "Tell me what you need and I will get it, if it can be got. If this stay between you and me...parfaite!"

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
Caleb Dykstra looks for a long moment at the French-Canadian girl. He does take his time, studying her; and he's not studying her for taking measures. No, this look is like staring into the soul, measuring determination, how deep she would go down the hole.

Silence. Just plain, unadultered silence. If he stopped moving the fingers he taps over the table as he looks at her, he'd be a fine competition for Pennywise the Dancing Clown; just no outward-angled eyes.

The silence is broken abruptly, but the tone doesn't shift, doesn't come out any stronger - but the question may fall like a ton of bricks...

"...You would kill, if that's what it took?"

Perfect pause, now.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique cannot hold Caleb's gaze equally. Nor remain as still, energizer bunny that she is. But she has a fire inside that keeps licking at whatever greedy embers or coals are nestled in her tummy. When the silence appraising runs its course, and her expression is one of open confusion over what's taking so long, the question comes as a surprise to her. It doesn't make her flinch per se, but it comes out of a direction she wasn't expecting. She's quick, but upstairs she's not as fast as a race car.

    "Yeah." she finally quips and places her hands on her hips. She does another quick peek at the interior of the shop, pursing her moist lips before sucking in air between her teeth. "What it takes is what it takes. I need what I need. C'est la vie. Every day someone wins and loses, the rabbit and the fox, spider and the fly, it's the way it goes."

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
"You'd do it, huh?", Caleb replies, neutral stare as he plays it close to his chest. "Gotham's the best example you'd find of that analogy - people fucking each other over money and power, sucking away at other's honest-earned money under threats of aggression, be it to themselves or their families, holding them under their thumbs for continuous 'favors'", he finger-quotes, "or just simply... offing them. Just because they were feeling down the whole week." He shakes his head at Veronique, "The world doesn't need more people like that, and you should be mindful of the words you just said: 'polishing the devil's pitchfork' and all. For there may come the time when you'll find your devil."

Intense moment over, Caleb moves away to logistics. "The suit will be made of materials that I can grab easily enough, the problem will be in molding and fitting, hence the measurements - refitting is not excluded. Whatever comes out of the workbench, it'll help protect against abrasions; it will not make you bullet-proof, so I wouldn't give up on the regular training program just yet." He pauses, "My price will be favors to call upon when the time comes." Nevermind the fact he has the chance to experiment with something new, the tinkerer that he is. Favors - that is Gotham's true currency.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique runs her tongue over her teeth as she listen, the motion evident in the way her lips bulge a little by its passage. She doesn't look too ashamed by her response, but advice on avoiding that kind of life echoes what another has said to her recently, and puts another tick in the morality box for tallying up later. She offers a thoughtful grunt and then shifts back to the matter of the suit.

    "I try to...how you say, avoid bullets, but if I cannot be proof against them, I try." She seems to hint that bullets will still challenge her. "Favours when the time comes?" She ruminates on that. "I don't have no problems with favours. I do favours for favours of course." She cocks her hip and does an appraisal of Caleb for herself. "Doesn't take long to get to Gotham. I am along the eastern coast a lot, running this way and that." More consideration and she offers a cell number. And she offers her hand. "I am curious as to what sort of thing do you need Monsieur Caleb? But I also know when to keep lips sealed. I can have patience when needed."

Caleb Dykstra has posed:
Caleb Dykstra extends his hand to Veronique in return, "Just Caleb, please." He smirks a little, taking the cell number. "And as for the materials? Anything that can withstand heat and abrasive forces, for less drag." He points around, "But as you can imagine, a side project does take time - so yes, patience. Two weeks from now, I'll give a call on progress - I owe my customers that much." He nods, "And yes, a deal is a deal, like we're hands washing. No advertising comes with the package - last thing I need is a bunch of gangbanger a-holes wanting weapon upgrades and believing I can provide." He already has his own share of assholes in his life, no more be needed, thank you very much.

Veronique Lalonde has posed:
    Veronique nods and pumps Caleb's hand to complete the handshake. "I understand." She curls her tongue and suckles on it briefly. "Talent takes time." She steps from foot to foot, the inactivity making her muscles feel like they need to stretch. "I haven't found anyone willing to assist me so far. Rare to find another who values privacy and descretion. Yes, no advertising. When not doing courier things, my own things, I do not want to advertise myself either."