15675/It's Fashion, Baby!

It's Fashion, Baby!
Date of Scene:	21 August 2023
Location:	Garment District
Synopsis:	Cats of a motley take measure of each other!
Cast of Characters:	Felicia Hardy, Patsy Walker

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Felicia Hardy has posed:
By day, the Garment District still bubbles with legitimate activity. Mostly. Ateliers cater to people with the means for designer clothes. Behind the glossy, nearly empty storefronts are far more humble locations. Workshops hired by the day, week, or month thrum with activity. Designers hunched over sewing machines contribute to the whirl. Overtired people shoved into mouse-sized cubbies strive to carve out a name for themselves. Despair, hunger, and urgency slash the atmosphere.

A woman in black crouches in a doorway on the third floor of a warehouse deep in the warrens well away from the boutiques. Here is a place forgotten by most New Yorkers. By the fashion industry, a seedy underbelly. Most people gave up on this part of town ages ago, if they ever cared. It's a perfect target for criminal enterprises to move in, to put the screws to artisans too poor or too weary to fight back.

Unless someone's got the lucre or pull to engage a thief. Felicia needs information though, and that explains her presence here, loitering somewhere dark and dingy even at full noon. A security camera peers the wrong way, focused on a blank wall, and she taps at a heavy cheap lock, the kind used for storage facilities. No one wastes money up here. Not often, though the goods being smuggled out are a great grey question mark. The criminal enterprises fleece artisans, that's one thing. They use the warehouses as fronts for other activities. Hard to know what else is in play except for what frightened garment workers, designers, and tailors say. If they don't pay up, their work ends up in flames. Smashed. Sabotaged. Missing.

Patsy Walker has posed:
The middle of the day isn't the usual time for Hellcat to be out and about, but there are times when the need for costumes know no difference between noon and midnight.

At first, however, there /is/ no Hellcat prowling around. Instead, Patsy Walker, and what she's on the hunt for are good deals. Yes, it's time to shop! A little of this, a bit of that, a couple bags filled with fashionable, trendy things.

Gotta keep up with what all the cool kids are doing, and one way to look even cooler is with a pair of fresh designer sunglasses, framed by red hair. "Oh, these /do/ look good," she approves, peering through them into a window reflection now that she's back outside.

A bit of whistling follows as she starts to head away from the destination spots, toward some of those seedier areas.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Traffic between the tightly packed warehouses and factories tends to be on foot or handcart, shoving boxes around. Delivery vans remain scarce, toodling up to loading docks. Past the shiny, skin-deep veneer of valet parking and $5,000 jumpsuits is a lonely world. A dirty one. Few signs give away where anyone is. Addresses that would confound the post office aren't easy to spot.

A tight corner hosts a favorite smoking spot. It's there a young man in a paint-splotched t-shirt faces a pair of goons, hands raised. "I don't got it. Not til the end of the month..." he protests softly. "You're a week early."

"You're $400 behind. Maybe $450 for making trouble." A meaty fist impacts a large palm. They're not subtle here. They don't have to be. No one cares.

The artist cringes back. His buddy's nowhere to be seen, fleeing down an alley, cutting for safety. He's on his own.

On high, the cat's fiddling with the lock produces a satisfying pop of the metal bar coming free from its housing. She eases the padlock open, smartly twisting it. The steel bolt slips out of the rusty old tongue holding the door she wants closed. Nothing to see there, lounging, enclosed in shadows. But she can hear.

The fleeing artist is another shape in the gloom. A distraction, pelting near Patsy eventually.

Patsy Walker has posed:
In Patsy's bags are certainly not $5,000 worth of anything. She's able to live comfortably, but casually dropping that much on new outfits all in one go is not really her thing. Not all the time. Maybe she should talk to Jen sometime about better money management.

It's always something, and a moment of daydreaming is interrupted. "Hey, watch where you're going," Patsy says to the guy rushing past her without so much as a 'my bad' or even a typical New York City one-fingered greeting. He just bolts. "Huh. Wonder what got into him." Of course, her attention shifts down that particular alley where it looks like a few people are crowding somebody. Not in a friendly way, either. "Oh, that's just great."

She's seen the type before, knows the sort of conversation going down. Very one-sided. Very particular. Carefully, she lifts the hinge on a dumpster lid and sets her bags in it, daintily placing the sunglasses on top of a nice yellow number, and after ducking behind something that's good for blocking a view, a bit of magic passes over her.

Hellcat strides further into the alley, all swaying hips and overdone sexuality in that costume of hers, red hair spilling out from the back of her cat cowl, internally chiding herself for how silly it probably looks even as she says, "Hey, boys. Hope I'm not interrupting something important here, but I couldn't help but overhear you talking about breaking faces and all that. Not very polite." All they can really see of her face is her smile.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
All sorts of lesser designers hawk their wares at a lower price point, but it's still costlier than a discount retailer. Barney's or Target still beat trying to hand-sew labels and fight for recognition on Etsy! Anything they can do to survive!

Cue the slap of sneakers on the concrete. Patsy's pause at the dumpster gives time for the uncomfortable confrontation to get a little further. A couple threatening looks, an intimidating posture, a slap. Twenty feet away, a cellular phone in a rainbow glitter case bounces hard off the broken pavement. Its cracked screen glitters across broken shards, the number raised showing no connected call. Help ain't coming any time soon, unless it's saucy and redheaded.

"Great, someone thinkin' they gonna play too?" The muttering thug turns, jerking his head. The backup for this flexes his hands, brass knuckles winking in a jagged row. He looks over the woman and then doesn't really smile. Just smirks, and takes the dashing reply of chucking a broken hunk of concrete at Hellcat. Strong arm, probably good in high school, but not /good/ good.

The Black Cat eases the lock back down. The commotion isn't loud but sound carries. Already obvious enough as she creeps her way along a ledge barely wide enough for a spider. Slick black shadows resolve to give her a perch down below. "Don't wait for the guns to come out. He's got one stowed in the back pocket."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Hellcat isn't too much with the witty banter after seeing the phone strike the ground and crack. Even less so when the guy throws the chunk of concrete at her. A simple duck to the side and it fractures further upon striking the wall. "Oh, this isn't going to be playing around," she says, and while a voice from above is noted along with its warning about the gun, she doesn't acknowledge it just yet. Only so many things can be done at once.

With a handspring vault closer, Hellcat moves like a nimble acrobat - or more accurately, with feline inspiration - as she levels a sharp kick at the side of the man's face while contorting herself to cut off his access to that gun, namely by grabbing to discard it before he can put it to use.

Those fingers and toes sport claws, as well. Sharp ones.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Given the chance, the Black Cat might prefer to exchange quips instead of punches, punches being so déclassé. Nothing to be done about that, though, since she's gone and announced her presence to the criminals. One around the corner acting as lookout is perplexed to hear the tone change, and he comes around the corner, just in time for Hellcat to unleash her gymnastic talents.

The bigger thug seeing the gig is up pulls out said gone. Or he certainly prepares to while she gets closer, but the redhead twists in a way to force him onto the back foot. He does get his arm up to partly block her from completely clocking him, though he's very much off-balance and left wildly turning to find her. The gun is easier to pull than it might be if he were standing there, hulking and unfriendly. She can get a hand in, though he might lose his pants.

Felicia blithely flicks her hair back from her face and then reaches into her slinky belt for a thin tube. Hurling it at the lookout would normally be threatening, but it plinks harmlessly off of him to the ground. "Hey!"

Then comes the smoke, a puff of acrid bluish grey spilling up and he coughs in warning.

The thug who hurled the brick goes after the artist because it's just so much easier with a hostage.

Patsy Walker has posed:
In action like this, there isn't much of a slowdown. Hellcat moves in a predatorial sort of way, her abilities honed literally in the depths of hell itself where it was survive or...well, she was already dead, but who's keeping track?

The gun is quickly yanked and disabled then tossed away, no care or concern for the state of the man's trousers. If they fall down, the easier it is for him to follow. She aids in this with a sweeping kick at the backs of his legs to help make it happen. "Fall down, go boom," she taunts.

The smoke over there by the lookout is what causes her to glance up, peering through the white slits in her cowl before she changes course. "Got a runner here," comes the play-by-play as she gives chase as well. Fast, too, she closes the gap with a leap in order to get him off his feet, where a punch or two ought to help calm him down some.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Collisions split into three.

Hellcat pulls the gun away and drops the thug despite his best efforts. He certainly prepares to get up after landing roughly, his shoulder making an awful noise. Still, he's had time in the boxing ring. Putting him down that hard and keeping him down isn't a guaranteed thing in the first few seconds. Anger spurs him up. He won't have a target in reach when he gets up, given how fast she springs away.

The thug with the brass knuckles was only feet from the cowering artist, so he steps in to grab the guy by his shirt. Brass knuckles aimed for the head make an imperfect blow, cracking off jaw and shoulder. Hellcat has her work cut out grabbing the gangster and not the criminal given how tight they are, blood and fear in a ribbon.

Three, the spotter is left staggering around as the gaseous cloud spreads. He can't see worth a bean, putting him at risk of feeling out the wall and heading straight into a fight. She takes a leap off the ledge, landing in a deep crouch in the alley. Rolling with the movement sends her up, springing and snatching up the abandoned firearm just in case. "Don't leave your toys out," she calls playfully, scrambling to the other side of the narrow alley to make it harder for the third thug to find her. They're bound to make short work of trouble, but her staying around suggests something. So too those sharp eyes staying on the artist, even in the periphery.

Patsy Walker has posed:
Hellcat doesn't have far to go for that arrival with the other gangster with the knucks. He gets a strike in on the poor artist, but that's all she allows. He isn't so threatening that she can't slip in for a little aggression of her own. "Afraid to strike a lady? Or afraid this lady will strike back?" she challenges him. If the artist gets a little more roughed up in the process, well, it's better than getting shot or killed.

There comes an elbow, a knee, grappling for a better hold on the one while allowing the other to slip free. One might understand how she came to take the name she goes by. Whatever further assistance may be coming from the other person, only time will tell. First things first.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The artist wants nothing to do with any of this. In a bloody daze, he clutches his face and moans in pain. Left to his own devices, he might collapse in a few steps. Being swung around to take a punch or absorb a scratch isn't his idea of fun, but the blood running from his face and the fear in his eyes make him basically useless.

Fighting around a person isn't easy, even when they are a shield. Slapping at arms to knock blows astray or releasing an upper cut would be helpful, but the elbow and the tangling strength he isn't prepared for. The defensive position against someone knowing what she's doing isn't like scaring the locals. Pinned down, all he can do is stay up, and not get smoked.

The Black Cat's casual free-running puts her to the wall and leaping above the smoke. Not inclined much to go in it, but the ledge she's holding onto of a long ago bricked up window gives just enough of a vantage. When he comes blindly stumbling out, she drops onto the fellow and takes him to the ground. A satisfying thud followed by a startled yelp joins that low laugh. "Next time, stay out of my neck of the woods. This street isn't yours, got it?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Feints come into play, distractions and diversions to create openings so the artist doesn't take too much of a beating. "You know, for a tough guy you're a real coward to use someone as a human shield," Hellcat chides, but there's a notable hiss of sorts to it. However, before long the thugs are handled, tied up one way or another, taken out of the fight.

"Yeah, what she said. This place ain't yours, so you boys just stay put while the cops come to take care of you," she adds, making a show of wiping her hands together for a job done before her attention shifts. "And who's this Black Cat crossing my path? I've heard about you." Arms cross as she sizes her counterpart up, noting all the similarities and differences in their style, appearance, demeanor.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Crumbling defenses make short work of a criminal enterprise that can go complain to Kingpin later in the week. Nothing worse than saying 'two cats savaged us' and keeping any status among their peers. Anger makes the men sloppy. Overcome, and bound for whatever fate awaits them. Whatever she and Hellcat dole out, Felicia can be sure the typical gang boss will do worse.

"Messy, messy, messy," the white-haired woman drawls, ticking off the failures proverbially on her claws. She frisks the last fellow under the cover of smoke, and then rises, headed out of the miasma. It doesn't totally affect her, but that's possibly because of the goggles and mask. "What's up, pussy cat? What can I say, it's a classic look. At least, what, three like me? Four?" Her shoulders shrug, insouciant, playful smile curving her lips. "This colour palette, very different. I like it, has that good luck kitty feel. I bet you're popular in Chinatown."

Patsy Walker has posed:
Hellcat is sure to keep herself from getting too close to the smoke. Anything that reaches her vicinity, it ought to have mostly dissipated by then. Even a little bit wouldn't be welcomed, given the thug's reaction to it. How their boss handles things, she doesn't seem to care a whole lot. They get what they get when they go into this line of work.

It's the artist she checks on. "You gonna be all right? What are they doing, shaking you down?" Best to have an idea of what the whole situation was about, but only if the poor guy is willing to talk. With the mob involved, he might shut up and stay that way.

Regardless, she casts a glance up and down Black Cat. "Seen a few, if not exactly the same. I'm popular wherever I go, unless we're talking guys like that." She jerks a thumb toward the goons.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The smoke is acrid, eye-watering, and a rather impressive colour. Nothing to cause a total fashion faux-pas, but much better than hideous pea-soup or problematic yellows that match nothing. It will eventually dissipate, and the tube responsible? That's back in Felicia's possession for no one to be the wiser about later.

The artist just groans in pain, huddled up in fear. He isn't really able to say much with a cracked jaw, his hands clutching his face. He rocks to and fro, clearly put up.

"Turf war. This whole neighbourhood," the Black Cat rolls her shoulder. "In flux due to family in-fighting. At least one spot in New York isn't prey to gentrification. You'd think the property developers would all be scurrying to Gotham once they cut their teeth here." Her smile shows said teeth, wide and delighted. "Who /doesn't/ love a cat?"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Hellcat maintains that distance from what's left of the smoke, just in case. Eyes roll behind the covers over them and she shakes her head slowly when the guy goes mostly unresponsive. "Probably should have stopped things before he got his jaw busted. You got anything he can take for that?" You never know.

Either way, she looks up marginally toward the other woman in costume, her hands resting at her hips. "Oh, yeah. That thing. They're going to hold on to the old ways as long as they can, no matter how many times people like us get in the way. And I dunno about Gotham, especially if any of them have an eye on keeping this racket going. You know a guy with a cowl like mine, just with taller ears, prowls the place with his brood."

She taps the top of her head, then spreads her arms apart at the last. "That's what I'm saying!" She gets more serious again. "So what side are you on these days? I've heard a few things."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The Black Cat arches her eyebrows, a speculative look at the man looking miserable. "Poor dear, he probably doesn't have health insurance. Collectives." Her nose wrinkles in dismay with the state of the US health care system. Indicative of being rich or being sympathetic? Only the Question knows!

Perhaps not entirely true but...

Her chin lifts and she breaks into a blithe laugh. "Darling, there's a whole pack of them now. He has his roost full of bats everywhere." Her hands come together. "Isn't that the most charming picture? I just can't help but adore some irony. The good kind," she adds, winking at Hellcat. "As to me? I don't get out of bed for less than twenty-five thousand a day. Inflation, after all." Linda Evangelista, eat your heart out. "If you mean the ugly string of events with aliens in Metropolis or whatever horrible plague comes up from the sewers, never that. It's a city I have to live in too. You won't catch me wearing a beekeeper science suit or dirty feathers or smelling of carrion, I assure you. Why, are you aware of a cat collective that /does/ go for health coverage? I know the Birds are... out there, but here?" Her finger twirls. "Inspire me, I just might consider."

Patsy Walker has posed:
"Must be nice," Hellcat states a little flatly when told of the going rate for doing anything. She can't claim the same, so she settles for crossing her arms next. "Well, I was just on my way through when I heard the commotion. Couldn't let the whole day go by without a little action." Her attitude isn't quite as carefree as the one she's picking up from Black Cat, so there's probably some suspicion lingering.

She does add, "Got that right," when it comes to making sure the city you call home is still livable. "Got my own coverage. Independent, you know," she remarks. "Definitely eats into the monthly take-home. Sometimes I even have to leave the steak and lobster behind for something more..ramen-like." Must be joking there.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
"You did a lovely job. That kick, ouch." The Cat grins again, tossing her pearly hair off her shoulder again. The carefree attitude really is as it appears. She seems not at all bothered by the tasks set before her, being the dirty alley, the bleeding man, the thugs.

Her sunny disposition slides slightly into wry. "Oh, darling! Lobster ramen is overrated, but shrimp? That's the best. Nothing that a bit of barbecue sauce cannot transform the taste of. I hear you though. Being a sole owner operator has its perks and its... drawbacks. You have to claw your way up and clawback every penny where you can. Boots these days are just not cheap!"

Patsy Walker has posed:
Two contrasts in personality right now. Without knowing more, one could assume Hellcat is a no-nonsense, tough little cat. Could she be more like the other one there, in black? The truth lies somewhere in the middle. "I keep my claws sharp for trash like them. And I'm not scrounging around for scraps, so don't worry about that. Now, I did send out a signal for the police, so if I'm guessing right and you'd rather not be seen, you can run along and let me handle the rest. I'm sure we'll see each other around."

Besides, at some point she has to go back to 'normal Patsy Walker' and retrieve those bags from the dumpster, preferably before everything gets emptied out. "Very on brand though, the claw puns."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The amusement shown by the white-haired cat to the redheaded variety is all the more amused. "Good. I expect to hear more problems from this vicinity. Long as no one trashes the artists, you can expect a warm welcome. Mm, police helping that poor fellow would be a surprise. I'll make sure to get him to safety." She winks and then saunters over to the petrified artist, wiggling her fingers in something of a greeting.

"Jason said you needed a ride out of here. That's me, love. Let's up and attem, shouldn't we?" It will be nothing short of a zipline ride, firing a black wire into the sky and sailing away!