ArchivedLogs:Debriefing

Debriefing
Dramatis Personae Chloe, Deanna, Elliott, Steve
In Absentia	2015-11-22 "{So! Same time next week?}" (Some time after patrolling is through. Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Technically, this cafe isn't open yet; not for another hour or so. But there are some benefits to being a long (long)-time regular -- and still more to being a regular who is the mayor. The table Elliott is sitting at is quiet, right now; the whole cafe floor is pretty quiet. Elliott's boot and the blade of her foot are both crusted with blood, her pants speckled with gore; her knives are sheathed at her hips. There's a plate of waffles in front of her, sausages on the side, a large glass of orange juice in her hand. She's kind of staring at the juice, her eyes a little unfocused. Blank. Staring. Despite this exhaustion her posture is still very straight. Deanna's sword is hung on the back of her chair. She is leaning forward in it, elbow propped on the table and fingers pushed through her thick dreads to hold them back off her face. She is also staring at her food. Though with a good deal of PURPOSE. Mostly because she is very busily plowing through a plate of scrambled eggs and hash brows, a small stack of pancakes on the side. Very Busily. Steve, though also quite bloody save where he has fastidiously scrubbed hands and face, does not look in the least weary. His shield, scuffed and still a little bloody, hangs from the back of his chair. He is digging into his very tall stack of pancakes. There are already two empty plates set off beside him, and a big mug of coffee. Chloe's hair is all flyaway wisps of curl, her boots similarly scuffed and bloodied though she's washed her calloused hands quite neatly too. Her bow, packed away in a carrying bag now, rests up against the back of her chair. Her eyes are tired, her shoulders a little drooping -- but there's a smile on her face as she spreads butter over her own stack of pancakes and takes a bite. With /relish/. "{So!}" Cheerfully. "{Same time next week?}"