Participants:
| Scene Title | Easier Said Than Done |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The above applies to many things as Gillian and Lene sit down for a late lunch/early dinner together. |
| Date | December 26, 2010 |
Situated in the basement of 17 Mott Street, the Wo Hop Chinese Restaurant caters to an Americanized Cantonese/Chinese menu. The restaurant was established in 1938, and is the only 24-hour Chinese restaurant in New York City. Wo Hop is an ecclectic restaurant, featuring the faces of celebrity guests plastered on its walls and some of the cheapest — and by many restaurant reviews most savory — Chinese food in all of New York City, topping even major Chinatown restaurants like the Golden Luck Dragon.
The Wo-Hop restaurant is a fixture in Little Italy, one of the most famous Chinese restaurants that survived the devastation of the Bomb four years ago. From its kitschy design to its well-reviewed menu, the restaurant has seen continued patronage through all the crisis and difficulties that New York City has undergone in the last four years. That the entire restaurant is owned by the Ghost Shadows Triad doesn't even seem to figure in the day-to-day running of the establishment.
"So then, he just crouches down and starts pulling out wires on this guy's explosive vest. I mean there's a whole bundle of C-4 just hanging around his stomach and this guy is going at it like he's fixing somebody's Macbook." Recounting the events of Christmas Eve, with some notable amendments for her own personal exploits, Jolene Marley stirs a plastic spoon in her steaming bowl of hot and sour soup, excitedly gesturing with her free hand as she converses across the table to Gillian like she's known the woman longer than the fifteen minute can ride.
"I guess it worked, right? Nobody died and we were all carded and shuffled off after getting the third degree. I heard FRONTLINE was there too for somebody else, it's so primal. I wish I'd seen them in action!" Slouching to one side, Lene tracks a wagging finger in the air, still stirring her too-hot-to-eat soup with her other hand.
FRONTLINE. There's a mild grunt at the mention of those people, but her memories of them probably aren't the best. "Well, luckily you were able to go home," Gillian says quietly, sipping on the soup from that large spoon as she pauses, looking across the table with a curious expression. Sometimes people are forthcoming, sometimes they are not. And at times she'd prefer ones who talk quite a lot over ones who hide secrets.
"That's an interesting story, though— and lucky. If it hadn't worked, we probably wouldn't have met. Unless you really are a ghost." She is a Marley, after all. "But did you happen to catch the guys name? The one who disarmed it? I…" she hesitates, wincing a little. She likes when others are forthcoming, it doesn't mean she likes it when she is.
"I know someone who could do something like that." A few someones, actually.
"Don't you read the papers?" One of Lene's burgundy-dyed brows lift at the notion. "Warren Ray, he's some kind of military contractor or something. He introduced himself right at the start, waving his Registry card around and stuff. Must be nice to get a tits job just like that because you've got some sort'a special ability." Tentatively testing her soup, Lene alights green eyes up to look across the table to Gillian.
"I take it you know Warren, then?" Her head slowly slants to the side, watching Gillian carefully. "Can't be too many people like him in the world, can there?" And for all her worth, Lene manages not to say and for good reason. Slurping at her soup after the question, the noisy rumble of Lene's cell phoen in her purse distracts her, causing the spoon to be returned to the bowl and her hand to begin rummaging around inside the glittery, red handbag.
"I've been— too busy to read newspapers," Gillian says, leaving out the fact she wasn't anywhere near a delivery point for them until a few days ago, and she just didn't see the point besides. "Warren Ray, huh— I've met him. He worked briefly with Redbird on something in the past, but I don't know if he'll work with them again. I'm not even sure if the job was offically on paper." That's a hint that she may not be supposed to say it.
Though Warren Ray being involved is certainly better than other people— what he would be doing at a Gala is beyond comprehension, though.
"Yeah, too many people like him would be a disaster, but there are a couple." Just like too many like her could be a disaster? Some abilities can pop up everywhere— others…
"One of your friends?" she asks, nodding toward the glittery handbag, and the distracting cellphone.
Fumbling with the cell phone in one hand — also red, like so many things on her person — Lene glances down to what is apparently a text message, blurting out a snorted laugh followed by a squeaky giggle. Setting down her spoon, she proceeds to start to text on her full keyboard like… an old man.
Click… click… click… backspace… click… tap… tap… click.
The may be the only youth in the entirety of New York City who is terrible at texting. Once she's finished possibly writing a transcript of War and Peace, the redhead sets down the phone and upturns her eyes back to Gillian. "Huh?" A vacant stare is offered, and then, "Oh! Oh yes— it was my roommate Ingrid." Though what made her burst out laughing is anyone's guess.
"So," Lene glances down to her phone, then back up to Gillian. "What's your favorite color?"
What?
When Lene looks back, it's to an amused raise of an eyebrow. Gillian herself is actually quite good at texting, so it's funny to see someone having such a time of it. She's tempted to look and see if the poor girl has a non-qwerty keyboard, cause that would explain half of it. Only qwerty keybroards are good for sending text messages. Anything else would be uncivilized.
"My what?" she asks with a cough, still caught up in how badly the young woman was at texting, and not quite getting the question. "My favorite color?" Weird question, but at least one she can answer easily enough. "Purple. More the darker and brighter than the pastels. But purple." Like her ability. Like many of her clothes— Like a carebear sitting on her bed back at the apartment.
She's wearing mostly black right now, but on a second or third look, there is purple in the sweater she wears, in small amounts.
"What about yours?" For a moment she looks at the glittery handbag, and the phone, but then she recalls the rainbow pompom hat.
"Red," as if no one could have guessed that. "I— had this red scarf I used to wear a lot. It's— not really fashionable anymore, I guess. I still have it though." Glancing down at her phone again, expectantly, Lene soon turns her attention back up to Gillian. "Purple's pretty cool though, I…" her brows crease together, green eyes avert to the tabletop and her lips downturn into a frown. "That's really cool," sounds despirited, followed by another askance glance to the phone.
Biting down on her bottom lip, Lene's brows furrow, her head shakes slowly and eyes fall shut. "This…" she hesitates, lips parting and hands curling into fists before finally relaxing. "Sorry I— I've been trying to put some personal stuff behind me, hoped that getting out of the office would help." Staring down into her hot and sour soup, Jolene looks tormented by something.
"At least the food's good…" she admits belatedly, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.
Red scarf. Red isn't an uncommon color for a scarf, not in any way, but it… Gillian frowns across the table as the younger woman stumbles around words and hesitates. Every question answered brings new ones, and curiousity is something very dangerous for her. In astrology, Scorpio's love mysteries, and she certainly does fit that description well.
"Is something about the office personal? This probably isn't the kind of place to…" she trails off, glancing around. If she'd known the connection to the mafia, she likely wouldn't have wanted to enter the place, but she doesn't.
Instead, she is more worried about certain topics being overheard.
"If you need someone to talk to, I'll listen." Cause she's curious or genuinely worried about what's bothering the girl? Is it okay to both, and a little more of the curious?
She certainly hopes so.
"I hold on to things for longer than I shouldn't, too, honestly. It's hard to let go of things that mattered. If it was easy, they might not have mattered as much as you thought they did."
Maybe it was the offer, maybe it was whatever has had her anxiously waiting for her phone to ring. Whatever the case, Jolene Chevalier looks like she's about to cry. "No…" she rejects in a wavering murmur, sliding hastily out of the booth they're sharing, reaching back to snatch her purse and phone, shoving the latter into the former before starting to button up her jacket. "I— I can't it's— complicated. I'm— I'm sorry."
It's not that she's sorry she's upset, that she's sorry she's going, but something else. It's painted on her face, in those dusky green eyes and the look of guilt that flashes across her face.
She's sorry she can't talk longer.
"I— I have to go. I'm— Ingrid needs me back at the apartment." It's not entirely a lie, but just mostly one.
Oh that just makes her more curious. Gillian starts to stand as she does, looking worried, and knowing that, in some situations, she would have done the same thing— had done the same thing. Some things are too personal to share. "Lene, wait, I'm sorry," she starts, raising her hands from the table and the meal that she hasn't completely paid for yet. She's not worried about paying for it, but she's worried about…
"You don't have to tell me. If you need to just forget about it, you can come by and we can go do something, we don't have to talk about those things. There's movies and books and all kinds of things we can talk about besides that…"
Though that doesn't satisfy her curiousity. It never has. But she knows what it's like to want a distraction. That's what she'd been doing for most of the last year. Distracting herself. Then throwing herself back into what she thought she left behind— then distracting herself again.
"I'm sorry I got too personal. Maybe you can tell me about your roommate next time." She won't try to stop the girl, but— that should be a safe topic, right?
Lene is wordless, and despite the arguably delicate approach, all the young redhead just continues to retreat. Her jaw tenses, eyes look watery with tears behind the frames of her glasses, and when she turns to wipe at her eyes with the heel of her palm, her throat works up and down tightly before she turns sharply and hustles for the door out.
The apology is wordless, one in her eyes and in her hseepish posture when she shoulders the door open and looks back to Gillian, a lingering and reluctant stare. Unable to say or do anything else, she slips out the door and slips out on her check as well, abandoning Gillian to the restaurant and her cooling bowl of hot and sour soup.
Abandoning her to her thoughts.
To her suspicions.
That wasn't as easy as Jolene had presumed.