ArchivedLogs:Supply Drop

Supply Drop
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Regan
In Absentia	2013-10-16 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> BoM House - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. The safehouse has grown a lot more /things/ in it, lately; mattresses dragged in to give the upstairs a whole lot more sleeping-space, the kitchen overstocked with food, the dining room holding boxes of first-aid supplies and clothing. Regan is, at the moment, taking /inventory/. Of supplies and of space both, the woman marking down notes on her tablet to take stock of just /how/ many individuals the house can take. She's dressed casually, jeans, black ankle boots, a maroon v-neck t-shirt. Knock knock knock! There's a sleek black Aston Martin illegally parked just outside; the car looks rather out of place in this grubby neighborhood. So does Lucien, really, impeccably tailored grey slacks and vest, dark tie, crisp dress shirt. His hands fold behind his back after he knocks, car keys still dangling from one finger. Regan's eyebrows raise when she opens the door and views Lucien standing outside. She holds her tablet against her chest, eyes flicking over him slowly. "Can I help you?" "Lucien. I was told you were expecting me. I have --" Lucien lifts a hand, unlocking his car over his shoulder. He turns afterwards for it, opening up its trunk to haul out a large plastic tub crammed full of toiletries. Soap, shampoo, lotion, shaving cream, razors. Chapstick. Deodorant. There are more such tubs in the trunk -- towels and washcloths, toilet paper, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, mouthwash. Nail trimmers. Tweezers. A whole host of things. "-- Supplies. To add to your stores. The bins marked one through five are designated for this house." "Oh. Perfect." Regan glances down at her tablet, nodding to herself. She gestures Lucien inside, pointing through the living room into the dining room. "Straight in to the dining room. Just against the wall." She leaves the door open, stepping out of the house to trot down to Lucien's car and grab a second bin, following him up into the house to deposit the bin before returning for more. "You have a lot of stops to make after this?" "A few." Lucien returns to the car, too, taking two bins at a time this time, stacking them carefully as he returns to the house to deposit them. "Only the first of many, I am sure. I suspect this will be somewhat of an all-hands-on-deck effort, for a time." He stacks the bins in order, 1-2 3-4, surveying the dining room and its boxes of supplies once his hands are free. He plucks his keys back out of his pocket, heading towards the front door again. "Good thing, then," Regan answers lightly, "that I have a lot of willing hands around." She returns for the last bin, pausing on the front step to look Lucien over as he leaves. "But it's always nice to have extra pairs." Lucien exhales a soft breath, closing the lid of his trunk and circling around to the driver's side. "Have you met the man running this show?" he asks, amused. "There is a certain combination of warmth and conviction that is hard to refuse. I have a feeling he will not lack for hands to help." He opens the car door, stopping before getting inside to add, more thoughtfully, "-- So long as he lives, at least." He slips into the driver's seat, buckling his seatbelt. The car's motor purrs quietly to life, and he doesn't look back as he pulls away into the street.