2012-11-17 How Do You Like Your Steak

The young ward of Oliver Queen is something of a mystery to the tabloids and society pages. Even now that she's no longer a minor, both she and Mister Queen have gone to greath lengths to keep many photographs from making their way into print, or to gossip blogs. Where Dick Grayson may apparently be happy to be a social butterfly, Queen's foster-daughter has maintained relative anonymity. Probably because she still spends a few nights here and there, dressed in layers of Goodwill clothes to blend in with the young men and women on the street.

Where Batman, and perhaps even Green Arrow would probably interrogate the ones clearly using some illegal substance, the young blonde woman is simply talking to them. Cards with information on needle exchanges and shelters that might have room are handed out, along with condoms and other basic, needed items. She doesn't carry herself like some rich girl who's come to "save" anyone. Just another street kid who's willing to share what she has. Not everyone buys the act, but hey, she's not preaching /or/ condescending to anyone.

One thing cannot be ignored: Kwabena Odame has, and very well may always have, connections in the criminal underworld. He'd questioned the value of walking away, and had even taken every effort to do so the last time he got clean. However, recent developments have caused him to change his mind, to sustain those connections.

Quite the understatement.

Similarly, the Ghanaian has left his trendier clothes at home, going for something that is more fitting for the poor areas of the Bronx. His pants are ragged and a bit too baggy, his t-shirt covered by a hooded sweatshirt that is remarkably plain, save for the skull and crossbones graphic that is dated by about five years. His bald head is covered by an old beanie, and his footfalls come in a lazy pace.

Being on this stretch of the neighborhood has him feeling extremely nervous. He could count the weeks, days, hours and minutes since the last time he got high. Here, in the cesspool of abuse, all he might need to do is reach out his hand with a sample of bills, and he'd have all the drugs he needed. It would be so easy. He'd stayed clean by avoiding certain parts of town... this evening, the one thing keeping his head screwed on straight is the reputation his name has earned in the criminal underworld, and the purpose for his visit.

For one familiar with these parts of the world, it's always easy to tell the dealers from the users. It is, with irony, the dealers who seem to notice Kwabena as he walks past them. They don't go for their guns, as they should. They don't try to interfere. On the contrary, they look upon him with a sense of fear and distrust when he walks by, choosing to either disappear into the shadows, or give him a wide berth.

Mia tries not to look like she notices the reactions from a couple of dealers she can see from where she is. She herself tries to stay under their radar as best she can- after all, she has succeeded a couple times in getting one or two of their "regulars" into rehab. The pimps are the ones she really needs to look out for, though. She's been spotted talking to a lot of the girls, enough to mark her as "suspicious" to the men who profit from their bodies. Like the girl she's talking to in a hushed whisper right now.

"That aunt you mentioned, the one upstate? I talked to her, and she says you can come stay with her, and she /promises/ not to let your stepdad know, okay? Everything you need's in this bag- bus ticket, clothes, food, cash. There's a cab coming that's gonna take you right to the station, okay? Cabbie's a friend of mine, she used to work out here too." Mia puts the duffel over the girl's shoulder, and once the cab arrives, ushers the young woman- who can't be more than 15, tops- into it.

Meanwhile, the time has come for Kwabena to make his move. There is one drug dealer in particular that he's been looking for, and upon spotting the younger man, Kwabena takes a casual turn into the nook next to a convenience store where the dealer is hanging out at.

The dealer is clearly startled, but makes no move to fight or run away. Instead, his coked out eyes deliver a harsh glare at Kwabena, while the African leans in to whisper a long sentence into the dealer's ear. Following the exchange, Kwabena produces a small piece of paper from within his hoodie, stuffs it right into the dealer's shirt pocket, then pats it twice as if to recommend that the dealer keep it nice and safe. Another word is uttered, before Kwabena turns and begins to walk down the street again, bringing him closer to the exchange between Mia and the young hooker.

The dealer tries to hide his petrification well, but it's no use. With a trembling hand, he takes the note out of his pocket, takes a moment to read it, then carefully stuffs it back away. He glances around nervously, before taking off at a quick pace, walking the other way and eventually out of sight.

The cab drives off, just in time for Mia to turn around at catch the tail end of that exchange. She eyes Kwabena a little suspiciously. Was the dealer afraid of him because he's higher up on some pyramid of dealers, or is it something else? Well, maybe a simple test is in order. She draws herself inwards, and wavers a bit in her step, as if she's been drinking, or perhaps indulging in something a bit more dangerous. When she's about to pass him, she stumbles, bumping against him. "Ah- I'm... I'm sorry." Her voice is small, timid. A young woman expecting every man she meets to be a potential danger.

Oddly enough, Kwabena's reaction to being bumped by Mia is not upset, or angered, or even polite. He nearly jumps, and a quiet hissing sound comes out of his throat. He's unable to hide the alarm in his eyes when he looks over at her, but it's short lived. She was unknown to him, which didn't necessarily mean that she presented any danger, but something struck him about her, as if she were... out of place.

After casting his eyes about briefly, the African leans a bit closer so that his voice doesn't have to carry far. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "This place is not safe." His voice is heavily accented, coming from Ghana if she's well versed enough to place it.

The woman's demeanor changes almost immediately. "Trying to help," she answers, her voice still quiet, though now it's to avoid being overheard, rather than out of feigned fear. "Used to be one of these girls. So I come back and do what I can to help whenever I'm able to," she explains, looking over her shoulders as she speaks, wary of anyone spotting her previous activities. There's no shame in her voice when she mentions her past. Just a simple, matter-of-fact statement. "And since a pimp, john, or dealer would have had a far different reaction than what you just gave me, I'm guessing you're not out here to contribute to this-" she motions to streets around them.

Kwabena's left eyebrow immediately shoots skyward at her initial answer. He waits patiently to hear the rest, and when she's finished, his teeth show beneath an almost feral grin. "Far from it," he answers.

The grin is short lived, for from his vantage point, one of those pimps seems to have taken a most intense interest in staring at he and Mia from across the street. Eye contact with the pimp is made, while a glare forms in the African's eyes, but when the pimp doesn't back down, Kwabena immediately becomes alarmed. He looks back to Mia and says, "I think, if there was ever a time to take the advice of a stranger, now would be the time." Looking at her directly now, his eyebrows rise up and his eyes grow quite convincing; almost a plea mixed with a command. "It's time for you to go."

He turns just so, as if to suggest that he's going to stay with her while she leaves, whether she likes it or not.

"That one, I can probably handle," she says. "But alright," she starts walking. "Grab my arm. Make him think you've got some kinda claim on me," she says. "If he thinks I'm just out trying to poach girls for some other operation, he won't know where to look for the girl I was talking to earlier," she says, and feigns a movement away from him, giving him a chance to grab at her.

Reluctance lingers in Kwabena's spirit, but he knows the game well, and does as she suggests. Reaching out, he snatches her as she moves away, making it at least look a bit violent even though his grasp is gentle. He looks over at her with a greedy smirk - albeit it forced - then begins leading her back down from whence he came. "This is a dangerous game you play, young one," he murmurs to her, but in his tone there is a touch of respect, rather than total warning.

Oh, the pimp doesn't like this at all. Mia is not one of his girls, and if she's working his territory, there will be hell to pay. With a vicious scowl on his face, the man steps out into the street, making to follow and gain upon them. However, before he can go too far, one of the dealers intercepts him. The dealer presses his hand into the pimp's sternum, forcing him back with a few choice words.

"They fear me here," murmurs Kwabena, noticing the exchange from the corner of his eye. He's not sure whether to be proud of it or not... he'd only done what was necessary, and his reputation amongst the drug world was a result. "The dealers," he explains, before looking back toward Mia. "I'm not sure if this encounter will be helpful to you or not." As they come upon a cab, Kwabena reaches out to pound on the window to get the cabbies attention, before opening the door and ushering Mia inside.

"So, you're... what, vigilante, then?" she wonders. "Trying to clean the area up?" she wonders. "You're definitely not a cop," she says, sliding into the cab. "Indulge my curiosity- I'll buy you a burger."

"Vigilante?" asks Kwabena, scoffing. He shakes his head before coming around to the other side of the cab and getting in. Once inside, they have a bit more freedom to discuss openly. He looks across the seat, eyes narrowed speculatively. He wasn't given to trust. "A burger," he considers out loud, then nods his head slowly. "Take us to Mick's Meat Hut," he says to the cabby.

As the car drives off into traffic, Kwabena sits back into the seat and looks out the other window. "I am nothing," he answers. "Nothing except Kwabena."

He's a decent liar.

"Ah," she says. "The broody, mysterious type," she says. "I can live with that. I'm Mia. Just a street kid that got lucky. And I mean that in the non-innuendo sorta way. Ended up in a sitauation where I have the money and means to do some good, so, here I am." Pause. "Though I guess I'll have to find another neighbourhood." Or, better yet, come back as Speedy. Maybe bring Arsenal or Hawkeye along for backup.

She might try to peg him as such, but Kwabena has many facets. He glances back her direction with a look of dismay, for it was a pity she would pigeon him into that hole so quickly. The look is short-lived, for he can appreciate her humor, so much that a quiet laugh forms and his broody face morphs into one that echoes such laughter. "You are not the only one to get lucky, then," answers the foreigner.

The cab pulls up to 'Mick's Meat Hut', a gawdy burger joint just beyond the invisible border where the 'bad part of town' becomes the 'not so bad part of town'. It's clearly the greasy spoon sort of place, which, to any true burger lover, is a sight for sore eyes.

Kwabena hands the cab driver some money. "The extra $50 is to keep quiet."

The cab driver looks back over at Kwabena with an earnest grin, and nods his head in silent promise.

Kwabena steps out of the cab and waits for Mia. "Well, it is good to meet you." He motions toward her while walking toward the restaurant, saying, "If I'm to indulge you, I hope you do not mind more of the same. I hope you understand what I mean." He grabs the door and opens it for her.

"Hey, I did offer to buy," she says, and heads in. "Though if by 'indulge' you actually mean 'BJ in the men's room' well... sorry, you're outta luck there," she says as she passes him. "The days of that kind of indulging are far behind me." She flashes a bit of a wry grin to show that yes, she was mostly joking- she didn't /really/ think he was propositioning her. She finds a booth in the corner, that'll allow both of them to keep their backs to the wall.

"Come on, we just met!" quips Kwabena, meeting her smirk with a wry one to match. Noticing the booth she'd chosen, he takes his seat and peers over at her curiously. "You're no stranger to the way these things work. I can see that." He gestures about indicatively. "You know these streets. You know their pain. You know the danger. Am I right?"

The girl nods. "Star City, originally," she says. "But the streets are the streets. It's colder here, though. Which brings another danger," she says. "But... yeah. I was eleven when I left home," she tells him. It's easier to talk about this sort of thing with a stranger who seems to know how this stuff works. "My dad had me doing that kind of stuff already. My life's kind of a Lifetime movie that way," she says, forcing a bit of a laugh. "So, yeah. I know how things work out there. Had to, or I'd be dead now."

There is a momentary flash of understanding in Kwabena's mismatched eyes. Though one is brown and one silver, they suddenly carry the sort of empathy that cannot be forced or faked, but rather, the look of a man who knows all too well what that sort of life is like. One doesn't learn such things from books or movies, but by living that very life.

When the server shows, Kwabena pauses to examine the menu. "Let's see, steak... steak... steak... oh, there it is. One steak, please."

"Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?" asks the server.

"Bloody as hell. And a beer, draft, what ever you've got that isn't lite."

The server nods his head, then looks over toward Mia. "And you?"

Kwabena waits patiently as she orders, though he watches her now with a renewed sense of curiousity.

Mia Dearden orders just about the same, minus the beer. While she may have the fake ID for the situation, she doesn't want to cloud her mind in case Speedy is needed anywhere tonight. "Oh, and a glass of water as well," she tacks on, along with the soda.

"Then, I ended up with a foster dad who, miracle of miracles, /didn't/ want more of the same thing," she continues after the server leaves. "And he has money, and he's willing to put up with me, even after I turned 18. So, lucky me."

With a nod of his head, Kwabena's eyes narrow in a speculative way. "So, now, you've got money and resources, so you come back here." He motions about indicatively. "To the old stomping grounds, and try to do some good." He nods his head slowly, then sits back into his seat with an expression that is both impressed and doubtful. "Tell me, Mia. What are you going to do when one of those pimps has had enough and sends someone to kill you? What if someone around here gets the word that you have money, and decides to take it out of you the hard way?" He shakes his head. It wasn't that he doubted her motives, but... she was young, and as far as -he- was aware, just another normal eighteen year old girl. "Do not get me wrong, what you do is admirable, but, it's only a matter of time."

A beer is set before him, and he tips his head in thanks to the server before sampling it.

"I've got more than money," she says. "Skills- and I don't mean just a self-defense class. I can handle myself. I lived for years when I was smaller, untrained and more vulnerable. Now, I can protect myself, and maybe a few others in the process. If I can get one girl off the streets for good, it's worth the risk."

The server brings their drinks, with the promise that the food's on the way. Mia takes a pill case out of her purse, and uses the water she ordered to take the contents. "If I can keep them from having to take these every day," she says, closing the case. "Then it's definitely worth the risk."

It's a unique approach, to be sure. Then again, Kwabena's attempts to fight these same problems were rather unique as well. He'd came here to indulge her after all... he might as well not make her do all the work.

With a nod of understanding, he takes another sip of his beer, then sits forward so that he can speak with quiet tones. "I ended up on the streets at sixteen," he explains. "Left Ghana for America shortly after. So, I know." There is a pause, for he's about to make quite the understatement. "I know how some few things work."

A certain heaviness seems to linger around him like a cloud for a few seconds, before he whisks it away with the tone of his voice, shifting up just a bit to come off not nearly so morose. "Honestly, Mia, up until a month ago, I also lived on the streets. But everything has changed, since then."

"I figured you'd spent time out here," she says. "People who don't... don't usually care enough to try to help," she says with a shake of her head. She takes a long drink from her soda. "What changed for you?" she asks, setting the drink down.

For a long moment, the Ghanaian stares at Mia after she asks such a question. In that time, their steaks arrive, but Kwabena doesn't even look to acknowledge the server. He only spares a brief glance at the slab of meat to recognize that, yes, the cook indeed prepared it 'bloody as hell'.

Finally, the man answers, though it's not without hesitation. "First I got clean," he murmurs, still finding shame in his former life as a junkie. Not only shame, but the fear that he could turn back to it at any moment. He'd felt that tug tonight, just being out in that part of the Bronx. It would be so easy.

"Then I saw that I could change things." He looks back up and across the table at Mia with a certain viciousness in his eyes. "These dealers, they are the worst sort. They do everything they can to keep you on the leash. They play with you. They tempt you. They never want to let you go." He leans over slightly. "So I spoke their language, and now they fear me." The tone of his voice isn't threatening, at least not to Mia, but it suggests that he is no longer afraid to do what is necessary to make a change in the dark world of narcotics and crime.

A knife goes into his steak.

"Pimps are the same way. They break you down. Make you too afraid to leave them. They prefer to start with girls like I was- young, scared," she says. "Then, the police aren't any help either. You go to them for help, you either end up locked up, or giving them 'favours' to let you go," she says, cutting into her slightly-less-bloody dinner. "They have a lot less power once you're not afraid anymore," she says, then smiles as she holds her knife.

"There are a lot of things I regret doing. There's nothing I'm /ashamed/ of doing, but I have regrets. The only thing I don't regret?" She indicates the webbing between her thumb and index finger. "Slicing through the tendons on my pimp's hand the night I left. Almost took his thumb right off. For once? He was afraid of /me/." She sets the knife down, and smiles a little.

At first, Kwabena nods his head, understanding the similarity between pimps and dealers. Then, he shakes his head, knowing all too well the failed methods police have when it comes to dealing with something they don't truly understand.

"You know," he answers, "when I first decided to fight back, I didn't know what I was going to do, or even how I was going to do it. I just did it, and it worked. You're right. Once you're no longer afraid, you find power." He glances around the relatively empty restaurant, while gesturing indicatively to the neighborhood beyond. "You whisper my name to the drug dealers in this city, now, and they fear me. I do not regret what I had to do to accomplish that, for they would have done far worse to accomplish theirs."

"I just want to help more people lose their fear," Mia says. "But hey, if you wanna start spreading your name to the guys selling people's bodies as well as the one selling poison, I'd certainly appreciate it," she says, and gives him a half grin. "Give them something scary to focus on, so I can do what I do without notice," she suggests. "I've got some friends who can give you some backup now and then, too," she adds.

Kwabena withdraws a smartphone from within his pocket, and pulls up a website on one of the local news apps. He gently slides it across the table for her to read. (+bbread 11/39) The article tells the tale of a local drug trafficker named Michael Slean, whose warehouse was attacked by nameless mercenaries, according to the news outlet. Most significantly is the report that Slean has begun naming names of local drug dealers to the NYPD.

"What I do isn't pretty," he warns, with a most severe frown. "But sometimes, one must fight fire with fire." He nods his head slowly to her, earnestly. "If you want them to be frightened, I can make them frightened."

"Deal. And here," after reading the article, she goes into the contacts on his phone, and adds her number. "If you need help, I know some people," she says. "Or if you need to find somewhere safe for someone- or for yourself," she adds, and slides the phone back. It certainly won't hurt to have more contacts on the streets, especially someone like this.

Taking the phone back, Kwabena nods his head and tucks it safely away, before taking another bite of his steak. "I have accomplices, safe places to stay, as well," he offers. "You never know when we might need to trade those favors, Mia." A half smile is granted. "You realize, of course, that we never had this conversation. Everything I do is remarkably illegal, even if it helps."

"What conversation? I'm just having dinner with a cute older guy I met while doing volunteer work," she says. "Absolutely nothing going on here except a slightly questionable age gap that we will in the end, decide is just a touch too wide, even if I am legally an adult," she says, and winks. "...Although if my foster dad asks... uh. Better to go with the actually illegal stuff."

Sitting back again, Kwabena laughs out loud, and accepts another drink from his beer. "You know, I can see that your foster dad and I would get along," he points out, before reaching into his jacket and keying a few things into his phone. Moments later, a simple text message appears on Mia's phone with the word, 'Steak' upon it. Clearly, the African takes a number of precautions, including refusing to use his real name or alias over text message. Then he sits back again, content to settle on small talk until their meal is finished.