ArchivedLogs:Parallax

Parallax
Dramatis Personae Isra, Jim	2014-03-07 And then there were two. (Part of perfectus TP.)
Location <NYC> Bronx
The northernmost of New York's five boroughs, the Bronx... well. You might get shanked. With the subtle hint of spring out today, bringing temperatures up to to the 40's, the Bronx weighs itself under melting dirty snow, a gritty layer of salt and a lot of puddles. Taxis sail by casting up gray roostertails of slush, the eclectic clothing of sometimes-warm, mostly-cold present where girls wear shorter skirts with heavy winter jackets; a trio of young men hang out on their front stoops in wifebeaters with earmuffs. A few confused green crocuses are poking up from a square of empty sidewalk where presumably a tree had once been growing and had since been chopped away. These later may be Jim's fault; he stands beside them, dressed in tatty tweed with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, one eye squinted shut against its rising smoke and, for all external appearances, staring into the sun. That, or looking up at the towering Kingsbridge Armory, looming up the street beyond a row of railroad tracks. Isra emerges from the subway in a royal purple cape that exposes the sage green linen dress and black satchel underneath, gray face half-hidden in the recesses of a generous hood. Her feet are wrapped in layers of black cohesive bandage--damp and caked with road salt--and her hands in fingerless black gloves that expose sharp but well-kept talons. She scans the street, green eyes gleaming faintly in the shadow, and makes her way toward Jim. "Good afternoon. I hope you have not waited long." "Sweetheart," Jim doesn't immediately look away from the his targeted range, "you do as many stakeouts as I have, you get to realize eighty percent of what you do is waiting." A hand fishes into a pocket, withdrawing a folded up sheet of paper; it's glossy back suggests a photograph, and only then looks to Isra. His eyes are dry, faintly bloodshot. It makes the faded blue of his iris all the more stark and severely present-minded. "How're you for hovering?" Accepting the paper with a faint nod, Isra does not immediately unfold it. She studies Jim for a moment, impassive and still but for a slow, regular swish of her tail. "I can do it, but not very well and not very long." Her wings rustle under the cape as she tilts her head, considering. "Thirty second stretches, at most, before losing altitude." She unfolds the missive in her hands and examines it. Studying Jim finds a man clenched in, braced and fraying at the hems; or possibly just literally, with skin drying and flaking away as though he'd picked up a rash. "Thirty seconds," he murmurs, "S'precise. Let's grab a coffee." Without further preamble, he turns his back on the whole affair to skulk down the sidewalk, smoke drifting out between his teeth. Apparently trusting Isra to accompany him as he strides. The paper, when unfolded, reveals a drawing - or, closer inspection might note, a photograph /of/ a drawing, zoomed in on the image of a window, through which can be seen the distinct shape of the distant Armory. Jim is musing on, "How'd you get pulled in on all this." Isra hesitates, eyes fixed on the photograph. Then she catches up to Jim--easily, in two long strides--and falls into step beside him, tail swaying faster now. "I am Anole's faculty advisor." She leaves it at that, as if it explained everything. "This image...is draw from his perspective, then? We could narrow down the elevation with some rather simple math." One bare eyebrow ridge arches in Jim's direction. "Or hovering, I suppose?" "Looks /and/ brains, huh?" Jim plucks loose his cigarette to throw it at traffic, and then shakes out his hand like it'd left a /residue/, "Dusk's movin' up in taste. Yeah, what I was figuring. Was about to do the former but--" He opens a palm in Isra's favor; he's actually facing her when he does it, turned to walk backwards through the door of a woebegone corner coffee and sandwich shop. At midday, it's only occupied by two men hunkered off to the side and only half stripped out of their construction clothes. "Y'know. Hovering, right?" He rolls along the door to keep it open for his company, and by the time he's rolled off it he's fully entered, "They brought you up t'speed on all," he flicks a finger towards the photograph, "this shit?" Stepping into the shop, Isra's eyes dart from Jim to the counter, then back. She carriers herself lower, as if expecting to offset a charge, and starts to pull the cape around herself more fully. Then she stops and shakes her head. "Dusk's tastes run rather broad. There's nothing special about me." The effort to say this softly makes the duality of her high-and-low voice more apparent, the bass register resonating not unpleasantly in the enclosed space. "He did brief me on the provenance of the drawing--quite remarkable, that. I suspected that flight would prove a significant asset in this endeavor. You are familiar with this area?" "And gettin' more intimate by the day," Jim utters, head turning to observe his company through the corner of an eye, as the resonance of her voice washes the room - or possibly for her choice of words. One of the construction workers glances up from his sandwich, frowning. "Every temple, Chinese-American snackshack and /divebar/ in the joint. Been staking it out for near a week now. Paring the search area down," one of Jim's hands is active, running a thumb pad rapidly along the side of an index finger, features otherwise gruff, composed, stepping up to the counter, "You want anything?" "Just a coffee, thank you." Isra opens her satchel and comes out with a lavender thermos and a wallet. "Black, if you please." She does not pay the other patrons much mind, though from some angles one can see that, beneath the hood, she has one pointed ear cocked in their direction. "I have some not inconsiderable experience dealing with perspective and distance in visual observation--though granted typically with a great deal more computer equipment, and more detailed images. Where shall we start?" For now, the workmen at their corner table keep their peace, and Jim retrieves the coffees without molestation - he pays for his own with mostly dimes, a wadded up ball of a one dollar bill, likely whatever currency Isra contributes increases the neatness of its mean, and then turns away, handing her her cup. "Probably could use a computer in this as well; no reason to do your math streetside. You should come on with me - called in a favor and I got a window of about an hour to measure the Armory's side and windows. Hell, we get enough together we can toss it into that 3D monstrosity 'Bastian gave Hivey, print you up a whole fucking model." It can't be said he doesn't breath marginally easier once the two of them have made it outside again. "Mean time?" He slants a hard grin, jerking his head up the street. "Let's go poke around." Jim's favorite past time.