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"Of course you haven't. You're young still, and your mind can think of only so much without an outsider's perspective," Sledgehammer said, prepping the bread for his toastie by spreading the margarine on it. For as harsh as the words may be construed, he hadn't meant to be entirely cold to her. You just naturally are more depended upon the input of adults when you are younger. There's just this need to trust that someone who is older knows more. That is, of course, until the alarm goes off in puberty and suddenly anyone older than you knows nothing.

"Get her in your debt and you could use her for just about anything." He scrounged around, trying to find a frying pan that was both clean, and not of size for cooking as if for a catered event. In his own kitchen he was capable of finding things without a problem. His time could be better spent on other things than fumbling about to make a meal. Efficiency and order dictated the contents of his flat. "But, seeing your age, I'd try to get her to tell you things others wouldn't normally. Adults tend to sugar coat things for anklebiters, or they just leave out things all together. Who knows what knowledge she's privy to that you aren't."

Victorious, Sledgehammer spinned the frying pan's handle in his hand the way that a tennis player would their racket. The pan was still large enough that a few more sarnies could be cooked on it, but the important thing was that it was clean. Smiling he dropped it onto the range and lit it up. His bread would have to wait until the pan got hotter. "She may also get you into places that others would find suspicious for you to go on your own. People question when a kid goes to a horror movie on their own, but with an adult nobody bats an eye."

The fedora had been left at home, not being suited for an auction as polished as this. Given how crowded the auction house ended up being, along with the issues of cooling, it was turning out to be a better choice more and more as the night went on. Still, David believed in acting as a gentleman and stepped aside slightly so that the lass he had bumped into could get a better look at the desk that he had been tempted to rest a hand against. Further more he offered her his sheet of paper that the auction's lot list had been printed on. Needing a bit of air earlier on, and without his trusted hat, he had had to improvise, and had made a fan like a bored child at church would. “I believe if anyone should be saying pardon me, it would be me. After all, I was the one who had moved.”

He may be pursuing the interest of a certain lady who lived one floor down from him, but David couldn't help but chat up a girl, especially if she was attractive and was such a light blonde. This girl was checking him out, and it was inflating his probably already oversized ego. “You're right, it's Yorkshire like meself.” it was refreshing for a change to have someone get his accent correct, “First to do so as well. I've been asked if it's Cockney, been asked if I'm a Limey, and 'eard Lanc too many times.” That last one drew out a look of distaste from him. His family might not have had a telly, but that didn't mean that he wasn't loyal to his teams for football or cricket. “Question is can you peg which part of Yorkshire.”

David laughed. It was common knowledge in his neck of the woods that you could take someone from Leeds, put them next to someone from the moors and they would sound almost as if they were speaking two different languages. Thanks to his brother's auto repair shop, and some time spent in London, David's accent had softened somewhat, but by no means did he sound American. “Caution with that one. Now, me Da taught me it's not polite to chat with a lady until you have given her your name. Mine is Maxwell, but me Christian name is David.” No hand was offered to shake, and it stayed firmly planted at his side.

Seyta insisted that she had not agreed to spend the night in his flat which worried him. “Seyta, just do this for me? I'd druther know where you are and that you are safe there than let you be down here.” By now the back of his neck was prickling with a sense of dread not too dissimilar to the one he got going into a Red Lobster. Whatever was turning out the lights tonight made him think a little of that highly realistic dream he had had. In the dream the cause had been Kaitlyn, and he had not been at his flat at the time. That was probably the point in which it had gotten ransacked. Come to think of it, the dream's start date wasn't Halloween either. “You know how you want that knife? Well I want you to stay where you'll be safe tonight. Think of it as me present.”

They went back out into the hallway, using what dim amount of illumination that remained do to New York's light pollution to navigate by. Even without the power Sledgehammer could feel confident in allowing Seyta into his apartment. Although it was filled with all matter of things, used as research material for his cons, he kept the place very tidy. The worst of the clutter was gathered on his desk, and for a good reason. The more there was to sift through, the harder it was to piece together what parts went to which of his projects. His closet had become a little bit stuffed admittedly, but he could hardly stop that from helping. New York was one of the fashion capitals of the world, and Sledgehammer had a fondness for dressing well.

The lights wouldn't work in his apartment, but as soon as he lit up some candles David's furniture choices would be easy to see. His emergency supply of candles, along with ones that were meant to set a romantic tone when a lady came round, were kept in the cupboard under his sink. Matches were in a plastic bag beside them, so it didn't take much fumbling around before he found his quarry. With a rasping swish and a brief scent of sulfer, the tip of the match ignited. The small flame threw shadows about, but with the almost metalic threads in Sledgehammer's costume the fairy light seemed a little brighter.

"I dunno," David said, thankful that Seyta hadn't tried to kill him on the spot for even suggesting that she spend more than an hour or two in his company, in his flat. Asking her to spend the night, no matter how noble his intentions, was a bit more forward than asking to share a table in a club. Look at how that had turned out. "I've been in a pinch more than a few times, and well, let's just say that this doesn't feel right to me."

She lead him to her apartment, sparing them both from the awkward acknowledgement that he knew where it was because he had been there before. Without power it was impressive that they were able to find it, but even more impressive to him was her being able to unlock it. He was the type that had to stare at the key for a second before putting it into the lock. Seyta flipped the light switch, and of course, she had no power either.

There was some more fumbling around in the dark as they traded off shopping bags and set them down on the counter. Thankful for the darkness hiding them, David's jaw went slack and his eyes boggled. He had not anticipated Seyta giving him any indication she would spend the night at his flat, and here she was giving him her demands upon where to sleep. "Fine! You can have me bed. Couch is well enough for me."

"I said I've candles. We just 'ave to go about it the same way that you would in science with a bunsen burner," he said, grinning. This was the closest he had ever gotten to making her happy, and probably his best shot at getting into her good graces. There hadn't been any acknowledgement from her on when he had watched over the twelve year old version of her, and he was prepared to act as though it had never happened.

"Sounds like a fair plan." Sledgehammer began shuffling the bags around, trying to set his apart from hers. Bringing her shopping to her flat would give him just that much more time with Seyta. Any progress he might be making though was probably going to be destroyed by the next words out of his mouth. "You could spend the night in my flat iffin you'd like." Of course once the words were out there in the air he realized what it may imply, and rushed to try to correct it. "I mean, it's just..."

She wanted a knife for protection. A knife is not a weapon for the faint of heart. To defend yourself with it you have to be within a dangerous range of your attacker. Seyta was no faint of heart woman that needed someone to protect her, but Sledge could not ignore his most basic instinct to guard her. "It's just, that something about this night. I don't know. You'd think that by now the grid would have come back up. Not only tha' but it seems to be spreading. I know when I left earlier that we had power. It wasn't even close to here."

Establishing a network of informants requires dedication and hard work. You have to do more than just watch your quarry, you must get up and go to where those you wish to employ would be found. For the man known as Sledgehammer, this meant spending a large portion of his day traveling about New York City, seeking out those that society deemed to be untouchable. Homelessness was a symptom of an ill economy. Rather than shying away from the ones who dug through trash cans in hope of empty soda bottles, Sledge was enlisting them. While he had never truly lacked a roof over his head, poverty had been a constant companion throughout his youth. People, David had realized, only looked at you when you showed them your wealth, and thought your ears were deaf until they needed something from you.

Having a network of people that were considered invisible had advantages. So far Sledge had been alerted to a private investigator who was looking into a bank job that Sledge had played a role in, the movements of several judges whom he was confident he could get underneath his thumb, and some strong opinions on who would get to and win the Final Four, whatever that may be. Having a subway pass helped to get from point A to point B, and the underground was slightly warmer than having to deal with the slush of the thawed out snow.

Armed with only a fuzzy brown jumper and a scarf to keep away any cold, Sledge walked with purpose through the streets of New York. One of his contacts, whom he called Beckett, had not been riding in their usual car. Any discrepancy in his ranks was to be investigated and corrected immediatly. Sledge would not stand for anyone operating in a way that did not suit his needs. Such was his mission, and so focused was he upon it, that he hardly registered the man who's wheelchair had been upset. The city was full of people who did not care, and Sledge blended in amongst their ranks. He did notice the wheelchair though, as it was directly in his way, and if he did not wish to be trampled by the crowd, he would either have to move it out of his way, or climb over it.

Sledge had expected Ladybird to have some sort of reaction. Rule one of being a con man, listen, don’t speak. You often find out information when you let someone ramble on, and people are more inclined to trust you if they think you are invested in what you have to say. Usually Sledge said his piece, then let the target respond. Doing so let him find a way to massage their fears into a reason why they needed to trust him. It had been a delicate balance, pushing Ladybird in specific ways, trying to avoid saying exactly what part he had played in all of this, and getting her to understand what he was saying. She didn’t see why he took the life of crime so seriously. Did she really have her life depend upon it the way that he did? It was hard for him to believe that anyone could have a lifestyle that secured itself in remaining hidden would do something so risky for fun. Admittedly, when he had to make up a plan as he went, Sledge could not help but feel a thrill that wasn’t matched any other. That was enjoying the moment, but it wasn’t the same thing. He didn’t just attempt a crime because he had nothing better to do. Even his quick money fix was taken seriously, and it was probably the most fun that he ever had. There was just a simple pleasure in manipulating the cards so that they defied people’s expectation.

His current expectation had been for some smart and snappish remark from the Ladybird. In Sledge’s not so humble opinion, Ladybird spoke a little too freely, and when something left her mouth it was with more anger than necessary, given that he only told her useful advice. So when she had erupted so violently about the cell phone he was quite confused. It was just a little bit of technology and he had done nothing to harm it. So he had lifted it without her knowing. She should haven’t been so shocked about it. He met her while robbing a bank for cripes sake. Sledge let her take back the cell phone, more because he was shocked over the rapid fire that had poured out of her mouth. Her business? HER business? At what point did the bank job become exclusively her business? She had not been alone in that bank, though if she had this entire disaster would have probably ended on that night. Ladybird would have been snatched up with her hands still going for the small bills.

You should just let her get caught, Sledge thought to himself, plastered to the couch partially out of anger. There would be one less bumbling fool mucking up my work out on the streets. He had already issued a very real threat to Ladybird. When he took her cell phone it showed that he was no slow coach, and she had bared witness to the devastation one punch of his could wreck. In addition, his turning up on her doorstep, as it was, proved that without any knowledge given to him, he could find her. That fight or flight instinct seemed to be set to flight in Ladybird, as she made her way to that fire escape that probably served as her exit point the night of the bank job. More than a little miffed at the attack on his fedora, Sledge shoved it back onto his head and started giving chase after her. However he halted with his hands on the doorframe.

Wait, take a moment to think. There was an investigation. When he had told her the list of powers that were being advertised for, the only one that she really had anything to comment on was one who could see the past. Alright, so he only mentioned two options, but why nothing about the psychic thing? Seems to him that people would be concerned about having their private thoughts pried into without their consent. Why did she argue about the power to see into the past? Did she know something that he didn’t. What was her tone when she had talked about it. Aggressive, as he would have expected, and a little guarded. Was it just that he had made his way to, and into her apartment? Highly likely, though Sledge wasn’t going to count out the possibility that she may be aware of a mutant who could see the past. “C’mon. I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe,” he said, well aware that Ladybird wouldn’t hear him as she leapt away. Time to play act for anyone who was watching. He lifted his fedora slightly and ran a hand through his hair, his face a mask of concern. Sledge scavenged about the flat, trying to find something that he could leave a note with. Hunching over the scrap of paper he scribbled down a few brief words. Are you innocent? Please tell me so. The paper scrap was small enough that he was able to crumple it underneath one hand. Crumpling the note made a fist, and having a fist meant that when he pulled his hand away, the motion of destroying the note would be hidden in the speed. Perhaps a waste of a punch, but if a past seer were to say he wrote a note, the lack of it would cast doubt on the testimony.