ArchivedLogs:We're Good

We're Good
Dramatis Personae Chloe, Deanna
In Absentia	2014-03-18 ka-BOOM.
Location <NYC> East Village and <NYC> Village Lofts - Third Floor - East Village and <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Historically a center of counterculture, the East Village has a character all its own. Home to artists and musicians of many colours, this neighborhood is known for its punk vibe and artistic sensibilities. The birthplace of many protests, literary movements, it is home to a rather diverse community and vibrant nightlife. It's twilight, dim outside but not exactly dark, and in an alley across from a back door of the Lofts the tall buildings and lack of streetlamps make it shadier still. Across the way, a pair of figures waits on a fire escape at the neighboring building. Deanna has her dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, tucked out of sight beneath the hat pulled low over he ears and a scarf wrapped arund her neck and half her face and pushed down the back of her jacket. She's not watching the Lofts -- she's watching the mouth of the alley. Quiet, right now. In here there's not much except the complex's dumpsters, long neat row of massive containers separated for trash and recycling; not much reason for any except the residents of the building to come by. Chloe /is/ watching the Lofts. She's crouching in a kneel on the fire escape, trusting Deanna to do the job of lookout while she nocks her bow. "If they've got cameras out they may have cameras in. You can work quick, right?" Her hair is similarly pulled and tied back, buried beneath coat and scarf and hat. "Work quick cameras or no," Deanna answers gruffly. There's a creak of leather as she curls her arms across her chest, glaring down at the alleyway as if /daring/ someone to come for her. "Last thing I want is to tangle with that Holland punk." "I doubt he's the only one to worry about. They tend," Chloe's words come a little more gritted, a little more strained, as she aims. "To travel in /packs/." She looses her bow, arrow zinging up towards the camera trained on the back entrance. It misses, clatters to the ground. She exhales, shaking her head slightly as she fits a second. "Losing focus?" Deanna exhales a quick-sharp breath. "Sorry, should I not have mentioned Holland? Get you all worried now?" "Would /you/ like to try? It's a small-ass camera." Chloe exhales again, though the question of being worried puts a smirk on her face, visible more in the crinkle of eyes and shift of cheeks than in her covered mouth. "I shot him yesterday, you know," she carols sing-song to Deanna. "With a watergun. Seems like a nice kid, really. Over in the park. You should've /come/ to that damn festival, it was incredible. And I was talking to the organizers about it -- s'a time," she's nocking a second arrow now, "to put away your /differences/. /Everyone/ come play together regardless of -- background or ideology or --" Zzzzip, the next arrow flies, crunching in a thud of breaking plastic to shatter-thunk into the camera. It teeters where it's hit, for a moment, at then slides out to the ground stories below with a shower of plastic bits. "His family was there. Having a good time. Seemed like a good time /to/ have a good time." "You had a fucking waterfight with the guy." Deanna raises her eyebrows; she looks uncertain whether she should be amused by this or horrified. In the end, she settles on amused: "You /would/. We good now?" She looks to the camera, then to the door below. "Hang on, /hang/ on, just a little patience, okay. There's more than the one camera." Chloe keeps up a bright lively chatter as she does the work of taking out the rest, eyes focused on her task even if her conversational attention is casually elsewhere. "And I /did/. Colored water, colored -- powder, /fantastic/ Indian food -- have you been to that Tamarind place? It was /excellent/, we should go. Maybe tonight. You're going to be free tonight, right? No big plans?" There's a chuckle in her voice as she asks this, sparing a brief glance to the large bag on the fire escape with them. Deanna /rolls/ her eyes at Chloe. "We good now?" "Sugar," Chloe answers easily, "I am /always/ good." She presses her fingertips to the scarf over her mouth, a small kissing sound coming from behind it before she curls her hand in a cheerful wave towards -- well, nothing, the cameras once pointed at the entrance hang dark and useless. She tucks the bow back into the protective sling she wears on her back, swinging her way lightly down over the side of the fire escape to drop nimbly down a story, and then down to the dumpsters below before hopping lightly down to the ground. She busies herself with the door's lock, next, lockpicks extracted from her jacket to put to the task. Deanna is much slower in her descent, lacking Chloe's agile /monkey/-skills; she actually climbs down the fire escape stairs, still watching the entrance of the alley. She does lower the bag slowly down to the dumpsters before swing-dropping down the last story, landing in a crouch on the cold ground below. "We --" Chloe pushes the door open with a flourishing wave of hand. "-- We're good, now," she answers sunny-light. <NYC> Village Lofts - Third Floor - East Village The hallways here are not as bright as they once were, cheery yellow paint faded to a dingier shade, carpeting old and worn and threadbare. They are generally clean, though, despite the fading, diligently cared for by the building's maintenance. Up here, Deanna is quiet. Since she's normally /such/ a chatterbox -- but even her usual terse-gruff has faded into just a determined efficiency. She unzips her bag, set down now in the hallway outside apartment 304. And now it's /her/ turn to get to work. <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. The park is brightly colorful, still, scattered rainbow hues strewn all across a wide expanse of brittle-brown winter grass. It's a brilliant lingering cheer that puts a small bounce into Chloe's step. "/See/ what you missed?" Her gloved hand waves out, expansive, wide, to the leftover signs of celebration. "Next year. /Next/ year, I'm bringing you." Deanna's eyes skim across the park and despite herself, there's a small smile on her face. She has a phone in her hand, gloved fingers moving against the buttons. "Next year," over the sound of her words there's a sudden deafening crack-boom; it makes her voice sound tinny and distant in comparison when she continues speaking. The dim evening dark is lit, now, bright and warm from a flaring expanse of red-orange flame across the park and across the street. Farther off, there are screams. Deanna's voice is calm in comparison: "-- who the fuck knows where we're going to be." Chloe tucks her arm through Deanna's; in the cold of winter with the explosion in the background, the panic, it might look almost like she's huddling closer to the other woman in sudden shrinking-back from the noise. But her smile is easy as she starts to lead Deanna off. "Right here with you, sugar. Same as ever."