Summary:Red Robin attempts to recruit Lena Snart as an informant. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's been some time since that encounter at the jewellery store. Long enough, Red Robin thinks, that Lena would be sure she's got away scot-free. And thus, the perfect time to shake that confidence.
He's watched the tracker's progress, watches the places Lena spends time. He could come straight to her safe house, but that risks playing his entire hand at once, and just leading her to pack up and find a new one. No, it's better to approach her somewhere less private. Hence: the Aerie. One of New York's wretched hives of scum and villainy.
It's late at night, midnight approaching on Sunday morning; right when a club like this does its biggest business. He pays the cover and makes his way in, not looking like she's used to: thick and curly, ginger hair; a slight tan across his face, with freckles dotting his nose, cheeks, and forehead; green eyes. And he's wearing light and easy clubwear rather than, you know, a big ol' costume. Just a face in the crowd, but one which peers outwards, looking for a certain someone.
"Not so big without the firebug around, are you, doll?"
"I don't need to be. You know I still get my way and you're in my space right now, Charlie. Back off…"
"Back off? Oh no, Snart. You're kinda cute when you're all scared. Like a lil bunny."
"Last chance, Charlie. Mike, get your boy out of my face or you're losing a boy…"
"Chuck, com'on, man. I'm sorry, Cold. You know what he's like when he's drunk."
"Fuck off, Mike! I'm not taking it from this bitch anymore." The thug finally acts, reaching out and clasping his massive mits on the Snow Queen's upper arms. Snart only smirks. Leg up, knee bent, she slams into the man's groin, sending the massive man down, casting spittle across Lena's face. Goth and in a skirt, the girl's boot-falls of solid soles stride toward 'Chuck', a man balled up and on his side, hands between this thighs.
"I told you, Mike…" She offers up as truth, her voice still apathetic as best. Flipping a bottle in her hand, heavy and brick like, she catches its neck and then starts hammering down on Chuck's head. A smack left, then right, she hammers it down until it shatters and tosses down the left behind neck. Turning, Cold brushes the shards from her skirt and moves to her table, reclaiming her seat and shot of liquor.
That's how things go in a club like this; this is where those of sinister intent gather, and there, the law of strength rules. You won't last long if you're the type to signal for a bouncer; you fight your own battles. And brutally so, it seems. Red Robin honestly had been planning to step in if needed, but… he hung back enough to learn that, no, he absolutely wasn't needed. So he goes ahead with his original goal here. The woman herself. Not coming to her rescue, but approaching her table.
Just an ordinary man, a face in a crowd, barely making it through the press of bodies on the dancefloor. But then he lays something on the table.
One of Red Robin's throwing discs. The first hint of his identity, and then the second in the sound of his voice. "You're an easy woman to find, Miss Snart. I have some questions for you."
Lena Snart knocks the drink back and then eyes the body coming up to her table. Refilling the small cup, she eyes the disc on the table and scoffs. The comment about the ease of finding her probably wasn't appreciated, but the reaction is held in silence. Instead, she focuses on him. "And you're amazingly stupid, Birdie. I call out and you get a brawl on your hands - is that what you want?" She asks, knocking back another shot, swallowing hard and exhaling smoothly.
"What's wrong, sweetie? I've heard of punch-drunk love, but if you need me to hammer the message home again, I will. I'm just getting warmed up tonight." Behind them, Mike is tsking and dragging away the fallen Charlie with the aid of some of his buddies.
Red Robin pulls up a chair, inviting himself to sit at Lena's table. "Oh please, complimenting a man's fashion sense could start a brawl in a place like this. I wouldn't have come if I wasn't ready to handle it. But no, I'm not here for a fight." He takes the disc and slides it back in a pocket. "There's been some moving and shaking lately. The Hand, suddenly interested in the drug trade, all the damage that brings, and then some. The kind of activity that makes waves in your world. Share what you know, and I have some ways of making it worth your while." Because you can't expect someone like Lena Snart to offer information for free.
"The what now?" Lena asks half-heartedly, another shot down. Shifting in her seat, she relaxes back and casts a look off toward someone off in the room. Her head cants and then she shakes her head. That wordless conversation over, she turns her frosty gaze back toward the ginger sharing her table. "Sorry, can't help you there. I don't mess with that trade." Then she scoffs, "I also very much doubt you can offer me anything I want."
"Assassins, usually," Red Robin says. "And generally, very bad people. The kind that even other criminals look askance at. And even if you don't mess with the trade, the grapevine still flourishes. Anything you know, or can learn, could be of help in keeping that junk out of people's veins." He smiles. "And you'd be surprised. First, there's the obvious; cash for a good tip. You could get yourself something shiny without needing to break anything for it." That's the carrot. "Or I could give you privacy. Unless you think your career would benefit from Red Robin, in full costume, showing up wherever you happen to be and whenever you happen to be there." And the stick.
"So…you want me to dig up information about assassins. Then snitch on them because, for some reason, I give a damn about what other people do to themselves?" Sucking in a breath between her teeth, Cold tsks and chews at the low corner of her dark painted lips. "I don't snitch, so no cash there. I don't think you understand why I do what I do, so I don't want something 'shiny' just given to me, especially by someone like you. As for privacy? I'll find out how you've kept watch on me and rectify the situation. That I can promise you. What I can't promise is that if you do continue to show up what might happen to you in the end." Akin to her name, she sits and waits for him to continue - it was like speaking with a block of ice. "Try again? Please. This is funny."
Red Robin holds that disc in his hand again, idly tapping it against the table. Tink tink tink, tink tink tink. She invites him to try again, and… "Nah." He rises to his feet. "You've made your position clear. You don't have what I need, and you won't snitch if you did. I can understand that. I mean, the Hand are pretty scary. I can see why you wouldn't want to get on their bad side." He starts to turn away. It seems he's forgotten the disc, leaving it on the table.
Lena Snart lifts her glass his way, knocking back another shot as he turns to leave her alone. She eyes the disc and considers it. Shifting on her seat, she moves and stands on the table. "Gents!" She calls out across the bar. "We have a special guest tonight, the one and only Red Robin! Get your licks in while you can!" It's like the classic record scratch in all those movie trailers, a call to attention that could either make, or break, an evening.
The sound of it is maddening. Conversation ceases, people look up and in her direction, the only thing left going is the off, white noise of a TV in the background and the low hum of whatever song rolls out from the jukebox. All eyes are on her, then follow her motions to the freckle-faced redhead.
And for his part, Red Robin just gives her a shocked look. No, it's not that he hadn't been expecting something like that; it's because shock is all part of the 'scene'.
"What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull here, Cold? I brought the goods. You've got the sample right there, perfect for framing that red dick. And now what, you think you can get these idiots to mug me for you? You just don't want to pay up!"
He doesn't look too much like Red Robin, that's for sure. Not with that sneering, pointing, gesticulating body language; not with the ruddy flush of his face; not with the accent he has on now. Which way will the crowd go?
Cold is not impressed. Hands on her hips, she waits, she listens. A toe on the disc, she pushes it off the table allowing it to clatter. "I don't frame. You clearly have me mistaken for someone else. As I said, Birdie, you don't understand me, what I do, or why. Nice try, though."
The crowd waits, they knew Cold, her methods, and how she handled herself. And in that moment, it's up to her to handle herself. "No one wants a piece? Alright, guess I'll have to take care of this myself." A hand to her thigh, she ruffles at the skirt and pulls something up and away from the shadowy cover. Jadis, in hand, levels toward the ginger. "You think you're the only mug out that that covers themself up as they work? Also, pity doll, not nice to call the crowd idiots when no one knows you." That…was a point, that point causing people to shift and move, some getting closer, eyes on Tim. Snart smiles, the glow starts to grow in the triangular barrel of the gun. "Fly away, birdie. Fly far, far away."
Red Robin scoffs, shaking his head. "I've got you mistaken? You're the one trying to Spartacus me." That's not how Spartacus went… which is another point in the 'this is not Red Robin' column. That smartass wouldn't get a reference wrong; and wouldn't be dumb enough to call the crowd idiots. What reason do they have to believe he's who Lena says he is, and how much do they have against it?
Especially when he eyes Jadis with such worry, his hands up and placating. "Whoa, whoa. Jeez, fine, just keep the damn disc." He backs away, heading for the door; when does a Bat ever act afraid?
Lena Snart tsks again, watching him leave. Lowering the gun, she resets it against her thigh's holster. People look toward the ginger, then to Lena, and eventually go back to their business. Mike inches closer and picks up the disc. "The hell, Cold?" Lena slips hops off the table and brushes her hair back. "He's got guts. That's cute, I think." Then to the disc. "I'd leave that alone. Don't care what you do with it just don't keep it in here."
Starting to head out, she knocks on the bar. "Sorry for the failed brawl folks. Jimmy, get everyone a round on me." He, at least you have to apologize somehow.
Red Robin leaves the club, and manages to do so unmolested. The red-haired man heads out into the Lower East Side, to wait at — of all things — a bus stop. His hands fidget while he thinks, fingers drumming over his wrists. And, if she happens to follow, it gives her some time to catch up.
Before long, the goth-punk girl stands by his side. She's silent, looking at her watch and reaching up to make sure the choker around her throat is set, secure, its center piece on display and in the middle line of her neck. At length, she speaks. "That was cute. Ballsy and cute. Stupid. Try it again, I'll probably kill you, but I'm guessing you know that already. Pointers? Know how someone acts and why before trying to drag their name down. That would have been the kicker."
Red Robin checks his watch, too; how long until the next bus? He nods thoughtfully to her. "Yeah. Saying you wanted it as a 'trophy' would have clicked better. Especially if it was something from one of your fights, which you'd had to hightail out of without picking up trophies. I'd considered that angle, went for the materialist one instead; wrong move." So he is at least learning.
"Y'know? I don't take trophies, either. The humiliation of losing to someone like me is enough on my plate. I'm there for what I'm there for, if I don't get it, that's on me. I don't pay for someone else to do it." She educates somewhat freely. For whatever reason, she was speaking to him in a casual manner. She scoffs then, "Felt damn good to slug you, though. Wish I could have done it again." Shrugging, she clears her throat. "You know the bus stops coming here twenty-minutes ago, right?"
Red Robin hms, lips pursed. "Then no, sounds like there's nothing to interest you here. Yeah, the Hand have wealth you wouldn't believe — high-powered assassination is a more lucrative industry than theft. But tangling with them for it is well outside your pay grade; you should stick to jewellers." He half-smiles at the comment. "Yeah, but this guy doesn't. This guy would spend another fifteen minutes waiting until he even thinks to check the schedule." His head tilts. "Where do you get your clothes, anyway?" No, he doesn't say 'shop for'.
"This guy is asking to be shivved. He has 'rat' written across his adorable, freckly face." She warns with a somewhat kind smirk in his direction, dark lips pressing a dimple into her cheek. "No shit. Everyone who's worth their salt knows about guys like them. Do we talk about them? No, that's like begging to be taken out. There's nothing here for me that you can give me." She starts, "But…where are they selling? Tell me that and I'll decide if I can help you or not." Was she just…offering to help? Looking down at herself, all the dark and icy blue, the piercings and thick-soled knee-highs. She shrugs. "Online." A pause, "I know a guy." They all knew a guy.
Red Robin wrinkles his nose. "I can't help looking rat-like." Because it's not like this entire look is carefully constructed and artificial, right? Nope, that's not it at all. "Staten Island, of course. They had a den at the Terminus Pier, but that's far from the end of the operation." He pouts. "Of course. Always online. Though the shipping can't be convenient." Because either they have to drop it somewhere not at home, or it's far too easy a trail.
Or people know how to use contacts and other names. Take that, Batfam! She listens, still standing out there with him in the muggy air of a late summer, city night. There's a shift of her hips, for comfort, one side now rounding than the other. "Has it gone upper end?" Why she was asking about that was anyone's guess, but the question is there. With that question is a turn of her head and studying of her chilling eyes.
Red Robin turns his gaze outwards, watching the road. "Still just in the lower side, last I heard," he says, "But it could be we just haven't found the connections yet. There's a lot of layers to what they're doing."
Perhaps it was the location, some fear of said drugs going to an upper class part of town. It gives the Ice Queen pause and causes her to thin her lips. Looking out with him, she falls silent and allows it to grow and spread between them. "Alright." She decides at length. "I'll see what I can find out. You and yours stay out of my way and my beau's way, get me? No tracking, no badgering. You do it again, I will take it personally."
"And take it as provocation to enact however many counts of 'self defence' as you can manage," Red Robin says. "Got it. I doubt you'd want to be caught dead using the signal, so: a burner phone number?" He turns to look at her, right in the face. "And, thank you." No sense not being at least a little polite.
"None needed. If you want to have me on speed dial, fine, but I'm good at finding, remember? I can find you, too." To his thanks, she gives a wave of her hand, brushing it off. Turning, she starts to walk off without another word. Though, there's a pause. "You look better with dark hair." Comes her comment as she keeps going.
Red Robin snorts at the last. "Girlfriend says otherwise," he calls after her. He's sticking with the red, and looking quite pleased with himself for it.
"She's blind." Lena calls back. If he wants to have a yell-vosation, Lena's all for it.