Summary: A gang of chopshop Neo-Nazis have a very bad day

Location: The Bronx

Participants: Memory and Nomad

Rating: PG-13 for Violence

Welcome to the Bronx! In this case, a rather seedy chop shop hidden inside an old warehouse. There, a dozen or so skinheads, all inked out with prison style tats, are hard at work stripping stolen cars for parts. Or, rather, they would be, if they weren't all distracted by the teenage girl with platinum blonde hair (dressed in a domino mask, heels, a white business suit and a matching fedora). "There's no need for this to get violent." She promises. "I just want to know about John Quincy Adams..." There's some rude replies and then a dozen or so gang members are advancing, ready to kick platinum blonde ass.

If there is anything that Nomad hates more than Neo-Nazis, its a pretty short list. So inspired by her 'OMG you're alive!' encounter with Steve Rogers, the young redhead has been inspired to actually dig deep and uncover insidious Aryan plots in the city, her first search leading her to this chopshop in particular. Currently making herself comfortable in the rafters, she looks down and see the crooks closing in on the blonde. Squinting her eyes, she readies two discs and tosses them with expert precision, aimed for the goons' heads. She doesn't through them hard enough to knock them out, just attempting to divert their attention away from the other masked girl so she can get to safety at the moment.

That does get some attention. Several of the thugs, including the two whapped by the flying discs, turn their attention upwards. Pistols are drawn. Shots are taken. Memory, meanwhile, still has to deal with those skinheads who decided to ignore the action from above. "Now tell me..." Memory says as she holds out her wrist to a big guy with a crowbar, "... what do you think of my perfume?" A puff of pink gas jets out. The thug inhales, stiffens, then drops to the floor, promising mommy he'll be good.

As guns are drawn, Nomad keys into the fact that this has gotten serious and becomes a moving target, running away from the bullets until she's on the far side of the gang and leaps from the rafters. As she falls from the rafters, she pops her blue electro-shield. This is for three reasons.

One, and probably primarily, it blocks the bullets.

Two, it looks totally bad-ass.

Three, it helps break her fall as she lands one one of the thugs, knocking him out in the process as she then brings the shield back up to block from any more bullets, slowly approaching as she strafes, unaware of any drugging going on at the moment, in the zone.

Memory's fighting skills aren't quite as snazzy as Nomad's. There's no style, just quick and efficient movement. The blonde ducks down under a guy swinging a big wrench and punches, hard, right in his adam's apple. This is followed knee to the crotch. Another guy grabs her from behind. Memory crunches his instep with her heel and then elbows hard in the stomach, followed by a blast from her perfume.

Rikki continues to push forward; as she nears a shooter, and he starts to throw his gun away as he runs out of bullets, she brings her shield down before jamming it right back up, knocking a few of his teeth out and having him crumple on the floor in pain. Swiftly spinning on her heels to face the other way, she catches wind of three more in her direct line of sight. She breaks into a full sprint, throwing another disc at each of the goons on either side of the center one, knocking them out cold. The third goon? He gets a chestful of booted justice, pinning him to the ground as Nomad smiles brightly. "Hey there, you suck," she informs him before jamming her fist in his face, putting him to sleep as well. That last bit daring-do made her more vulnerable, as her shield is currently down, and her head-parts exposed and very very fragile.

By this point, Memory's running. Two goons, both armed with tire irons, are trying to smash in her head. She grabs something as she runs past a shelf... a box with a red button on it. Then she whirls around and jabs the button with her thumb. The car lift (and the car on it) drops down, pinning the two skinheads to the ground, trapped beneath several tons of metal.

Swirling her head around, Nomad notices the car being lowered. Her eyes grow wide. "Nonono, don't ki-" she starts, only to realize the car isn't going to crush them. Phewing softly, her concetration is broken when a bullet whizes by her head. Meeping, she shields up and starts moving again, bobbing and weaving until she makes it towards the goon who short at her, bashing her shield against his hand to disarm him before she shield-downs and grabs his shirt and falls back, kicking her feet up to send him flying into his last standing buddy, the two colliding with some serious force and becoming a groaning, fumbly mess as they try to get up, only to get twin discs between the eyes before too long.

"Wow." Memory says. She glances around the room, eyes scanning for hidden threats or lurking neo-nazis. "Thank you. I don't know your name. I've seen images of you online but they weren't connected to a specific name so..." She walks draws zipties from her inner pocket and proceeds to hobble the downed punks. "I'm Memory."

Clearly Nomad read from the same heroes handbook that Memory does as she pulls out her own set of zipties, taking care of her half of the room as she nods. "Nomad," she says as way of introduction, taking a few more moments to get her work done before she straightens up. "And pleasure to meet another do-gooder, Memory," she says. "Especially one could feasible share a classroom with." She sniffs at the air a bit, picking up a strange scent, only to suddenly feel very woozy. Stumbling for a second, she eventually catches herself and is able ot shake it off. "Whoa, these guys must have been making some serious kind of dope on the side," she hypothesizes.

"Sorry. That's my perfume... it can linger. I'm working on adjusting the formula so it disipates faster but I'm not very good at chemistry." Memory apologizes. She hobbles the guy pleading for his mommy and the other one making out with thin air, "It triggers the memory centers. At its most potent, it makes people relive memories inside their heads. Vivid ones."

Nomad blinks a few times behind her goggles. Huh. "Huh," she actually says outloud, casting her weight to one side as she considers that for a bit. "So like you've weaponized LSD basically," she says, sounding a bit wary of it, but not exactly judgmental. Her views on drug use, recreationally or offensively, would probably seem pretty prudeish given her mentor, but she's willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she hates Nazis too. "Cool outfit by the way. Very retro-chic."

"Adaption of my grandmother's. She was a mystery woman during the '40s." Memory says with a note of pride in her voice. "Your's is pretty nifty, too. I love the goggles. Practical AND stylish." She turns to look down at the two trapped nazis. The only two not knocked out or drugged up. "I'd like a word with you gentlemen. I'm looking into the murder of John Quincy Adams." She asides to Nomad, "Not the president. A gang member who was killed earlier."

"Ohhhh really?" she says, with a bit of a smirk. "Know if she ever ran in Captain America?" The question is enough teasing enough to be passed off as joking, and totally not actua curiousity. She preens slightly as her outfit is complimented and nods her head. "Thanks, and yeah, they help the wind-effect while also being pretty boss," she comments before Memory starts doing the whole investigation thing. Murdered gang members. Frowning, Rikki makes her way to a stack of tires and leans against it as the girl detective does her thing.

Memory goes through the questions. She listens to the answers. It isn't long before she has answers. A Mexican gang known as the Aztecs. Small but, or so rumor has it, they have mojo. They've recently begun running drugs into the city. Got into a bit of a tussle with the local Aryans. Memory nods, then stands and looks to Nomad. "John was their message carrier. The Hitler Youth here used pigeons so the feds couldn't trace cellphones or intercept emails. Clever, in a way." She walks over to the patriotic sidekick, "And yes, she met him once. On a case in '47. Nazi spy ring."

Nomad listens as she gets the 411, nodding her head a bit at that. Something about the rapid succession, Bogartesque rat-a-tat of Mem's description of the situation is lost on her, but she isn't going to admit to that out loud. "So what's the plan? How we gonna bust these jerks?" she asks, clearly inserting herself into the case. She smiles at the second bit. "Neat," she says, then simply adds, "I like Captain America." That might seem a bit odd of a digression, but Nomad is trying to not squee ouright.

"Captain America's on my wall at home. Next to Power Woman." Memory smiles and then looks over her shoulder. "We call the cops, report shots fired... they'll come here on that call and since stolen vehicles are in plain sight they'll have enough to bust these boys. As for the Aztecs? I need to do more research. Find out where they hang, what their territory is, which of the Mexican cartels they front for, how they avoid problems with the Maggia or Intergang..."

Okay, this girl has definitely read her fair share of Raymond Chandler. Still, Nomad thinks that's kinda cool, as she listens to the description of her next actions. "Definitely sounds like a plan," she says, once the detective comes to a stop, reaching into her utility belt to pull out a piece of paper with a number scribbled across it. "Once you got a bead on where these jackwagons have holed up and need some back-up, call this. A friend and I are in the hero game, and a little team-up might do us good. Plus it sounds like these guys are a real piece, so the more the merrier, right?"

Memory takes the piece of paper, glances at it, then crumples it up and eats it. After she swallows, she says. "Memory's sort of my superpower." She says, "In addition to my codename. I'll be glad for the help." She pauses, then adds, "... and to spend time with someone my own age."

Nomad blinks a few times at that, then frowns slightly. "For sure..." she says slowly, actually pulling her goggles up to rest on her forehead as she cants her head to one side. "But...don't you have like your own friends?"

"I..." Memory pauses, considering what to say. How to say it. She runs through probabilities and computations in one of her spare minds but sighs and decides to go with honesty. "I'm not like you. Not like most girls. Up until not so long ago... I might as well not even have existed. I haven't had a chance to make friends."

Awwwww, Nomad's lips turn into a deep pout as the girl talks around something clearly difficult for her to express. Wordlessly, she actually steps forward and, unless stopped, embraces the masked girl, snugging her tight. "That's awful," she says, squeezing one more time before breaking contact. "Like basically the worst. But don't worry about it anymore, you can now say you have a friend." She smiles brightly, and then hugs the girl again tightly.

"Oh!" Memory stiffens, pulling away from the first hug but then there's a second and she awkwardly hugs back. She's clearly not used to physical expressions of affection. "Thank you, Nomad. I appreciate it. I really do." She grins and steps back. "Do you want to get pizza? I like pizza a lot."

"Pizza is definitely awesome," Nomad admits, as she gives the new friend some much needed personal space, only realizing now that she might have been too much, too fast, especially for someone just getting around to friendships. "I am a little broke though, ummmmm...I got this connection for free tacos from the TacoTaco. You like tacos?" You know that trick where you say a word enough times and it starts to sound like nothing but nonsense?

Memory nods. "I like tacos. I also have money. Sometimes you need to bribe people, so I keep some cash handy... one of the advantages of this outfit? Pockets. I don't see how the women with skintight suits do it..."

Nomad pats her own utility belt adoringly as she nods her head. "I know right? I see these chicks in these catsuits, and I can't help but think how totally uncomfortable that has to be. To say nothing of unflattering, what everything getting all squished." She shakes her head, then grins sheepishly. "Well, if you got some money, how about you get this one, I'll get our next meal together," she offers. "That's a friend thing to do," she informs.

"Sounds like a plan. I've got a motorcycle outside." Memory leads the way. She briefly pulls out a cellphone to make a panicked call to 911 talking about shots fired in that awful warehouse. "So, are you connected to Captain America? You've mentioned him twice, you have a shield..."

Tension! Caught! 'Oh I used to be his sidekick, only in a different reality where he didn't die 65 years ago; also? Not dead' is not an appropriate response, she has to come up with something quick. "No, just a big big fan," she says, sounding natural enough. "I mean, isn't everyone? He's Cap! I maybe just more blatantly inspired than others."

"Of course. I love the old 40s mystery men and women." Memory laughs. "Obviously, right? I mean, besides my grandmother. Captain America, the Justice Society, the Spirit..." She sighs. "They all rocked."

Nomad nods her head. "Totally agreed, though we are both far too young to be all 'back in the old days' cynical. So clearly the only response is to be equally awesome in our own right." Frowning as she tummy grumbles, she sets her goggles back over her eyes. "Okay, so totally time for pizza. Where's this bike?"

Memory opens the warehouse door and leads the way outside. "In the alley." There is, parked there, a white Suzuki motorcycle. Gorgeous and lovingly cared for, though a bit dirty from a ride through the city. "I don't have a spare helmet... though it seems silly to say "wear a helmet on a bike but not while fighting men with guns"."

"I know how to not fall of a bike," Nomad says non-chalantly, already making her comfortable on the back half of the seat. "Just don't crash, and my cranium will thank you," she teases with a wink.

Memory snickers. "I'll do my best. Hold on!" She enters a complex, fifty digit code into the bike's autolock, then revs her up. Soon, girl detective and girl patriot are zooming off into the night on that ultimate of teen quests... the hunt for perfect pizza!

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