1963-09-01 - Ghost of Hell's Kitchen
Summary: An albino wanders into Hell's Kitchen, or 'How to Blend In, part 1.'
Related: None
Theme Song: None
fury domino 

Not many people choose to come to this part of town, and for good reason. Drugs, crime, prostitution, theft, or worse, it's a red flag to the common man and the inviting gates of Hell, itself, for those accustomed to living in the shadows.

For others still, it's a tactical asset. Where a person could arrive with nothing, and walk away with a whole lot more.

The woman with the all bleached out skin is one such person, arriving with almost nothing to her name. She's got the look of someone who has done a lot of traveling over the last day or two, shirt sleeves rolled up to show dirt and grime which is almost highlighted against the alabaster background. Similar but smaller smudges mark her face and more than a little gunk has worked its way up beneath her fingernails. Her ragged black hair looks like it doesn't even understand the concept of a brush.

She's also looking wary. Tired..but very wary. Where other people might try to avert their gaze from more questionable sights she's catching glimpses on the sly every inch of the way.

Almost as if she's searching for something.


Hells Kitchen, September 1, 1963.

With the sun going down, the heat is beginning to dissipate, and the dark skinned faces of the neighborhoods are out and about, enjoying the relative cool of the evening. Kids are getting in those last moments of play before the lights turn on signalling the time to go home.

Strange faces, now, while not commonplace, aren't out of the ordinary. White. Blue. Black. For the children, it doesn't matter.

"C my name is Chrissy, my husband's name is Carl, I live in the city and I like chickens!" A little negro girl is in pigtails jumping rope, chanting in a singsong voice, and the moment she's done, she leaps out, and another, slightly older negro girl takes her spot, "D my name is Denise, my husband's name is.."

Sitting on a stoop, enjoying the cooling weather is a black man with an eyepatch, keeping watch over his 'flock', or rather, watching the kids. He's got a cigar that is lit, and is still long, but he's not paying too much attention on enjoying the Cuban. (Don't ask how he got it!)


Not a lot of white people around this part of town, either. It's almost as if the one lady here is trying to make up for it by being really, -really- white. Subtle, it isn't. Due to good old cause and effect the results of her presentation aren't entirely subtle, either.

Off to the side one guy nudges his buddy in the ribs, both sitting on the crumbling steps of a run-down apartment. "Dude, check it out. There's a chick who's seen one too many ghosts."

"You trippin,' man. She -is- a ghost. Lost one, at that."

The comments go ignored, though not unheard. The woman with the blacked out left eye sure seems to have other matters on her mind, though she's seeing a lot more than she's letting in on. The guy with the Cuban might notice it, he gets analyzed from the corner of her eye as well. The cigar is a particularly interesting detail, though her pace never falters.

Whatever it is that she's after must be lurking away from prying eyes, as it isn't long before she abruptly turns and walks down into an alley. Maybe it's another druggie looking for her next score.

Heck, maybe she's already so high she doesn't know what part of town she's in anymore. Stranger things have happened.


That cigar is lit, however, and a *poof* of smoke comes after the end burns red for a brief moment. Sergeant Fury watches the block for a long moment before he exhales in a long, drawn sigh. One that can almost be heard down that self-same block, and as that whiter than white woman disappears, he slowly gains his feet, pausing to brush off the back of his slacks. Shaking his head, he takes the steps of the tenement easily, one, two, three, and he's on the street. One dark eyes looks at the other men watching the stranger, and all he does is a quick head-shake, ever so subtle in its message, 'Don't even try it.'


Out of sight, out of mind. At least, this is what the albino's going for. Not long after she's away from the street her forward momentum suddenly gives out, drifting to stop dead in the middle of the alley. Restless. Conflicted. Her head rolls backward, gaze turning up toward the layers of the two buildings closing in on her. Still searching.

Hands fall upon hips, shoulders tensing then marginally relaxing. Next her attention goes to the ground, trailing along the edges of the two buildings. An abandoned car becomes her next point of obsession, her rapid pace resuming as she moves closer, tries the door, then yanks it open with a groan of rusting metal.

Maybe what she's looking for is in here..?

If her search had been for an old L-shaped tire iron then her quest has finally come to an end. It's held within both of her pale hands, examined with a frown as she hovers within the car with a knee pressing into the worn springs of the driver's seat.


Nick moves with an ease born of confidence and training, not to mention a few years. Sometimes it puts people off, sometimes it doesn't. In this case, as Nick trails the albino, it doesn't put off the other pair of jokers that have nothing better to do with their time but to stand on a corner. (Dumbasses..)

He takes the block deceptively quickly, and turns into the alleyway, standing on a side so he's not in full silhouette. Doesn't help that the cigar's tip still glows a faint red.

"I think you're seriously lost. Took a wrong turn?"


"Either that or Vegas has changed a lot in the last few years," she replies without diverting her attention from the bent piece of steel before her. She already has a real good idea of who's talking to her. The guy with the Cuban. The local neighborhood watchdog.

Someone like that guy had some manner of connections. Living down here but enjoying a vice like a king?

Maybe -he's- the thing she had been searching for.

She ducks back out of the car and turns to face the man with the cigar, the spot over her face clearly on display now as she takes a few idle steps closer just so that she can thunk the tapered end of the iron into the wrecked car's frame. Now lodged partway in between the hood and fender she hangs her arms off of the bent part of the iron to make it look like it's supporting much of her weight.

"But I also think you're bagging goods which are seriously out of your price range. Secret source, or can any lady take a spin on that ride?"

Either she's a druggie or she's playing up the act well.


"Vegas hasn't changed in the last 40 years. Still the cesspit it was." Nick's tones are even, though they could almost be considered conversational for him. He's watching her with that single eye, and as she approaches, then stops, he nods his head ever so slightly. Good call.

"If you guys wanna keep breathin', I suggest you stop now." He doesn't have to call over his shoulder; his tones allow his words to carry for him.

"Now, before we were so rudely interrupted.." and Nick looks at the cigar now in his hand. He chuckles and brows rise as his head cants. "Some of this stuff is in 'thanks'. Other, well.. things get lost in a shuffle." Probably where he got the cigar, a-yup. "So, now that we've worked out that I don't look like I'm in a pay grade worthy of a damned good cigar, I got a question for you.. who the hell are you?" Beat. "And no, you can't have a cigar."


Those other two don't escape her notice, either. She has the benefit of facing the direction they show up in. When they do, and are given the warning, she bats her eyes at them both with a sweet, almost blissed out touch of a smile.

"If the boys wanna play, let 'em play."

As it turns out they're choosing not to set foot into the alley, nor say a word. Morbid curiosity keeps them lingering at the entrance to the alley, however. This situation has 'impending fight' written all over it. Despite the warning they still don't want to leave.

The tire iron pops free with a *thunk* of wounded sheet steel, the tool held forward at arm's length as though she's holding a massive pistol at one of the two. "Say it or book it."

She sure pulled herself together quickly…

When her attention goes back to Fury it also brings a return of the drugged out floozie act, the corner of her mouth hooking upward in a sly little grin. "Alice. And no, I don't want to have a cigar. I want to know where to score something sweet. You must know all of the badasses in this part of town, huh?"


Nick can hear their approach; he's not deaf. Just partially blind. And he happens to have excellent peripheral vision in that one eye! "This ain't a game they're welcome in." He takes a step closer, and there's something of a .. what? Swaggered step as he does so. "And get all my good crap? Hell no.."

The drugged up floozie looks good, and Nick, in a couple of steps, is nearby, his tones conversational, as if he's going to try and pick her up? "Alice? Really? Scorin' something sweet in this part of town isn't the easiest, but.. I'm sure you won't have any problems.." No sirree.. "Know the badasses, though?" He chuckles, and his voice lowers, "You don't know the half of it." In the next second, Nick is reaching for the tire-iron, and when he wraps fingers around it, he yanks. Should he wrest it free, it is sailing the next moment down the short distance towards one of the two with deadly accuracy.


As the man with the cigar draws nearer there's a number of alerts rushing through the woman's mind. She shouldn't let this happen, she should be keeping her distance, this isn't going to end well if she doesn't—

It still happens, whether because it's allowed to play out or because she really isn't able to stop it. In a flash the heavy piece of bent steel is out of her hand, out of -his- hand, leaping out toward the street and clanging with a harsh dissonance when it returns to the ground.

At least the other two finally get the hint, one giving a quick yelp of surprise. One grabs the other by the shoulder but it's an unnecessary guesture, they've both got the same idea now.

"That..was mine," 'Alice' suddenly declares, her demeanor changing as swiftly as the iron had departed from her hand.

Once again she inches closer, not that there's much distance left for her to go. "In the interest of being fair..I think some balance needs to be restored."

Fury's not the only one with a lightning quick hand, something she suddenly demonstrates as she tries to relieve him of his cigar.


The message is signed, sealed and delivered. The two men at the end of the alleyway receive that message, and they do as they're told. The moment they run, Nick's attention is back on the albino, a single word exiting the man, "So.." before the cigar is taken in a quick-handed motion.

The former Howling Commando is no slouch when it comes to hand to hand. He just doesn't have to do it all that much anymore. (So, we'll see exactly how rusty or not he is.) When 'Alice' takes hold of the cigar, Nick is reaching up not to keep her from taking it, but grabbing for that followthrough of her hand that he knows (or is pretty sure!) will come. At that moment, he'll make the grab, then a sweep of a foot as he pulls back in order to take her fully off balance and down, ready for the possibility that this could escalate.

"I only have a couple of those.."


Poor Fury may have over-estimated her intentions. Alice is never moving in for the attack. All she wanted..was the cigar. And that's exactly what she got. He's left with a surprisingly compliant body to throw around, it's only her own skill in the form which keeps her from landing flat on the ground. Instead she winds up partially sprawled out across the hood of the wounded car, the cigar slipping from her fingers and lazily rolling across the rust-pitted surface away from her.

Now he's played his hand. Now she knows what she's dealing with.

"Whoa, easy, don't be trippin,' dude! Didn't mean nothing by it!" she exclaims with palms held up in what sure seems like legitimate protest. "I get it, I'm buggin' out, we're cool."

There's something about the skirmish which seems..way too easy. Over way too quickly. But, the key here is that it's apparently 'over.'


The lack of any fight in the woman gives Nick the easy way, and when she lands with a *thump* against the car, and his cigar goes rolling, he lets go immediately to regain that Cuban. Havana. Hard to get with a blockade and all. "Yeah, we cool. Don't go for my shit again." He straightens out and looks at her again, "You were lookin' for badasses?" He doesn't answer the question, of course, but he takes one step, two backwards towards the front of the alley. "I suggest you find your way to another neighborhood. There's one called 'Mutant Town', and it's not far from here. You're lucky no one tried to take you down when you walked into the Kitchen, and I can only do som much to keep you breathin'." Oh, the concern! Ha..

"G'on.. get outta here."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License