ArchivedLogs:Cat Fight

Cat Fight
Dramatis Personae Anette, Morgan
In Absentia	Friday, November 10, 2017 Part of the Future Past TP.
Location <NYC> 202 {Anette} - Sunrise Apartments - Clinton
This studio apartment is not big, the living area L-shaped with the entrance at one end and a kitchenette found at the other, its linoleum old and peeling. The shabby carpeting in the combination livingroom-bedroom area carries the stains and smells of tenants long past, frayed and peeling at its corners with the ghosts-scents of smokers of yesteryear. In the cramped bathroom in the back, water damage stains the walls. As does rust, around the showerhead in the tiny shower stall. Not much in this apartment has changed in the last few years. It looks as dirty and moldy as ever. What little furniture scattered about looks like it was scavenged after a hurricane. The only clue that someone even lives here are the food boxes and laundry scattered everywhere and the pile of dirty dishes that just haven't gotten washed yet. Currently, Anette happens to be at home for once, with bags of groceries sitting on the floor next to her as absent-mindedly puts them away semi-neatly. Safe in her home, she doesn't bother with her usual coats, her wings relaxed and free as she walks about barefoot and wearing a modified tanktop and ripped jeans. Still, despite her relaxed demeanor, she is cautious of her security. The door is currently locked, chain-locked, and deadbolted and the windows are locked, blinds closed. But then again, this is a VERY cheap flat, who knows are useful those really are? Henry Crane has lived next door to Anette for the past four years. Retired and divorced, he lives alone with his cat. Every morning at approximately 6:30 AM after feeding his cat, Mr. Crane goes down to the local coffee shop, where he researches and writes letters to various celebrities. By 8:00 AM, he goes to the nearby U.S. Post Office, where he mails off between three to four letters at a time. Every evening at 5:00 PM, Mr. Crane goes to the local pub where he consumes three to four draught beers during Happy Hour. Every Friday for delivery at approximately 8:30 PM, Mr. Crane orders from the same Chinese take-out restaurant. Today is Friday. Unfortunately for Mr. Crane, he doesn't open the door the handsome young delivery boy from Happy Garden. Instead, he opens to the barrel of a .22 Sig Sauer Mosquito. That's what brings Mr. Crane knocking importunately on Anette's door at approximately 8:35 PM on a Friday night, flourishing a few thick white envelopes that are presumably filled with mail meant for her. The chubby, sweaty little hermit smiles and waves frantically up at the peephole. Anette tenses as she hears the door knock. Very few people know she lives here and none of them have a sensible reason to be knocking on the door on a Friday night. She quickly grabs her coat and throws it over her shoulders, tucking her wings out of sight. She also slips on a pair of black gloves to cover the talons that have relatively recently grown from her fingers. Slowly, she makes her way to door and looks through the peephole. The distorted face of Mr. Crane greets her and, with a moment's hesitation, she unlocks the door and opens it as much as the chain will allow. She and Mr. Crane have never said more than a passing hello to each other, misplaced mail is usually just dumped outside her door. "Can I help you?" she asks, a yellow eye peaking out from behind the door as it suspiciously scans Mr. Crane. "Heya, neighbor! I-I-I got some of your mail here," Henry stammers, smacking his overly salivating lips together nervously. He holds up the letters, "Came to me by mistake. Little too thick to slide under the door, y'know?" The trembling man holds the envelopes out, but doesn't cross the threshold of the door with his reach. She'd have to come to him. Anette weighs her options and the risks involved, eventually decided that Mr. Crane is about as harmful as a fruit fly so she closes the door, slides the chain out, and opens it, just enough to reach her gloved hand out. "Alright, I'll take it then," she says, intending to end this as quickly as possible and resume her own hermit lifestyle. "Ah!" Mr. Crane screams as he's kicked right in the gut by a cowboy boot at the same time that another hand reaches out from a blind spot. Ungloved, slender fingers clasp around the doorknob to Apt. 202 as Henry flops into the adjacent wall. His weight shakes the floor. Morgan, tossing her long, luxurious blonde hair, moves to pull the door shut on Anette's wrist. Bringing the gun up to frame her face, she locks eyes with the other woman and sneers, "Fucking traitor bitch." By the time Anette's heightened senses pick up the second person present, her wrist has already been slammed into the door, pinning her in place. She screeches in pain, glaring at the woman who's suddenly pointing a gun at her. "Get out of here," she hisses. Mr. Crane's predicament doesn't seem to bother her much, all attention is focused on Morgan right now. "Not wanting to get killed doesn't make me a traitor." "You left me there!" Morgan spits. Releasing the door, she shifts her weight wildly and swings a muscular, jean-clad leg forward. Tossing her gun into her other hand, her trigger hand flies forward and she freezes her target: Anette. ...just as her honking brown boot hits its target: the motherfucking door. With her left hand, she extends the gun and shoots Mr. Crane in the back. Having been scrambling to safety, Henry falls onto his stomach with a squeal halfway down the hall. Not because he was a witness. On the contrary, she wants witnesses for this. ...She just shot him 'cause she's pissed. Anette suddenly finds herself immobile, though the throbbing pain in her wrist continues. Fortunately, it doesn't last long; unfortunately, it's cut short by her sudden crash to the floor. For better or worse, her wings have broken most of her fall. Unfortunately for Morgan, Anette can be a tad sensitive regarding her wings. The sound of the gun firing brings her back to her senses and in an instant she's shed her gloves and coat. She takes a page out of Morgan's book and slams the door shut, preferably while Morgan is either between it or on the other side. Unlike Morgan, she has her wings to give her an extra bit of strength, allowing her to use both legs to kick the door. That ought to make up for her now useless and likely broken right wrist. Unsuspecting, Morgan prowls confidently forward into the threshold and thusly, straight into the slamming door. Both of her hands fly up in defense but it's too late. Screaming like a banshee, she's a blur of wild, blonde locks as she flies back out into the hallway. The gun is lost and so is Morgan for a moment as lands in a fetal heap against the adjacent apartment's closed door. Anette lands on both feet, grinning at the distinct sound of Morgan hitting the ground. She opens the door, confidently stepping out into the hallway. Step one is kicking the gun WAY down, well out of Morgan's reach. Step two is using her good hand to wrap her talons around Morgan's neck, digging the tips in threateningly but not yet drawing blood. She positions Morgan's head to look her in the eye. "Tell me why I shouldn't rip your throat out right now," she growls, slowly tightening her grip on Morgan's neck as she grins sadistically. "Where's the fun in that?" Morgan gurgles, forcing up a pained, partially-crazed smile, "Wrist feelin' better?" Her voice is raspy under the pressure of Anette's claws. Tensing her neck, Morgan raises both outstretched hands. She freezes Anette, again. This time, she takes a moment to carefully catch her breath. Trembling, she stretches up her head to avoid the woman's talons. Her blue eyes shift into their corners as she tries to spot the gun ...and then slowly shift back to Anette. She seethes with rage at Anette's smug, frozen expression and does the only thing she can think of. ...She kicks her square between the legs. Anette suddenly finds herself frozen. Again. She waits impatiently as Morgan plans her next move, struggling to free herself from Morgan's power. Her wish is granted by the kick which, while it doesn't hurt as much as it could if she were male, is enough to cause a sharp stabbing pain and knock her backwards, breaking the freeze in the process. She winces in pain, curled on the ground as she tries to catch her breath. "Fuck the gun, fight me like a real mutant. Hiding behind a weapon like a human weakling. And you wonder why I left you behind. All you're good for is a fucking decoy!" she yells, seething with rage and pain as she slowly stands up to face Morgan again. Morgan pushes against the wall behind her. Lowering her head and shoulders like a bull, she charges forward all her might in an attempt to plow right into the other woman. "AaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" Anette sighs and with a quick beat of wings, Morgan suddenly finds herself running underneath Anette. Anette then turns to face Morgan, shaking her head. "This shit is what almost got us killed. And you wonder why I left?" Morgan stampedes into the apartment. Hair whirling, she spins around on her heel to face the doorway again. "Was that your plan all along? Let me get killed off?" She growls, chest heaving. The blonde saddles up into a shootout stance, both hands ready to draw at either side of her hips. "Shoulda slit my throat when you had the chance." Anette shakes her head, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. "No, I actually had faith in you. I thought you might actually be useful. Then you tripped the alarm and let the police catch up to you. In the end, it's everyone for themselves. I wasn't going to put my neck on the line to fix your mistake." Anette stretches out her wings, extending the talons on her good hand, stepping towards Morgan even as she's preparing to attack. "Now get the HELL out of my home before I DO rip your throat out!" Morgan flicks her eyebrows up, sucking in through her teeth and gesturing to the room around her, "Looks a little like it's my house now, bitch." She blinks hard, drawing up a big smile. She holds up both hands and motions with her fingers for Anette to come at her. "Tell a'girl the truth: Did you gain weight while I was gone?" She cock-tilts her head, flipping her hair in the process. Anette releases a high-pitched shriek, angrily storming her own apartment. Her talons are extended in front of her with the intention of raking them across Morgan's face. Morgan opens her fingers, jolting both of her palms forward to freeze the oncoming. The effect only lasts a second, though. She lunges her body to the side to avoid the attack, slamming into the kitchenette area. Anette freezes yet again, though this time it's only for a few seconds. When her movement returns, she skids to a halt, heading straight towards Morgan. Once again, her talons are extended, swiping them across Morgan's face. Suddenly, her eyes widen and she swivels her head unnaturally to face the window. Ignoring Morgan, she heads straight for the window and begins raising the blinds. The reason for her panic is soon made clear: sirens, an unusual number of them, even for New York, suddenly fill the air and grow louder with each passing second. Anette seems to have chosen her exit, though it may take some time with one good hand and a spinning head. Morgan screeches, cradling her bloodied face. She retreats backwards into a pile of unclean dishes. By the time she lowers her hands, she's alone in the apartment. Grunting, she pushes forward and takes off running. The blonde disappears into the labyrinth of hallways in the apartment building.