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→ bang bang that awful sound

Who: Irene Adler & Stephanie Brown.
What: Irene and Steph hunt the same prey for different reasons.
Where: Murkside.
When: Backdated by a few days; Coardi, 23rd Ceidary.
Warnings: Violence, gangs, gore, hostage situation, mention of torture, language, possibly more TBA;

Tonight, in this cramped and humid Murkside bar named the Nine Hostages, there is going to be a fight. Still, that’s what the Tuatha are good at. They’re up-and-coming, present in the faintest whispers of brutalities; a Sharp supposedly found dead with T carved into his back but no one can prove anything and the Sharps are saying nothing, a man who won’t open his mouth who everybody knows got a little too chatty and ended up lacking a tongue…there’s even a rumour about them which would sound like Cenel does the Militia’s dirty work for the sake of a blind eye being turned if anyone dared spread it (don’t tell anyone I told you- in fact just don’t tell anyone at all, please).

The tension in the Nine Hostages is metallic in the air, copper on Irene’s tongue- she’s here for the excitement as much as she’s here to further her own interests, or as her 'true story' goes, here on the arm of a man named Ollav of some standing in the Tuatha. While he’s left her briefly to converse with another member in low, tense mutters, she’s marked out her own space in this crowded, noisy establishment, prim and pretty and blood red, attracting stares which she meets unblinkingly until the various other parties break her gaze nervously. She’s uncanny like this; wide-eyed and watching, something hungry wearing a socialite’s skin, so much so that for all her ladylike appearance she fits in here. She puts her hands on her hips, lifts her chin, and for a moment her eyes meet those of Cenel, the Tuatha’s leader, a self-styled king- who looks away, looks to Ollav, looks off to nothing with his jaw set. Yes; there’s going to be a fight tonight, and Irene can’t wait.

Except then Cenel nods at someone behind her. Then there is the cold point of a knife between her bare shoulderblades and everything seems very quiet suddenly but really, perhaps it’s not, perhaps her heart’s just suddenly louder than everything because perhaps she’s going to die.

Irene didn’t actually plan for the evening to go this way, but who does? It just happens- especially to her, she finds, although that makes it sound like bad luck rather than a direct consequence of her own knack for…adventure.

She came here to meddle, after all. Isn’t that what she’s always doing? She’s got this thing about situations like this- explosive ones- like a shark with blood in the water. And the Tuatha are nothing if not bloody- even amongst themselves. Irene can smell a power struggle, worked it out quickly from the rumours and the scraps of information Ollav has let slip to her, but mostly from the way Cenel keeps looking over his shoulder to see if Ollav’s stabbed him in the back yet. But the Tuatha have a loyalty which Irene finds frankly bewildering; Ollav has a lot of support, but Cenel’s their leader, which for some reason people seem to think is more important than being good at the job, or so Irene would rather prissily put it. The coup, when it happens, will be bloody, a question of nothing more than who has the most friends here and how many weapons did they bring. And that’s the only reason Ollav hasn’t made his move yet.

Well, that and Irene pointing out that he really ought to choose his moment carefully- darling.

Her friendship- here to be uttered in that particular tone of voice reserved for a certain type of friend, the type that pay in one way or another- with Ollav had started as so many of hers do, with a drink in the Vault which led to various other things in the Vault. She knew within moments of meeting him that he was in the Tuatha- there’s no mistaking the look, and a lot of them like the Vault. They fit in well there, melodramatic and predatory as they are. They have a common bloodthirstiness which Irene rather likes; Ollav in particular is a little wild, a little off, with worlds of ambition and desire held deep down inside of him, a kaleidoscope of ideas and wants which come spilling out into words and actions, larger than life, uncontrolled. He rants and he raves and gives the impression of being born for something outside of normal life; he’s the sort of man the Tuatha adore. A poet, really.

He’s going to be very successful. Or so Irene thinks. So Irene hopes. Because if he’s not...

Well. There’s the blade of a knife at her back and she raises her hands gracefully, like she’s dancing not surrendering, her eyes suddenly wide and snapping to Ollav in what is not so much a plea for help as a demand for action. It’s fine, it’s fine, they can play this off- this isn’t how she expected this to go but they can play this off--

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Irene lifts her chin as she's dragged to the same place, but is careful to give Ollav a fleeting glance full of the sort of fear which translates into anger. The thing about damsel in distress stories is that sometimes they're best done subtly; some men can never resist a woman who tries to keep a stiff upper lip even while she's terrified, feel privileged to know that she is terrified, behind everything.

So that's what she plays at, even while the clockwork of her mind asks over and over the question of how she's going to get out of this one with her work intact.

"I've never met her in my life," Irene snaps, playing up the prissy bitch to the fullest extent and rather pleased that Steph's stuck the label on her; it gives her a role to fill, at least.

Cenel doesn't believe them, of course, giving a bark of laughter, and raises a hand- the magic user beside him clenches his fists- Irene lifts her chin and waits for Ollav-

"Killing them is a waste of time."

Who is exactly on cue. Someone give that man a pat on the back. Of course, he's arguing more for her than for Steph, but his points are good; Irene's tame (really), Steph might prove useful. There's a lot of posturing, a lot of sneering, a lot of just because you have a soft spot- and Irene watches Steph from the corner of her eyes.

"Search them," Cenel says, interrupting Ollav's argument- though his points have reached a number of his listeners, some of whom happen to like Irene; she's made a point of smiling in the past. Astonishing, what a few teeth will do. "Weapons, CiDs, everything."

"For goodness' sake, I'm not armed," Irene protests, wide-eyed, keeping up the act of being far less dangerous than she is and fully expecting the rough twist the person behind her gives her arm in retaliation for it.

Her CiD gets taken immediately, of course. It's sheer bad luck that the woman patting her down finds her phone, too; she keeps her face blank, but suddenly the urge to struggle is much stronger.

Steph's expressin never changes, but she notes everything, especially the man that talks for Irene's sake, marking him as someone to watch. If he's on their side, in whatever way, they can use him. Which she suspects Irene already has a handle on. It's interesting, watching him argue to keep her alive - keep them alive, although if they give an execution order Steph isn't planning to go down without a fight.

When the order to search them is given, Steph practically growls, "Don't touch me, you piece of shit."

It's a two-fold move; it draws attention to her, away from Irene, because she saw that rough twist and doesn't approve, but it also fits in to the character she's playing, someone too brash to be a real threat. It helps that it's kind of funny to watch the expression of the man who was planning to pat her down. Confusion, then indignant outrage, like he has any right to feel indignant.

The result is that he's a little too thorough in his search, a little too rough, but Steph can block that out and all they find is a notepad and pen for taking orders, a handful of tips, and a CiD. She was smart enough not to bring weapons into a bar owned by a gang; this was supposed to just be a recon mission.

"It ain't hers," The man searching her announces as he turns it on, "There's no default cohort."

Cenel fixes a sharp look at Steph, who just shrug and says, "What?"

Edited 2012-05-26 03:11 (UTC)

Irene also gives Steph a rather sharp look, distinctly surprised and very slightly impressed, though she doesn't let that show.

The CiD is lucky, too; it makes Steph valuable, maybe too valuable to kill instantly. CiDs like that are evidence of something, and turning something over to the Militia in return for their simply not seeing the Tuatha's activities is a tactic Cenel has employed before.

(Supposedly).

As for Irene herself- she stands up straighter. Ollav knows, of course, that she's not harmless, but that's why he likes her. He is, of course, making the mistake of thinking that she's got a little more than self-interest motivating her to stay on his side, but no matter; that's Ollav's problem, not Cenel's.

That's the problem with having a reputation. It gets around. People take the Woman as a challenge sometimes.

"Restrain them and throw them in the back of one of the carriages."

She really didn't expect that, though, her eyes snapping to Ollav's face again- where are they going, exactly? Of course, he can't tell her, but the expression on his face clearly indicates that it's nowhere they want to arrive at.

She hopes it's rope, she's good with rope--

It's not rope, or it's not just rope. She nearly makes a joke about safewords as the cuffs are slapped on- Militia issue, she suspects, good heavens, someone's got some friends somewhere- but thinks better of it. Wrists secured behind her back with the cuffs, she's just thinking that this is a bit light when someone, unfortunately, has the same idea; the rope comes next, tight around her torso and arms.

She suggests a knot. The man tying her up gets angry. Good; that means he's not paying attention to his own work, or to the fact that she's just gone stiff as a board in an attempt to retain some slack in the restraints.

Ah.

This turn of events is slightly unfortunate, but Steph doesn't betray that in any way, shape or form, simply letting her hands be dragged behind her back to be cuffed - too tight, despite her tensing, the metal is digging into her skin and there's no way a simple dislocated thumb will let her slip out. The fact they cuffs are militia grade both confirms her suspicions and frustrates her that she's lost this avenue of investigation. The rope is just plain annoying, although she has to force down a laugh at Irene's suggestion. And like Irene, Steph goes stiff, arms held as far apart as she can manage without it being noticable. There will be a little give, but probably not enough.

She keeps her feet as someone shoves between her shoulders blade, directing her out of the bar and into the paddy wagon style carriage that Irene and herself are unceremoniously dumped into. The door locked behind them, shutting out almost all the light and there's barely seconds before they're on the move.

"Well. Shit," Steph says, faked accent gone, already moving onto her knees so that she doesn't roll around the carriage too much.

Edited 2012-05-26 14:35 (UTC)

Irene tries to catch Ollav's eye as they're shoved out of the Nine Hostages and into the carriage, but he's a busy arguing with Cenel, both of them leaning into each other's personal space and trying to intimidate the other-- men.

She gives a hiss of pain as she's pushed into the carriage, somehow finding space to worry about bruises and having to cover them up for work- if she gets out of this alive, which she has every intention of doing. She moves up into a similar position to Steph, trying to find her balance.

"Any other bright ideas, darling?" she inquires testily, twisting to test the slack in the ropes.

"Working on it," Because she's going to try dislocating her thumb anyway, just for fun. There is, perhaps, nothing she hates more in the world than having to do this; it brings the memories of Black Mask straight back, fresh and painful enough that she can smell her blood, hear it dripping onto the floor. For a moment, she nearly loses herself in it as her wrists strain against metal, but the carriage goes over a pothole in the road and it jolts her back into the present with a painful sharpness. Her gaze snaps to Irene - the cuffs aren't going to come off without assistance. Luckily, Steph has one more trick up her sleeve.

"You're a sadist, right?"

This is going somewhere. Even if that somewhere isn't particularly pleasant.

Irene tries to compensate for the jolt of the pothole, but her shoulder knocks against one of the walls of the carriage anyway.

"Yes? Why?"

She'd make a joke along the lines of are you flirting with me, Ms Brown-- but can't bring herself to, not when her mind is working overtime on the question of how she's going to get out of this.

...Well, how they're going to get out of this, though those aren't the terms she's used to thinking in.

"My ex taught me a trick; keep a piece of wire just under the surface of your skin, along a bone. It's easy to get if you need it in a pinch, and no one will find it if they just give you a pat down," It's probably easy to guess where this is going now, and even in the limited light they've got, there's a taughtness to Steph's expression that is noticable. She's trying to cover it up by slipping entirely into Bat-mode, which is mildly effective.

"Except mine's in my left wrist, which I can't reach with my hands in this position to scratch or bite my skin open, so I'm gonna need you to try. Please," It might be shallow enough the Irene can simply scratch it out, but the second option is there in case the first fails.

This will be messy.

Irene's eyebrows go up. She nearly says inventive or gosh, what a relationship you two must have had. She doesn't. Instead, she says; "Then I'm going to need you to turn your back to me, aren't I?"

She's done messier. Still, she's filled with a kind of uncertain relief; thank God, a way out. If that way out involves scratching or biting through Steph's skin- well, she's done far worse things in the name of self-preservation.

She turns her own back so that she can find Steph's wrist with her hands, closing her eyes to better concentrate on what she can feel, fingers searching for the piece of wire in question. "Here?"

Don't even get her started on the stalking and secret cameras. Or the Robin costume. Or the masks. For two people who never actually did more than kiss, their love life was kind of kinky. But that's not actual important at all right now, although she'd appreciate a last minute rescue from Red Robin, she knows it won't happen.

At least she has Irene, which is not something she'd ever expected to think, as she turns around so that her back is to Irene. She sits, with her legs out in front of her to brace against the walls of the carriage.

"That's it," Steph confirms, when Irene's fingers are over the right spot, which is at the top of the ulna bone, about six inches down from the tip of her pinky finger.

"Lovely. Just relax, then. I'm a professional. Just for the record, I usually charge for this."

And her manicure is as good as dead, which is better than her being as good as dead. She plunges her nails into Steph's skin, but actually breaking the skin is difficult- she suspects she'd be able to do it much more easily if the ropes and cuffs weren't dictating an awkward position. Steph's going to be left with gouge marks, but her nails don't quite get to the wire beneath her skin. Not for lack of trying, though.

She tuts, of all things. "Honestly, as escape ideas go, I'm impressed, but it's a little- tricky."

"I'll pay you when we get out of here," Said between gritted teeth in preparation for what's to come, but it's nice to say something like that because it reassures that they will get out of here.

On the scale of painful-things-she's-dealt-with, this isn't anywhere near the top of her list. It's uncomfortable, but she bears it without making a sound, keeping her hands as still as possible in th moving carriage.

Even though Irene can't see it, that comment gets an eyeroll, "Blame this place. Usually I have a superhuman at my beck and call."

Which isn't a fair way to describe Kara, but being able to just shout someone's name and have them rush to your aid would be really fucking useful right now.

"Yes," Irene sighs; "sounds like what I do at the Vault." Ha ha. Another moment of struggling and she says; "Alright, no, we don't have time. I'll need you face down to try my teeth- or at least bent over so I can get the right angle."

She's used to giving commands, and it makes her feel better to give them, too. She's already twisting around on the assumption that Steph will do as she says, swaying with the jolt of the carriage and remaining upright.

"Now I definitely feel like I should be paying you," As she does as Irene says, dropping onto her stomach so that her hands are easier to get to. Without any way to brace herself, she ends up smacking her jaw against the carriage floor, but - sacrifices for the greater good and all that.

For the record, this is one of the most awkward and ridiculous things Steph has ever done. One day she might look back on it and laugh, but for the moment she's just going to press her cheek against the floor and pretend this is perfectly normal.

"Or taping this, we'd make a mint--"

Her own position is hardly comfortably either, bent at the waist with her knees against the carriage floor, the sort of thing she'd make someone else do for a sizable sum or her own entertainment- no matter. She bows her head, a few strands of hair falling loose from its regimented updo. Her mouth finds the same place; Steph's going to have lipstick marks to go along with her injuries.

And she bites. Hard.

There's no response to that. Any joke she could make has already risen to her throat and died there with the knowledge that doing anything remotely like what Irene is talking about would end up with Steph having a panic attack. The bite almost catches her by surprises, but all she does is let out a breath in a sharp hiss and lets herself focus on that; pain can be grounding, as much as it can rattle her too.

"I really hope you're not secretly a vampire," So maybe she isn't completely out of jokes.

Irene, mouth occupied, doesn't respond. She just keeps working, her eyes closed again to concentrate better on what her teeth are doing- then snaps her mouth firmly shut, gives a jerk of her head and manages to free the wire, held delicately between her teeth.

Sadist she may be, and she certainly has a strong stomach, but there is nonetheless something unpleasant about biting a wire out of someone's wrist. Still, she lowers her head, mouth close to Steph's hands now, trying to get her to take the wire from her.

That gets a more definite response, something almost like a groan of pain because it's really not meant to be jerked out, but she knows beggers can't be choosers. She can patch herself up later, for now, she just takes the wire and wipes it on her sleeve as best she can to get the blood off.

"Okay, this shouldn't take too long."

Militia grade handcuffs might be some of the best in Baedal, but Steph is a Bat, giving her the upper hand here. When she gets home, she's going to thank Bruce for making her spend hours with nothing but a set of handcuffs and a piece of pliable wire. She hasn't bothered to sit up, so she's still on her stomach when the cuffs give a satisfying click and the right one pops open. The position makes it easier for her to wriggle out of the ropes, using her newly freed hands to loosen some of the knots before she manages to get the rope entirely off. She gives a quiet cry of triumph before crawling around to crouch next to Irene.

The cuffs are still dangling from her left wrist, but she can deal with that later, "Try not to move too much," Now, her focus is on Irene, holding the wire between her own teeth as she pulls the ropes off the other woman before getting to work on picking the lock of her handcuffs.

Irene- looking slightly less put together than normal with blood on her lips and runs in her stockings thanks to the carriage floor- stays still. "Wouldn't dream of it," she assures her, relaxing distinctly once the ropes are off, mildly impressed once more by Steph's escapology.

Which reminds her of the CiD. Of course, she's going to have to go back for hers, and more importantly her phone- it's just a matter of timing, she suspects.

--she thinks of Ollav, and of Cenel, and of Steph, and the barest hint of a plan makes itself known to her, but she'll think it through more carefully later.

Once Irene's cuffs are off - completely, Steph knows that Irene is might need as little distraction as possible for the next part and having a set of handcuffs dangling from one hand is quite a big distraction - she tucks the wire into the apron that was part of her waitressing uniform.

"You think you can handle jumping out of a moving carriage?"

Steph's already standing and heading to the door, pushing against it with her shoulder to test the closure and the solidity of the doors. It seems like a simple dead bolt, should give under her weight, she just hopes they're at the end of the line of carriages.

Irene gives an actual bark of laughter; she's already tugging off her heels, and her stockings too, for the sake of having better purchase should she need to run, climb or anything else.

"I've jumped worse," she promises, getting to her feet- she leaves the stockings on the carriage floor (she likes the idea of them finding them, like an extra kick in the teeth) but holds her shoes in one hand, wiping her mouth; her hand comes away smeared with red- blood and lipstick. "Just go."

Anything to get out of captivity, which looms with a capital C in her mind; there's nothing Irene prizes more than her freedom, nothing which scares her more than it being taken away, and this carriage-come-cell is far too small and close.

Usually, shouldering the door open would be the best option, but she doesn't want to tumble right out into the street without at least a brief moment of preparation. So she loses her heels as well, though she's happy to leave them in the carriage for others to find, they're cheap and it's easier to run barefoot, honestly. She relocks the opened half of her cuff so they're both on the same wrist, to keep them out of the way.

With her hands braced against the roof, Steph brings her right leg up and kicks out at the door, aiming for where the lock would be. The wood, strong but not strong enough, splinters and breaks, rendering the bolt useless and letting the doors bang open in the wind.

There's no one behind them (thank the gods) and there's no time to waste, in case someone notices those doors opening; Steph leaps out of the carriage. She lands on her feet, but for not much more than a second before she's dropping into a roll to try to absorb some of the momentum. She's bruised, bleeding and sore, but alive amd on her feet after a second.

Irene presses her lips together- jumping from a moving carriage had seemed simpler before seeing the road in front of her- but she doesn't let herself hesitate, jumping before she can think of all the reasons not to jump. Anyway- at least out here is free air.

She lands less gracefully than she'd like to but (miraculously) keeps hold of her shoes, scrambling to her feet and ignoring the various pains from twisted arms, knocks in the carriage, tight ropes and cuffs and now this.

No time to stand around, though. She whips around, trying to work out just where they are, and then catches Steph's eye in an agreement to run.

Running is good. Steph can work with running, "Follow me."

There's a very brief moment in which Irene has a chance to argue that order, but it's mostly superfluous since Steph is moving a second later. The first thing she does is get them off the same street the carriages are in, preferring to duck into a side street and go fron there. She's not going at top speed for herself, unsure of what pace exactly, Irene can keep, but what is clear is that she's heading back in the direction they came from.

Her bike is back there, after all.

Irene keeps pace with her, briefly struck by how ridiculous this is- running barefoot through the streets of Baedal accompanied by a twenty year old...what, vigilante?

Except this is the kind of situation she gets into a lot, isn't it?

Best to ignore its absurdity and just get on with it. "Where are we headed?" she asks, aware that she's going to need a CiD if she wants to organise things to her own gain, but also aware that this is Steph's area of expertise. Not that she's entirely out of her depth- she's far from as dainty as the hair and makeup would imply- but it's not how she prefers to solve her problems.

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