Summary:Two thieves have a common score. Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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The affair was glitz and glamour. White-Collar and social elite smothered in gold and hightened senses of God-given entitlement. Snart hated every single moment of it, but, sometimes the job calls for you to do things you hate. Dressed in a fine gown of pitch-blue, the dark haired young woman with pale skin and frozen eyes moves about the manor with poise and grace. She speaks, she laughs, she giggles and allows the corner of her dark lips to press up enough to pit dimples into her cheeks. Inside, she was cursing.
Excusing herself to the bar, she allows the dull roar of white noise and conversation to fall behind her. Finishing off her flute of bubbly, she sets the glass down and orders something harder. On ice. Making it a double.
Oh, but glitz and glamour provides the best cover for the skulking. Amidst the unwary, the Jackal prowls, dressed to the nines in a fitted suit. Crisp black, pristine white undershirt, silken lapels and pocket linings to match the hand-crafted bowtie, he allows the unseen tendrils of the Bane to lick and taste as he wanders through the crowd. The ancient Mesopotamian curse, to anyone with the Sight, appears as liquid garnets, fluid and breaking apart only to rejoin upon itself after it sips of the life-force of anyone present within ten feet. He's practically buzzing with the stolen energy and the pleased smile hovering about his lips reaches the cerulean-blue of his darkly-lashed eyes.
Making no effort to hide the brush of predatory grace to his meandering through the crowd, he too heads for the bar. Appearing beside Lena with a sudden silent presence, he takes a moment to consider the options. The arrival of her drink, a double on ice, is enough to make him glance over and smile once more, coolly.
"I suppose a crowd like this does warrant a drink as such. Gin on the rocks please, two fingers," he then asks of the bartender, his British accent rounded in some vowels to suggest a foreign upbringing. Lena is given another once-over, distantly interested in nature. "Debutante? Or are you on someone's arm this evening?"
Lena Snart glances across the bar to the polished mirror behind it, reflecting back patrons and bottle selections alike. Her hand reaches up, gloved and slender, fingers resting around a choker hugging her delicate throat. A side-glance Ambrose's way, she offers him a passive smile - not even near the verge of friendly or personable. As her drink arrives, she considers it, a sip down, she then knocks the rest back and sets the empty vessel aside. A nod to the tender - she orders another.
The word 'debutant' causes her face to twist up. "Please. I'm neither. I'm here for myself." A casing over his own figure and his attire, she smirks and looks toward his reflection instead of his face directly. "And what about you, pretty? You here on someone's arm, hmm?"
Ambrose is impressed, despite himself, at how fast her liquor disappears. When his own arrives, he sips at it, mulling the flavor spread over his palate to judge whether or not it's worth doing the same to his drink. Her appellation of his physical features has him grinning to showcase his own dimple, one side stronger than the other, crooked as an alley-cat's tail.
"Tonight, I attend with curiosity and purpose. You see, I took up a…Suggestion to visit from the matron of the manor and I found it irresistible. After all, the place is a veritable riot of class…don't you think?" Another longer sip and he licks his lips, looking over his shoulder in what appears to be idle interest at the dispersion of suits and dresses throughout the room. "Not to my taste, however."
There goes his own drink, tossed back and swallowed with the ease of long-practice. His highball glass is returned to sit in its circling of condensation on the bartop and he gives Lena another smile, slightly warmer than before. "Do enjoy your time, milady."
With that, the gentleman-thief excuses himself from their conversation and threads his way towards a side door.
Wait — that's not a main exit in the least.
Curiousity and purpose, something she knew greatly. With second drink in hand, she knocks it back and answers with a 'mmm'. Swallowing, she grants him a pass of her fingers in a wave-off. "You, too, pretty." Then he slips away. And away…"Dammit." She curses under her lips, following after the direction the suave figure was disappearing into.
Her movements are cool and calm, collected and fluid. As he slips away, she's moments behind and following. The study of the location was enough for her, blueprints and practice, counting steps of distance in her mind - that was the direction she needed to go. Closing the door and flicking its lock with a twist of her fingers, the girl glances in the directions the hall leads. She knew the way she needed to go - but where did he go?
Along the length of the hallway, there are a number of other doors before it takes a left-hand turn. It's the last doorway on the right hand side which proves to be ajar, against the state of every other panel. The faintest sliver of light shows to outline the panel…and the movements of someone within. It's the…breaker room?
With a sudden heavy clunk and stilling of the low hum of wiring, the entire manor goes dark. Beyond the locked door, back in the main room, voices rise in concern.
Ambient light falls through the windows lining one side of the hall and allows sight still yet. Emerging from the room is Ambrose himself, sans bowtie and with his white shirt already unbuttoned by two roundels to expose the divot between his collarbones. As he scans the hallway, he comes to a very still poise half-aglow in an angled slant of silvery moonlight.
It flickers through his pupils in carmine like a wild animal as he scans the immediate area. Is that…perfume?
Lena Snart gives pause as the house goes dark. It felt so natural, so set, so…her? Smiling, she lowers her head and sighs. Digging into her clutch, she pulls out a silver visor and slips it over her eyes. The screen reads out, allowing her vision in the dark. Bag under her arm, nestled in its pit, she yanks at the slit of her dress, ripping fibers and giving herself more free space to roam and move. Lights were out, it was time to go to work.
She smells of lilac and vanilla, there's an odd hint on her flesh of the cold and metal filings, flecks of ore and cast of a girl who was use to working with her hands, and tending her own weaponry. It didn't matter why the world had gone dark, all that matters is her steps, soundless, pass down the hall and head in the direction where the master of the house's treasures are kept.
Yes, definitely perfume — he can't catch the finer metallic notes, not in his current form. The Jackal would have to be within his ironic shifted guise to know she handled her own gear with care. Regardless, it sets him to stepping swiftly and silently towards the safe-room. How funny…as he travels that direction, he keeps scenting the perfume. Again, his pupils flash nightshine-red as he rounds the corner to see…
White teeth slowly appear in a pleased smile. Good to see his intuition wasn't too far off as to the young woman so dedicated to finishing drinks as if it were a contest — or to settle nerves. She'd read as canny, detached from the shining retinue in the main room. No doubt someone's on the grounds now with a flashlight, wondering about which wire went down outside.
Sticking to the deeper shadows of the hallway, Ambrose slinks and pauses to watch Lena at her work. After all, it will be all too easy to let the chit beat the closed-circuit security system and prise the door before he steps in.
Her lips move, counting and recalling information as it rolls through her brain. Snart was a woman of plans, solid plans - jobs were only taken on wild rides when her other half was about. This was easy, clean, a snatch and grab made all the better now that someone has cast darkness across the building. Her head cants to the side, eyes behind a sliver of silver and azure studying the lock's formation before she gets to work. Again, her dark lips move and within seconds, the room clicks open. No alarm, no rise to alert - it simply allows her (and him) in as if they owned the place.
The collection inside is impressive, but given the audience outside, it'd be a shame if it was nothing but second-hand and fake garbage polished to shine. Pictures hang on the wall, statues loom and special pieces are kept within glass cases. A few minutes tops in this room could make anyone daring enough rich.
Lena, however, comes to stand before what appears to be a statue of some sort. A twisting figure of solid base, carved out of stone. Wide-eyed, rich blue in hue with waves of hair and an impressive beard, all on display with links to flames and power. Smiling, Cold nods her head and leans closer. "Hello, Gibil."
In he slips after a handful of heartbeats and the Jackal comes to the same near-supernatural stillness with the width of his knuckle keeping the room's door from shutting entirely. He watches what her attention lands on and his own eyes narrow.
Oh no. Tsk-tsk. Of all the things in the city to take, that is a gratuitous error on this young lady's part.
He shuts the door and makes no effort to hide its sound. Lena will be greeted with him leaning against it there with arms loosely folded, his smile not reaching the glow of his eyes.
"And to think, you had me wondering if you were simply…lost," the Brit says so silkily.
Eyes up, hidden by shades, the girl stands and rolls her shoulders lazily. "Hello, Pretty. Lost? Yes, well…beautiful place to be lost in, isn't it?" A sly smirk touches her pale features. "You found me. Run along now." She suggests, standing by the statue and its case without a hint of departure.
Her head cants as if listening, measuring space and the fact that this man from before now stood at her exit, and that fact that his gaze was brighter now. Different. "If you shucked that power grid, anyone will be able to flick it back on. I'm not against being seen /with/ you, but it would be a damper on my evening." Pause, "At least tell me you took a fuse with you."
Without dropping Lena's eyes, he reaches into the pocket of his suit-jacket. Pinched between his fingers, not one fuse, but three.
"They won't be quick to return power to this abode…and you're welcome," the Jackal adds as he slips the fuses away once more. "I do intend to let you leave, but you must understand: that…"
A finger emerges to point at the statue.
"…is mine," he purrs. Slowly, he uncoils from his lean on the door and begins to meander towards her in no apparent hurry. At first glance, with hands exposed, he has no weaponry on him. "You would be loathe to tangle with me over it, milady. You are young yet, even if your eyes speak to a life hard-lived. This once, defer to your elder in matters. Anything else in this room is yours."
"Oh, good boy." She mock-praises at the show of the fuses. He moves, she eases in her own pace, starting to circle the statue. Without question, it was the quarry of both thieves. "Mmm, afraid I can't do that, Pretty. I know someone he'd make very happy. What can I say, I'm a softy at heart for a certain thug. The boy likes fire, I get him fire." She explains, allowing a gloved finger to glide against the casing. "Elder? I don't think so, GQ. If you want to play that card, then how about being nice to the kid. You can have anything you'd like, though. I share."
Perfectly counter to one another, noon and six, north and south, the two thieves begin circling the pedestal with its ancient statuette under museum-quality glass. Ambrose's chin remains lifted, his lips thin in a smile incapable of melting butter.
"You've honestly no idea who you're dealing with, do you, little chit? It does not matter if you've some sirrah who fancies himself able to tumble with the rifraff of this city. I've a claim on this artifact and there is no other argument to be had." His shadow crosses the glass and glides over the statuette as he continues attempting to get closer to Lena now. "I am the Jackal, one hundred years your elder, and you will step away from the relic or suffer the consequences."
His next exhale is decidedly lower than the average human male, resonating in the depths of his chest in a canine-like growl, and definitely a move to spook Lena if he can manage it.
"I know I'm dealing with another thief. If you had claim to anything here, you'd have it already and not be lifting it off someone else. By my accounts, it belongs to whoever can claim it first." The cast of shadow, his eyes, that sound - it gives the girl pause in a sombering way. Deep, settling cold within her chest. He can see her expression harden, her body tense, and her brow dip, furrowing in a mixture of annoyance and anger.
"Jackal, huh? Call me Cold." Her hand slips down, a glide under the fine fabric of her ripped gown, slipping between her thighs and giving a shift. There's a click, something detatching from something else. Shortly after, she pulls a weapon, gun like and triangular in barrel. Smiling, she continues, "And this is Jadis. We lay claim to the statue, Pretty. Consequences be damned."
Oh good…she's spooked — the weaponry has come out in plain sight and Ambrose doesn't recognize its make or model. It has the nuances of self-built and this is an element of uncertainty in his own right.
"How quaint," the Jackal replies after a long few moments eyeing the gun. "I have never named my revolvers. Mind, I am quite fond of them, but they were not required this evening. They are rather noisy for confines such as this. However, I do not accept your claim, Mademoiselle Maigre." His French is old-school, accent indicative of turn-of-the-century time spent before a chalkboard.
Moonlight flashes through his pupils as he darts about the pedestal in a quick blur of dark clothing and the flash of white tux-shirt. One hand lands on her gun-wrist, attempting to divert its aim to somewhere at the ceiling rather than at his person. The other claps to the bare skin of her bicep and as if he were leading a tango, he swiftly backs Lena up against the nearest wall devoid of displays.
It's an odd tingling that washes over the skin, the Bane's touch — it leaves behind first the chill of full-body goosebumps followed by the wash of warmth and wooziness, life-energy borrowed and then returned to the young woman to keep her at biological equilibrium. Ambrose's voice takes on a charming, musical resonance: "I Suggest you depart from this location, milady, and be quick and cautious about it. It would do neither of us good to have you carried off in cuffs." His eyes fall down and return to her face, still glinting red in his pupils. "I do look forwards to crossing paths with you again. You've the courage of a young lioness."
With his Suggestion imbued, the Jackal steps back leerily. Sometimes, it requires a second to take hold in the target's mind, and other times, the victim has the mental fortitude to shake it entirely.
A speedster? How could she have guessed? With hand on wrist and body back against the wall, her finger did squeeze against the trigger, showering the room in a brilliant glow of xenon-blue light. With it comes a calm in the air, a softness and silence of sound, a chill all its own. The breeze from an upper vent seems to start crystalizing and the hum from the weapon, a glow buzzing from its oddly shaped barrel, vibrates melodically.
The light dies as he speaks, her flesh texturing as a shiver ripples down her spine. A shudder of breath and it's hard to tell if her eyes met his own, both fierce orbs still hidden away by silver visors. Her teeth grit and her arm levels down. He can see her body tense and flex, her jaw tightening as she shakes her head, sending a few raven tresses swinging. She growls and lifts the gun, hand shaking before she lowers it again and presses a palm to he brow.
Perhaps out of care, for for sake of comfort, the girl tugs on two bands wrapped around her thigh. Allowing the gun to slick back into place with maglocks, she removes her shades and eyes him once more. Eyeing the door, and a window, she slips the shades away into her clutch and moves toward it. Flipping a lock and eyeing the distance down, she tosses her shoes out first and slips off, climbing down a collection of vines and lattice work.
The Jackal's heart hovers in his throat while he watches this 'Cold' young woman fight the compulsion. Feeling the effects of her gun in the room gives goosebumps all his own; never has he seen modern technology like that in all his years of existence, not even when fighting Rommel and his supernatural soldiers in the deserts of Northern Africa those decades ago.
Then, there she goes, giving him enough of a lucid look of hatred that Ambrose swallows. He follows her shadow to the window and leans out, watching to be certain she doesn't land like an ungainly melon on the ground below, before he disappears back into the room. The statuette, well…it disappears too, along with the Jackal. Its absence is found many, many hours after the power is restored and how unfortunate: the power outage killed not only the security alarm in the room, but the cameras as well. For now, both thieves have escaped with their lives and with a particular relic due to be shipped back to its country of origin.
Still…as Ambrose mulls over the interaction one day later, he can't help but wonder about the off-chance of crossing paths with the young woman again. This time, he was lucky. Next time…?
Only fate knows.