2809/Have We Met

Have We Met
Date of Scene:	06 August 2020
Location:	VIP Lounge - Hellfire Club
Synopsis:	Two infamous villains unknowingly encounter each other in the VIP Lounge of the Hellfire Club.
Cast of Characters:	Slade Wilson, Barbara-Ann Minerva

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Slade Wilson has posed:
A weekday afternoon finds Slade Wilson in the VIP Lounge of the Hellfire Club. A relatively recent addition to the Club's "Board of Directors," he is not quite an immediately recognizable fixture, even if he's got a portrait hanging in the lobby now. Still, it's likely pretty obvious that he's heavily involved with the Club, if only because members of the staff...mostly security personnel, seem to keep dropping by to check in with him for various things.

But at the moment, Slade is alone, seated at one of the tables near the overlook railing and scrolling through some reading on a tablet computer. Beside him sits a tumbler of caramel-colored liquor of some variety or another, with a single spherical "stone" of ice within. Every so often he takes a sip, but for all the preoccupation, it'd be hard to say that he doesn't look a little bored.

He's actually somewhat "Dressed down" for the Club, at least in the sense that his suit coat is draped over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled partway up his forearms. There's no sign of a necktie, and his collar is unfastened. Basically he looks like he's been working a while.

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Needless cruelty; If there were a leitmotif -- one thread - that runs throughout Cheetah's life, it would be that. The waitress who had been dutifully attending Barbara-Ann Minerva's table had just discreetly excused herself, passed by Slade's table, and retired to a quiet closet behind the kitchen to sob. The reasons are unimportant. Perhaps the salad was too flaccid or the water too chilled. We may never know. Unlike the poorly bred "trash" who frequent lesser establishments, Minerva -- alias the Cheetah -- can destroy one's sense of self without raising her voice. There may be repercussions for her should Club management wish to intervene but this is unlikely. The cost/benefit analysis of confronting her almost always break in Minerva's favor.

At present, Barbara-Ann is sitting alone, looking impeccable, and scrolling through her phone. While she may be aware of her fellow patrons (who are few and far between at this hour) she gives no indication.

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade looked up when the waitress, barely keeping her composure, wandered past, but his keen eye (no pun intended) could see the signs of distress. Not really his concern, and VIPs have a wide latitude here. Being hard on the staff is hardly a deal-breaker, though generally speaking it's usually difficult to "break" them. They are well trained and professional, and usually quite good at their duties, but everyone has their off days, or perhaps occasionally patrons have their reasons for exceedingly high standards.

Or at least Slade didn't THINK it really fell in his wheelhouse, but the floor manager pings his tablet with a brief message, given that he's the only Board Member in the Club right now, and Slade quirks a brow. He lifts his glass and drains the bourbon remaining within, and then sets the glass aside while turning off the screen of the tablet (after closing the email). Rising to his feet, he makes his way over to where Barbara-Ann sits, not so presumptuous as to take the empty seat across from her as he speaks.

"On behalf of the Board, Miss Minerva, allow me to offer my apologies if our service has not been up to our usual standards. Is there something I can help you with?"

Despite the conciliatory words, his tone is bordering on indifference. He knew some responsibilities come with sitting on the Board, but soothing ruffled feathers is really something others are better suited for.

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Cheetah's jade eyes glance up from her screen. They focus, laser-like, on Slade's face for a half second before quickly scanning him up and down. She has a keen eye, too (two of them, in fact) and it's pretty clear that whatever it is Slade is doing at this moment is WELL beneath his natural station. Being an aristocrat, Minerva notices such things.

Do they know each other? A slight squint pulls at the corners of her face. Barbara-Ann makes a dismissive gesture. "A minor inconvenience." She places her phone face-down on table to give Slade her undivided attention. "Rather like what you're undergoing right now." Her eyes performatively make an all-encompassing movement that 'captures' the totality of Slade's predicament and a deviously empathetic smile starts to form. "It *is* rather tiresome having to clean up after other people, isn't it?" She nods toward the vacant seat opposite her own. She's not normally so inviting; however, cats are naturally curious and she's CERTAIN she's met Slade previously. But where?

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Sitting on the Board does come with a bit of responsibility towards the establishment." Slade smiles now, politely, even if it only slightly touches his good eye, "I'm sure you've sat on a few of them yourself." Slade settles into the seat with a certain grace, looking across the table with no sign of deeper recognition himself, "But there are reasons I usually prefer to do most of my work alone." He offers at least some agreement towards her question, and even adds a small touch of wry humor to his expression.

"I don't know that we've been formally introduced. Slade Wilson." Another touch of the sardonic as he adds, "At your service, it seems."

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Cheetah smirks playfully. "Wonderful. Do you validate parking as well?" She takes a lady-like spit of water and watches Slade beyond the icy rim. Seriously. How many one-eyed men do you know, Cheetah?

"I make it a point to NEVER accept responsibility for anything, Mr. Slade." Minerva smiles again -- this time with an unintended predatory air. She offers Slade a perfectly manicured hand, "Barbara-Ann Minerva. Pleased to meet you." Slade isn't radiating any obvious clues to help Cheetah put this puzzle together. She can't determine if he recognizes her, for example. She rests her chin on her fists, plants her elbows on the table, and ponders. He's a tough nut to crack.

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade extends his hand and gives a warm, dry, and firm shake, but there's an odd tension just beneath the skin that might speak of a certain...restraint being applied. She's fought a lot of enhanced individuals, she knows what superhuman muscle feels like.

"We make certain tradeoffs. In this case the benefits outweigh the annoyances. And besides, it gives me the opportunity to sit and chat with new and interesting people. Some of them I don't even want to hurl off the balcony." Not that it would work...there's actually a forcefield built in to keep anyone from falling off. Wouldn't do to have a VIP splatter themselves across the dance floor.

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Thankfully, in her human form, Cheetah needn't worry too much about accidentally ripping someone's arm off. But she recognizes the sensation of restraint in others when she feels it. Like now. Her covetous eyes narrow briefly but she otherwise gives no outward indication that she's noticed anything amiss. A meta-human? Hmmm...Slade is too bulky to be the Joker.

Minerva chuckles politely. "It isn't the fall that's the problem." Her red tresses nod toward the nearby balcony, "I'm given to understand the landing is a bitch, however." Sabretooth would never be able to behave himself this long, so he's out of the running, too.

"So, what do you do, Mr. Slade? Don't tell me finance." Cheetah rolls her eyes, "Everyone here is supposedly in finance. It's tiresome."

Slade Wilson has posed:
"I'm a one-man personal security consultation business. Prior to that, a private military contractor, and earlier still a soldier." Slade chuckles softly, "And the only finance I worry about is how many digits are in my own accounts. Which, I've managed to keep high enough to insure I have a place in this esteemed establishment, not to be immodest. Then the Board decided my expertise might be useful after an incident with one of the Gotham freaks a few months back."

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Minerva makes a face, "Ugh. Gotham." She takes another sip of water as if to wash away a bad taste. "We should cede the entire thing to Canada." Her hands gesture as if to shoo away some imaginary annoyance. "Who dresses up as a bat? I ask you. It's unnatural." Said the were-cat.

A stray thought occurs and Cheetah shoots Slade a sidelong glance, "A soldier you say? You weren't stationed in southern Africa at any point by chance?" Inwardly she flips through a mental rolodex of scoundrels she's met near the tropics.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"You won't get much argument from me on that, but I'd settle for them having the courtesy to keep their psychos to themselves." Slade looks mildly bemused as he adds, "Then again, it helped get me a seat on the Board, so I suppose I shouldn't complain overmuch." At her next question, he cants his own head curiously, "I've been just about everywhere most people don't want to be, Miss Minerva. You might have to be more specific, though I'd be surprised to hear you've been spending much time there. Forgive me but you don't strike me as a bleeding heart, running around condescending to the natives that only you can solve their problems in order to convince yourself you don't have to feel guilty about the life you live back home."

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
Cheetah smiles like a sphinx. "I can solve anybody's problems, Mr. Slade. Though those who benefit from my methods don't always appreciate them." Condescend much? She steeples her fingers just below her nose. "I think you and I have met somewhere before." That cat is finally out of the bag. "I just can't figure out where." Minerva half-closes one eye, "Do you spend a lot of time on the French Riviera?" At this stage Minerva is just fishing. As it turns out, she's not a very good detective.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"I suppose it's possible. But I'm quite certain I'd remember meeting anyone as striking as you." A glimmer of a smile there, before he answers the next question, "No, not much, though I have passed through on a few occasions. Usually for business, but occasionally for pleasure." He considers a few moments, "And I'm not usually one to imbibe enough to impair my memory, either. Curious."

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
"I sometimes wear my hair differently." Like all over her body. "In any event, I rarely stand out in a crowd." Unless actively maiming the constituent parts of said crowd. "I suppose our phantom encounter is lost to time. Pity." Cheetah's curiosity is at least partially satisfied: Slade is clearly more than human and possesses a military background of some sort. The two likely met during one of her excursions to Africa or the Middle East during which time he didn't annoy her enough to warrant a future reprisal. With this in hand Wilson's value as a plaything goes into rapid decline.

Minerva peers at her vacant place setting. "Honestly, how long does it take to assemble a salad?" She arches an eyebrow and peers over Slade's broad shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. This is another test. Slade has already passed the first one: Minerva has been calling him 'Mr. Slade' for ages and he hasn't corrected her once.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"I somehow doubt that a great deal, Miss Minerva, unless you happen to spend most of your time in the company of rather attractive crowds." The words might be taken as flirtatious, or at least complimentary, though Slade delivers them in a tone that is rather matter-of-fact about it.

At the latter question, Slade looks almost...amused? But he answers after a moment,

"Depends on the salad. And in this case on my notification to the staff that you're still going to receive it, as opposed to asking you to take a few days away from the Club. We vet our staff rather thoroughly, and while they are here to serve, the rules of the Club do provide for a certain level of decorum in interacting with them." He shrugs, "But I don't think this has been nearly so egregious. Just consider it a friendly reminder. If you will excuse me, I'll go make certain it makes it out sooner rather than later."

Barbara-Ann Minerva has posed:
A warm smile takes hold of Cheetah's mouth, "Why thank you." A deliberate pause, "Mr. Wilson." She doesn't draw attention to the fact that she's finally using his proper name, but she knows he heard it. "Good help is so hard to find." Minerva returns to her phone and takes up where she left off. She purrs quietly to herself "What can we find out about Slade Wilson, hmm?" Mouse? Meet Cat.