Logs:Vignette: Normal People

Vignette: Normal People
Dramatis Personae Clint, Trick	2019-08-22 "This is why we never talk."
Location <NYC> Clint's apartment - Hell's Kitchen
As soon as Clint rounds the corner, he see lights in his windows, shining through the colorful tapestries--the blackout curtains aren't drawn. He waits until he's inside the building before deploying bow and quiver, then quietly ascending the three flights of stairs to his apartment. The smell of strong coffee and greasy pizza wafts down the hall. Clint dials up and draws an arrow with metal prongs protruding from its cylindrical head. His door is unlocked, and he crouches down low to push it open, aiming his shot into the apartment. Though small, this studio has tall, stately windows that let out onto a fire escape with a commanding view of the streets below. The entryway is flanked with a closet on one side and a bathroom on the other, and is the only uncluttered space in the whole apartment. Brightly colored banners adorn the walls and all manner of puppets and stuffed animals line the shelves such that the entire place looks like a carnival in miniature. The floors are covered with busy central asian carpets and littered with plush cushions, except in the kitchenette, where the narrow counters are crowded with jars upon jars of custom seasoning blends and locally roasted coffees, all with ridiculous names. A tight spiral of floating stairs leads up to a loft half taken up by a big, fluffy bed and an armoire, the remainder of the space there given over to an L-shaped workbench below a pegboard laden with tools. A scruffy brown mutt pads into view and wags his tail languidly while licking his chops. A tall, solidly built man in a sharp navy suit pokes his head out from the kitchenette a moment later. His brown hair is tidy, his blue paisley tie impeccably knotted, and he holds a pot of coffee in one manicured hand. "Your locks are shitty, and so's your watchdog," he says, turning back whence he came. "Arrow isn't a watchdog." Clint sighs and straightens up, putting away his weapons, closing the door, and going to pet his dog. "Besides, you brought pizza. And before you start talking again, I can't hear you." The intruder looks over his shoulder from where he had been digging in the cabinet. "Batteries dead?" "Hearing aids don't help anymore." Clint shoots back curtly. He gives Arrow's floppy ears a vigorous scruffing, then stands up again. Fishing a small black fob from his pocket, he presses a button on it and waits for a green LED to light before putting it away again. "Why couldn't you just text me back like a normal person, Trick?" "We are not normal people," Trick retorts, all mock indignity. "Your message was so fucking cryptic, I didn't know what to make of it." He turns back toward the counter and pulls an ancient Les Miserables mug from the drying rack. "So your solution was breaking and entering your brother's home." Clint looks up and watches Trick fill the mug with steaming coffee. "This is why we never talk." Trick turns around and holds out the mug. "We never talk because we're both stubborn assholes, and you," he says, a corner of his mouth twitching up, "are only mad because you were hoping for someone else." "Yeah, maybe someone who would have put up a fight." Clint accepts the coffee, mirroring his brother's smile. The exchange seem to broker an unspoken truce, and some measure of the tension bleeds from the air between them. Trick just waggles his eyebrows. "I'll bet." Clint rolls his eyes and takes a careful sip of his coffee. His sigh of satisfaction sounds almost involuntary. "On the other hand, you're a coffee sorcerer, so I guess I won't kick you out just yet." He sits backwards in a chair at what passes for his dining table--really just a sturdy card table--and peers under the lid of the almost comically immense pizza box before pulling out a slice of pepperoni and cheese. "Besides, I really do need your help." Trick picks up his own coffee--this mug imprinted with the silhouettes of Glinda and Elphaba--but it freezes halfway to his mouth and he just stares at his brother. "Well, shit." A beat later, "Am I gonna want a drink?" Clint points without looking. "Left of fridge, eye level." Trick opens the cabinet indicated and starts poking through Clint's impressive liquor stocks. "You're low on Jack," he turns around to inform him, wagging the near-empty bottle. "And since when do you drink vodka? I thought you hated the stuff." With his mouth full of pizza, Clint makes no answer except to shrug. Trick finally comes out with what he was looking for: Jameson's. He tops his coffee off with the whiskey and offers the bottle to Clint with upraised brows. Clint washes down his food with regular coffee and holds out the mug for spiking, which his brother does generously. He signs 'thank you' with his other hand. "I know you don't approve of my work. I don't think you're wrong to be suspicious, and I've always had my own reservations. Probably always will." "Buuuut you're not going to quit." Trick raises his eyebrows and takes a deep draught of his Irish coffee. "I'm not going to quit," Clint agrees placidly, reaching into one of the many pockets on his pants and coming out with a pair of small, oblong metallic objects. "But I need somewhere safe for this." He offers one of them them to his brother. Trick reaches out and takes the thing, squinting at a seam encircling it and then uncapping it to reveal a standard USB-A plug. "It's a drive." He doesn't sound terribly impressed. "You've been in the secret agent business too long, Lil' Bro. I am not going to be your dead man's switch." "It's encrypted with our old passphrase." "Which one? We had dozens." "The stupid one." "They were all stupid." "The first one." Trick stops short. Looks up at his brother. "From the treehouse?" Arrow's attention has been bouncing from one brother to the other at this back-and-forth, and seems perplexed by the disruption in its rhythm. He trots over to Clint and sits down beside him, leaning heavily against his leg. "Yes." Clint looks down at the identical drive in his hand, rolling it over in his palm meditatively. His other hand drops to Arrow's head, scritching sort of automatically. "It's not a dead man's switch. It's data from a mission that my agency may see fit to misplace. I just need you to keep it safe." Pulling in a deep breath and letting it out again, Trick nods. "Alright, Clint. I'll keep it secret, too. But if I start talking to it at night and calling it 'Precious', I'm coming after you." Clint doesn't rise to the reference. Just talks a long gulp of his coffee. Trick frowns and comes over to the table, pulling out a chair for himself. "What's the other one for, then?" His voice is suddenly gentle, sincerely. Clint's lips press into a thin, unhappy line. "I'm not sure yet."