2905/A Woman Sconed

A Woman Sconed
Date of Scene:	13 August 2020
Location:	VIP Lounge - Hellfire Club
Synopsis:	The misspelling is intentional....
Cast of Characters:	Slade Wilson, Felicia Hardy

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Slade Wilson has posed:
Another day, another dollar...or at least in Slade Wilson's case another day of enjoying the dollars he has. Is he perhaps laying a BIT low following a dust-up with a superhero team? He just might be. Thankfully he doesn't really live paycheck-to-paycheck. And besides, he DOES technically have a job here, overseeing the overall security picture for the Club, though beyond his public status as a Board Member that role includes a fair bit of work /outside/ the Club...or in sections most people aren't privy to. There are other Security Chiefs for the public sections, and while Slade technically has authority over them he has very little need to exercise it...these people are professional and good at their jobs.

So aside from reading the few daily reports that are generated by the security office, there's really not a whole lot to it unless Slade chooses to do a lot with it. Today? Not so much. He's once again seated in the VIP lounge, albeit not against the Balcony this time, but rather tucked into a corner. He's traded out liquor for what appears to be a cup of hot tea. It almost looks comical the small little teacup in his hand, contrasted against well..."rough" might not be the right word...he's too well-groomed for that...but "dangerous-looking" probably qualifies. Costume or no it's difficult for Slade to completely tamp down a bit of a predatory air. Maybe it's the way his good eye constantly seems to be reading the room. Maybe it's the relaxed posture that somehow still seems ready to pounce, or maybe it's just the eyepatch, but either way...that teacup still looks kind of silly. Doesn't seem likely anyone's going to say it to his face, though. So he sips. And watches. And waits...for a large scone to be delivered from the Victorian's kitchen, along with sides of clotted cream and jam.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
There's a certain *look* that super-fashionable people take on when they are in a terrible place. Old but custom-fitted jeans. Ratty sweaters that still cost a car payment for most people. Unkempt hair that is meant to make a person blend in but only serves as a beacon due to the caliber of company kept.

Felicia Hardy is doing it all, even to the point of showing off a bit of a lacy black whale tail above the waist of her jeans. She's slumped at the bar, cheek on palm, elbow on counter, and her legs are crossed at the ankles. Nice shoes but no socks. The bartender is being a perfect gentleman about it, but she's clearly not ordering 'dignified' drinks, and no one has sidled up to the empty stools on either side of her.

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade spots Felicia and considers for several long moments what, if any course of action to take. He's not exactly a great consoler, and the woman is obviously depressed over something, or feigning it well for one purpose or another. Eventually though, when the waiter appears with his scone, he murmurs quietly to the man, who nods and heads off. A very short while later, Felicia finds one of those fresh-baked scones (with the clotted cream and strawberry preserves) placed in front of her. And right about the time it likely fully registers, there is Slade settling into the barstool next to her, putting his own plate and saucer down and speaking with just the hint of a wry smile:

"Pardon the tired cliche of giving a woman in distress sweets, but the scones here really are excellent. Won't make your problems go away, but might make you not care about them for a few seconds, at least."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia Hardy blinks down at the scone. Then blinks at Slade. And then her head tilts a bit, her eyes widen, and she gives the back of her sweater a discreet tug, dropping it below the waist of her jeans. She also sits up more properly and sets her feet against the ring of the stool, rather than just keeping her ankles crossed with her feet through the inside.

Her eyes are a little red, she looks tired, and she looks back down at the scone, mutely.

Then she's suddenly taking a huge chomp out of it and slumps back onto her elbow, looking off to the side as she chews the third of a scone she bit off with some effort. She eventually looks back, and looks like she might say something, but that's an awful lot of scone, so she instead tap-taps on her cellphone laying on the counter. 'Thank you' is being sent as a message to Bird's Eye, but she backspaces it off without sending.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The last few lines to Bird's Eye are:

'Yes, I'm serious. Anything she wants. Just don't meet her in person. And no details, yet.'

'She's in.'

'Okay, I'm on my way.'

Slade Wilson has posed:
"No problem." And then Slade's digging into his own Scone, apparently content to eat in relatively comfortable silence for a while, along with occasionally sipping from the black tea in his cup. He doesn't comment on what he glimpses on the messaging app, that would be nosing into someone else's business, and he wouldn't like someone else doing that to HIM so...well, not to say he's incapable of being a hypocrite but at least in this case he'll /try/ not to be.

Once the scones are polished off, however, he's only silent a few more moments before he adds, "Talk about it if you want to. If you don't, that's fine too. But I couldn't help but notice you seem a bit...down..."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The white-haired girl seems to appreciate the chance to just *devour* her offered scone, and she seems a little less worn afterward. "Yeah, kinda." She sighs and rolls her eyes, looking like she's trying to not get emotional. "I mean, it's not every day you learn that your boyfriend was never actually your boyfriend and he's had a girl on the side this whole time." Her face tenses and her frown is hurt as she looks down at the plate. "I'm supposedly a--" She stops, glances, and clears her throat, "--a, you know." Villain. She waves her hand, looking hurt and confused. "And yet here I am, the one strung along."

Slade Wilson has posed:
Slade listens, his expression unmoving as Felicia unloads. "Well, I'm likely the last man on Earth you'd want to come to for relationship advice. They tend not to work out so well in the long run, can't possibly imagine why." There's a dry undercurrent to that last bit that suggests that yes, he knows exactly why. "That said, did he make promises that he broke, or did you make assumptions? I may be shit at them, but I've been around long enough to know that communication goes a long way. You know, like when my ex-wife shot out my eye...pretty clear signal that it wasn't going to work out." He delivers it completely deadpan, even sipping from the teacup as though he were just casually discussing the weather.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
The Black Cat's eyes widen. Is that secret info? That sounds like secret info. So that's how he lost the eye! She glances, briefly, then clears her throat, returning to the topic at hand. "I...may have made a few assumptions. But..." She sighs, slumps, and looks over at him from under her fluffy, curving bangs. "I really thought we made a connection! Like, a real one!"

She looks over at him again, fishing for a way to convey the emotion she's feeling, but coming up empty with a sigh. "Look, being swatted on the butt is the closest thing I've had to a love life in a really long time, and I just got shot down in my own home by the man of my dreams. I should *not* be discussing this, scone or no scone, when alcohol has been involved."

The bartender looks at her. She looks back and narrows her eyes. He narrows his eyes. Quick cut back to Felicia.

Then she sighs and slumps, "Yes, I want another." The man pours it quietly.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Our Bartenders are extremely discreet." Slade replies, setting the teacup down, "Is the man of your dreams the type that's wishy-washy about making things clear? Or an idiot that can't see attraction when it's right in front of his face? Forgive my assumption but I don't imagine you being bashful about expressing your interest."

There's a diffident shrug, "Maybe he wasn't quite as dreamy as you thought. Sounds like he might be a bit of a dumbass."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia does not look consoled, but she doesn't look too upset by the observation either. "He's definitely the latter. But that's why he's cute." She sighs, starts to melt, and finally thumps her head down into her arms on the countertop, her voice muffled a bit. "He was also going to be my backup. Or at least support."

She's silent for a few, lacy whale-tail reappearing behind her, now that she's bent forward and head down. "...Dunno if I can actually do this now." She's murmuring, so it's not easy to overhear, with her head partially covered.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"So you're planning an op." Slade replies, because honestly that's the only real conclusion there. "Or a heist. Maybe they're mostly one and the same for you, all things considered." He considers a moment, drumming fingertips on the table, "And it's big enough you feel like you need backup. Given your reputation...that's got to be pretty big."

He spreads his hands in a gesture of supplication, "But not really my business."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Felicia Hardy lifts her head and gives him a tired, rueful smile. "I can't afford you, sir. And even if I could before, I can't now. I already made a really big purchase." She isn't upset, or sad, or even annoyed. She just seems to be pleasantly resigned to what she considers facts of the world.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"My fee varies by the job and whether or not I'm actually interested in doing it." Slade notes, but even his lowest prices are prohibitive for most. With the occasional exception for extenuating circumstance. "But I hope you're getting your money's worth, regardless." Slade notes with a wry smile, nodding to the waiter as he clears away the empty plate and saucer.

"And there's no charge for just talking."

Felicia Hardy has posed:
Her sweater hanging off one shoulder, with a black satin bra strap showing, Felicia regards him thoughtfully, looks down at her phone, and taps some commands. Suddenly there's a soft buzzing sound in the air, and the bar tender moves to the other end of the otherwise empty bar in annoyance. White noise machine. Powerful too.

Once the field is fully deployed, she looks over at him, "It might involve Avengers. ...Like, all of them, maybe. The Fantastic Four. ...Others." She sighs, eyebrows going up helplessly. "Depends on when I'm found out. I was trying to get some better gear before going through with all of this, but, well."

She shrugs, hands apart, signalling a bunch of nothing to show for it. Then she goes back to slumping. "There's a reason I was counting on some puppy love."

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Some particular reason you're looking to make a very long list of powerful and resourceful enemies? Both of those teams have people that are smarter than you, more skilled than you, and no matter what tech you bring to the table are going to be able to match it or exceed it. But you know all that. So...what is it you're after that's making you take this risk?"

Felicia Hardy has posed:
"Would you believe it if I said I can't tell you?" Her phone beeps and Felicia snatches it off the table, with the white noise field fading. "Anyway, I need to get going. ...Thanks for the scone." She smiles weakly, gives him a final glance, and is suddenly darting off, trotting for the exit as she looks at her phone, hips swinging as she goes.

Slade Wilson has posed:
"Of course. Until later." Slade watches Felicia saunter off for a moment, then turns back to the bartender, drumming fingers on the table and adding, "Give me the Glenmorangie 18 year over ice. Make it a double." And then for all the world Slade's back to enjoying a quiet drink. But the wheels never stop turning....