Badlands Southland Drive leaves the City Circle to the north and begins to work its way though the thick urban development that has earned the name "The Badlands" by city residents. Huge towering housing projects, like monolith of steel and stone, cast long shadows over slum ridden side streets. Old hotels, once the pride of a grow city, are worn down and broken, serving as low income housing or rented by the hour. The side streets off of Southland are narrow, broken affairs, with the occasional burned out lot along the side standing as mute testament to the problems this area has. Many businesses lie empty and abandoned, the economic boom blessing much of the rest of the city seeming to leave this area untouched. Southland continues south, working its way free of the stagnating currents of too many people living in too small an area. The dark times are the best for clandestine meetings, and in the Badlands, the setting of the sun usually produces more activity than the daylight hours. A chill wind scythes through the area, and Weasel steps back into the mouth of an alley out of its reach, watching the door of a certain bar across the street. That was where she asked the girl to come, and she tugs air through a cigarette as she waits. A disgusting habit, but fitting to the shape, and it's not like she has to worry about physical repercussions. As soon as she spots Kitty, she'll whistle lowly, a sound from deep shadows that beckons without revealing the source except for that burning nub in her hands. Battered jacket, battered jeans, one hand kept casually out of sight in a pocket - and around this place, God only knows what she's got in there - and wary, watchful eyes. Kitty's head tips to one side at the whistle and she flicks a momentarily annoyed glance that way ... nope. Shadows. If it were another group of guys getting adventurous, they'd be taunting her by now. Cigarette, not that that proves anything, but... She checks absently, reflexively once more for watchers before ducking toward that alley. Not afraid? Well, maybe because she's not particularly solid either, at the moment. Better safe than sorry. "Brave," a low voice drawls as soon as Kitty's close enough, and the glow of the cigarette dips and flicks as Weasel pushes heer shoulder off the wall and moves. Enough to make a shape against the darkness, the voice the biggest clue to identity. "Or stupid, in this part of town. You always this trusting?" She sounds vaguely amused as she moves further back into the alley. Come in, come in, don't hang around where people can see you. There's a pause, before she adds, wryness sounding; "I'm alone." Enough of a clue, and the cigarette's at the right height. "Who said," Kitty comments back, not slowing - yes, out of sight, slide into darkness neatly like a piece of it, "this was trusting?" The words are the only sound she makes, footfalls utterly silent; there's a faint fluttering overhead, maybe a late-season bat not smart enough to hole up for the winter yet, and then it's gone. Weasel may be here alone. Kitty isn't. And watchful, always. There's a difference between bravery and confidence; only one of them has evidence to back it up. As eyes adjust to darkness, they'll find Weasel pretty much as she was the last time the two met, apart from more bundling against the cold in the form of a scarf and more padding beneath. Helps to hide the fact she's armoured and not unprotected herself. there's a flick of sharp eyes upwards at the fluttering sound, and a sardonic crook to an eyebrow aimed at Kitty. "Well, let's just starting with cautious and go from there. So glad you decided to drop by. I'd offer you a drink, but I really don't think we should be talking in public." Around other people who might recognise either of them. Or around other people at all. "C'mon, this way." She jerks her head towards a door leading into a warehouse flanking the alley. "At least we can get out of this damn cold wind." "Think of it this way," Kitty drawls back to her. "It's only gonna get colder." She wasn't around last winter, but she's heard stories. There's another brief inclination of a curly-haired head - said hair bound back tightly just now, kept out of her face and eyes; last time she was doing this kind of thing it was short enough not to be a problem, but it's been growing the last few months - and accepts the nod of head toward the door, heading that way after only a moment's hesitation. Someplace up above, a dragon much smaller than the ones in the news shifts uneasily on its out-of-sight perch, trying to figure out a way to be able to tell what's going on through a solid wall. Weasel wanders in through the door casually, to an empty warehouse bearing a couple of empty crates. She kicks one over to sit down on, and it clatters loudly as it settles. "You can leave that open if your friend wants to come in," she says with another nod at the door and a little, mirthless smile. "So, do you wanna bring the Fisters down, or are you just reaction-girl?" Nothing like getting straight to the point. Kitty pauses by the door, scanning the emptiness - making sure it /is/ empty, before she goes solid enough to ease the door closed. "Thought you said you wanted to get out of the cold." Weasel's always kept in her field of vision, never, ever let out of her sight. And then the question, and her eyebrows flick up, just a fraction. "I," she replies, "want to keep this shit from getting out of hand. And keep the damage down in the mean time." Humorless smile. "Pity that's meant waiting to make sure they've got enough rope." Weasel grins then, just as humourless, more predatory than anything else. "Oh, they have enough rope. And if tonight's job goes down as planned, you're gonna be fighting off the help." She leans back on the crate, it being just the right height to half-sit on, half-recline against, and crosses her ankles and arms. Completely at ease, despite the topic and who she's dealing with. Which would, apparently, be a near-stranger. "But you didn't answer the question." Now that's a change in mannerisms from the last time. And attitude. Likely she's just more confident - a plan coming together - but Kitty knows damned well who set the bomb at the Parrot's Revenge. "Didn't I?" she answers, leaning back against the door in turn. Solid for the moment, but all it'd take would be a thought to put her conveniently half-outside; fall and catch and roll to feet and run. "I don't want to fuck with somebody else's script unless things are about to go out of control." Weasel lifts her top arm to bring the cigarette to her lips again, though it's nearly burned away in neglect. Never mind. Sharp eyes watch Kitty steadily, missing little. "They're getting kinda pissed that their bombs don't get to make pretty messes no more," she says after a moment, smoke chuffing out through words. "Wanna step up the programme. Only so much I c'n do with the warnings, y'know, and the cops are lookin' like they're dragging their heels." There's a question hanging in the chill, smoke-curled air. What are you gonna do about it, huh? "Of course the cops are dragging their heels," Kitty says blandly. "It's their job. What did you /think/ they got paid for, preserving the peace?" The words are cover, convenient, buying time to think and judge. She doesn't need much of it. "Trick is taking them down without making them into martyrs. Can't afford to get them killed, or people start thinking they might've had the right idea." Watching those sharp eyes. Watching close. Do you know what I'm saying? Who /am/ I talking to? The eyes don't echo the smile that curves her mouth, dark and unwavering in their gaze on Kitty. You're talking to a young, cocky woman doing something very dangerous just /being/ here, for reasons as yet unspecified. "Nice to see you've thought about this. Yeah, killin' 'em isn't really an option, unless you wanna make things worse. Otherwise I would'a just set off one of their own bombs in the headquarters." She pauses, then says lightly; "It's gonna need a few helping hands." How many friends have you got handy? Out of the goodness of her heart. Yeah, right. Kitty's finding it absently ironic that she's /hoping/ the woman's working for Mystique. Since otherwise, this could get very, very bad. "I can come up with a couple." Not guaranteeing more than that. Trying to organize the batch of people she knows makes herding cats look fun and profitable. Weasel crooks an eyebrow again, dropping the cigarette end and crushing it under her heel. "Good to know. So how d'ya think you're gonna manage it? Catch them without killin' 'em all." Why should I trust that you're going to do what you say? "And you know, there's a couple at the top who you're probably gonna have to stop killin' them*selves*." Damn stupid believers, only too willing to die and create those martyrs we all want to avoid. Kitty flashes another brief, grim smile. "One of the sets of hands I can come up with is a tactician." She steps away from the door, hauling the other crate around. Settling down. Leaned forward where she sits, hands loose in front of her; guarded, untrusting, but focused. "His problem, not mine - I like only risking my own skin. Depending where we can find how many of them, I'd guess something along the lines of tear gas might be involved as a first step, disable as many as we can fast, but that's got its own drawbacks. Potential respiratory arrest, allergies - we'd have to have a medical type on hand." She shrugs again. "I'm not the expert. I just know one. For the potential suicides - we'd need to know who, to be able to disarm them. But getting to them won't be an issue." Weasel folds her arms over her midriff relaxedly and remains where she is, watching Kitty steadily still. "Well, aren't you the handy one to know." A widening of her smile briefly hints at amusement, or perhaps stating something she already knew. "I'd suggest tazers, myself." Make the buggers twitch! "I c'n get you plans, if you want." She pauses, considering the girl before her. "Didn't realise that I was gettin' such a professional outfit. I'm impressed." No really. It's so hard to tell with that bland tone. "You're gonna need to bring down maybe... thirty. Be about that - if we do it soon, after tonight, they'll be all in and celebrating." And with their guards down, no less! Tasers are just never a good plan around one of the people Kitty has in mind to call in. And another one has a unique problem with them. But others... Kitty gives a wry expression. "Professional, bullshit." 'Professional' would already have it set up. 'Professional' would've had the resources to be doing damage control and spin-doctoring from day one. 'Professional' wouldn't be talking to Weasel in the first place. And the 'professional' Kitty's used to would've moved to eliminate both the Fist - oops, miscalculated their own explosives, so sorry - and the younger Darkholme back in August. She'll take amateur. "But we can get the job done. Won't say no to plans." She leans her head back, eyes half-lidded, but still watching the other woman. "What time're you thinking?" Weasel snorts with amusement. Kitty's level of professionalism is still way more reliable than the cops, who are supposed to do this stuff for a living. "Late is good. Dark side of midnight would be best. Give 'em a chance to relax." Luckily, Mystique is professional enough for all of them, and has spin-doctored the majority of this mission. Some was left to chance for deniability, and really, this thing leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "Think you can get your group together by tomorrow night?" "Not a problem." Tomorrow night? That's several times the margin Kitty was half expecting to have to prepare in. She studies Weasel another moment, steady. "Gonna have to make sure none of them get tagged by tonight's little demonstration, though." Very bad taste in /hers/ - but it can't be avoided, can't be worked around without much more of a backlash later. Weasel snorts and unfurls an arm enough to wave a hand in a casual, dismissive motion. "No-one's gonna get tagged." A flicker of a knowing grin at that. Clearly, the Fisters don't know that no-one's going to get 'tagged'. "But maybe if you tell me where your guys are likely to be, or who to keep an eye out for, I c'n try an' give 'em warning." A questioning lift of her eyebrows at that. Just how much are you trusting me right now? She's got it covered. Good enough. "They're gonna be home, if they're smart," Kitty replies - matching flicker of amusement, a hint of something easing in the line of her shoulders. Sorry. Even if she trusted Weasel - the one most at risk of getting unpleasantly interrogated is the one you keep least likely to be able to point out the others. And what she /is/ willing to trust on? The other woman knowing what she's doing. "Growing boys need their sleep, and all that." Weasel chuckles at that, a wry sound bearing mostly wryness rather than mirth. "Oh, yeah. And no doubt you'll be doing your best to be keeping one of them in bed." Sharp eyes gleam, again that hint of knowing, little clues shown and hidden again. "Not offering to get in on tonight's foiling, hmmm?" She seems vaguely surprised at that, but a grin shows a glint of teeth. "Probably a good idea; rest up before tomorrow." You'll need your strength, dear. Shown and hidden, and caught. "More likely playing lab assistant," Kitty replies - sharp curve of smile in return. "If you could use a hand, we'll get in on it. If not, more prep time means less risk." And tomorrow's what counts, isn't it. Just how sharp are you, dear? It's a fun game, this, toying with the girl and seeing what she might guess. Mystique is aware that people know that Kurt was involved with the first bombing, and she's not quite comfortable with letting Kitty know who she is just yet. Not yet. So Weasel falls back into her self-assured, cocky self, hints abandoned again. "Take your time to prepare; I got it covered. Plenty of help where I'm goin'." Another shark smile, full of secrets, just the more legitimate type this time. She pushes up off the crate and saunters towards Kitty, one hand extending towards the other girl. The right, for a clasp. "So, I can count on you to take 'em down, without taking 'em out?" Let's be clear on this; no corpses allowed. Unless they're also alive. Up on feet, calm - taking the risk. Hands clasp, neat - and Kitty adds an almost friendly squeeze before she releases Weasel's. The same way Raven did at their meeting, months back. "That's been the plan for a long time." No corpses allowed. No taking the place out in fire. No phasing anyone into walls. No broken necks. No crushed skulls. No guns. It's in the plan - presuming Pete /has/ a plan, and if he doesn't, he will by tomorrow midnight. Kitty has faith. The squeeze amuses Mystique, though that is hidden behind Weasel's crooked smile of satisfaction. "Glad to hear it. Nice to know I can count on ya, Kitty. 'Meantime, I gotta go keep an eye on those fuckers. Just in case one of them attempts to grow balls or something." She rolls her eyes at this unlikely occurrence, then moves to step towards the door with a self-satisfied smirk. Did Kitty ever tell her her name? Now there's a question. "See you, about 1am, tomorrow night?" Never once. "Glad you've been keeping an eye on them," Kitty replies, keeping her company. Neither at the other's back when nobody else is around, thanks. "Hour past midnight, check. You'll see us then." Flicker of amusement there. Because there's no telling /what/ Weasel is going to look like. Even if she isn't Mystique - image inducers are such sweet little toys. Oh, so they are, and Mystique and Rowan are getting quite a profitable line in them. Having contact with so many metas is good for that, but keeping the businesses separate is somewhat tricky and needs careful handling. "Be lookin' forward to it. I'll call you an hour before to let you know where." Just in case anyone has plans of jumping the gun and screwing things up royally. Covering her own back, mostly, and keeping that line of caution alive between them. "Done." Given that, with Kitty's particular skills at getting people places quickly and quietly, they won't /need/ more than an hour to set up. Given proper communications. What Kitty wouldn't do for a friendly telepath, but they'll have to settle for what they've got. "I'll keep the line open." She lifts her hand as the two step out, signalling casually to the dragon overhead. See? All clear. No frying the Weasel. Weasel walks alongside Kitty to the mouth of the alley, then nods and reaches into her jacket for another cigarette. "See ya." The signal gets a glance, but no comment, and a quick look upwards. Hmmm. The terrorist-traitor sends Kitty a sideways grin before she turns and starts off down the street, hands cupped in front of her face to light the cancer stick, sharp eyes darting around. Flick of a wink back to that grin, and Kitty stays in the alley, shadowed, out of sight. It'll be a while before she leaves ... and not by any means in the same direction.