Hellish Cat Encounter
Roleplaying Log: Hellish Cat Encounter
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Wilson Fisk takes over WNEX. Trish has a way to find out where he is currently staying, and visits him as Hellcat.

Other Characters Referenced: The Defenders
IC Date: November 24, 2019
IC Location: New York City
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 25 Nov 2019 02:54
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for violence
Scene Soundtrack: None
NPC & GM Credits: Wilson Fisk (NPCed by Lovejoy)
Associated Plots

* * *

Memo:

By: WNEX President Stacy Wu

To: All personnel

11/23/2019

WNEX is proud to announced that we've been acquired by Intrepid, LLC. Intrepid's mission is to invest in excellent news sources and to give them the tools and resources they need to create forward-thinking, 21st century news in a variety of multimedia formats.

We are coming to the end of our 2019 broadcasting season and are looking for new show line-ups. A representative from Intrepid will be on-site tomorrow, and will be hearing pitches for new shows, as well as cases for the continuation of existing shows.

Please be prepared with your pitches, and to give Intrepid a warm WNEX welcome.

Memo:

By: Head Producer Charlie Black

To: The newscasdters and show hosts of WNEX

11/24/2019

Effective immediately: newscasters and show hosts MAY NOT take an anti-Registration stance or slant in their materials. We at WNEX follow and support the laws of the land. We do not wish to play into the hands of terrorists and malcontents by continuing to give them a platform for their propoganda.

News shows may continue impartial coverage of events touching on Registration, but all audio must be forwarded to producer Daniel Stern to ensure that the content of the story does not threaten the WNEX mission or brand.

Employee social media accounts will be monitored. Posting anti-Registration rhetoric on personal or professional accounts shall result in immediate termination.

Memo:

By: Producer Daniel Stern

To: Reporters, hosts.

11/24/2019

Crime reporters and show hosts must be aware that acquitted persons must not be painted as "criminals who got off." As far as the law is concerned, they are innocent. Please adjust reporting styles as necessary to reflect this fact. We live in an age of false accusations and vigilantism, and it's important to avoid feeding into the hysteria. It's also important to avoid libel lawsuits!

Memos show up two ways at WNEX. All of them get emailed, a little "ding!" in Outlook to indicate the top dogs at the station have something to say. They also get dropped in old fashioned drop boxes in the employee workroom, just to make sure everyone has a paper copy.

However Trish got hers, they came in rapid succession. The latter two seemed like they'd been typed up at around 5 this morning, before most people were at the station at all.

Outside, the sky is an even slate grey. Yesterday's sleet has transformed itself into a cold that is nearly sterile. The whole building seems a little cold today: someone jacked down the thermostat again, as if personally intent on freezing everyone out of the whole damned office.

It isn't until 9 in the morning that the stretch limo arrives in the front of the station. A massive man gets out, clad in an impeccable black suit with a dove grey shirt and black tie. He carries a diamond-tipped cane. Bracketed by two men wearing suits, sunglasses, earpieces, and guns, he makes his way into the station, his mere presence causing ripples of reaction throughout the station. Some are a little excited, some are uneasy, and well they should be.

The "representative" from "Intrepid" is none other than Wilson Fisk himself.

* * *

When the first ding rang out from her smartphone, Trish was curled up, comfy in bed. It barely roused her from her sleep. The clock next to her phone tells her that it's still early. She doesn't need to be awake just yet. Eyes close in an attempt to get more sleep. However, before she gets a chance to drift off, the phone alerts her again. She yawns, stretches, and opens her eyes again, staring over at her phone. What could be so important?

Lazily reaching out, it takes a few attempts of blindly patting over her side table before she finds her phone and brings it up to her face. Groggily, she unlocks it and squints as the light from the screen blares at her eyes.

Reading through the memos in her email, she stares at her phone. Is she dreaming? Or did she read what she things she just read?

The station's been taken over? She can't speak out against the registration? Not even on her personal social media? Are they really imposing censorship on what their reporters and show hosts can say? Even on their off work time?

She lets her phone drop down onto the bed beside her as she looks up at the ceiling. A heft sigh emits from her as she pushes herself up. Rubbing her eyes, she sighs once more, this time more quietly. "Well, I'm wide awake now. I guess I'll start my day early."

After a shower and eating, and doing some work at home, she manages to get to the station at 7 AM. Who knows what coworkers are already there. She's curious at what they're thinking as well.

When the representative of their new owners arrives, she's curious to find out who it is. Much like many of her coworkers, it's bound to be a surprise when Wilson Fisk makes his appearance. Although, 'surprise' might be too light a word to express Trish's feeling toward his appearance.

* * *

Wilson is weirdly gracious as he makes his way through the station. He shakes hands and offers compliments in his highly oratorial fashion. The television screen can convey that he's large, but in life he has a presence that seems to take up about three times as much space as his body does.

Sooner or later, his tour stops right at Trish's door.

"Miss Walker," Fisk says, holding out a meaty hand. "Nice to see you. I'm looking forward to hearing your pitch today."

His bodyguards come to a stop behind him. They stare at Trish, expressionless.

* * *

It's times like these when Trish relies on her acting skills most of all. A smile, that for all intents and purposes, appears genuine crosses her face. She reaches out her own hand, which seems dainty compared to Fisk's, and shakes his. Despite the size difference, there's still some strength behind her own shake, perhaps unexpected.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Fisk." She responds in kind. She briefly glances toward the bodyguards. She suspects they'd be here regardless of who was sent.

She looks back up at Fisk and nods. "Oh yes, my pitch. Of course. I hope it meets with your approval, and with that of Intrepid." She offers with another smile. "I look forward to working more closely with you and the company's representatives to bring only the best stories to our listeners."

* * *

It's the right answer. Fisk's mouth curves up in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, fully in acknowledgement of this fact.

The eyes are beady and as black as a crow's, and he studies her. Once, he sat behind the scenes to orchestrate a big career opportunity for her, not out of any love for her but because it was the swiftest way to move her out of his affairs. He knows who she is associated with.

"Good. I'll see you first then. I'll be in the conference room upstairs. Come and see me in about 15 minutes."

He briefly sandwiches her hand between his in a way that many would take for a kind, fatherly gesture.

In this case it only serves to emphasize hands that feel like they could crush her own with just a little more pressure.

Then he lets her go and turns to go, giving Trish about 15 minutes to decide exactly what her next move is.

* * *

Back in her office, Trish slumps in her chair and lets out a deep breath. "Okay. This day has gone from confusing to not so great to downright terrible." She murmurs to herself. She was not expecting to have a fresh new idea for her show. Not this soon and especially not for Wilson Fisk. For a moment, she stares at her computer, unsure of what she expects herself to present.

Suddenly, an idea comes to her, remembering when Jess and the others fought against Fisk before. She begins to type away on her computer.

She prints off copies of her proposal, 'Vigilantes: Heroes or Criminals in Disguise?', with just a few minutes to spare. She makes her way up to the conference room with five copies of the proposal, hoping that's enough.

* * *

The "conference room upstairs" could have described several different rooms. The one this bloated spider of a man has chosen is known as the "huddle room," basically a closet with delusions of conference room grandeur.

Bad news: a room with just four chairs and a little round table that accomodates a multi-line speaker phone means that anywhere Trish sits or stands will put her very close to one Wilson Fisk.

The good news, the bodyguards are no longer hovering. They've been sent to guard the entrance to WNEX itself, a fact Trish will see when she passes by. They apparently do not expect any trouble within the station proper.

The room has a window, and some of the chill sunlight filters in, chasing away, at least, just a tiny edge of Fisk's presence.

He has a notebook before him, his pen poised above a legal pad as if he's been sitting there for all these minutes just waiting for her to show up and speak.

He gestures to a seat.

* * *

This was perhaps the last room Trish expected the meeting to be in. Likewise, it comes as a surprise to her that it is so sparsely filled. She was expected at least one or two others in the meeting, bodyguards not included.

Taking a seat across from Fisk, she keeps the pile of he proposals with her, pushing one across to her new boss.

"Honestly, I've been thinking a great deal about the vigilantes on the street as of late." She explains to him. "Some say they're heroes. That the vigilantes are doing what the police can't do, or refuse to do."

Turning over a page of her proposal, she continues. "However, one could argue that these vigilantes are more getting in the way. Perhaps they're causing more trouble than good. They don't gather the proper evidence required to put a person away. In fact, it would appear that they make up their own minds as to who is wrong and who is right, without care for proper judicial proceedings."

She glances across at Fisk. "After all, isn't it a cornerstone of our own justice system that a person is considered innocent until proven guilty? And shouldn't that proof of guilt be beyond a reasonable doubt?"

Trish raises her hands and shrugs. "That's what I'd like to talk about, pending the approval of yourself and Charlie, our head producer, of course."

* * *

Fisk listens to the entire pitch, and by the time she's 75% of the way through it, his shoulders are shaking.

By the time she's done, he's letting out a full, rumbling laugh.

"Thank you, Miss Walker," he says, still sounding genuinely amused. "I enjoy a good joke."

He leans forward and says, "But I am not an idiot. Your sister Jessica Jones may have found some legitimacy lately, but until about a month ago she was the unmasked version of everything you describe, and more. You've had Matt Murdock, lawyer to the metahuman stars, on your show multiple times, and have given him and his clients platforms to say whatever they wish. In fact, you are practically the media asset of the so-called 'Defenders.' So forgive me if I think your ability to manage a slant like that is…compromised."

* * *

"I…" Trish looks down at the table for a moment, considering her next words. She hadn't expected his knowledge of her personal life, of her relationship with Jessica. Granted, having Matt Murdock on the show is basically public knowledge. She chews on her lower lip for a second as she thinks. As she looks back up at Fisk, she tilts her head.

"I understand that you'd doubt my ability to remain neutral when it comes to a story like this, Mr. Fisk." She frowns. "I know how this may seem, considering the history of my show, but I'd like to be able to prove my ability to you. I can remain neutral."

After a brief pause, she places a smile on her face again. "However, if you feel it will take time to prove myself, I'm open to different stories. Stories that don't relate to vigilantes, registration, or anything to do with metahumans. How about…Mom and Pop Shops, all you've ever wanted to know about small business and their unique way of drawing in business?"

* * *

When she looks down he looks every inch the king receiving proper obeisance. He lets her finish again, and he nods. "I like it. A nice compromise between sending you back to lifestyle pieces, and having you report on things where your personal feelings cannot help but get in the way. I look forward to these stories, Miss Walker. I am glad we could work together. I don't really like letting people go after a takeover. It is…inefficient."

He scrawls her name and what she's doing on the pad of paper, gives her a cold smile, and gestures to the door in a fashion that is purely dismissive."

* * *

Nodding, Trish continues to smile. "Thank you, Mr. Fisk. Mom and Pop shops it is. I appreciate your understanding!" Gathering up the rest of the papers, she makes her way back down to her office. "Well, that went terribly." She says to herself behind closed doors. "I guess I'm just going to have to keep my head down for the time being. But what in the hell is happen…" She pauses midsentence and looks over at her purse. She may not be able to easily confront him as Trish Walker, but there's someone else she could confront him as.

After having dug through her purse, she found one of the trackers she forgot to return to Jessica. Enclosing it in her fist, she puts her jacket on and heads outside. Catching sight of the limo that most certainly must belong to Fisk, she 'stumbles' forward, ending up on her knees right in front of the vehicle.

"Oh dear! I must have tripped over something!" She says in a startled voice. She reaches the hand with the tracker under a wheel well, pretending to grasp on to hoist herself up. In reality, she's stuck the tracker where it will be safe to stay and she can keep track of it.

Thanking a kind passerby for helping her up, she turns her back to the vehicle and starts walking down the sidewalk, a small grin on her face as she turns the corner. Now to bide her time and figure out where Fisk is living. And then? Then he'll be getting a visit from a certain Hellcat.

* * *

He doesn't leave the station until about 4 PM. When he does, his limo inches its way across New York City until it comes to an opulant hotel that towers above the street. There are many things that are strange about it, not the least of which being that the FBI seems to be crawling all over it.

Not in a: we don't trust Wilson Fisk for a moment, and so we're going to stay right on his grill sort of way. For one thing, they're too out in the open. They're wearing the windbreakers. Loud and proud.

For another, there are way too many of them.

Beyond that there's a normal hotel happening there, with guests going in and out and to the bar, checking in and checking out. A valet parks Fisk's car as he and his body guards head inside.

* * *

The upside to the Hellcat suit? It can be worn underneath her regular clothes and not be seen. The headpiece is a bit tricky to hide, but she's getting used to hiding it as well. The tricky thing for Trish at the moment is getting into the hotel, finding out what room Fisk is in, and getting there without being recognized. Not an easy task, to say the least.

To start, she heads to the back instead of through the front. She's brought some cash along with her. She suspects that people won't be generous enough to outright help her, but money usually helps grease the wheels a little bit if she does have trouble. Money to let her in, and then to find out which floor Fisk is on, and then to slip onto the back of house elevator to get her to his floor.

She can only hope that her paper friend Benjamin Franklin, will help persuade people to help her out.

* * *

Ben is a persuasive guy, it's true.

The bribes work. The staff are a little grouchy about the FBI. She's told a lot of them don't tip, that they're scaring the affluent customers away, that Fisk, in Suite G on the top floor, is creepy AF, though they rarely see him or interact with him.

The huge service elevator takes an interminable amount of time to reach said top floor. And because the staff must continue to move freely for a whole host of reasons, she slips right behind the bodyguards that are keeping everyone at the guest elevator from making their way onto this floor at all. As she emerges, their backs are to her.

* * *

Quickly undressing and fully donning her Hellcat outfit, Trish quietly shoves her clothes down a nearby garbage chute and makes her way to Fisk's nearby room. She steps carefully, so as not to make any noises as she does so. The last thing she needs to do is to draw attention to herself before she's been able to speak to Fisk.

Quietly opening the doors to the suit, she slips in, closing them just as quietly behind her. She pauses. There's Fisk right there, enjoying himself a meal. While he's not staring right at the doors, there's a chance he could catch sight of her in his periphery.

With extra caution, she makes her way over to the nearby couch and lays herself down on it on her side, facing Fisk, elbow in a one of the seat cushions and head resting against her fist, as she watches him.

* * *

Watching him proves to be boring. Wilson Fisk is just eating his dinner at the moment. There's nary a horse head nor corpse in sight. He has some classical music playing, and he's staring at an abstract painting that mostly seems to be a study of ecrue on eggshell on Grecian…the kind of pretentious, 'what the hell' piece that the very rich go bananas for all the time. Because when you're this rich, why not pay for a painting that looks a little like a stucco'd wall?

Other than that it's very boring, until he says, without turning around, "If you've come here courting, I'm afraid I'm spoken for."

It's not entirely clear how he knows she's there, because he still hasn't turned around. His voice cuts through the still air like a thunderclap, a rumble that shatters the serenity.

* * *

"Courting? Oh, my dearest Mr. Fisk. I daren't say I'm here for that." Her voice has an affected manner to it, almost sounding British, and definitely not sounding like the Trish Walker he would know. She stares at her gloved fingers, which she was doing before he spoke, spreading them out and wiggling them about. "Can't a kitty can pay a…businessman such as yourself a visit?"

She looks around the suite, silent for a moment. "You've got quite the place to yourself, Mr. Fisk. You're quite the highroller, considering the time you've spent…away. I would have thought your funding would have been, shall we say, all tied up."

* * *

"The kitty is breaking and entering," Wilson Fisk says pleasantly enough. "And is hardly a breed worth worrying about. You seem more like a catch and neuter than a show cat to me."

He finishes his plate and wipes his mouth, putting his napkin aside and turning his fork over, like he expects someone to come in and clear the plate. Perhaps he does. He takes up his diamond tipped cane and stands, making his way over to her to stand over the couch, arching his eyebrows.

* * *

"Now, now, Mr. Fisk." Trish pouts, sitting up proper now as he approaches the couch, "Neutering isn't always the answer. One should always think carefully before they consider such an option."

Leaning back, she looks up at Fisk, blinking her eyes slowly, much as a cat might do. "You know, there are many who find it difficult to believe that you're out of prison." She sighs softly. "Honestly, I found myself to be among them. But I suppose you've always got your lawyers looking for even the teensiest loopholes, hmm?"

There's a pauses as she considers the man once more. "Do you think yourself an innocent man, Mr. Fisk?"

* * *

"You certainly are the most talkative vigilante I've ever encountered," Fisk muses, his gaze flat, his beady eyes studying her. "Tell me, what is it exactly you wish to accomplish here, now that you have broken into my home? What is the purpose of this little chat, mon chat?"

He makes no move to do anything about her presence, just standing there for the time being, even as she moves. He didn't flinch or tense when she did, didn't tense in anticipation of an attack. He just stands like a man made out of mountainside boulders, granite, hard, stark, unforgiving.

* * *

"Well, you know the saying, I'm sure…no two vigilantes are the same. Perhaps I'm attempting to do what they failed to…find a way ensure you stay behind bars for good? Or perhaps, perhaps I just wish to understand your motives better. How can one truly understand their adversaries without truly understand their motivations?"

Standing, she tilts her head. "Then again, perhaps motivations are rather unimportant when one as big as yourself will eventually end up like Humpty Dumpty? You shall have a great fall and none of the King's men, nor any of the King's horses, shall be able to put you together again."

* * *

Wilson Fisk finally takes a seat. The chair creaks beneath him. He holds his cane upright next to him, one beefy hand curled around the handle just below the diamond tip. His steady, flat gaze does not shift as she speaks. "I think a more interesting question is this: what makes you think I care to be understood? What makes you think I would even believe you capable of understanding even the most infintesimal part of me?"

He tilts his head and says, "Even if I did, why would I? I do not answer to you, I do not owe you anything."

* * *

"Whether I am capable of understanding was never part of the question. As for what you owe?" Trish stares at him for a moment, considering the man. "Me, personally? Perhaps you owe me nothing. But this city? You owe this city, and its citizens, quite a bit for what you've done to it." In a swift movement, using her newfound speeds, she grabs a nearby lamp and brings moves it to smash against the side of Fisk's head.

She hopes that this will be a distraction enough that she'll be able to grab his cane from his grasp to use it as a weapon.

* * *

His bulk is no match for her swiftness, and he reels as if stunned, throwing his body to the side and hitting the floor while raising his arm instinctively to avoid another blow, letting out a rough sound in acknowledgement of the pain that caused. She takes up his cane with ease, even as he tries to recover from the spots that are blinking around his eyes. Perhaps he really never expected her to attack, or perhaps he never imagined she might be able to move so fast.

Either way, she has the upper hand in this confrontation for the moment. He has indeed had a great fall, and he hasn't recovered from it yet.

* * *

Bringing the tip of the cane to the side of his head, Trish, as Hellcat, stares down. "You will pay for the damage you've done. You will admit to your crimes." She steps down on his one arm, pressing it against his body so he's unable to use it. "You do not deserve freedom, Wilson Fisk. You do not deserve to be made whole again."

She takes a deep breath in. "Tell me were the evidence is." She tells him. "Any evidence of your guilt. Where is it and how can I get it?"

* * *

"There is no evidence. The Defenders manufactured it, or drew incorrect conclusions from perfectly legal business maneuvers."

He keeps his hand up, his eyes narrowed as he stares at Trish. "I guess that's what happens when one's idea of 'investigation' is to keep beating a person bloody until they say what you want them to say. When someone takes it into her pretty little head to play cops and robbers without any of the training that true law enforcement professionals receive."

He tilts his chin up and says, "And once you people decide someone is guilty, you will do anything, won't you? Assault. Planting evidence. All while calling yourselves the righteous ones."

* * *

"I'm not the Defenders. I intend to make sure that the evidence sticks." The way Hellcat says it, it almost sounds like she's hissing like a cat. She presses the diamond end of the staff against Fisk's throat. "You have done harm to so many people. There must be some evidence somewhere. Why do you bother denying it?"

She rolls her eyes while shaking her head. "We don't fabricate the truth. We don't kill people." At least, they don't usually do either. "Now, unless you want this cat to cause your life to be hell, you're going to provide the documents that prove your guilt, that proves you've killed and extorted and…well, that you've just generally broken the law. You will provide the evidence, plead guilty, and go to jail. Otherwise, I shall be a constant thorn in your side."

* * *

"Do your worst," Fisk growls, tilting his head up to expose the fleshy part of his neck, his eyes steely. "There is no evidence. I am innocent. The judge recognized that, and that's why I'm walking free. Truth, justice, and the American way."

And then he just looks at her, steady and hateful, but making no move to try to get into any sort of a melee with her, despite the cold tip of his own diamond pressed hard into his throat.

* * *

"How can you just lay there, denying? Denying and denying?" There's anger evident, wavering, just underneath her steady demeanor. Trish takes in a deep breath. She glances from him to the windows. "Do my worst?" He may regret that. Holding out her free hand, she starts pushing his body toward the windows using her telekinesis. Once there, she pounds at the window with her abilities as well, breaking them down.

She pushes him out the window just a little bit, just past his shoulders, placing a foot on his belly and placing the diamond at his neck again. "You were saying?"

* * *

His cool facade does crack, just a little bit, as his head swivels. He looks down to the pavement below. It's a long fall, and he can see every light from every car down there in sharp relief. Neon light in orange and green dances over his face, courtesy of a nearby advertisement. He raises his hands in the way someone might with a gun to their head.

He looks into her eyes, and asks in soft tones, "Have you ever killed someone before? Is that who you are? A killer? Have you decided tonight that you are going to be my executioner?"

His voice doesn't waver. He orates still, even with a foot in his belly.

* * *

Quiet for a moment, Trish isn't sure how to respond. "Death is too good for you." She finally says. "But I want you to remember what your fate could have been. All because you wished to deny the horrible things you've done." She presses the diamond to his throat.

Growling, she says, "You're not going to get away with it this time." She throws the cane to the side and backs up. "I may not feel so generous next time we meet."

Using her speed, she exits his suite and makes her way to the…garbage chute. She winces. It's going to be a long way down. And tight. Assuming she fits. But she's going to at least try.

* * *

As escape routes go, she is at least in good company with the various heroes of Star Wars, without all the dramatic trash compactor elements of it. Of course, that's the good news. As she lands, barely having fit all the way down, in a pile of garbage bags and garbage bags that have split open, she finds that her clothes are not, say, neatly and nicely hanging out on top of the pile. This is a big building in the big city, and a lot more garbage has come down the chute today.

Nobody ever said this hero business was easy.

* * *

Pulling on her clothes, Trish escapes the garbage, smelling, and probably looking, worse for wear. However, her suit is tucked away under her regular clothing, so at least she doesn't appear to be a vigilante any longer. She can attempt to sneak away. Which is exactly what she does. The last thing she needs is to be caught by the police. Or worse, one of Fisk's men.

She'll make her way home, have a shower and change. With luck, nobody will be the wiser.


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