Participants:
| Scene Title | Working Through Lunch |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sometimes it pays to work during the midday meal. |
| Date | February 28, 2011 |
Manhattan has been well known for for drawing crowds, and lunch time on a Friday is no different. People of all shapes and sizes mingle and mill, some visiting hotdog vendors, others relaxing on benches or against railings while they eat sandwiches or burgers. Still others are heading back to offices and other venues of employment clutching a to-go cup of coffee or carbonated beverage and others approach for commerce, just arriving on break.
Lunch hour isn't just a time to escape from work, though. Some people work while they eat. Brief cases become tables for laptops or smart phones. Others balance paper on knees, cursing at crumbs or a drip of mustard that finds its way onto the afternoon's highly required proposal. That promotion might not come through. And then there's one, not out of place but not common, doing work of a different sort.
Moving amongst the thicker crowds, and acting entirely as if she should be there, Koshka watches those out for the midday meal. Her eyes flit from person to person, never lingering too long before skipping off to the next. Occasionally the teenager brushes into someone before edging away. It's all a game, testing the waters, looking for the unwary or distracted.
For Brad, today lunch hour is an escape from work. He's been running lists and lists of things over his mind for weeks now. His mind is full. Ideas have been rolling over his thoughts, saturating his being while he goes about his business. Distraction is easier than really melding into everything he considers. And so he's taken with distraction, out for a long walk through New York instead of eating. He can always eat at his desk later.
He's not appropriately dressed for the slight chill in the air, in fact, he's only in his suit, convinced of the coming spring and lingering in the little bit of sunlight that peeks through the clouds.
He releases a slow breath as his hands tuck into his jacket pockets, but he seems distracted. His eyes trail up to the clouds, keeping his thoughts somewhere beyond the present. His gait is steady, but not fast, clipped, but not completely stilted.
A suit stands out more than the jackets that most everyone still wears. Someone caught up in personal matters enough to not bother with something so simple as an extra layer against the chill. It's no surprise that Koshka's attention hones in on the television personality. She watches the man, eyes following him directly while her path remains indirect.
The teenager follows, still working the rest of the milling crowds. It's nothing much to cause her to stand out, drawing attention to herself wouldn't be a good idea. But she needs to stay aware of the rest of the lunch-goers. Just in case this mark turns out poorly chosen.
There's no purpose in the steps, no intent, no clear direction. In fact, Russo barely pays attention to his direction— he bumps hard into a passer-by, and twists around with his hands splayed out in apology. Russo is always apologetic whether or not responsible. He rounds a corner, changing direction down another street.
His hands fall to his sides as he increases his paces in his Oxfords— pricey shoes that press for comfort rather than appearance.
The new street has less in the way of milling crowds, the choices for food slimmer. Koshka picks up her pace slightly. Having fewer people around is both more risk and less. Less chance of escaping in the throng but less witnesses also. It may be just a game, but it's a dangerous one.
Koshka angles herself carefully as she approaches Russo. Her footfalls are quiet against the ground but not unnoticeable. And rather than run into the man, she's looking to pass by. Just a kid on an errand, in a rush, pay no attention.
Koshka receives little attention, but not none. You can take Brad out of the military, but his training is another story. His head turns for a moment to face her, but he's not looking at her directly. Just the area. Just his surroundings. His lips purse as he takes in a noisy breath. Slowly he releases a breath. It's a long day.
His steps aren't so quiet. Until… he stops. Dead stop in the middle of the block. His hands raise to his face and he rubs at his eyes as if erasing something from his memory and life.
A glance at she can handle. Koshka's been looked directly at before making a lift, before she'd fallen into the care of the Lighthouse. Indirect attention is far better, she's just a nameless faceless body still moving toward the man. Then, a stroke of luck when the host's hands lift and cover his face. Double the luck that he'd stopped as well.
Koshka moves in, casual as can be though her pace is certainly a fast walk. Reaching out with one hand, the teenager slips fingers into Russo's pocket and out again. She's careful, hardly a tug to show something had happened, enough that it could have been an inadvertent brush against. As she passes, an object is slid from the man's pocket and tucked into her own, the whole while she's looking as though nothing odd had happened.
The wallet is thin, leather, and contains cash, credit cards, and a license (with a photo that would shame any public personality). It's easy enough to grasp. And it's grab goes largely unnoticed, particularly with Brad's hands pasted to his face. Quite successfully, Koshka has stolen the man's wallet. His hands lower at the brush, but they don't trail to his pockets, instead, they drop to his sides quite defeatedly.
There's no looking back, Koshka will examine the claim later, in the safety of her room. She keeps walking, no longer entirely aimless yet still glancing, wary of the people who were around. If anyone saw the interaction, she's beyond screwed. But no one's calling foul nor trying to stop her. This time.
