---

---

The modulated voice of The Senior emanated from the small, very archaic tape recorder that rested in her hand. He'd sent each of them one, and on it he detailed the skillsets of each of the Crew's members, providing only the necessities out of respect for their privacy, of course. He also provided details on travel plans to reach their base of operations - located in New York, NY. These details came from a voice that sounded collected yet somehow dulcet, in spite of the radio-esque transmission.

Nadia listened to the tape intently, despite finding the device a bit unwieldy due to its age. She'd only been a few hours out of the way when she'd received the instructions laid out on the tape. The Senior had given them a few days to finish up their prior engagements before scheduling the meetup, but Nadia didn't exactly have her hands full, considering she was still in hiding. To mention it, she wasn't exactly sure how The Senior had found her. She covered her tracks well - or at least she thought she had. In any case, the ride to NYC was the furthest she'd traveled since arriving to America and going into hiding, and it was honestly slightly nerve-racking. The Romanian Mob didn't hold much power in The States, but it only took one man to pull a trigger. She had to admit though that what little she'd seen of the Americas so far was pretty impressive - not the least of the reasons being that there seemed to be quite a bit more wealthy establishments than back home.

But that would come later. For now she found herself slowing to a stop in front of a two-story building with a large, triangular digital sign that read "Cheng's Paint". Nadia raised a hand to her mouth and plucked the short remnant of a cigarette from her lips before she flicked it onto the sidewalk and ground it out with a heavy leather boot. The shopfront was mostly opaque, the windows slathered in paint merchandise of both Chinese and American make, with only a couple gaps available to see inside. At the center of the shopfront though were a set of glass double doors devoid of most obstruction, allowing Nadia to see inside easily as she pushed one of them open and stepped inside.

The shop didn't seem particularly popular, though not void of activity either. It appeared well-stocked, though some shelves were more sparse than others. It did look a bit raggedy at first glance, but those interested in art or painting could tell the products weren't knock offs or low-quality. For the most part.

Nadia paused as the door closed behind her, her eyes shifting to the man standing behind the counter on the back left side of the room, which was no larger than a small gas station. The man was a bit short, around 5'8" or so, and his black hair was balding. His slightly wrinkled hands absent-mindedly tapped the magazine he was looking down at as he stood behind the counter, but eventually his eyes drifted up slowly to the new entrant.


Came the voice of The Senior from the recorder, oddly well timed for her entrance into the shop.


Nadia wasted no time in following the instructions, walking towards the door at the back of the room situated almost behind Cheng's counter. The man, of obvious Asian decent, spoke something under his breath as he nodded to her. She couldn't quite catch what it was but it sounded like Mandarin.


The door closed behind her as Senior finished, and she found herself in a room overflowing almost with paint products. Boxes on boxes of backup merchandise. She stepped around a few cans sprawled across the floor, punting some to the side as she stepped to the freezer and opened it up. It was mostly empty aside from a few large boxes.

She listened to the instructions on the tape, removing a panel from the back of the wall and punching in a few numbers on the revealed keypad which, similar to the tape recorder, seemed oddly archaic. Despite that though it seemed to work fine as a portion of the wall shifted to the side, letting in a short wave of warm air and revealing a downward-leading staircase. It was a short walk to the bottom where Nadia placed her hand on a more modern print-scanner, which granted her access to...

"Damn.."

..their base of operations. It was a basement filled to the brim with equipment. Computers of many, many varying sizes - some larger than Nadia even knew existed - cables running across the floor, the ceiling, the walls, monitors all over the place. Just the first room looked hard at work even as unmanned as it was. She'd been around quite a few techies and their own base of operations - but even if she wasn't a techie this gear looked impressive.


Nadia shifted the hefty duffel bag from her shoulder and let it drop to the floor as her eyes scanned the place. This guy really meant business.


It wasn't long before Nadia found herself reclining in one of the lair's comfy armchairs, waiting for the rest of the crew to show up. It'd been a bit of a hot minute since she last went on a job, and apparently he had something laid out for the lot of them. A warm-up of sorts, he said.
Hopefully this 'crew' was reliable. She herself'd been put in danger enough times by the incompetence of others to not bet money on it - but The Senior didn't seem like the type of guy to make easy mistakes.. so far. They'd see.

Aniya stepped out of the car sent to drive her the last leg of her trip and paused to smooth out her suit jacket before retrieving her bags. She thanked the driver in her heavily accented English once she had everything and headed inside the nondescript paint shop. The click of freshly polished shoes against the floor signaled her approach and her choice of clothing drew a curious glance from the man behind the counter who she presumed to be Mr. Cheng as she gave him a nod and continued past him. The assassin usually traveled more discreetly but she also didn't want to pass up the chance to make a solid first impression with her new associates. She'd even had her suit dry cleaned just for the occasion. Her immaculate makeup and hair made her seem more ready for a board meeting than organized crime but she wouldn't be there punching in the numbers from the recording if she wasn't good at what she did. And she was very good at what she did.

Down the stairs she went with her bags in tow and stared puzzled at the hand print scanner. Out of curiosity she placed her hand on the sensor and snatched her hand back when she was granted access. For the first time since this all began she was starting to question what she had really got herself into. Who just has access to hand prints? She had never even had her finger prints taken (years of diligence and almost obsessive care on her part) never mind her entire hand print. The sudden bolt of paranoia was soon pushed aside as she couldn't help but be impressed with what she saw beyond the door. All the electronics and equipment couldn't have been even remotely cheap. Clearly the Senior was a very wealthy and well connected individual. Not that she was any stranger to such a person, but this one had quickly proven himself a different breed than the common corrupt politician or crooked business person. At the bottom of the stairs Aniya spotted another woman lounging, apparently waiting for the rest of her team and started to ponder which skill set her new, rather grim looking friend possessed. She smiled as arranged her bags in a somewhat empty corner of the room. Her accent was thick but intelligible as she spoke.
"Only one? Is this where I find out everything was elaborate trap and you are police officer?" she joked.
Hopefully her attempt at an icebreaker would land otherwise she feared the wait for the rest of the crew might be a bit awkward.

The email she got, the client who sent it, and the place she was meeting at were all the usual amount of suspect. But the tape recorder? That's when Maëlle started to wonder if she was walking into a plot of a new episode of Serial Killers.

Getting killed off by a serial killer who really had it out against biker chicks? Maëlle kinda chuckled at the idea. Hell of a way to go, she thought. Even the place was just run down enough to pass for the cover. Not run-down enough to give anyone the impression that the store owner had to run heroin to pay the landlord, but this place wasn't paying for the owner's yacht, either. Just the right mesh of mess and maintenance to live up to the impression of desperate living. Maybe the inconspicuous nature was helped that Maëlle threw on a set of clothes that ran the bill for your usual townie this time of the year: Really puffy rain jacket, and whatever passed for yoga pants.

Parking was always a real shitshow in places like New York, or...well, actually, almost city in America, Maëlle remembered. NYC wasn't as bad as a lot of places in the States - at least this place had a nice little lot around the corner to keep her bike. Always helped to have a quick getaway in situations like this. In Chicago or Detroit, though? Yeah, she'd run around those bends a few times before, and getting anything into or out of anything resembling a parking spot was a big of a pipe dream as American banking coming back. The whole ordeal wasn't something that Maëlle easily shook off in her head, especially when it was almost like the ancient recorder in her hand had almost felt like it was sapping out head from under her while she held it. But there was something there, something that drove her there. She guessed it was the money. Or the times. Maybe the stories? Or...

Well, it was thinking about Detroit that gave Maëlle the reassurance she needed to at least be convinced this wasn't a complete trap.

Pressing open the front double doors, Maëlle did have the glorious storefront reveal itself unto her, with all the secrets of everything a zeroth-year art student could ever want all in her reach. Incandescent fluorescence flooded around her, the artificial brightness of the little paint shop drowning out the evening's dusk of the city's streets. Faint blues from above washed every painting on display into a deep drab, nicely complimenting the chipped floor tiles and dust-speckled wall paint in its air of decrepit depression. And all while she admired it - as one did admire the 50-something flasher in the junkie park - Senior's voice went off without a hitch.


('Mr. Cheng', huh?) Old guy, too. Was even paging through a yellowed-out physical magazine. The sight made Maëlle's eyebrows raise; She hadn't even seen a magazine that wasn't a cringe-inducing tabloid on the grocery store shelves that were several years out of print by the time they were put up. She always thought that all they all had gone digital for anyone who really cared about them by now, but as it turns out, the world always had a few surprises in store for old Maëlle. When Maëlle had reached her hand toward the backroom doorhandle, Mr. Cheng hardly exchanged a passing glance over, just as nonchalantly turning his eyes back over toward his late-day reading.

With each step of his instructions, the place was starting to turn from "backroom kickover" to "mastermind lair" with every step. The keypad? Okay, Maëlle had seen a couple in her lifetime before - all in the hands of some real old-school types. They were tried and tested, and at least she could say that they worked for 90% of the time, 25% of the time. That wasn't real out of the place, especially not for a guy like Mr. Cheng. But, the sliding wall? Staircase to a basement? Handprint security, but without the guy to put his hand on the scanner, she-

(Wait, the fuck?!) Maëlle almost shouted, her reaction sending her into a silent shock. The machine hummed to light, opening up the door to what could only be described as a virtual bunker, which reverberated throughout with the electric hum of computer after computer.

(How the Hell did he get my handprints...?)

It was here - at this moment in an ultra-tech basement in a no-name paint store somewhere in New York - that she knew that Senior wasn't just the regular fixer. This guy meant business. He had to know someone to get all of this - and more than likely, probably knew more people than Maëlle had ever met. But, who did she to meet?

Two other women. Every one of them were about the same age. All pretty well-dressed for the occasion. Same expertise too, she imagined. She looked over at her accomplices - first at the blackhead, then at the blonde - put her hands on her hips, and conjured up a look of sarcastic impression.

"Yeah," Maëlle announced, "This is how I end up on one of those serial killer shows."

A mysterious voice who served as mission giver and benefactor, a trip out to New York, New York and then catching a ride to a dingy paint shop based on instructions from a tape recorder. The scenario Grace had found herself in was one out of every spy thriller and heist film she had ever seen. Which wasn't a bad thing, tropes were tropes for reason. All the cloak and dagger skullduggery shit was a welcome change of pace from staring at walls in some dirt cheap apartment.

All those millions she had did nothing but make her nervous, a pile of cash too dirty to spend in any sizable amount without attracting the attention of every Fed in LA looking for a big bust. She had tried to play it smart, keep everything on the down low and live off the fat stacks but couldn't take the waiting. The Senior was one of two things: an overelaborate sting operation or a chance to get back in the game and do what she did best. Either way Grace wouldn't be putting up with the silence.

Stepping inside the color splattered premises of Cheng's Paint was like a blast to the past. Her first few years as an armed robber had been spent taking orders just like she was now, meeting in the back of Family owned premises where she would be told to jump and ask how high. Then just as now there were middle managers who got paid very well to simply shut up, people with bills to pay or fingers to keep attached. And just like she did those ones Grace ignored Cheng, heading straight back then down into the basement.

Slip in through the freezer, skirt around boxes of paint and slap a few numbers into a very old school keypad and then press her hand onto a scanner that somehow had her metrics. That last bit was a little unnerving admittedly but it was far too late to back out now. The door was opening on a new reality, one chock full of sci fi computer geek tech stuff and the crew she'd be working with.

"Well we all showed up, means we're all fucked.

Who were these people? Grace didn't know and didn't care. Presumably they all brought something to the table just like she brought explosives expertise and a history of military-grade violence. She didn't need their life stories, their hopes and fears or any other band of brothers bull. All she needed was a name to call them.

"I'm Johnny." Her bags hit the ground with a thud, a cigarette pinched between her lips as she lit up. "Any sign of the man behind the curtain?"

The Baroness cocked her head as she watched their mysterious and obscured benefactor. His mannerisms were strange but fitting for someone like him. She smiled as he talked up the assembled crew, including her. As much as she tried to deny it, flattery went a long way with Aniya.
"Such big words." she mused, "How do you propose we do that? Even with all this "girl power", as the Americans say, that is very tall order."

This would certainly be a change of pace for her. She wasn't in the business of changing the world so much as comfortably padding her wallet. That being said, she was couldn't say she didn't like the idea of some grand plan. She figured it would be a good bit of fun, if nothing else. The assembled crew was certainly a diverse one. Aniya had developed a nack for putting faces to names and descriptions so the brief intro about each of the other women fell right into place in her mind right beside new emerging details.

Tall female, white, athletic physique, scarred face, black hair. Sable. A serious one to be sure, just at a glance. Seemed to have a fondness for leather and black clothing. Her accent made Anyia feel almost at home even if her tone was a tad hostile. Estonian? Latvian? Somewhere along the old Bloc anyway. It didn't matter to much to her. She'd know soon enough.

Average height female, fair complexion, reddish blonde. Vos. Her features seemed familiar to the Russian. Perhaps she had eastern European somewhere in her family tree because she certainly didn't sound like it. Or perhaps she was hiding an accent.

Above average height female, white, long blonde hair. Johnny. Interesting name for a woman but Aniya was sure there was a story behind it.

Above average height female, white, medium length white hair (dyed), colored contacts (burgundy). Tick. Also an interesting name for someone with an equally eccentric appearance.

It wouldn't have been all that surprising if the Senior simply never showed up. Like Vos said, the man had spent huge amounts of time, money and effort to track them all down and arrange for them to meet up in this secret Bond-style supervillain lair. Someone who valued privacy and security that much likely didn't appreciate having to actually show up for a meet-n-greet with his chosen peons.

Johnny could respect that.

So there they were, standing around the proverbial water cooler trying to size each other up and figure out who in the hell they were working with. This was neither a crime family nor a military operation, Grace didn't trust any of the women and didn't expect them to trust her. Not yet anyway. Until they had actually worked together it would be impossible for them to be sure that they were all capable.

The screen's flickering on interrupted Johnny's musings on the nature of earning sisterhood, head turning to look at the man of the hour. Look at was perhaps a strong term what with the classic 'head shrouded in inky black shadow to present a human yet unknowable presence' thing. She was more observing the fact that he did indeed exist.

The mentioned kitchen went unexplored for the time being, Grace more interested in getting details than a drink. "Change everything we know for the better, just like you said on the tape." What positive changes could possibly be made by large scale grand larceny Grace didn't know but she was damn interested in finding out.

The Russian questioned the how before the why and Johnny was silently amused by the fact that at least two of the "most capable criminals this country has never seen" were foreign nationals. "Less girl power and more precisely planned operations, if I had to guess."

Ah, 'her and the girls', was it? Tick couldn't help but feel a least a bit nostalgic at the idea - even if her time with the crew was mostly her being the eponymous 'girl'. Good times, at the very least.

Good times here, surrounded by some vaguely same-aged women she had never heard of, except for the adage that they were the, quote, 'most capable criminals this country has never seen', unquote? In their line of work, it was good to remain unseen, sure, but if they had all be seen by this webcam lord with a Matrix nerd basement? Then, really, who was the kidder, here? Clearly none of them covered their tracks well enough to avoid detection to any such degree. There was always the chance this was a sting operation - Tick nervously felt it in the back of her mind as she constantly eyeballed the corners of the room about her -but even now...maybe the idea of escaping from a serial killer with a motley band of ladies wouldn't be so bad.

At least most of them looked competent. Some of them even looked like they knew how to have fun. The brunette looked like she could lighten up, at least, and maybe 'Johnny' could do with developing a sense of workplace humor. At least the blondie had a nice bit of snark to her to break the mood.

"Are we planning to rob a train and tie one of us down to the tracks for ransom money?" Tick joked in turn, "I don't see how anything could go wrong."

God dammit, her accent was starting to come out. Always happened at the worst of times.

Well, if this guy was just going to sit around behind a screen and talk, then sure, Tick could play games. She came here to play games - maybe the stickup-a-bank-van kind and not the "let's play jabber with a 40-something guy over an oversized webcam kind - but...Tick wasn't really giving away too much. Until this guy was going to put some plans up on the table, she hadn't really expected much around here, either. Hey, maybe if it all went down, she might be able to get some of these other girls to run some freight. Might be able to salvage something out of this waste of time, Tick figured.

But until then...

Well, if he was offering...

Tick walked over to the kitchen, found herself the biggest mug-of-a-glass she could, and started pouring the Pinot Noir. It was 2005, too - older than the whole room combined, she bet.

The shadowed figure nodded slightly to himself, as if the responses offered were as he predicted. He waited to go on until Tick returned, the only one seeming content to refresh themselves at the moment. "As charming as the whole damsel-in-distress act might be, that's not quite what I had in mind." He began, seeming slightly amused by the prospect nonetheless. He shifted forward in his seat slightly, leaning in, though still remaining shrouded in darkness. "Let me make it very clear that I chose you all because of how efficient you can be, given the right objectives. 'Girl power' is all fine and dandy, but the mind is unaffected by the body - and your minds very much overcome anything muscle could produce. You can be sure that each of the ladies next to you is very capable in some regard. But enough of the flattery. Where you fit those capabilities into your work ethic isn't up to me. But I can help you find that out while we undergo our mission."

As he began to speak his next few sentences, the Senior seemed to become enthralled by his own thoughts before they even came out of his mouth. "Any blind person can see that every community - every monopoly - every government - every-fucking-everything is run by greedy sons of bitches who have no regard for anyone under them." He went on, one of his gloved hands slowly constricting into a clenched fist as he spoke, his tone even becoming a little stressed. "They horde wealth and only spare enough to keep those underneath them in line. Maybe you don't feel trampled on - not everyone does - but trust me when I tell you you are." There was a short pause as Senior's gaze shifted downwards, and he visibly relaxed himself, unclenching his fist. "..but in this narrative we're going to remedy that. We're bad people, but we can do good things through that. Of course, we can line our pockets as well - as a commission fee, you could say."

He shifted his gaze to the side once again as his hands tapped at the keyboard in front of him. There was a short moment of silence before he turned his attention back.

"But I'm sure some of you don't care very much about the why. The how and the when are more concerning details for most in our line of work. Which is why I've planned something of a test-run for our group here. Something simple, to see how well you ladies can work together."
One of the slightly larger screens next to the Senior's began to flicker to life.

All the while Sable listened intently, subconsciously taking note of their new boss' behaviors. She wasn't sure if he really considered himself their boss - the way he spoke made it sound as if he would be working alongside them, but she very much doubted he would be putting himself next to them in the flesh - or he probably would have already done so. Regardless of how interested she was in what he had to say, she couldn't help but spare a inconspicuous glance at the other women in the room every once in a while. It was just a hard habit to break.

But when the screen flickered on and displayed the blueprints of some sort of compound, she really focused in on it. The image was...complicated, to say the least. There were so many numerics and angle notes, layers of architectural details and even more that Sable had no hope of deciphering.
"This," The Senior began, gesturing to his side towards the monitor. "is an unnamed scientific facility located in Massachusetts. I have a client who is very interested in extracting certain files from this facility - for reasons unknown to me, not that it matters much. Coincidentally, I wouldn't mind acquiring a select few materials from such a facility myself. There is, however, a slight catch. Not only does the facility have its own security team, because of course it does, it also seems to have a couple military personnel wandering the premises. Ironically, this enhanced detail of guards led to my interest in the facility's contents. What you should be interested in though is my client's target files - as he will be paying quite a sum for their retrieval - which is where you ladies come in." The Senior finished, coming to a halt as his eyes scanned the faces of each of them. "So.. any questions?"

Sable's own eyes still attempted to study the blueprints of the compound, not really being able to figure out how to read most of the details. She wasn't exactly an architect. "Simple, he says.."

Oh great, an ideologue.

Well, let it be mentioned: Maëlle was no stranger to them. Quite the contrary, actually. Come to think on it, well...the thought made her giggle. She herself was something of an ideologue, just give her a few years. Maëlle never was one to deny that the entire reason to her past livelihood wasn't ideologically driven, for even if she were to die a homeless biker, at least she might do so under the pretense of being - at bare minimum - something short of honest. And perhaps if she was anything short of a glass of wine already in her, the still-young woman might have joined right in the "fuck 'em" speech he so passionately gave.

Heh. 'Still-young', she thought. She was barely into her twenties, and here she was reflecting back on the "good old days".

But...as he spoke in that heated tone over blue-hued computer screens, it made her laugh, like he was some loser over Discord complaining over how life was unfair and how he felt cheated out of something he had deserved on account of living. Hardly 'master criminal' material, no doubt. He wasn't wrong - not by any stretch of the imagination - but perhaps it was only in the angered bluntness through which Senior spoke that he found himself in the position hackneyed middleman, just vitriolic enough to be young, and just bitter enough to be old. If nothing else, at least he could appeal to Tick's ethos - that sensation of feeling young and angry again. No plan, no reservations, just sticking one of those fingers on each hand up.

"Yeah...I got one." she pondered, enough for all to behold, "...what's the catch?"

"I mean, I love a good kick in the door romp, but like, come on! I thought this wasn't just supposed to be some playground gas station drive-off bullshit?!"