Owner	Pose
Silver Sable	The New York offices for the Wild Pack are located in Manhattan because that's where the clientele is. Wealthy billionaires and politicians frequently hire the New York contingent for security details, particularly when the United Nations are in session and there's increased foreign activity. The tiny nation of Symkaria, largely neutral in world affairs, is a perfect tool for such tasks. Silver Sablinova's office occupies a corner of the three floors rented in the downtown tower building, with generous views of the city. Late in the evening she's one of the few people still in the building, working silently at the desk in her office suite. Her signature overcoat is hung near the door. Her shoulder length hair is unadorned and lacks any attempt at styling, in contrast to her stylish work attire. Behind her, the street lights are distorted by inch-thick ballistic glass, a nod to the wary habit of paranoia that has kept Silver alive for years.
Felicia Hardy	The elevator at the end of the hallway dings quietly in the warm and comfortable silence of the offices, workful as the atmosphere is. Someone arriving or leaving? Arriving, by the faint sound of low-heeled boots walking down towards the main office suites. Reflected off the panes of darkened office ceiling-to-floor windows, the svelte silhouette of a tall woman in a knee-length trenchcoat. The material is fine, almost silken, and burnished in royal-blues where the overhead lighting hits it. Perched jauntily on the woman's head, a womens' fedora of matching color, complete with a short stub of a black feather tucked into the hat-band. As she looks up, the brim lifts to reveal twinkling green eyes behind a black domino mask... It seems that the platinum-blonde can't hide the smile threatening her lips even as she reaches up and runs the nails of her suit-gloves along the doorframe in a quick tickity-tapping, double one-to-four run to attract attention. "May I have a minute of your time, Miss Sablinova...?" she asks quietly.
Silver Sable	Silver doesn't seem to miss much. By the time Felicia's at the door, the soothing classical music playing from overhead speaks is hushed to a conversational backdrop. "Miss... Hardy, isn't it?" Silver says, searching her capacious memory to marry a name to face. Her heavy Eastern European accent has the impeccable precision of someone raised in the British education model. She finishes her work, blows on the ink signature, and then carefully puts everything into a file cabinet near her desk. There's the sound of heavy latches *thunking* into place. Her sleeveless cream turtleneck leaves her arms exposed as she gestures for Felicia to come inside and have a seat. "Please come in. It's been a little while since I saw you last. What can I do for you?" Notably, her right hand remains out of sight, though there's no indication of what it might be reaching for as Felicia approaches.
Felicia Hardy	Felicia looks towards that hidden hand and then gives Sable a lofted brow. She remains where she's at in the doorway for another second or two before simply walking into the office. With a subtle rock to her hips and confidence in her poise, she then pauses before the desk. Her smile deepens a touch, conspiratorial and teasing all at once. "I don't know who this Miss Hardy is, but you //can// do something for me." The blonde pauses to interject lightly, "You may call me Catrina. You've got a brilliant memory, Miss Sablinova, which //does// bear mentioning," she asides with a circled finger towards the woman across the desk. "I'll be succint. I happened to...abuptly have tea with a gentleman whom I could //not// recognize to save my life -- and I might need to in order to do this one day. One never knows." She narrows her eyes briefly towards Silver. "Who lives at 177A Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village?"
Silver Sable	Silver looks utterly unconvinced by Felicia's smooth attempt at deception, but rolls one bare shoulder. Lights overhead cast a lean block of muscle into relief for a moment. "Catrina," she says, in exactly the same tone. "Bleecker Street in... Greenwich Village," she repeats in her cultured tones. "The address does not immediately come to mind, but I don't know *everyone* in New York, either," she says, drolly. She turns to her computer and unlocks it, the keyboard kept out of sight for would-be snoops watching her fingers move. "177A Bleecker Street... New York." She rests an elbow on the desk to support her chin, index finger tapping at her lips. Her nails are frosted with french tips, though still kept deliberately shorter than would be fashionable. "Not in the common registry of names, but you knew that I'm sure," she says, finally. "Yes, we have the information you seek." She turns to Felicia and reassumes her previous posture, fingers interlacing once more, and gives Felicia an expectant look.
Felicia Hardy	Felicia's lips, painted a daring shade of red to provide accent on her otherwise delicately-touched face, curl at their corners. She does smug so well, even if it's a misting of the self-satisfied expression rather than outright smirk. While she listens to the quiet sounds of the keyboard, she glances down at her own nails -- well, the half-moon talons that can be displayed and retracted upon proper tensing of tendons. The suit is so responsive, she owes the Tinkerer a proper thank-you note at one point or another. Her gaze flicks back up to the other woman as the answer comes to light...or, at least, the insinuation of it. "I can't say that I'm surprised to hear that you have it. Of course you do. You're so nosy," she comments nearly in a murmur, not quite rolling her eyes. "And I suppose a 'pretty please with sugar on top' isn't going to convince you to tell me about him? I bet you even know his favorite aftershave," and she can't help the stifled chuckle that rolls in the back of her throat.
Silver Sable	"Even corporations can make use of good intelligence. We keep tabs on intersting notables. The occupant of 177A is... definitely notable," Silver remarks, tone wry. She glances at the monitor again, refreshing details in her mind. "And no. A 'please' is welcome but gratitude isn't the currency we trade in here. This is a very ... strange individual, and frankly I'm not sure I believe half of what my analysts write here. But I trust them, so I'm disinclined to give this information away for a low cost," she says, urbanely. Fingers rake across the granite-smooth surface of her desk, then click a bursty staccato rhythm on it. "What's the information worth to you?"
Felicia Hardy	"Hmph." It is a petulant little sound from the Cat even as she gives the woman across the desk a vexed look down her nose. "Believe what your analysts have shared with you, Miss Sablinova. I could confirm it for you, given I recently...scouted the location to some degree of success." She reaches up to adjust the collar of her trenchcoat; beneath it, some of the signature wispy fluff from her suit can be seen, wintry-white in the office lighting. "Still..." She falls silent for a time as she considers Silver from beneath the brim of the fedora. "You're not going to show me, not without compensation -- or tell me. I could always...retrieve an item for you. Has anything gone missing lately...?" She doesn't insinuate that something might have disappeared or not.