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Forge is used to cramped, crazy neighborhoods in New York City. He spends enough time visiting Mutant Town for that. But today he's in Chinatown. Not for the shopping, but for the food. Leaving his car parked in a nicer part of town, he gets out of the subway station and walks down the street, looking for the nicest looking stall he can see. However one crazy driver doesn't seem tob e paying attention. Forge shouts at him, and with one punch of his metallic hand, really dents his hood.
The redheaded bohemienne strolls through the streets of Chinatown with a young man wanted in roughly every UN member state, or at least was wanted. He might be hard to pick out, wearing a hoodie even though it's summer, albeit a hoodie that's dyed a fairly psychedelic shade. The tshirt and jeans underneath aren't anything unusual for the coolest kids, and since she's in a miniskirt, they clearly belong to the most awesome set. Matvei has his hands buried deep, deep in his pockets, and that does nothing to disguise the fact the man is built like… well… the person he resembles, almost exactly, with a few minor deviations: James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier. She, on the other hand, has a basket of flowers over her arm obtained from a vendor, whom she merrily chats with. He occasionally breaks in with Mandarin, much to the delight of the old woman trying to price gouge them. Now it's less highway robbery, more roadside stick up. The shouting and squealing up the road, however, brings the hoodie-wearing guy's head up, and tension roils through him to active awareness. She wields a larkspur, waving it lightly side to side. "Oh, come now, we're going to be fine. Parking around here is always tight."
The orange and white furred tigress walks along, wearing her normal bikini, enjoying the day and the smells of Chinatown. She gets stares, certainly, but she's long ago gotten used to them, and if anything, accepts them as her due. She's a cat, after all. She's -supposed- to be the object of attention. Familiar scents tickle her awareness under the other smells of the city, and she steers her steps along the trail, pausing a moment to stare at a hoodie that can be heard across the street.
Forge does NOT speak Mandarin. So he has to go by the looks, and the smells, of the vendors. Looking at the tigress, he stops at one, and gestures to the man working the cart. "Beef. Noodles," he says, as he pulls out his wallet to pay. "Spicy." Simple language for easy mutual understanding.
The exchange of flowers is rather abundant. Scarlett carries her impressive mass without so much of an effort, though she at least has the decency to make it look somewhat challenging. The bulk is simply there, hothouse scents floating around her in a heady perfume. The center of attention she is not except as a showpiece, and Matvei — or Bucky for the mistaken — pretty well lurks behind her shoulder, the mass of greenery helping him to stay out of sight lines. His pale blue eyes narrow upon spotting a cat — yes, that's an ambulatory cat woman — but he otherwise doesn't doubletake. He merely meets Tigra's stare unflinching, not quite the thousand yard emanation of death. Beside him, the vessel of the abyss in a minidress scents the air. "That smells good. Feel like noodles?"
Forge's is another scent that Tigra catches and remembers, from the accident by the park a bit back. On seeing him, she offers a friendly smile and nod to him, before turning attention back towards the advance of flowers. She sees Bucky, pretends not to notice him, and instead offers a wave towards Scarlett.
Forge finds that the vendor is correcting him. "Pork. No beef. Pork. One dollar." Don't ask what part of the pig. Forge decides that's fine, and takes out a crisp dollar bill to cover it. And so the man has his bowl of noodles to start working on. Gobbling away. "Good morning," he says after a swallow, before the next bite, to Tigra. And with a mouth full, Tigra greeting the others, draws a nod from him.
Matvei slouches to the food vendor, hanging back. It's much easier to let the girl with the basket of flowers go ahead, though she passes them off. Bohemienne and light-footed, she slips into line. Her neroli perfume makes her pretty much unmistakably Scarlett, shining easily enough. "Morning. Early day for a treat, but given how fresh it smells, I don't blame you." She looks over the menu, pointing to two things. "That and that. Beef, please. And… ooh, barbecued pork. That should be a treat." Behind her, Matvei translates in a flat, precise tone.
"Good morning," Tigra bids Forge, Scarlett and Buc—er, Matvei. "It's never too early for a treat," she says, turning to place her order, ordering one pork and one beef each. "I mean, what's the saying? It's five o'clock somewhere."
Forge stops and leans on a bench as he gobbles away, turning to look to the other two. "It's noon, call it lunch, not a treat." He pauses eating to manage to say. "Especially if you were on the road all morning as I was."
Beef or pork is an important call. Scarlett and Bucky who is not quite Bucky but is both receive their purchases in exchange for several coins fished out and handed over. The redheaded girl smiles at Forge, and then back to Tigra, warmly waving to the feline woman. "You should indulge yourself, if you already haven't. I was unable to resist the siren song of the bakery earlier, I confess." Innocence is bliss.
Tigra pays for her meal, starting out on the pork to begin with. "Oh I'm definitely going to indulge," she says cheerfully. "May as well, after all. No telling what tomorrow may bring, so indulge now while the going's good."
Forge isn't in a rush to eat. He's just hungry. But he will pause to ask a very important question. "Bakery you say. Nearby? Good?"
"Indeed. They serve steamed buns filled with meat, custard, and other fruits if I recall. They were being pulled out of the oven and I possibly ate more than I should of. The red bean paste ones in particular are a weakness," confides the redhead with a twist of her shoulders, laughing as she goes.