Summary:Three thieves meet at a Gala. Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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It's the Tenth Annual Gathering of the Brooklyn Historical Society. Due to the specific decade in question, far more than the usual crowd in volume have gathered. Anyone with the right connections would be able to garner an invitation…or with the right skill set and charms, slip past the rather pitiful excuse for security at the doors of the Marriott ballroom borrowed for the gala.
Within, the Society's used their connections to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to garner extra decorations. It's…actually rather nice, if still just shy of French crystal chandeliers and gilded angelic sculptures holding up the corners of the ballroom's walls. A live band plays on the stage, appropriate bluesy tunes, and the guests are mingling. Everyone's dressed to the nines and proud to show themselves off in suits and tuxedos, ballroom gowns reaching to the ankles and dresses with hems questionably covering lengthy legs. On display along the walls, some antiques and items on loan from MoMA.
Ambrose himself stands nearby to one of them, idly reading the placard set on a black tray beside it. It's not his era of interest, but close to it: 1000 BC by estimate, the black-fired vase is clay and was found in a burial site off the Tigris River. He hums thoughtfully to himself as he turns his champagne flute in his fingers; bubbles rise in the liquor. The master-thief is in a finely-cut black tuxedo this evening with a crisp white undershirt and equally starched pocketsquare. His shoes shine and so do his cerulean-blue eyes as he turns to look across the crowd.
Miss Lena was sent on an errand…really, more a dare…and a test. Five wallets, from different patrons, without being caught.
*
It was a piss-poor test, too. Child's play, almost literally, as the skill was harnished early in her life. Walking back up and standing beside the pup in a tux, Snart looks at the vase and gives a tsk behind her dark lips. Her own attire is fitting of the evening - a slee gown of frosty, azure blue, black heels and silver-white bobbles to match. Hair down, delicately shaped, Cold reaches up and brushes a line of jet away from her face before siping at her wine.
"I don't think those will fit in your pockets, Pretty." She muses. "Speaking of pockets, check yours."
*
Felicia Hardy is unquestionably a socialite and darling of the upper crust of society. Her extravagant donation netted her a bona-fide invitation, and her name on a plaque displayed unabashedly along with other high-level donors at the front of the room. When she enters the room, she is nothing if not statuesque and elegant. A finely tailored black dress, fitted immaculately in all the right places, and beset with crystals for just the right hint of sparkle. The slit up one thigh allows the fabric to drape to her ankles, just above black patent stiletto heels.
At her throat, a ruby brooch, set into a choker: three strands of diamonds in parallel. A perfect collar for a perfect kitten.
She pauses to take a flute of champagne, holding her black satin clutch close to her waist, as she peruses the high society in attendance, as she fuses with her delicate silvery blonde updo.
*
Ambrose smirks as he glances over at the younger thief.
"I did not think you would find it difficult. If you had stumbled and been caught, it would have been no fault but your own…and do check your fingers before you touch your face again. I lined the pockets with charcoal before I slipped my own wallet within. You'll find it empty, of course," he informs Lena lightly, his British accent traveling to those close by. A sigh and he then glances towards the entrance.
His dark eyebrows rise.
"I daresay I have not seen her before," he comments half to Lena and half to himself upon sighting Miss Hardy. His eyes fall to the collar at the blonde woman's neck and lift to her face once more. Ambient light flickers carmine through his pupils as the master-thief then squints. "Shall I set you after her clutch then, little bird? Prove your worth as a falcon yet?"
Young miss Cold gets the usual infuriating little smile from the Jackal.
*
"Mmmm, no." Lena decides, sipping from her glass once more and easily peeling away her gloves. Pair ruined, somewhat, at least they were black. "I'm not here to run your errands, I'm here for my own dealings." A pause, she glares at the man's expression, following after it toward Felicia and then back again. "Remember, I asked /you/ to join me."
Turning, she looks down the line of art hanging on the wall.
*
Pale blue eyes shine as Felicia moves along, sipping her champagne and taking in the artworks displayed on the walls. Nothing here of interest, it seems. But at least there are enough haughty marks amongst the crowd, and music enough to keep them moving. Pity, how clumsy they can be as they keep time with the band.
Felicia has her eye on a particular hat pin, on a chapeau worn by an older woman with a penchant for the heavier of drinks, as demonstrated by the flask she continuously slips from her handbag for a nip.
In fact, the thief is en route toward the woman when she catches a glimpse of a blue-eyed gentleman looking her way. Felicia smiles warmly and offers him a little wave.
*
"Yes, and I deigned to join you. Ah well, I'll have to see if I can't lift it myself. As you Yankees might say, you're not a bird, Miss Lena…you're a chicken." On that coy note, he glances back towards the blonde and catches the twiddling of her fingers. A tiny pause on his part is negated with the lift of his champagne glass towards Felicia and a deep nod, elementally from a time of courtly manners long ago.
"Do try not to get caught on your errands," he adds towards Lena even as he's turning to walk towards his own mark. "I would hate to need to bail you out." His travels take him past an portly elderly gentleman gesticulating wildly with his empty wine glass. With a wink at Lena, easily seen by Felicia, he makes a point to bump into one of the flailing arms. The grey-haired man stumbles, but thank god Ambrose is there to catch him! It costs the Jackal his champagne, but he's able to held the man aright once more by lifting him up under his armpits.
"I am terribly sorry, sirrah, I did not mean to interrupt your tale," the master-thief claims, his expression wrought with chagrin. A brush down and straightening of the spluttering man's tuxedo coat is slapped away.
"No kidding! Watch yourself!" the man scoffs before turning back to his conversation.
Ambrose then backs away with one hand raised…and turns to walk away. As he does, he flashes the pilfered billfold, thick with money, at young Miss Cold. It's easy enough for Felicia to catch the nose-thumbing gesture, experienced as she is in her own brand of theft. Away it goes into Ambrose's own tuxedo jacket and he snags another full glass of champagne off a passing tray in celebration before continuing on lazily towards Felicia.
*
"Keep talking, Pretty. You just like me breaking your shit it seems…" The flash of cash only has Cold flipping Ambrose a different type of 'bird'. Now that he has a new mark, the girl in winter colors turns and heads away deeper within the assembly.
*
With arched brows, Felicia has now paused, and awaits the approach of the debonair young man with a new wallet.
"Unnecessarily showy, don't you think?" she asks, when he is within earshot. Her gaze, by now, is turned away from him, toward others in the room, or the band. "And why shouldn't I out you here and now, while the smoking gun is still in your pocket?" Her gaze is finally leveled on the 'gentleman.'
*
Ambrose pulls up beside the blonde with a sip of his champagne. He smiles to himself, showcasing what could be dimples with more emotion, and follows the line of her gaze in idle interest.
"Because I have not stolen it. You would be laying falsehood upon me. I claim that the man dropped it and in my well-meaning confusion, I lost track of him in the crowd. I would be crowned a mild, modern hero for its return. I daresay there's easily a thousand dollars within its billfold, not including the cards within," he notes, his eyes sliding to her form yet again.
"It shall return to its owner before the stroke of midnight. I would hate for him to become more a pumpkin than he is."
*
Felicia laughs, enjoying the jest perhaps more than she should. After all, she is in attendance for the thrill of the game, nevermind that she could never make more in the game than she paid for a ticket to the gala.
People trust too easily, and pay far too little attention to those things in which they instill value." She nods toward the pumpkin in question. "He is putting more value on his reputation than on his wallet. And from the looks of his companions, the reputation is already moot." A woman nearby rolls her eyes and turns away from his rollicking tale to seek other companionship. "Alas, it is all for naught."
*
"It is a shame, but still, entertainment in itself," comments the master-thief on the portly man. The man appears to be continuing his story even despite losing one of his proposed fold of sheep; the rest of the grouping about him appears to be nonplussed for the most part. One other woman is pinked in the cheeks from both drink and laughing. Maybe it's a questionably funny story at best? It's impossible to hear at this distance along with the low continuous buzz of conversation.
Ambrose looks back over at Felicia. "I trust you have a name to go with your glittering presence?" asks he, smiling yet again.
*
"Felicia Hardy," she replies, offering her hand to the gent with a penchant for pinching. "And you are?" Her gaze is expectant. She half expects to recognize the name. But she also half expects it to be a fictional name. Added up, that is 100% expectation.
*
"A lucky name," the gentleman compliments. He takes her hand and holds her fingers lightly between forefinger and thumb while he inclines his head over her knuckles. Ambient light shines off the crown of his richly-brown hair before he lifts his face to look at her again, the archaic mode of greeting complete. There was a fleeting second where he considered kissing her knuckles, but behaved himself.
"Lieutenant Atherton, of Her Majesty's army. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hardy." Showcasing impeccable manners, the master-thief then releases her hand. "And what brings you to this evening's soiree?"
*
"Why, I came in hopes of meeting a fantastically handsome Lieutenant…Lieutenant." Felicia smiles, but leans in, speaking in a conspiratory manner. "Although I somehow doubt that Her Majesty would approve of your methods." She offers him a wink as she straightens up again. "At least I have accomplished my goal for the evening. And what, praytell, was yours?"
*
Admittedly, Ambrose does appear briefly as the cat to have caught the canary. Her wink makes one dimple show in a crooked, close-lipped smile even as he glances away. He appears to be tracking the location of the grey-haired portly man. Perhaps the master-thief does intend to return the wallet after all…?
"A lucky name indeed then, and how fortuitous," he agrees, laughter in his tone. He can mock himself, especially after over one-hundred and twenty years of age. "I am attending for the sights and the sounds of the rabble appreciating that which was once lost and is now found." An idle turn of his hand gestures towards the priceless items on loan in their glass cases along the walls. "Someone attempting to sully my good name might claim I am…window shopping," he decides as far as wording. " — but that would cast Her Majesty in a bad light. I must remain mum on the matter, you see." Ambrose mimes locking his mouth with a key and pocketing it.
*
"Of course," Felicia replies knowingly, as she looks to the glass cases. She has begun to formulate more of an appraisal of the man who has caught her eye so handily. "I have no doubt you've impeccable taste. And your colourful friend, who seems to adore you so that she offered a finger in sacrifice to your good health?" she asks, her gaze darting about, looking for the young woman who had disappeared into the crowd. "I should assume this is, then, a competition…"
*
Those dark eyebrows lift as Ambrose then rolls his eyes smoothly, the epitome of mildly put-on by the noticed actions of Lena earlier.
He uses her nom-de-guerre in his explanation. "Young Miss Cold has a mind of her own and I am fain to claim any control of her. At best, she might consider herself my ward. At worst, she is a reminder of the impetuousness of youth. Still…" His gaze slides to Felicia again and it becomes measuring, sly.
"A competition might enliven the night. I await your suggestion in matters," he murmurs, sipping at his champagne and tipping his tongue against his upper lip briefly. There's an inkling of a wonderment in his mind now about the buxom blonde.
*
"Tsk. Such a pity, a young lady so out of control." Felicia crosses her arms before her, lifting her glass to her lips and partaking of the elixir that emboldens her. "Wallets are child's play, I'm afraid. Not worth more than five points," she adds pensively. "A piece of jewelry, lifted from a conscious partygoer, closer to twenty. And Thirty-five for any item on a wall or under glass. Items, not description cards," she clarifies. "At least…if I were going to hold such a competition, that's how I'd do it."
*
The brunet nods thoughtfully to himself. A musical little hum follows as he scans the walls yet again. Passing visions of the contents of the museum-quality containers can be seen as guests continue to mingle.
"A good spread of points. If the crowd were to be more inebriated, I'd hazard the time to begin this proposed competition would be now. Alas, I believe the staff might be watering down the champagne, at the very least." His glass is giving a disapproving scowl. Tsk. He's barely buzzed. "That, and young miss Cold has apparently disappeared."
A click of his tongue is soft in volume. "I can see this being an intriguing and amusing endeavor, however." Felicia is given another faint smile. "You have an interesting taste in social entertainment, Miss Hardy."
*
It was a joke, it had to be. What the girl saw when moving about the swarm of elite was a mockery. Honestly. At length, she finds her way back toward tall, dark, and asinine. It's only then that she notices that her companion for the evening has another by his side. With a fresh glass of bubbly in hand, Snart strides toward the pair fluidly. She smiles, somewhat, her expression not reaching her eyes, much less her cheeks - dimples refuse to form. "Good evening, miss. I hope you're not listening to a world this scoundrel has to say. Sweet nothings I assure you, sand slipping between your fingers, so on, so forth. Scoundrel, may I speak with you for a moment? When you're done, of course."
*
"Ahh, and you must be the young lady that the Lieutenant has been speaking of," offers Felicia. "She doesn't /look/ that troubled to me, Sir. Maybe a hint of evil around the corners of the eyes…but…all in all a pleasant looking child." Felicia looks back to Ambrose, having answered her saboteur, like for like. She leans in to Ambrose to whsisper, "She counts as her own person, not your minion, if the wager were to proceed."
*
The master-thief, sporting his own thin-lipped smile, simply holds Lena's eyes as he leans in to listen to the subtle comment on Felicia's part. He nods once and laughs, lips spreading to reveal his teeth. The chuckle from the back of his throat rounds up behind them, warm and somehow subtly unnerving.
"Firstly, to you, little bird, it's 'Lord Scoundrel'. I have moved up in the world," Ambrose notes to himself. "Secondly, yes, she does count as her own person."
He says it loudly enough for Lena to hear and then goes on to add, "While you were off on your errands, Miss Cold, we were weighing the chance to create our own entertainment. I know you're incredibly put-out by needing to tolerate brushing elbows with the upper crust, so…what say you to a competition?" A glance to Felicia lingers, as does the grin, before he looks to Lena again.
*
"No." She answers without hesitation or consideration. "That's what I say. No. I'm not your trained dog to send out and do tricks for you. You want fun, you do it yourself." She then eyes Felicia, perhaps sizing her up in a different manner now that Ambrose has spoken. "Entertain yourselves." Cold clarifies in a chilling voice, the faintest growl resting in her choker decorated throat.
*
"That's too bad," Felicia purrs. "I was going to put up a substantial prize for the competition. Ten thousand to the winner. Unless I win, in which case the Handsome Lieutenant must accompany me on an outing of my choosing, within the next two weeks." It's an obscene amount for such a prize, but after all, Felicia won't have to pay it out, and she'll get a date out of the deal, to boot.
*
"Oh? That's the real wager then?" Ambrose again looks smoothly pleased with himself. An idle tip of the champagne flute back and forth knocks bubbles from the remaining half-volume of liquid. "No trite sum either, I note."
He looks to Lena again, interested to see if the monetary amount has swayed her. "What say you now? It would not be too challenging, I think. There are points assigned according to the potential difficulty of the item acquired."
*
With a cant of her head, the girl moves her glass in Ambrose's direction, sending the drink out and across his face. "I said no, you entitled prick. Both of you can fucking burn in hell for all I care. I'm not your dog, I'm not your monkey, there are no strings on me, you got it?" Throwing the glass down, her expression twitches as do her fingers, that rage is boiling over in her pale eyes. "I don't need your hand out, your prize. I get what I get on my own." There's a shimmer there, perhaps even a show of angry tears waiting to roll. "Never speak with me again." She tells Ambrose flately.
Then to Felicia, her brows knit. "Enjoy your dick." Turning, Lena moves on again.
*
"Well. She seems pleasant," Felicia observes, watching the young woman go. "But! You heard the command that she issued to me. I have not only permission, but indeed orders." Felicia looks back to the Lieutenant. "I suppose we /should/ go to the coat room or something. I'm not an animal."
*
The Jackal blinks, feeling the bubbles of the champagne pop against his skin even as he pufts out the remnants of his lungs of air through thinned lips. It sprinkles the dribbles of liquor yet. Even as Lena lambastes him well and good, the master-thief pulls his pocket-square and begins wiping his face off. He gets the majority of the champagne from his skin and pats at the front of his suit at the wet spottings that remain.
Inexplicably embarrassed about the entire display, because OH LAWD, are people looking at both Ambrose and Felicia now — and Victorian-schooled habits of manners die a hard, hard death — the man clears his throat and glances over at Felicia. "As pleasant as stepping on a tack in the dark sometimes. I am not an animal either, but unfortunately, we have drawn too much attention. I do need to return the…wallet I found earlier as is."
Turning and gathering his frayed dignity, the master-thief then takes up Felicia's hand. A kiss to her knuckles is passing, light as a butterfly. "Perhaps if luck is in our favor again, Miss Hardy, we shall meet again. Au revoir." He gives the blonde a final curl of a smile before turning to disappear into the crowd.
The wallet does get returned!
…minus all of the bills.