2771/Sorry, Wrong Address

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Sorry, Wrong Address
Date of Scene: 04 August 2020
Location: A Penthouse Apartment in Manhattan
Synopsis: The Black Cat crosses the path of Deathstroke, and luck is not on her side.
Cast of Characters: Slade Wilson, Felicia Hardy

Slade Wilson has posed:
It's a prime target really. A penthouse apartment in Manhattan. It's not the most expensive building, or the tallest, or the newest, or even have a particularly good view unless you like other buildings across the street. But it's a penthouse apartment in Manhattan nonetheless. Even better...it's a fully-furnished penthouse that the local "eyes on" have determined is rarely occupied. Hardly an unusual occurrence in this town, with millionaires and billionaires galore buying up property left and right for "homes away from home" and the like.

Every good burglar has their sources, and this time it's Richard "Ricky" Morricone. Felicia hasn't heard from Ricky in a while, but his information has been good in the past.

And at first glance...it's right on the money here. This might not be the highest-end penthouse in Manhattan on the outside, but it's /very/ nice on the inside. Everything from the rugs on the exotic hardwood floors to the crown moldings on the ceilings scream of quality and refinement. Which also means "expense." Felicia's seen the type before...the art on the walls leans towards an eclectic mix of international pieces...shields and spears of Zulu tribesmen hang alongside a couple of Old Masters' paintings and sculptures. A place that's practically as much museum as abode. And for now, with the rather sophisticated security system bypassed thanks to Felicia's considerable skill at dealing with such things...it seems silent as a tomb.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The Black Cat is looking in from the wall-length windows facing the balcony.


She's currently bent over the ledge, with her backside up, torso down, and her hands holding onto the edge as she surveys the interior contents. A light breeze ruffles the white fur framing an awful lot of cleavage, but Felicia frowns upside down at the weapons, the armor, the international pieces. She's seen this sort of set-up before, and it immediately sets her on edge.

Flipping down from the roof with her collapsed bag pinned to her belt, Felicia does something she normally never does: She gathers her mane of silver moonlight hair, flips it over her shoulder, and puts it into a ponytail. Then, she lifts her forearm, taps a few commands into the hidden keypad, and sets her suit to monitor for a secondary network. Lasers are easy, but if there's an infared scanner, ultrasound, something that measures barometric pressure changes, she wants to know.

Narrowing her eyes, she then goes for the most obvious trap while she's still in a position to bolt: She just turns the stupid door-handle to slide open the deck door.

Slade Wilson has posed:
The security systems are present, they are high-end, but they are nothing entirely unusual...off-the-shelf tech adapted to the space. It's well-integrated and would be a serious impediment to less-skilled thieves But those aren't The Black Cat.

There is, however, something odd. That search for secondary networks does indeed pick something up. But it's not part of the overall security system protecting most of the apartment. Indeed, her scanners /almost/ miss it. She has to double check and refine the readings before it becomes more clear that there's a small area in what looks to be the Master Bedroom that has...considerably more security around it.

The door though? It opens just fine. No sign of silent alarms and no signals being sent out that Felicia can detect. The interior of the apartment is well-kept and clean, but there are no immediate signs of recent use. The trash cans are empty, the sinks are dry, and the refrigerator is empty save for some non-perishable or long-lasting items. There is a small rack with some very nice bottles of wine and champagne on it, about a dozen all-told. Nothing CRAZY expensive, but the type of stuff that wealthy people drink...several hundred a bottle, at a minimum. Certainly not really worth the trouble due to difficulty of transport, but a promising sign, perhaps, of things to come.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Oooo... That anomalous reading gets a pleased narrowing of Felicia's eyes, and she smiles silently to herself as she trots two steps further into the apartment--again, just checking for motion sensors, poison darts, etc. Then it's back to business as she gently bends forward to carefully slide the door shut behind her.

Moving silently now, with fluid, shuffle-sliding steps, Felicia starts to move right for that Master Bedroom, passing through a nicely *opulent* den and swiftly cataloguing the rarer items.

Could honestly use a nice rug on the stone floor before the fireplace, though.

Slinking up to the bedroom door, the Black Cat checks her AR contacts for any updates, sees nothing, and allows herself a smug smile. These sorts of ghost-vaults *always* have really good stuff in them.

Taking a deep breath and causing the silver teeth of her open zipper to dig deeply into her curves, Felicia takes hold of the bedroom door's handle, allows her glove to analyze its interior, and finally turns it cautiously, feeling for hidden pulls, gears, or resistance. If nothing, she slips inside, curiosity getting the better of her caution.

Slade Wilson has posed:
There may be a great irony in the fact that this might have turned out a nicely profitable night for Felicia if it weren't for well...bad luck. Slade had been out of town. /Way/ out of town, but the job ended up wrapping up more quickly than anticipated. Easy to cut the Gordian Knot with a nigh-indestructible sword. So he's actually in the elevator on the way up when the signal reaches his phone. A brow lifts as the camera feed from the hidden room kicks on and gets a nice clear shot of Felicia's masked face.

Meanwhile in the apartment, Felicia's expression likely has that dawning of just how incredibly screwed she might be. The door opens, and the signal it sends is detectable, but doesn't seem to be going to the police. And it's clear why at a glance. The room has guns...lots of guns. Some perfectly normal, some definitely prototypes or beyond state-of-the-art models. Everything from pistols up to a heavy machinegun, and at least one grenade launcher. There's also a multitude of bladed weapons of various shapes and sizes, all of these weapons neatly, almost artfully arranged on the backlit white walls.

But at the centerpiece of it all is the suit of orange and blue and silver armor. It's actually Slade's "last generation" suit. But that half blue/half orange mask is unmistakeable. And right about the time Felicia recognizes it is about the time she feels a pinprick at her neck, and even if she thinks to start running, it's but a second or two before things...start.....slowing.........down. Until she finds herself lying on that floor in front of the fireplace, unconscious.

And that's where she wakes up, only now with the addition of well-tied bindings around her wrists (behind her back) and ankles. She's still facedown, but not completely immobilized. Her gloves...and claws...are missing...actually sitting on the floor a few feet in front of her, tantalizingly out of reach. But as clear vision returns to her eyes, accompanied by a light headache...they can follow on to the fellow seated in a wingback chair, ankle propped on his knee, elbows resting on the arms with fingers steepled. Slade Wilson hasn't bothered putting his costume on...he's clad in a well-tailored business suit, complete with custom Italian Leather shoes and matching belt. Though he's rid himself of his necktie and left his collar open for the moment.

"You're lucky you caught me in a good mood. So I'm going to give you a chance to entertain me enough to let you live. So tell me a tale, Black Cat, about how it is you happened to pick this particular apartment this evening." This /might/ be about the time Felicia remembers the reason she hadn't heard from Ricky in so long: He had been angry about not getting what he felt was a big enough cut from his tips the last time he saw her...and also angry she turned him down on the offer of drinks after the job was done.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Blink blink. Still alive, good sign... Gloves off, bad sign... Okay, that's fine. Felicia wiggles her nose, just to feel if her magical domino mask is on--and that seems to be there, so that's very good. Even if she was completely naked, the mask would probably still keep her identity hidden, since it seems to keep the world's greatest minds from figuring out that Felicia Hardy and the Black Cat--two people with identical measurements, eye-color, and similar-length silver-white hair are not the same.

Wait, is she...

Felicia gives an urgent wiggle of her hips and the suit's climate control kicks in, confirming that she's clothed with a big sigh of relief.

Relief that lasts right up until she looks up, with wide, horrified eyes, at Deathstroke the Terminator, unmasked, sitting across from her. "Well, I got a tip from..."

Then she blinks. "Wait, am I...?" She glances around her, as much as she can turn her head while tits-down on the stone floor. Her cerulean gaze flashes back up to him, "Am I arrayed like a RUG?! Did you keep this rug spot purposefully open just in case you ever caught a thief?!" She's wide-eyed and incredulous, more amazed that someone might actually do that than fearing for her life for a moment.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Call it a happy accident. There was a bloodstain on the last one so I had to dispose of it, I had been thinking something a bit more classic...Afghan, perhaps, but maybe I'll consider something a bit more avant-garde for the time being." There's a dry humor to Slade's tone, but there doesn't seem a great deal of warmth in it, unless you consider acid "warm." "But my interior design options aside, that didn't really answer my question. Who tipped you off?"

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Immediately cowed by the bloodstain comment, Felicia mentally notes that she's used to facing off against more...pliable adversaries. So, for now, she nods--or nods as much as she can, since her chest is only keeping her head so far above the stone floor. She also gives a quick wiggle to disengage her climate control, suddenly a bit cold. "Ricky Morricone. He used to provide useful tips for high-end targets."

Her eyes dip toward the stone with a mix of sadness, irritation, and anger. "Guess he felt more strongly about his cut than I thought."

Glancing up with raised eyebrows, which sends her mask lifting a bit, she adds from under her arched, silver bangs, "He lives at," and she gives the address. "Usually hangs out at," his favorite bar, and drink. "And he carries a," she lists the weapons she knows about. "Y'know, just in case you want to thank him for the new rug."

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Ricky Morricone." Slade repeats, committing the name and the details to memory as she speaks them. "I doubt you're going to be hearing from Ricky again. I don't like having to burn the nice safehouses." He sighs, not exaggeratedly or mockingly, just mildly annoyed, and shifts from the chair, rising to his feet and moving towards Felicia, plucking a very sharp-looking knife off of a side-table as he draws near, looming over the trussed-up cat-burglar. There's no leering, no sense of triumph, just a cold consideration in his good blue-gray eye...

Before he crouches down and slices off the bindings on the Black Cat's wrists, soon followed by her feet, and then he's....offering her a hand back to her feet?

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The Black Cat has been here, many times before. So when the bindings are cut and she's offered a hand, she takes it without a quip and rises. She hasn't even been bound long enough to need to rub her wrists.

Once she's on her feet, Felicia flashes Deathstroke's unmasked self a friendly little smile, turning her head slightly as if to confirm the no-ill-will implied by his helping hand up a moment ago.

"Well, you caught the leprechuan." Her hands go to her hips lazily and she cocks them aside, watching him with that same friendly, ready-to-work smile as if they'd been partners for years. "So what's it going to be? Recon of a hard target? Spotter?" She narrows her eyes with a little scrunch of her nose as she teases, "Something tells me you don't need anything stolen."

Slade Wilson has posed:
There's perhaps a bit of skepticism on Slade's face at Felicia's friendly little smile, but there might be the tiniest bit of humor accompanying it as well, "Maybe in the future, a favor repaid, we could call it, but so far all you've done is trespass, and while I've killed people for less, I'm usually getting paid for it. Something tells me Ricky Morricone can't even afford a consultation." Slade glances around, taking a mental inventory of things, "Or at least if you managed to pocket anything you hid it well enough that you likely deserve to keep it."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
A flicker of annoyance at his concession. Apparently if she'd known that she *would* have knicked something small. And hidden it really, really well. But at the resistance to her offer, her eyelids fall half-closed and she purrs with a twist of her body, "Probably not... He never did appreciate the real value of things." She slooowly turns her head aside and crosses one leg carefully in front of the other, side-stepping away from the Terminator.

"Sooo," starting to turn around, Felicia waits until the last moment to look away before sloooowly bending down, ankles still crossed, as she reaches for her gloves on the ground. "Should I give you my number...?" Back--and backside--to him, she asks while very carefully taking the gloves in hand, bent nearly in half. "Or should I add you to my contacts list?"

Slade Wilson has posed:
"I'm not sure how well exchanging numbers would work considering I doubt either of us use anything but burners for our work." Slade notes, not looking at all embarrassed or abashed at watching Felicia's display. But after that he moves over to a nearby desk, sliding open a drawer and extracting...you guessed it...a burner phone, extending it towards Felicia when he comes back in arm's reach, "I can contact you through this. I won't be offended if you don't keep it on you at all hours, but try to check it every so often." A brief flicker of a knowing smile, "Or we just might run into each other at the Club, Miss Hardy."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia really thought she was doing rather well, all told. Not many encounter a hostile Terminator and walk away. She's even allowed herself a relaxed, semi-smug look by the time he's handing her the phone.

Then he says her name, and a heartbeat later she looks like he just stabbed her through the ribs.

Her jaw is hanging open, just stunned for a moment in the shadow of that revelation. Reflexively, without really thinking about it, she touches her cheek. Her mask is still there, but he must have taken it off while she was out.

No quips this time. There's a cold shiver down her spine and she nods mutely. Even Fisk doesn't know who she *really* is. Just one other person does, and now she can't...

Her mouth closes. Her look is firm, flat, and slightly frowning. He's not wearing his mask, either. "Of course, Mr. Wilson."

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade Wilson says, "Now we both know a secret or two that we'd rather have kept to ourselves, don't we?" Slade doesn't look surprised or perturbed at the namedrop. He'd expect a world-class thief to be observant and have an eye for detail. He glances around the apartment once more, and sighs, a bit of a resigned expression crossing his face, "Well, maybe you'll have better luck with whoever buys this place from me. I hear it's a seller's market, at least." He moves back towards the kitchen area, moving to pluck up one of those bottles of champagne, "I won't keep you if you're in a hurry. But if you care to stay at least a little while longer, I'm told..." He studies the bottle a moment, "This is a good year."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Okay, that could have gone a lot worse. Felicia holds up her hands at the offer of wine, "Y'know, I think I'm actually good. Not a great idea to swing through the air on grapple lines while tispy." She's already backing up, slooowly walking backwards toward the balcony door. Once she reaches it, she reaches back, without looking, opens the door, and seems to hesitate for a moment.

After a careful moment, she adds a simple, "...Thanks." Probably for not killing her on the spot! And then she's off like a flash, running, leaping, and diving out of sight.