ArchivedLogs:Trick Shots

Trick Shots
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien
In Absentia	2016-04-19 "Are we talking verbal chastisement or the more projectile kind?"
Location <NYC> Empty Lot - Queens
The low income housing that once occupied this sizeable lot was demolished years ago to make way for some manner of high-speculation commercial development which, for one reason or another, never came to be. As the grounds have been left largely alone in the interim, nature has moved in to to reclaim it. Trees of Heaven have sprouted up along the edges, near the fence line, and here and there small patches of vegetables can be found--volunteers, or the offspring of seed bombs, perhaps. Toward the center of the lot, the soil is poorer, choked with brick and concrete and other ghosts of the building that was, yet even there, weeds grow exuberant and lush. Spring has come to the city, and the lot has exploded in wildflowers. Trillium and violet, buttercup and hepatica, speedwell and bluebells and columbines all vie for a little foothold in the afternoon sunlight, attended by hosts of butterflies and bees. In the midst of all this raucous color Clint looks rather drab in a black tanktop and cargo pants, though his belt, at least, is a perhaps startlingly vivid shade of purple. He wears tinted goggles (also with a purple trim), and the quiver on his back looks severely over-engineered. Atop a half-buried chunk of concrete concealed by ground ivy and clovers, he looks a bit like he is standing on flowers. He lifts his bow, an arcane and clearly custom-made contraption with a dial by the grip whose purpose most archers could not readily guess, nocks an arrow with a strange, blunt head carved with spiral slits. Draws it back kind of /casually/, he looses it downrange, though not actually at any of the impromptu targets set up there. The arrow does not fly straight. In fact, its path curves rather steeply, out across the empty lot and spiraling back /toward/ its origin point, though it's shed so much speed that a stray gust of wind knocks it off-course, and so much altitude that it finds the ground before it would have reached Clint in any event, plowing into a patch of dandelions and sending their seeds into flight. Lucien is only just wandering in, at an unhurried amble. He's adding only a hint more colour to the vivid landscape, himself -- jeans that were probably once black but long since faded to grey, an black athletic tee trimmed in emerald green, his (black!) carrying bag slung over one shoulder. He pauses, head tilting to watch the curving path of Clint's shot; when he continues on it isn't much farther, stopping again a bit downwind of the downed arrow. One hand lifts, fingers curling through stray wisps of feathery seeds; a few light against his palm though most dance through his fingertips, continuing onward. It's a moment longer before he releases the remaining seeds, hand raising further to wave at Clint. Though still not quite approaching. His eyes skip away, following the path of a swallowtail winging from one flower to the next. Clint waves back, then hops down from his low perch and picks his way over to the downed arrow. He kneels to retrieve it and, still kneeling, turns it over in his hand thoughtfully. "There's a trick," he tells Lucien as he rises, "to making it return low and slow enough that you can snatch it out of the air as it passes you. Always impressed the audience, but I could never do it as reliably as my brother." He shakes the arrowhead to dislodge the dirt and detritus that it gathered upon its landing. "Como esta?" "I would have been quite impressed," Lucien replies seriously, pulling his eyes away from the butterfly to look at the strange arrow instead. "Does /he/ still -- circus? -- I suppose for the moment I will content myself being rather taken by your choice of locale. It is -- a far cry from how this spot used to be." He unslings his bag from his shoulder, dropping it into his hand as he ambles closer. "{Delighted, actually.}" This brief slip into Spanish is accompanied by no actual change in his neutral expression. "I do hope the online hordes have not been treating you too horribly?" Clint watches Lucien quite intently. "Trick--my brother, Trick--performs in a different kind of circus these days." He smiles a sharp, crooked smile. "Less shooting arrows in unitards and more filing suits in suits. There's been more and more lots like this, last couple of years, but this one's been around a while longer and has more character. How did it used to be? Built up, I'm sure." Sparing only a quick--if appreciative--look around, he tilts his head to one side and studies Lucien. "Good. I have the trolls well in hand, but really, it's been slow for theatre news--as I'm sure you're aware." /This/, at least, does put a faint quick glimmer of smile on Lucien's face -- a few bars of "Razzle Dazzle" sung quietly under his breath. "/Really/? That is an interesting career switch." His head shakes as he sets his bag down beside the slab of concrete Clint had been perching on, opening it to get his own compound bow and quiver from inside -- sturdy and well-made, certainly, but nothing like Clint's complicated contraptions. He tips his head up again when he speaks, though: "Not nearly so /colourful/, for one. And I am --" For a moment his lips thin, just a little wry. "-- /Acutely/ aware." His expression slips quietly back into neutral calm. "And the /offline/ hordes? With the city so restive, security work must be -- well. Hopefully still paying the bills." "Said he wanted to fight the injustice of our justice system and not be broke while he was at it." Clint's shoulders hitch up, a small tic of a shrug. "Thought he was pulling my leg until he was two semesters into law school." He brings the arrow in his hand back to the concrete block, where he'd left his backpack and a long, flat case. "/My/ business is always good, though. If you mean the shambling hordes, I've not seen much of that. The arson-and-assault kind haven't shown much interest in folks like me or neighborhoods like mine." Opening the latter, he snaps the boomerang arrow into a set of plastic brackets alongside other arrows with oddly shaped points. He brings the case over and props it open on the concrete slab between them. Straightening up, his finger slides over the dial on his bow and some mechanism moves inside the quiver on his back, pushing one arrow up which he draws. It has a blimp-shaped head with lateral lines that suggest it probably opens, much like the bola arrow Lucien had seen. "But I've chastised a couple here and there." He lets it fly at one of the targets downrange--an unwieldy cairn of broken concrete and brick. The point does indeed split open when it strikes its mark (the cairn rattles but remains standing), spraying out a net with small weights along its edge which swing out and wrap around the target. /That/ pile of rocks isn't going anywhere. "Have current event brought much trouble to you and yours? Oh, feel free to give those a shot." With a casual gesture at the case of trick arrows. "I've labelled them, there's nothing in there that would get white human-looking males arrested." "Injustice. That is a broad brush. The world is hardly short on /that/ -- these days or any other." Lucien's brows hitch up, smile a touch wider at the deployment of the net arrow. He slips on a lightweight (black and green!) armguard, plucks a finger tab from his bag, settles his quiver onto his back, but leaves his own (ordinary) (black-and-green fletched) arrows tucked away inside, moving instead to examine Clint's open case. "Quite considerate of you. I am well sure the police have other worries than some target practice, anyway. I meant the very much still living hordes. Greenwich has been somewhat incendiary these past weeks." A very faint frown crosses his brows. "-- Occasionally literally. Thankfully all my stretch of neighborhood has seen is some marching." His fingers hover lightly over the case, eyes flitting from one label to the next before plucking one labeled 'Grapple' from its slot. Studying it for a moment. "Are we talking verbal chastisement or the more projectile kind? I imagine a couple of these would make people feel /thoroughly/ chastened." He's eying the net again -- perhaps with a hint of amusement before he fits the arrow he's chosen to his bow. He remains standing, beside the slab of concrete, sighting downrange and letting it fly at a rocky target to the left of Clint's fallen net. "I don't know how broadly or narrowly he was thinking about his life's calling, but he works with human rights orgs to end indefinite detention and extrajudicial killings, so." Clint's lips press together flat, though his expression remains otherwise unchanged. "I guess that's something." He's quiet for a moment, watching Lucien prep. "Oh, I've definitely done some chastising with that," nodding at the deployed net, "and the bola. It smarts when they strike, and leaves an awful bruise, but it beats what they were bent on doing." Clint looks down at the case of trick arrows, finally smiling again. "Yeah. But still, I left out the arrows most likely to lead to 911 calls." He evidently doesn't consider /explosive/ arrows to be among the things that might draw undue attention. The grappling arrow has a point comprised of three gleaming metal claws all flush together above a cylinder. It's heavy, but if properly elevated it flies true. Where it strikes just below the center of the target, a small cloud of reddish brick dust rises, soon to clear away on the cool breeze and reveal the arrowhead has gouged into the brick and split into three wicked prongs, holding it firmly in place. "Oh, right," he adds, "there's a tab at the base of that cylinder on the shaft, you can loop it around or through an anchor point before you fire it so that it will trail a cable. How much weight it can bear, though, really varies on what you shot, at what angle, etc. etc." He frowns. "Did I mention it's a miracle we lived through our teens?" Lucien's brows have lifted, together with a slight widening of eyes, a soft puff of laughter expelled as the cloud of dust blows away. "My goodness. How do you find /time/ for work, I would be playing with these all day. You know," his brows lift higher, a twitch of smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "if you are not /already/ possessed of a Green Arrow outfit, I know some quite excellent costume designers." He looks back to the case -- picks again, this time an arrow marked 'explosive'. "A miracle, for sure. I don't know that most people's wayward youths were any less reckless, but I know I, at least, was much more inadequately /outfitted/ for calamity." He says this more wistfully than with any /criticism/. Holding the arrow up before he fits it to his string, his smile is still entertained. "If these are your safer bets I admit I am /deeply/ curious what trouble the ones you left at home might cause." Clint's smile is small and quick, there and gone. "Security work. I get to play with these /and/ get paid for it." He tilts his head and studies the case, considering. "I do have a few costumes, though, Green Arrow included--it is /kind/ of obvious." The explosive arrow ends in a slender metal cylinder, relatively simple compared to some of the other, more baroque-looking arrowheads. Nor is this one quite as heavy as the grapple arrow, though it looks less aerodynamic. He looks off at the line of trees, eyes distant, keeping Lucien in his peripheral vision. "Yeah, we were definitely /outfitted./ Though equipment we used while with the circus was...a lot cruder than this. We didn't have anything that exploded quite like that," he indicates the arrow on Lucien's bow. "And even that's not a /lot/ of explosive. Honestly, many of the ones I left out are /less/ destructive. Just really specific, really bright, or really loud." Then, with a slightly thoughtful frown. "At least one would temporarily deafen you without /serious/ ear protection." He picks up the boomerang arrow again, rolls it between his fingers, considering. "So, given that stage is not taking up so much of your time lately, how are you keeping busy?" "This is my envious face." Admittedly, it looks striking like Lucien's aiming-his-exploding-arrow face, focusing now on a target at one edge of the range. "Which one do you have the most fun with, then?" He watches long enough for his arrow to strike its concrete target before turning, looking curiously at the boomerang arrow in Clint's hand. Then up at the other man's face. "You'd be surprised how much time the stage takes up when I am not actually on it. If only the drudgery of endless auditioning /paid/ I would be so much better off." His eyes tip up toward the sky, weight tipping back onto his heels. "But in my downtime I still entertain, after a fashion. The Hellfire Club pays me to make sure their members are satisfied with their stay. It has," he says this with the mildest touch of regret twitching his lips downward, "only rarely led to on-the-job archery." The explosive arrow, even when carefully aimed, hits the target a little lower than Lucien had intend. The effect is perhaps not as dramatic as one might expect--a sharp noise like a small firecracker going off, a small flare, a puff of smoke. But when the smoke and the dust from the concrete has cleared, there is a small, blackened crater in the concrete block where the arrow had struck it. Clint waits until Lucien has finished speaking before he fits the boomerang arrow to his bow and fires it, more elevated this time than before. "Though really, ninety percent of the time I'm paid to notice the threats before they get within shooting range. If I have to shoot anything at all, something has probably gone wrong." The arrow spins out over the field of wildflowers, above the targets, and begins describing a long, lazy arc back toward the archers. "The Hellfire Club, huh?" The lift of his tone is miniscule, ditto the lift of his eyebrows. "/That/ I do not envy you, unless those rich and powerful scumbags are very much more pleasant than the rich and powerful scumbags I've had to babysit over the years." "They're likely very similar sorts of rich and powerful scumbags. My position as a glorified concierge has not infrequently required /finding/ them security once the city starts to discomfit them with its surplus of mutants and undead." Lucien's eyes trace the slow curving path of the arrow; he reaches one hand up to swipe it out of the air as it glides back past them. "They /do/ say the best self defense is avoiding a fight at all. -- Do you /enjoy/ it?" His lips twitch very faintly. "Rich scumbags aside." "Well, then. Keep Castle Security in mind, next time you need to make your rich scumbags feel safe." Clint's endorsement sounds rather mild, all things considered. His keen brown eyes follow the path of the boomerang arrow, and he smiles broadly when Lucien catches it out of the air. "And no audience to applaud us." He shakes his head and tsks. "The work? It can be on the boring side, but it keeps me sharp and lets me handle things my own way--ridiculous gadget arrows or not. So." His shrug is noncommittal. "Yes, I do. I realize it's somewhat uncommon, to take particular pleasure in the work that pays one's bills." His finger plays over the dial on his bow, and the mechanism inside his quiver rotates quietly, cycling through his arrows. "Do /you/ enjoy your--glorified concierge duties?" "Even without accolades, I must admit that feels most gratifying." Lucien turns the arrow over in his hand, looking down at it for a moment to study its unusual head. "Is there a trick to how to shoot it properly?" His head tilts slightly at Clint -- then dips in acknowledgment, a slight flush creeping in to darken his ears. "Uncommon. Yes. Sometimes I take for granted, working in theatre, how rare it is to --" He shakes his head quickly, flips the arrow back over to point outward again. "The Hellfire Club has a /most/ fantastic library. I quite enjoy having access to /that/." His gaze lingers for a moment on the dial of Clint's bow, skipping between it and the mechanized quiver. Then back to the man's face. "What /is/ your way?" "There /is/, but I never got the hang of it." Clint's mouth pulls to one side as he, too, studies the arrow in Lucien's hand. It's somewhat barrel-shaped head, deep curving slits carved into its sides. "Trick always said you need to see the whole arc in your head before you fire it. As for /my/ tip--it's not heavy, but it has a lot of drag, so give it more loft than you think you need." He takes his index finger off the dial on his bow and tilts his head at Lucien. "That is an excellent perk. Probably not the one most people would think of first." He turns, looks downrange. "My way is to see the situation as it /is/, as it happens on the ground, not as someone thought it should happen beforehand." He half-smiles at this, but there is something hard and edged in the expression. "To /adapt./" "Does he still go by that when lawyering?" A warm amusement lights Lucien's eyes as he fits the arrow to his bow, now. It is joined by a small quirk of smile when he looks back to Clint -- though brief, ghosting away together with the glimmer of laughter. "A useful skill far beyond any confines of work, I suspect. The world is quite ill-mannered when it comes to meeting /expectations/." He lifts his bow, draws back the string; for a moment hesitates, eying their lot thoughtfully. Adjusts a bit higher before letting it go, brows already furrowing in uncertain consideration of its path. "If only! His legal name sounds even sillier." Clint gives a short bark of laughter. "Security field is full of ex-military types who are very hung up on their SOPs and such, and for all that they preach versatility they often take it very poorly when their colleagues practice it. I don't take that kind of flak from my company." His eyes follow the boomerang arrow as flies out over the field, swings to the left again and starts making its way back toward them. It looks like it will probably go out too far, but Clint just takes a few steps over, hopping off of the concrete block and reaching up to snatch the arrow from the air. "Yep. It's still very satisfying." He turns back to Lucien, twirling the arrow between his fingers with surprising facility. "Not that I doubt your ability to improvise, but you strike me as a man who is always prepared." "Is your company different, or are you just particularly at ease challenging rigid ex-military types in their would-be authority?" Lucien's smile brightens; at the catch of the arrow he claps cheerfully. "All the more impressive for catching it on my terrible shot." He lowers his bow to his side, resting one foot up against the concrete block Clint had perched on. "Do I?" With mild curiosity. "You only say that because you have thankfully never seen me in rehearsal." "Gracias." Flourishing the boomerang arrow, Clint takes a deep bow. "My company has its share of stodgy military types, but my boss recognizes my value and lets me do my thing." He returns the arrow to the case and studies Lucien sidelong, dark brown eyes unblinking. "Yes, you do. And rehearsal," he points out, "/is/ preparation. You cannot be prepared without that, and--there's a reason the audience doesn't see it." His smile is perhaps just a little fey. But the mysterious edge to it vanishes a fraction of a second later, replaced with kind of boyish glee again. "Next time, I'll bring some target drones." "Having that kind of freedom -- is almost as valuable a thing as finding work you enjoy. And almost as rare." Lucien settles down, sitting on the edge of the concrete. "I find it generally best to be ready for -- well." His smile is just a little crooked. "As I said, the world is rarely considerate when it comes to expectations. If you are ready for many eventualities it doesn't catch you so off-guard when plans A thru F have fallen spectacularly apart." His expresion lights, too, at this mention, eyes tipping up to study the sky. "Next time."