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| Shoo, Fly, Don't Bother Me; tag: Cassie Lang | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 16 2014, 03:46 AM (163 Views) | |
| Black Cat | Aug 16 2014, 03:46 AM Post #1 |
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9 Lives
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Time: 1:15 am Date: Saturday, August 16 Another cool summer night. The streets were alive with movement and sound, the everlasting cacophony of car horns and thick-accented cabbies rising into the air along with trace notes of smog and the occasional gyro vendor. New York wasn’t for everybody, not for people that liked peace and quiet and low crime rates, but there were places where a person could escape the rat race. Blue collar, white collar, Mafia, La Raza, petty class squabbles didn’t matter up here. It was just her and that gorgeous New York skyline, a sight she’d never tire of seeing. Oh, and a 40-story drop to the pavement. “You used to be thirsty for me, but now you wanna be set free…” Music whispered into her ears from a set of tiny earbuds, wires disappearing at some point in the fluffy white trim of her collar. Pink glossed lips sang mutely along to the lyrics as she clung to nothing but glass, the specially engineered material of her gloves gripping onto the slick vertical surface. A single cable was her only insurance against a very messy fall, extending from her wrist and anchored high above on the window’s frame. As for the building she clung to, it was one of those 1980s super skyscrapers, long since surpassed in height and scope by scores of architects since, but the mantra of those bygone days was clear as ever—make everything out of glass, and make it as boxy as possible. It was an ugly building, and the Black Cat didn’t fool herself into thinking there’d be anything of beauty to take inside. But there was a strange sort of beauty in an act of waited vengeance. “This is the web, web that you weave, so baby now rest in peace…” From here, she got a clear view of a very familiar office suite belonging to a Gregor Siminovitch. Ebony furniture, gold trim, black and white marble, his office was opulent and tacky and pretty much everything that was wrong with these organized crime types these days. They really were trying too hard. Still, it was an office any wolf of Wall Street would have given his left testicle for. “I’m gonna love ya… until you hate me,” Cat sang out loud, one hand poised on the glass, the other extended above her and gripping the titanium and carbon fiber cable. “And I’m gonna show ya… what’s really crazy…” An unseen mechanism in her boots clicked, and from the toes sprang a set of diamond tipped crampons, very reminiscent of cat’s claws. “You should've known better than to mess with me, honey…” She dug them into the glass, drawing a nearly perfect circle with her toes as she twisted her body and stretched her legs around, a single and strong kick sending the slab of glass toppling inside and stepping through her entry point, ducking her head a slight bit and giving a languid stretch in the darkness of his office. “I'm gonna love ya, I'm gonna love ya, gonna love ya, gonna love ya like a black widow, baby.” Siminovitch had paid a pretty penny for his security system, but neither he nor the installers had counted on a burglar approaching from the roof. The alarms were most certainly tripped, but the satellite link to the surveillance company had not so much been severed as diverted, Cat having rigged the dish. No one would know until they’d actually go to the roof and see the tampered box, as well as the discarded parachute, but by then the kitty cat and the Pym particles would be long gone… How Siminovitch had gotten a hold of the canister of Pym particles was anyone’s guess. They certainly weren’t the ones at use at Horizon Labs – Cat had yet to get close enough to steal so much as a single disc. But word was, the Russian mobster intended to sell it to a Chinese technology firm, and everyone knows how intellectual property and copyright works in China. Now seemed like a very good time to remind that vodka-soaked dick what happens when you double cross the Black Cat and fail to pay up. Well aware of where the Russian kept his safe, Cat made a beeline straight for it, but not before quickly raiding the mobster’s mini fridge at his desk for a tin of beluga caviar and a bottle of vodka, scooping a dollop of the first with a gloved finger and a less than refined swig of the second before approaching a lone wall decorated with a massive oil portrait of Gregor Siminovitch. “Ugh. So tacky,” she said, licking her finger as she swung the painting aside, revealing a three by four wall safe. With a crack of her knuckles and a roll of her shoulders, Cat got to work, popping the earbuds from her ears and sneaking another swig of straight vodka. She had every intention of cleaning this mother fucker out. And what she couldn’t take, she’d throw out the window. Who said she wasn’t altruistic? |
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| Titan | Aug 17 2014, 11:40 AM Post #2 |
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Unregistered
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When Henry Pym had concocted the formula that led to his groundbreaking discovery on size altering, he'd had a thousand practical modes of use in mind. Methods of employing the miraculous substance that included revolutionizing the shipping industry, making transport of goods a zero cost affair, a method for doctors to literally get down and dirty with their patients' illnesses, giant superfoods that could end world hunger. It was miraculous indeed. But the people paying for the research, they had other things in mind. Weapony, warlike things. And so, in the best interests of humanity, he destroyed his research, renounced their patronage, and carried on. But like all fathers should, Henry Pym loved his children, and like any proud parent he kept a reminder around. One day, that Reminder would turn him into Ant-Man. In the years since, it was inevitable that someone would heist the stuff he took so much care protecting. It was also inevitable that, given lack of understanding and means to properly synthesize, knock-offs would ensue. These particles did what all Pym-Particles did. With a positive charge, they began a process that would shrink matter down. With a negative charge, the opposite. But there were issues. Sometimes not everything would shrink or grow, and this would lead to violent, uncomfortable, and sometimes messy things. These Black Market Pym Particles were dangerous, both for people seeking to use them and for the world at large. These were the nightmarish things that had led Henry Pym to privatize his discovery in the first place. So of course, when word had gotten out that a SHIELD-siezed supply of these bad boys had been heisted, it had gotten her attention. For weeks now she'd been tracking them, and now she had a locale. But now there was a wrinkle. Mechanical eyes honed in on a woman entering the building. Her own eyes creased at the brow as she tried to get a scan on her. Black Cat. No meat in the SHIELD file. "Hrm." Standing at only a few inches of height, Cassandra paced the curb of the building. The wind up here was soft but right now to her it was like standing in a hurricane. Her boots aided her in clinging but to watch her would have been comical. Luckily the particles coursing through her at the moment maintained her strength, so it wasn't too terribly uncomfortable. Watching the woman enter, Lang took a running leap off the building, her miniscule frame plummeting a few seconds before translucent wings flickered into existence, emitted from the harness at her back. They beat thousands of times a minute, buzzing her through the air until she reached Siminovitch's office. Coming in for a landing, she perched on the rim of the cut glass, a fly on the wall. The girl moved differently than your standard crook. Fluid, deliberate, as if at any moment there could be some invisible trip wire that she refused to trigger. Must have been where the nomme de guerre came from. These people had ties to the Russian Mob, they weren't someone a half bit rookie tended to miss with. She worked her way smaller, flitting around, keeping to the corners. The girl raided the fridge, a cocky move if ever there was one, and Cassie had a moment in which she considered just letting her make off with whatever on the account of the sheer spine she showed. But if the girl was here for that canister, well, that was the no-go. Those things were dangerous and deadly. Cassie could pick the lock if it wasn't electronic. Her helmet's interface could hack a code but that would take time. Better to just let the pro get it open before making her move. Surprisingly, it didn't take long, and when that happened she dropped from the ceiling, landing with a pitter on Hardy's shoulder. "I'm your magical shoulder fairy and I just wanna say I'm pretty disappointed." |
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2:39 PM Jul 11