14558/Wrong Place Wrong Time

Wrong Place Wrong Time
Date of Scene:	30 March 2023
Location:	Abandoned NYC building owned by Fisk shell companies
Synopsis:	Maria King witnesses James Wesley, one of Kingpin's lieutenants, questioning a man, and what happens to him next. Discovered by the men, she tries to keep herself out of hot water.
Cast of Characters:	Wilson Fisk, Maria King

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Wilson Fisk has posed:
    It's hard to escape the sound in a place like this. It seems to return, amplified, from the unforgiving surfaces of the place: cinderblock walls, epoxy floor, and corrugated steel roof with bare steel rafters. The shelves, stacked with mouldering boxes long since picked over for anything salvagable or useful, offer some respite, but the sound cannot be escaped.

    They found their way to Maria, hidden away in this place, sheltering from the deluge outside. It could be heard too, a pervasive staccato of droplets spattering on the steel above, the background for a far more chilling forefront of this symphony tonight.

    The sounds had started with struggling. Heels squeaked in search of purchase on the smooth, epoxy floor. There was a man's voice, desperate and pleading. He was obviously terrified, telling anyone who might hear about his wife at home, expecting a child, and of the one they already had. That he hadn't really seen anything. That he didn't know anything.

    Whoever he was talking to hadn't cared. He was answered only with violence. The dull thud of leather-wrapped fists slamming into stomach, and the sharper crack of dazing impacts against his cheek and jaw, carried to Maria's ears. There was less struggling as she heart the scrape of metal chair legs dragged into place, and the man deposited onto the seat. He cried out at the bite of nickel-plated steel cutting into his wrists, when he was bound.

    It was from there that the interrogation began. One man, speaking with an unphased and eerily unmoved professionalism, leaned in close to speak to the man, before giving him the chance to reply. All that came forth was more blubbering, more pleading. She could hear the crack, as a finger was bent back, the wrong way, too far, before the man screamed.

    And all the while, other men, moving slowly and with outward focus, prowl through the abandoned warehouse, sidestepping the more predictable and steady oily drips from the leaky ceiling high above, to ensure the place remains as empty as they think it is.

Maria King has posed:
Though her squat, an interior room in a condemned, collapsing building, had proven rather safe, Maria kept it that way in part by not using it whenever someone else was in the area. The building was poor for shelter, apart from her room that could only be reached by crawling through a hole in the wall that she kept covered, so people usually moved on.

But not the junkie that had passed out in the place tonight. And so Maria had sought other shelter. Ending up slipping into the abandoned structure a few blocks down. The petite homeless teen had wandered through, looking at the broken down items within. Boxes that had probably already been ransacked by now, but that she could maybe get some wood from for burning back in her squat. Old pieces of broken furniture. General trash, including a few bags of it that had rats squeaking as they crawled around through it.

God she hated rats.

Maria was just figuring out where the best place was to sleep to avoid them, when she'd gotten a very bad feeling. Moments later she heard the voices inside the building, and coming nearer. The lithe girl squeezed herself through a gap between an old broken armoire with broken glass in the door in front, and a large crate.

Ducking down, she was disturbed to hear the footsteps stop on just the other side of the armoire. Peeking through the gap between the two, Maria got glimpse of the men moving. No clear view of the one being beat up, though she could see an arm being swung now and then. And a bit of blood splattered on the floor, atop the just recognizable lines in the floor of some kind of closed trapdoor that led somewhere below. The sound of the beating set Maria to trembling.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
She could hear them, or feel them; the other men making slow, careful assessments of the abandoned warehouse knew their businss and they were diligent in their efforts. But Maria was, in a way, too close to the action to be detected, at least with how well she hid, and how she sheltered, rather than poking her head out, foolishly.

It only gets worse. Her soul is forced to endure more of the interrogation, which seems to cause no disquiet among those circulating, well-dressed thugs, or the calm and composed man conducting the "interview".

He asks again, calmly, if the man manacled to the chair is sure he hadn't seen anything. There is more tearful blubbering, and then another sharp snap, as another finger is bent to an impossible angle and the man goes to shriek, but the professional's hand clamps across his mouth to muffle him.

The interrogation continues, now with the man instructed to just nod or shake his head - that's all that's needed - before there's another crack, and another, when he doesn't give the answers that are expected, or desired.

As this goes on, the other men slowly return to stand near the interrogator, keeping eyes outward, maintaining a perimeter, including one, oblivious to Maria's presence, all of ten feet from her, on the other side of the armoire.

Maria King has posed:
A fearful brown eye peeks out through the gap. The snap of the man's finger bone and his resulting cry make the eyelid quiver and the girl herself trembles. The sight of a man's leg coming to stop within that restricted view makes the homeless girl practically hold her breath.

In her desire for silence, even the sound of her own beating heart seems to thunder in Maria's ears until she's sure they must hear it. She's nearly afraid to breathe, drawing the smallest breaths through slightly parted lips.

Each new broken bone or other sound of violence draws a tiny flinch from the girl. She's no stranger to the streets, knows that such moments go on. Especially in the slums of New lots. Though this is the first time she's encountered more than the after effects of such a session. A man stumbling home, clutching at ruined parts.

Crack.

Another broken bone and Maria just manages to not release a sound. The terror she's feeling keeps her from noticing yet the bad feeling she's having, that would seem to be directed at something outside the building rather than within.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The interrogation unfolds. The man's fingers are worked through, to growing inconsistencies, as he admits that he *did* see something, he *does* know something. He saw a suitcase, but no, he didn't take it.

That feeling wells in Maria suddenly, as the man near her gives a surprised grunt as his phone buzzes. There is a moment of shuffling and device-checking, before he offers, "Mister Wesley? We've got it. The janitor had it."

    The man in the suit, Mr. Wesley apparently, heaves a sigh. He keeps his hand clamped over the victim's mouth, as he starts to sob in relief. Mr. Wesley shushes him gently. "All right," he offers. "All right. Compose yourself, Mister Jacobs. Compose yourself. It wasn't you... okay," he says gently, but all the while his other hand slides up behind his suit jacket at the back. He smoothly draws a gun and, with unflinching smoothness and ease, brings it around to angle it down against the man's head. There's just a moment when the victim's eyes widen and he screams, muffled, into Mr. Wesley's hand, before the gun fires, and there's an added spatter of blood across the last one, and the victim goes still.

Maria King has posed:
Hearing that the ordeal might be coming to an end, Maria lets herself breathe just a little deeper. Not that shallow breaths were needed to avoid being heard, but that's what she's been doing during the tortuous interrogation.

As she hears the voice = Mr. Wesley? - gently calming the other man, Maria lets out a breath to help relax herself. It wouldn't be the first time someone made it out of such a moment with just some broken bones and bruises, and-

The gunshot, unexpected by the hidden girl, causes her to entire body to start, and she lets out a loud gasp. If it was just that she might have gone unnoticed, people's ears ringing a bit from the gunshot. But then a rat runs across her foot, poking at ankle and causing Maria to kick in fright. Sending the rat scurrying, and thumping her leg into the armoire making a very loud thump.

The man standing nearest is quick to react, locating the source of the sound and moving over towards the furniture piece. He can see the interior is empty through the broken glass door. Shoving it to the side, it topples and ends up leaning precariously against a box on the other side of it. Revealing the crouched girl.

"Ow! Ouch!" Maria says as the man grabs her and drags the petite teen into view. She's wearing jeans and a hoodie, having lost to a mugging her good winter jacket that Rahne had left her. The petite teen cowers, her lovely face full of worry and apprehension as she sees the body sitting there, shacked into the chair.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The thug that has a hold of Maria towers over her. Even if he is far from the most imposing of the three men here, up close, he has that quality that tends to send street-rats scurrying. A suit, well-tailored to a thick and powerful frame, as well as well-polished dress shoes. A grip on the crook of her arm that's bruisingly hard, and that he uses to rattle her in his grasp a little as he drags her forward with a hard-eyed, soulless scowl.

    Mr. Wesley turns from the slumped, staring corpse reclined on that steel chair behind her. His eyes are placid, soft, unassuming. Already he has a handkerchief in hand, wiping at the barrel of the gun he has in hand, as he watches Maria getting dragged forward. "Oh, come now, Lucas," he sighs with a look to the underling holding her. Then, barely turning his head, he offers over his shoulder, "Sean, take care of the body, won't you?" And then, finally, looking back to Maria, his eyes rake over her slowly, down and up. "Just a street-rat," he muses. "Lamentable, but..."

    He's just starting to raise the gun again when there is a rattle on the door out onto the street. It creaks and shifts in its frame, but doesn't yet come open, before there's a bang on the door.

Maria King has posed:
Seeing the men's suits only increases Maria's feeling of dread. Gang members or hoods from the streets might hurt her, to make a point or just for the thrill of being able to do so. But men in suits? Maria knows people like her can be viewed as little more than disposable to such men. An ant beneath a boot, barely even noticed.

Fear grips her throat and she stammers for something to say that will forestall the inevitable. She can't pull her eyes away from James Wesley's gun even as the man's associate unmanacles the body and drags it over to the trap door which he opens.

The sound of the rattle at the door to the structure seems to set everyone on edge. The man holding Maria's arm in his steely grip lets go so that hand will be free to draw his weapon if needed. The other men turn to look that way as well, before looking to Wesley for directions.

"It's a cop." Maria says the words, barely a whisper. They just come out, not a conscious thought, the girl not even sure why she said it or why she'd think that.

The words cause more alarm in Wesley's underlings though. The one man hurriedly dumps the body through the trapdoor and closes it. There's blood though. Not a lot, mostly some splatter, but enough it's quite noticeable.

Before the man can grab her again, Maria turns to the armoire. She grabs it where it's tilted fallen 2/3 of the way over already, caught on the edge of a broken crate. She grunts as she lowers it the remaining short distance to the floor, the weight a lot for her. Then she rakes her hand and arm over the broken glass in the armoires door.

She steps forward into the middle of the bloody splatter, holding her hand and arm, which are now dripping blood from where the glass sliced her flesh. Her blood mixing with that of the shot man.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
The thug (for he is one, even if dressed in a suit) nearest to Maria growls in frustration as the girl slips free of his grip with that momentary distraction, but she's already moving. Not fleeing, not lashing out in terror, but moving to lower the armoirs gently to repose.

    His first step is taken to re-seize her, but Mr. Wesley lowers his gun and lifts his other hand, a simple gesture to forestall his underling, as he watches curiousely. The other man pulls the trapdoor shut again, having to get on a hand and both knees and reach down to a recessed bar grip inset into it. He closes it with a gentle thud, already watching Maria with dark eyes. As she cuts into her arm, this udnerling's eyes move to Mr. Wesley, uncertain and searching.

    The door rattles again, and squeaks as it is pulled open by a few inches. Wesley's gun is holstered before he turns toward the door, while taking a step closer to Maria. His hand comes to rest on her shoulder, light, feigning concern, while the other two adopt a now tighter, inward-facing perimeter, as though Maria were the focus of their attention, following the lead of Mr. Wesley, who in turn follows Maria's inventive one.

    By the time the door is pulled open, the scene is quite different. Three sets of eyes, at least, are turned to the door where a heavyset cop steps through, hand on his gun and the securing strap already unbuckled. Mr. Wesley seeming to have had a concerned touch interrupted by the sound of his ingress. That hand rests with weight beyond its mass, but without any aggression yet, though Maria may well feel their lingering, concealed anxiety at this unfolding situation, despite the measured trust Mr. Wesley is willing to show the girl.

Maria King has posed:
The petite teen doesn't try to pull away from Wesley's hand, her body resting lightly against him as he keeps her there close. He might notice she holds her bleeding hand and forearm where it adds to the blood already on the floor. And misses his suit and his expensive Italian shoes.

The cop walks in warely, hand on the service weapon as he scans the whole area, making sure no one is to either side of him before he approaches the four men and the teenaged girl. His eyes taken in the sight of the blood on the floor, more of it dripping from Maria's hand.

"It's a police officer, Uncle Wesley," Maria says, turning to look up at James Wesley where he stands resting his hand on her shoulder.

That gives the cop a bit of pause, as if it paints a different picture than where his thoughts were going. "Are ok you, ma'am?" he asks the teenaged girl.

Maria seemed ready to stay silent, until the cop asks her the question directly. "Yes officer. Or, mostly," she says, motioning with her bleeding hand where she's clamping the other over the cut on her palm.

The girl looks towards the armoire. "A rat startled me and I knocked over the armoire. I tried to catch it but cut my hand on the door. And it fell anyway, slammed into the ground with a loud bang. I think it broke it," she says, looking up to James Wesley with a guilty, regretful look.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
"It's alright, Shannon," comes the smooth tone of James Wesley. The hand at her shoulder gives a slow rub before he looks back to the police officer. "It's not too bad of a cut," he offers with a small smile, before he looks over to one of the underlings - Sean. He snaps his fingers impatiently, gesturing with an empty hand and adding to it, "Handkerchief. Come on, man."

    Sean hastens to comply, while the police officer takes a couple more steps forward. Eyes moving from one to the next before settling on Maria. "I can call you an ambulance, miss. Do you know these men? One's your... uncle?" His eyes move from her shabby clothes to the expensive, custom-tailored suits of the other three.

Maria King has posed:
Seeing the men dressed in suits rather than the rougher uniforms of street thugs also seems to put the cop a little more at ease. Even if the girl isn't as well dressed, well. Kids. Right?

His eyes go back to Maria - or Shannon - in time to see the lovely, delicate features take on that look of relief as Wesley absolves her of blame for the armoire's ruination. Relief and something warmer. One can just about sense James must be a favored uncle with his niece.

The teen turns back to the police officer at the offer. She checks with Wesley first before shaking her head to the cop in agreement with what Wesley said. "I think it's not too bad, just bled a lot at first. But it's already starting to slow I think," she says as the man comes forward with the handkerchief. Whether it's Wesley or his man who uses it to bandage her hand, she offers it to them. Clearly trusting of the men.

The cop straightens up from his alert posture. Leaving the strap on his weapon undone, but no longer keeping his hand right near ready to draw. "Is this your building? Not a very safe to be in. Especially with a kid," he says, though his tone is respectful towards the man in the very expensively cut suit.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
    Mr. Wesley replaces his hand on Maria's shoulder, after leaning over her to gently but firmly secure the handkerchief in place. He offers a placid, polite smile to the police officer as he has a little back-and-forth with Maria, seemingly relaxing at her continued quick-thinking reparte. Everything explained.

    "Well, *an* owner, anyway," Mr. Wesley answers with a disarming smile. "Little scamp's come down here more than once." His gaze turns to her, and he tells her with the sort of affectionate sternness one reserves for close and adored family, "Shannon, I'm going to change the locks. You see? It's really not safe here." He then looks back over to the officer and gives an apologetic smile. "I'm really sorry for all the commotion, officer. But... unless you need something else, I'd really like to get her home. Her mother will be worried sick."

    And then, as though it's an afterthought, he snaps his fingers and looks back to Sean. "Get Dr. Hastings on the phone, will you? Have him come by the house, just in case she needs a tetnus shot or anything." Then, offering a gentle pat to Maria's shoulder, he offers in a reassuring tone, "We'll get you patched right up."

    Sean, after blinking for a moment, nods once. "Yes Sir, right away," he assures his boss, once more fishing his phone out and starting to tap and scroll through it convincingly.

Maria King has posed:
Maria gives Wesley a grateful smile and slips her unhurt arm around his waist as she gives him a little sidehug. "Sorry," she tells him quietly, and gives the cop a bashful look.

The officer looks around one more time, not spotting anything out of sorts. "Alright, yes, sounds like a good idea. Can't be too careful with that sort of thing," he says after James sets about arranging for a doctor to look at it. "You folks have a good, safe night," he tells them before turning and heading back out. The door swings closed behind him.

Maria lets out a breath, though a little tension that she didn't show while the cop was there filters back into her body. James Wesley can likely feel it with her leaning against him. She removes her arm and moves just a little bit away.

"I... I know you can probably find me, wherever, whenever," she says in a meek voice, eyes lowered before Wesley as if to show no signs of challenge to him. The comment revealing her thoughts in helping them elude the cop. "I didn't see anything tonight," she says. "That... that won't change, no matter what."

Then she stands quietly and waits. Almost trying to push into James Wesley's head that a cop saw him with the girl. If she's found dead later and it's found he's not her uncle, that could certainly be a reason for investigation into him. She doesn't offer that, but is ready with it as a fall back should he pull out his gun to point it at her again.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
Wesley's arm tightens around Maria's shoulders, drawing her up against his side in a squeeze that scrunched her ever so slightly. Adorably, likely, to the cop's eye.

And then, the officer's taking his leave, to Wesley's smooth-toned parting words. "You too, officer. Thank you for checking in!" And then the door is tugged shut on its rusty hinges, before he shoots a withering look to Sean. "Lock the fucking door next time," he says through gritted teeth, although the acid vanishes from his tone with that.

He turns then, and looks at the girl. The gun, which she's felt against her forearm as she wound her bandaged arm around him, remains in its holster. With her having moved a pace away, he watches her for a moment, studying her and, plainly, taking her measure.

"You will," he assures her then. Then, speaking with eyes still on her, he plainly addresses one of his underlings. "Have the car come 'round," he says, and the one nearer to her pulls out a phone, "Yes, Mister Wesley," he confirms, before pressing a button to make a call of extremely short duration, saying only, "Front door."

    All the while, Wesley tells Maria, quite simply, "You did well, my dear. Well enough that we're going to take a little ride. I have someone I'd like you to meet."

Maria King has posed:
With more time to look at it, James would note the girl seems to be in her later teens, though might mistake her as more youthful at a glance due to her petite size. Very delicate features make for quite the lovely face.

A face that is kept with eyes lowered, only flitting up for peeks at him when he addresses her. She appears smart enough to know a car ride might, or might not, be in her best interests. But refusing surely wouldn't be good.

She gives a meek little nod. "Yes sir," she says quickly. She swallows. "Thank you," she adds, not having missed the praise that he gave her.

Maria just stands waiting for the men to be ready. She avoids watching what they are doing too closely, as if holding to her words that indicated she's not a threat to them. When Wesley is ready, she'll accompany him to the car, following any directions given along the way.

Wilson Fisk has posed:
It takes a few moments to sort the logistics out, but with her cooperation, Maria is only kept an eye on. The men do some work to clean up the blood, before the car is evidently out front. "Just stay calm," Mr. Wesley assures Maria, "And you'll be quite all right. No added danger in the trip," he assures her. Although this is the same man who had calmed a man before casually executing him, in such a way as to avoid blood spatter on his shoes. So she will be forgiven if she takes his words with some salt.

Soon enough, however, she's led by Wesley and Sean out of the building, and immediately into a black luxury car, polished to a mirror shine. Sean guides her into the back seat with him, where another burly man already awaits, so that the slender, pretty girl will end up compressed between the two thugs, while the driver and Wesley remain up front.

It's a smooth, practiced transition, and in only moments, she is being driven away from the slums that she calls home. The car winds its way toward the financial district, and whatever fate awaits her, as the man left behind - and likely others, judging from the sophistication of this opreation - deal with the corpse dropped down from the warehouse floor and any remaining loose ends that need tidying.