Mobile Interrogation Room


lene_icon.gif melissa_icon.gif

Scene Title Mobile Interrogation Room
Synopsis Melissa's car turns into one when she decides to give Lene a ride home.
Date January 4, 2011

Redbird Security

Five o'clock in the evening is quitting time across much of New York City.

Redbird Security Solutions is no exception.

Within the carpeted lobby of one of New York City's premiere private security companies, the handful of staff that work regular business hours are headed on their way home. Billing department, file clerks, claims handlers, all making their way out and onto the busy streets of Battery Park City in the minutes to either side of five. Leaning over the front desk, one such employee is rounding off her day with light-hearted conversation with the front desk receptionist Joanna.

Burgundy-haired and full of energy, Jolene Marley stands on her toes, hands folded in front of herself and elbows resting on the high desk top as she chats with the receptionist, smiling broadly and running one hand through the unkempt locks of her dyed hair. One square-toed leather shoe taps on the carpeted floor with rhythmic beat.

"No, no, no, you should totally come out with us." Jolene admits with a crack of a smile, "My room-mate's been lookin' for an excuse t'get out of the house anyway, so I figure the three of us could make a night of it!" Broad rising to her hairline, Lene watches the receptionist thoughtfully, green eyes peering over the red frames of her glasses.

"I'm… not really that much of a bowler," Joanna explains with a purse of her lips and a furrow of her brows awkwardly. "Not— to mention I've… had my fill of excitement for the time being." Casting a look up to the ceiling where contractors repaired the damage a particle beam had done to the ceiling, Jo fixes Lene with a frown. It's mirrored by the peppy young woman as she rocks back onto her heels and swings her arms at her side.

"Bo-ring, Jo-jo. C'mon you act like you're not a New Yorker, you've survived worst!" Her hands swing together with a clap, brows waggle and she rises back up onto her toes. Staring vacantly at Lene, Jo slowly raises a hand and rubs her palm over her forehead.

"Thanks," the receptionist murmurs in response, "but no thanks."

It's lucky for poor Joanna that someone has arrived to distract Lene for a bit. Whether or not Jolene will agree is a matter up for debate, however. Melissa walks in, looking rather irked at the world in general, and bundled up in an ankle length coat. And since the later it gets the cooler it gets, she's even added a hat.

"Well this is my lucky day. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find you here, and look at who the first person I see is. Hi again, Jolene," she says, before looking at Joanna and nodding slightly to her. Normally it would seem like politeness, but now it seems almost like she's acknowledging the woman so she can immediately dismiss her and focus on her prey for the moment.

"I happen to love bowling, if it's a way that I can ask you a few questions that have been bothering me since we met at d'Sarthe's fucked up party."

Slinking around like a curious house cat, Jolene squares green eyes at Melissa, one burgundy brow arched before flicking a look to the receptionist. "Looks like you're off the hook, this time." One purple-painted fingernail wags in Joanna's direction, eliciting a nervous laugh from the receptionist who then turns her attention towards Melissa with notable scrutiny. That she seems to know Lene causes the receptionist to wait on telling her that the office is closing, maybe she's Jolene's ride.

"Bowling ain't for tonight, ma'am," ma'am? Lene reaches up to lift the collar of her red suede jacket against the back of her neck, buttoning up the front as she does. "But if you want to play twenty questions — that I might not answer — then I'd be willing to share a cab with you." One of Lene's brows rise slowly at that as she nods towards the front doors that Melissa had only just come through.

"Fair?" For a near perfect stranger, she seems remarkable amicable to all of this.

Melissa's nose wrinkles as she's called ma'am. She is not a ma'am. "Melissa, or Mel if you must, but not ma'am. And no reason for a cab. My car's parked outside, and it's a hell of a lot cheaper than a cab. But I can give you a ride home. Also means we don't have a sweaty guy listening in on everything we say."

"So people in New York do own cars!" Lene admits with a flash of a smile, turning back around to look at Jo and wave one hand in silent farewell to the secretary, then once to one of the lobby's security cameras to wave goodbye to Richard or Elisabeth or whoever is keeping an eye on security tapes these days.

Swinging back around and maintaining her door-ward momentum, Lene finishes buttoning her coat and steps into the door ahead of Melissa, shouldering it open for her and holding it to let the older woman walk out onto the noisy sidewalk ahead of her. As they get out onto the street, the noise of a large diesel engine fills the air as a camouflage-painted US National Guard troop transport drives past, followed by three Hum-Vees and a yellow-cab taxi. The presence of the military in New York has become so commonplace that not a single person out in the cold pays it any mind.

"So, uh," Lene hesitates, looking up and down the sidewalk, "we met actually. I mean— as far as introductions go. At the Gala? I'm Jolene, but— I guess you remember that if you wanted t'come all the way down here to my work to see me for something. So…" she takes one lazy step backwards across the concrete, "what's got you interested in lil' ol' me?"

Eyes narrow as Melissa watches the proof of military presence drive on by, then shakes her head and begins leading the way to her car, which isn't too far away. A black, forgettable looking car. "Interesting question. It's actually the exact same one I was gonna ask you," she says, flicking her eyes over to Lene. "Once shit started going down, you stuck to me like a dog on a bone. Literally, in some cases. Why me? Why not stick by Richard or someone you knew? Not a woman you'd seen once before, and especially not one who basically said you were flipping the fuck out over nothing. Which I still believe, by the way."

"'Cause I wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt," Lene admits as she steps around to the passenger side of the car, waiting for it to be unlocked. When Melissa slides down into the driver's side, Lene cranes her head to look down in through the passenger-side window until she hears the noise of the doors unlocking, opening her side of the car and sliding down in before bringing the door quickly shut to block out the bitter cold.

Settling her glittery red purse in her lap, Lene begins rummaging thorugh it as she continues her briefly paused conversation. "I knew Richard could take care of himself it things went bad, didn't much care if Warren got himself blown up, but you probably aren't bomb-proof." One of Melissa's brows lifts slowly as she withdraws a pair of deep purple-colored wool mittens from her purse, squeezing them tightly and then tugging them on over her cold hands.

The inside of the car almost looks like it would freshly driven off the car lot. Even the ashtray is spotless. It doesn't have the new car smell though. Melissa starts up the car, even as she shakes her head. "Doesn't fly. Why care about a stranger? There were others there more helpless than me. The guy I was with, for example. Or any of the innocent people there who didn't show up knowing that there was going to be a bomb."

She checks the road then pulls out into traffic. "How did you know, by the way? I heard you were the girl the warning originally came from, after all. Or at least a girl who fit your description pretty fucking well, and even in this city I don't think that there are that many clones." Some yes, but you can't assume a clone for everyone.

"Everyone else was going away from the bomb, you were going towards the guy is was strapped to," Lene points out with an askance look to Melissa in the driver's seat. When the car slips out into the stop-and-start New York Traffic, Lene motions vaguely ahead of her. "I live up in Harlem at the Hamilton Heights," she explains before reaching over one shoulder and drawing a seat-belt over her shoulder.

When it clicks into place, Lene finally turns her attention up towards Melissa. It's a long car ride to the opposite end of Manhattan, and it seems they'll have plenty to talk about on the way. "I didn't know, either, a friend of mine did. She's… special, y'know…" one of Lene's shoulders rises in a shrug. "When she reads stuff— newspapers, books, whatever— the words jumble up for her and change the meaning of the text to imply events that hadn't happened yet, usually in a similar context to what she's reading. She told me about the explosion, and how that writer got killed in the blast. Didn't know much more than that, honestly…"

Lene downturns her eyes to her lap, wringing her hands together. "So I warned Savannah, and… I guess she warned other people. Life's funny like that," her green eyes flick up to Melissa. "People— being connected? Like we're all tied together by a little invisible string or something. Me, that event, Richard, the bomb-guy, you. Tangled little web."

Melissa shakes her head. "Sorry Jolene, but we're not connected. I met you once. I know Richard a little. The bomb-guy was a friend. But those aren't connections, not really," she argues, shaking her head. "And I wasn't the only one heading towards the bomb either. So was the guy who was with me. Again, more helpless than me. And more important too, for that matter."

"Who's your friend? The chick you were with at the fights? Why didn't she warn Savannah? And why did you warn Richard and Savannah but no one else?" Then her voice drops to a mutter, "I am so sick of time."

One of Lene's brows arch slowly as she slouches back against her seat. "Sure we're connected, everybody in this city is in some way. What I mean is like— what one person does can affect another person, and another, and another. You obviously knew the guy who had the bomb strapped to him, I mean you called him by name. You probably wouldn't have come to the Gala with Pericles if you hadn't heard what I'd said, and I wouldn't have said anything if it weren't for finding out Savannah was going to be killed…"

Green eyes lift up to Melissa, and Lene manages a smile. "My friend who sees the future isn't Ingrid. Ah— Ingrid was the girl I was at the fights with, her special power is fantastic knitting," Lene admits as she reaches up to the scarf wound around her throat. Though on realizing that she dodges a question that she probably should answer, her eyes close and a sigh slips out through her nose.

"I only told Savannah because she's the only person I knew was going to be there. Even then, I mean— I took kind of a big risk in warning her. She didn't have to believe me, it's not like I had any proof at all. But her name was the only one in the headline my friend saw, so that's the only thing I had to go on. I wasn't about to try and tell a restaurant owner that I was some crazy girl who knew someone who could tell the future…" her brows furrow, then green eyes divert to her lap. "Savannah seems… I dunno, more accepting. She gave me a chance to explain myself, and it made a difference."

"Those are meaningless connections for the most part. People just put too much emphasis on them in a desire to feel like they're not insignificant in the long run, which they are," Melissa says, shrugging a little and reaching over to turn on the heat. "All people are. The universe would keep on spinning if every person on the planet ended up dying. We make importance so we can get through the short years of our lives." This certainly isn't the happy go lucky girl of just a few months ago.

"So Jolene, Ingrid and Calvin, huh? Who was the other guy? The one who actually went up to fight. Did a good job too. I think he would've pounded Richard's face in if the alarm hadn't gotten pulled." But she doesn't seem to know that any of that group had a hand in it. Yay for secrecy!

Eyes flick towards Lene, then back to the road. "There are plenty of accepting people in this city, Jolene. A premonition of an explosion is actually fairly damn tame compared to other things. Like, say, mass premonitions of the future, which probably thousands in the city experienced. And I know at least a few of those came true. So you might have been surprised if you had tried to warn more than Savannah. Just as a note, for the next time your unnamed friend gets a premonition of something bad going down."

"Not everyone in the city believed even those visions, not until it was too damn late," Lene grouses, wringing her gloved hands together. "If you wanna' be miss doomy-gloomy, feel free, but you're only as happy as you make yourself y'know." Lene's green eyes angle out the passenger side window, watching headlights and tail lights move by as they drive through the rush-house Manhattan traffic. She's quiet for a little while, watching traffic crossing at an intersection, watching her own muted reflection in the window.

On the corner of the street they're waiting on a red light at, a soldier in full camouflage uniform waits with a police officer, questioning a motorist who was pulled over for a traffic violation. Two police cruisers are parked on the side of the road on either end of the car, an Army jeep across the street. Pedestrians are being warded off by the soldier, and a young man snapping pictures with his cell phone finds himself shouted at by the police.

"I haven't seen her in a long time," Lene admits in a distant tone of voice, staring half at the scene out the window and half into empty space. "Joshua," she abruptly says after the fact and well after the question was asked. "My friend who fought in the cage, his name's Joshua. He's kind of a meat-head, but he's a good guy deep down."

"Sorry, but I have to call major bullshit. I tried to make myself happy. Didn't work, and not going to get into the details. Did that once today, and it wasn't a pleasant conversation by any standards. Verbal torture, really," Melissa says, leaning her head back to rest against the headrest, giving a glare to the cops.

"I knew a guy like that. Looked like a total thug, but he was the first to hit the grill at a barbeque." Which makes Melissa fall quiet for a long moment. "Keep an eye on him, to keep him safe. Calvin and Ingrid too. This city is hell on friends. On people, really. We've gotta have the highest death rate in the world, and not from natural accidents or normal murders like muggings or the like. You should reconnect with your precog friend, for that matter."

Lene's eyes close, a sigh slips through her nose again and she slouches down in her seat with arms crossed over her chest. Silence is her reluctance to argue any more with Melissa on the merits of proactive happiness, time can hopefully heal all wounds, even hers. Self-inflicted or not. When the light turns green and the car starts cutting up through Manhattan's crowded streets into Little Italy, the skeletons of demolished skyscrapers on the fringes of Midtown are clear out Melissa's window.

Most of them have large banners strewn across them now, displaying the Maxwell Construction Company logo in blue and white, promises of reconstruction in the year to come. With the sun long set, the Midtown memorial light shines bright up between the skeletal framework of the devastated buildings, shedding colorless light on the concrete barricades that surround Midtown — but ultimately do little to keep out wayward souls.

"The— friend that could see the fire's not here…" Lene admits reluctantly. "She's… I guess smarter than me? She didn't want to… come out to New York. I guess it's— probably for the best, really. She's back in Oregon, might as well be a whole world away."

"Smarter than everyone still in the city, I'd say," Melissa says dryly. "But speaking of friends…the guy I was with. You freaked a little when you heard his name. Why is that? Perry Jones, I'm sure you remember him?" she asks, sneaking a peek over to her passenger. Which makes it even odder that you glued yourself to me and not to him. You didn't bat an eye at hearing my name." She's just an inquisitive goth today, isn't she?

"I know things, names, people… places." Lene taps her head with one finger. "It's what I do, I… absorb things, like osmosis. I pick up on the currents of people and places and stuff, like… psychic background noise. Pericles Jones is the new man in charge of Messiah, if I've heard everything right." For an organization so universally hated for what Rupert did in its name and had done in its name, Lene seems to take the notion in stride.

"The bigger, I guess more influential a person is, the more people know them than the easier it is for me to pick up on things. Secrets aren't so secret around me, though I can't really target it. Its a blanket, subconscious telepathy. I'll hear clips and phrases, remember them later when something triggers it from my memory…"

Lene looks askance to Melissa, followed by a lopsided smile. "If I hang around someone long enough, I can pick up more and more about them too. Quirks, traits, loves and hates. Makes it hard to keep good friends, but it also makes it easy to find them in the long-term…"

That has Melissa slamming on the brakes and looking at Lene, more than a bit skeptically. "So you're saying that by driving you home you're learning stuff about me, by reading my mind? I hate people fucking with my mind. Been mindfucked four times too many for me to appreciate any kind of telepathy being used on me. So if you've picked up on stuff about me, now would be a good time for you to share." And she doesn't seem inclined to go again until she gets answers. Never mind if there are horns blaring behind her.

The subject of Messiah is, for now, ignored.

Oh and are there ever horns. Thankfully with four lanes of traffic and relatively slow speeds, no one ploughs into the back of Melissa's car when she abruptly stops. Angered motorists start to move around her, the head one clearly brandishing an obscene gesture at his passenger-side window on his way past.

"You can't stop here," is Lene's immediate retort, followed by a look out the passenger-side window, then back to Melissa. "And I just told you I don't consciously know stuff, it just… happens. Someone will say something and I'll remember something I picked up, I can't actively just pull something out of my ass because you want to know."

Then, tilting her head to the side, Lene furrows her brows. "I also can't turn it off, so don't ask that. If you want me to get out I will, or you can keep driving. We're maybe halfway there… it's your call. But we can't stay parked here in the street."

The horns and driver with obscene gestures are ignored. They're unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Melissa spends a moment more looking at Lene with narrowed eyes, then she looks back to the road and resumes driving. "That's a weird sort of telepathy. Reading things but not knowing them until triggered? Which again, takes me right back to mindfucking, though in a different sort of way." But she does seem to have relaxed a bit. At least about that.

"And for the record, I can stop there. I'd just piss a lot of people off. But I don't think anyplace can have traffic or drivers worse than in Atlanta." And then she's quiet for a moment longer. "And I guess I should apologize for the third degree, but I've been getting a lot of attention lately from near strangers and it's sort of freaky, even if it's not overtly harmful sort of attention. But I've come to expect that large amounts of attention usually end up being bad in some way."

The latter end of the comment has Lene averting her eyes, brows furrowing and teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "You don't want a cop to come by and ask if everything is alright," the faux redhead murmurs, turning her attention back to Melissa. "Drive— " she insists with a nod to the gas pedal, "or— or I'll just get out of that will make you go. I don't— there's too many people in this city looking for an excuse to hurt people like us."

Lene swallows nervously, drawing her teeth across her bottom lip again. "Don't give them a reason, because right now no one needs so much as an excuse to make the both of us disappear for a really, really long time." There's a worried, pleading tone to Lene's voice. "Atlanta isn't under martial law."

"No New York jail can be as bad as Moab," Melissa says, voice both bitter and serious. But she's driving, and that's something. "Why are you so worried though? They looking for you, or are you unregistered? Because I can sympathize with both reasons, and won't turn you in in any case. I've no love for the government." Even if her uncle is with the government.

"I'm just tired of…of being out of control, and not knowing what's going on. And with you sticking to me - and really, how could a telepath have protected from a bomb - and someone else sending me presents and suggesting that I leave town, it's kind of unnerving."

"I have my tricks," Lene admits with a furrow of her brows, looking down to her lap and then back up to Melissa. Her earlier comment wasn't a lie, and that her hand is right on the latch for the door is indicative of just how close she got to stepping out of that parked car. Looking briefly up to the roof of the car, Lene paws at the interior upholstery with one mitten-clad hand, green eyes fixed there before turning down to look through the windshield and the blur of red tail lights from traffic.

"I'm Registered," needn't be clarified any further, it answers enough and leaves enough private. "Nobody has control, of anything really. 'Cept the choices you make, and even then that can be taken from you. People worry too much about being in control of things, that they don't stop to think about making the best of what comes their way…"

Lene's brows furrow, her hand lowers from where it was playing with the roof and comes to settle in her lap. "I just… I know trouble when I see it. You park in the middle of rush-hour traffic like you did back there, and a cop's gonna ask you what the hold-up is, maybe you cop and attitude and at the end of the day you wind up lined up against a brick wall and shot because people got scared."

It's a rather bold jump of conclusions.

"Right. Tricks that'll negate an explosion from a bomb? If that were the case you would've gone for Nick, not me," Melissa says with another shake of her head. Then she shoots Lene another look. "As for the rest…I've been shot, and on the eighth I was privileged enough to see a couple of soldiers line people up against a wall and execute them. One of them had a baby. So trust me, I know all about trouble."

Lene taps her head with two fingers, "guess that's where I got that allusion from, isn't it?" There's a crack of a smile as the young woman leans back in her seat, turning her attention out the passenger side window, spotting the fenced off ruins of the Manhattan Municipal building, its heaped rubble and barely intact southwestern face in the same condition it was nearly a year ago when Norman White's terrorist attack tore through it.

That she hasn't explained how a telepath by osmosis could fix a bomb is another matter entirely.

"Why'd you come and pick me up, Melissa?" Lene slowly turns to look across to the driver. "I know things seemed weird, strange but— if you don't believe anything I'm telling you, or even if you just don't believe the majority of it… why're you asking questions? What're you hoping to get?"

"I believe some of it. I believe you're a telepath," Melissa points out with a shrug. "And I don't know what I was hoping to get. Just…something." And for some reason those words sound a bit sad. Not bitter or angry like most of the conversation from her end, but actually sad. "Some reason why I'm drawing strangers to me, I guess. For you to whip out a DHS badge and prove that I was right to be paranoid, or…I don't know. You claiming you know me from somewhere else. Just an explanation of some sort."

Watching Melissa's silhouette mutely visible in the passenger side window, Lene's eyes take in the city as it passes by in distant abstract. "I'm not much of a person to preach 'bout faith… friend of mine, she's more that way, but even then not so much." Lene's eyes shut, and her head leans against the glass of the window with a soft thunk. "But the idea's nice, not— really needing answers t'know why stuff's happening." The answer strikes hollow with Lene as she rests her chin on her hand, continuing to watch the lights of the Queensboro bridge get closer and closer on the horizon between skyscrapers.

"Have you thought of leaving?" Lene turns her attention more directly to Melissa. "I mean— New York, everything. It isn't exactly healthy to live here… even if it is the best city in the world." A tired sigh slips out of the young woman's mouth at that, followed by a subtle frown. "It can't get worse than here… somewhere else."

There, though, is the threat of a smile. "Heck, even Jersey might be a step up. Never thought I'd say that."

"Trust me, I'm well aware of how dangerous New York is," Melissa murmurs softly, thumbs tapping lightly on the steering wheel. "But as shitty as this city is, it's home, and I've got family here." There's a long moment of silence before she shakes her head. "I've tried faith. Not religious faith, but faith nonetheless. Remember my prior comments about mindfucking? Yeah. didn't end well. But why are you here if you know how dangerous the city is?"

"Same reasons, I've got…" Lene hesitates, looking for the right words. "Obligations?" It's not the best one. "Yeah— I guess… obligations. I came here to fix something I knew was going to be terrible— ah— the bombing." She motions with a gloved hand to Melissa at that. "Now, I guess just because I've started to set up roots. Things…" Lene's head tilts to the side slowly, "I guess can improve here. So I can't argue with your reasons for wanting to stay…"

Out the windows, the evening city streets pass by. Up through the East side's crowded blocks and congested streets. Out Melissa's window, Central Park passes by, spotty patches of trees and rod iron fencing, one the last bastions of the old New York City left in this dirty reflection of what used to be.

Lene spots the Metropolitan Museum of Art out her window, the facade covered by scaffolding and construction tarps, repairs still being done in the wake of the Humanis First attack there over a year ago. "Do you think they'll ever catch up?" Lene asks quietly, looking out her window. "With… all of this. Midtown, the riots, Staten Island? Do— do you think any of this will ever be fixed? Or… do you think one day, they'll just give up?"

The question prompts a long silence from Melissa. "I don't know," she finally admits. "The buildings can be repaired, sure. Whether they remain is another story entirely. The people…I think the evolved want equality too badly, and the non-evolved are too scared for it to happen anytime soon. Not in our lifetimes, I'm sure. Maybe, eventually, with the right methods, though. I mean, look at how long it took for blacks to be accepted in our society. And I'm sure there are still Nazis out there who hate everyone who isn't their ideal of perfection."

She sighs and shrugs. "People fear what they don't understand, and the midtown bombing didn't help that at all. I don't think that we can say anything is fixed until they can come to see us as people rather than dangerous freaks."

The notion has Lene quiet too, cheek pushed against her palm and fingers curled at her cheekbone, eyes partway lidded as she stares out at the passing city going by. "Turn right here," she explains, pointing towards Lenox Avenue, "we're… still a ways off." Green eyes angle back towards Melissa, and Lene manages a faint smile despite the topic.

"I don't think we'll see it in our lifetime either… but who knows, maybe eventually. Maybe someday there'll be peace, or happiness. It's been tried, before, and heck maybe we came close a couple of times too…" Lene's eyes avert down to the clock on the car's radio, reading a digital print-out of 5:34pm.

"I don't think they'll ever stop being afraid of us, though…" That much comes with a distant look at the clock. "I don't think, even if the whole world were nothing but people like us, that we'd ever not be afraid." Running her teeth over her bottom lip again, Lene casts an askance look to Melissa. "Because when you get down to it, most of us are dangerous."

"No," Melissa says immediately and in the tone of someone who's answer can not be changed. "We're all potentially dangerous. All of us, evolved and non-evolved alike. Someone who's ability is…say…healing, is potentially just as dangerous as someone who's ability could blow up the city. But someone who has no ability could still get a gun and go on a shooting spree. Or build a bomb, like the Humanis First people did at d'Sarthe's. Or crash planes into buildings. It's stupid to think that we're more dangerous than non-evolved."

Her expression has gotten more determined as she talks, her tone more passionate, and her hands tightly grip the wheel now. "My ability is pain manipulation. That's it. I can cause it and take it. It's not lethal. I can't even fully incapacitate a room full of people. Yet because people don't bother learning about evolved people, they fear me just as much, if not more, as the people responsible for nine eleven."

"You're just as bad as any other extremist," Lene awkwardly admits, shifting her focus out the window to the passing storefronts and tenement buildings. "We're all remarkably more dangerous than an ordinary person, because we can do what we do without resources. Strand us on a desert island, with nothing, and we still have what we were born with. Ordinary people…" Lene shakes her head slowly.

"It might not seem fair, or right, but it is true, even if you can't or won't admit it. Nearly all of our kind are remarkably dangerous, some even more so once they learn how to control what they do better, it— " Lene realizes the rant she's about to go off onto, and grinds her heels in as much as conversational brakes can be applied.

"We're here," is just as good an excuse as any real reason. Lene's green eyes angle out towards the front window, where a highrise tenement building is approaching down the street. "I— appreciate the ride…" Even if it was more of a mobile interrogation room.

Extremist? Melissa gives her an extremely offended look. "And the government has negation gas and drugs and absolutely no problem using them. Along with the world's hatred of us. But think what you like. I'm not dangerous so long as me and mine are left the fuck alone." And then she pulls out and looks pointedly out the windshield, clearly waiting for Lene to leave. It may have been her decision to approach Lene, but she seems like she regrets it somewhat, now.

Opening her door when the car pulls up to the curb, Lene unclips her seatbelt and slides out of the car, Lene hesitates, then looks back to Melissa with furrowed brows. "I know someone back home who said the same thing…" her eyes angle down to the street outside as she steps out, keeping her glittery red purse held fast to her chest as she does. Not wanting to leave it on that note, the redhead turns around and leans into the car.

"I decided not to go bowling," Lene admits out of nowhere, cutting that earlier topic off like a gangrenous limb as she starts to close the passenger side door.

"See you at Tartarus."

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