|felicia hardy is (felinesque) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-02-24 13:25:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, felicia hardy|
narrative: black cat.
WHO Felicia Hardy.
WHAT Cat on the prowl.
WHEN Monday Night.
WHERE Manhattan, Marvel.
Felicia felt the itch.
It was a little inexplicable, that desire to grab the first person she could and fuck his brains out. (Or hers. Felicia was never picky, after all.) Suspicions that it was nothing more than this hotel nonsense boiled in her belly. This hotel that threw her into a New York that seemed a little off, into an Oscorp collapsing for a reason she had yet to figure out. A flurry of posts over the journals and Harry’s confusion over his father’s death indicated something, but she wasn’t particularly sure of who or what that something was.
No matter. That itch burned under her skin. And, she was bored, waking up every morning to go to Oscorp and trekking back home after another bland happy hour with men trying their hardest to snatch up her number and failing miserably. She had other, more productive ways of scratching her itch and curing that tedium, too.
Sleek black, blonde hair a lighter gray (thanks to a wig) that fell in waves, and domino mask over her keen eyes, Felicia Hardy crawled over rooftops with a certain slink that would pervade her every day if she wanted it to. She had given herself a few weeks to acclimate to this new version of the city she had grown up in before going out with her gera and her sticky fingers. But, oh, her fingers felt extra sticky now. It made her sloppier in her first hit of the night, a low-grade jewelry store on the Lower East Side. Maybe she could have avoided tripping the alarm, but she got out of there scott-free, relatively. She even left a little note in an empty case of diamonds.
Come and catch me. - B.C.
It made her a little ballsier to come out of there without being hunted down. So much so that she hit a couple more stores, this time in the diamond district. No notes this time, but she figured the connection would be made. She loved playing cat-and-mouse with these people, mostly because she had never gotten caught. And? Felicia Hardy was sure she wasn’t ever going to get caught. She was just too, too good for that.
Back home in her apartment in Bushwick, her little brick and mortar loft with wig tossed and latex discarded, she poured the jewels -- the emeralds, rubies, diamonds -- all over her bed and ran her hands greedily over her loot with a lush smirk on her face. Itch? Gone. For now.