daphne_icon.gif delia_icon.gif delilah_icon.gif logan_icon.gif sable_icon.gif



Scene Title Outreach
Synopsis A party hosted by the community outreach is a hub of picnicking and gossip, as it really ought to be. Some leave with more than others, of course.
Date July 4, 2011

Oakdale Community Center

A long, flat building of concrete and wood and white paint, the Oakdale Community Center favours functionality over appearance. Open from eight in the morning to eight at night, any and all residents of the E-Blocks are welcome to receive charity and "enjoy" a place to socialise. The main room is a large eating hall, with one long row of tables as well as smaller, more private clusters of eating places. Food is served every breakfast, lunch and dinner, and has the same quality of nourishment as homeless centres on the mainland. Lots of soup goes through this place.

There's an office that one can schedule an appointment with a social worker to talk things through such as Registration, personal needs (like medications, clothing, etc.), and usually they are tended to with enough swiftness according to the priority it takes. There is minimal security here, but security is always on call as needed.

It may be a bit atypical of the day, to know that a Manchesterite is helping to host a 4th of July picnic. When you are an Eltingville local, you probably don't care, even if one can plainly see the irony there. A far as Delilah is concerned, she is an American, and Americans do as they do. This isn't intended wholly to be a big brouhaha by any means, though with the abnormal number of people that have crawled out of houses to come, that open-armed feeling is in the air. The large dining hall usually so reserved in its appearance has its doors propped open, and it seems like it spat half of whatever was inside, out onto the lawn and parking lot. Canopies propped up and tables inside and out, patriotic hues on balloons and on crinkly streamers curled and taped up. Standard, rather plain fare, yes, but when it comes to such openness, it has gotten rare out here. Of course, Delilah wasn't the only one to bring this up- one table, nearby the long buffet of food along one front wall, has with it a few others from the group, while everyone else seems to be trying to mix in with the people that have shown up. There are a few simple games for the kids here and there, a raffle table inside, beside where the floor has been widened around a couple of dingy-but-working speakers. The adults are more interested in talking amongst themselves, eating, or having their children play together in whorls of energy that often threaten the stillness of something balanced in hand.

The day itself is warm and somewhat humid, and it won't be the last; fans oscillate around the inside of the center, and a couple out near the canopies over tables. The sky is blue, the clouds are puffy and white, and in the distance a trio of drably colored and tent-backed jeeps sit idle along the road. In deference to the fact that they are not, in fact, unmonitored, no matter how many pies that miss Trafford bakes.

Delilah is talking with one of the few ladies at the group desk, where they have set out a few petitions and otherwise innocuous sheets of news for everyone to consider. A helpful notion, though possibly that is all it is. With Walter on her hip- his hair shining disturbingly ginger in the sun, and his face smeared with sunscreen- Delilah is chattering away to a pair of brunette, middle aged women, while one of her other wards, Samson, hides himself under said table. Tail safely out of the way, he peeks now and again out from behind the banner hanging on the table that also reads 'Eltingville Community Outreach' in blue on white.

A child of Woodstock, however late coming, is of two minds when it comes to America. Like the Kerouwackos before them, and the punks that came after, the US of A is hell and heaven both, a place to soar high and dive low.

But a New York Summer is hot above all else, and while solitude would tempt young Ms. Diego into contemplation and maybe some mischief - where she's from, after all, fireworks weren't subject to fascist regulation - a stable home life and a steady job have maybe just slightly squared her. It's not rebellious roman candles she comes baring, but a cooler laden with a rainbow array of ice pops, the top ones already in a state of advanced melt, well on their way to becoming mere colored sugar water.

"Comin' through. Unpaid fuckin' labor-" she grumbles, "salt 'f th' earth, workin' class, comin' through- what made this country great- make way-" really more for her own benefit than the adults she weaves through, stature and bearing marking her with the younger set, nor for the edification of the rough-housing youngsters she has to dodge, aloofness and visible responsibility marking her as 'adult' to them. No place on earth for her, then, but there ought to be a place for the ice pops. Yellow eyes scan the buffet, trying to figure where she ought to place her burden.

Patriotism isn't precisely her "thing," especially not these days, not when she's under the custody of the US Government. But free food that isn't the typical soup kitchen sort of gruel is something Daphne cares about. God Bless Amadeus for keeping her in Swedish Fish and Chunky Monkey ice cream, and anything else she thinks to ask him for, but she has her pride and she tends not to ask. And there's only so many fish sticks she can eat.

So Daphne Millbrook wanders into the hall, the pace painfully slow for her at a sedate walk. Dark eyes sweep the tables of food and those present. She not dressed patriotically, despite a penchant for red; today it's just gray cargo pants, a lime-green t-shirt, and of course her anklet that lets everyone know she's not here to celebrate the land of the free.

Eyes alighting on Delilah and then Sable as the latter bustles through, Daphne fidgets a bit, before making for the buffet line. Just here for the food, folks.

There is no word more vile in the English language than potluck, no matter which version of the English language you are using. In celebration of the word, Delia Ryans has outdone herself. Not in the manner that Delilah Trafford has, with her pies, but with casseroles. Enough for everyone to take some home.

Her kitchen might smell like dirty socks for weeks. Hopefully the food doesn't taste the same.

A stack of five covered glass baking dishes are held in her arms as she passes tight smiles to everyone she passes. As Sable pulls a Moses and parts the sea of people, the redhead stalks behind her, taking advantage of the space before it closes again. She comes up behind the brunette and gives her a large grin, trying to be a little more sociable than she has in the past couple of months. "Thanks for clearing the way… wouldn't want to spill spam casserole all over the place."

There is a certain nonchalance to the party, enough that when someone might pack away food to take home, or otherwise gorge, nobody seems to mind. Plenty to go around. The line is a bit cumbersome, but there isn't a big rush; the food is being kept in warmers and crockpots and cooled tupperware, and it's not going anywhere except for stomachs. The garbage is another matter- a couple teenage boys are apparently assigned to swiping tables and taking out engorged plastic bags to the rear of the building. Delilah finishes talking as Sable is making her way through the people to put down the trove of popsicles, and she turns herself to watch a moment, before peering down at Walter, who is making frustrated noises and rubbing at his face, eyebrows angry and palms slick with some of the sunscreen.

"Cut that out, you're gonna need that shit on your face, trust me. I couldn't find your hat after you dropped it god knows where." The young mother talks at him, and he seems more interested in getting the weird feeling off of his freckled baby-cheeks. Dee pries his hands from his face as she moves away to relocate Sable, her knee-length, navy blue shirtdress whisking around her legs. Samson, however, is going to stay hidden under the E.C.O table, leashed to a corkscrew in the dirt. For purely cosmetic purposes, honestly.

Walter apparently has ideas that are not Sable and popsicles; he reaches up, and pulls down on Dee's left earring hoop. She has no choice but to veer off to that side like a horse with its reins being yanked. "You little handsy bastard-" More than one disapproving glance for her language, yes- "Fuck's sake, Walter-" Delilah finds the nearest chair on grass to sit herself down and wriggle his fingers away from her ear. "That's my ear, thank you."

Spam casseroles. Daphne's slightly-freckled nose wrinkles at the word but moves along in the line. Taking a plate she begins to scoop a little of this and a little of that onto her plate, and keeping her head down. If she doesn't make eye contact, these people won't recognize her, right? Despite the very noticeable platinum dreadlocks that are growing a bit too long, winging out on each side like a punkish version of the Flying Nun.

The casseroles Delia brought are glanced at but not touched, and finally Daphne, plate loaded, picks up a bottle of water and heads to the nearest empty table to take a seat. She can't help but smile at the baby when her eyes happen to catch his, and wriggles fingers at him so fast they blur — nervous energy that is pent up from not being able to run miles and miles a day.

The redhead doesn't really wonder why no one is risking her cooking. Still, she arranges the dishes in a pretty little line and steps back before anyone really associates her with them. She won't miss the dishes when she doesn't return for them.

A pale hand brushes down the front of her white sundress, one that would look familiar to anyone she's shared a dream with. She even looks barefoot, except for the small leather strap of her sandals the grass hides her footwear.

America is pretty good.

This lukewarm feeling towards the nation in which he lives, works, and fails to pay tax, isn't really why Logan is within the vicinity, though it may be what he might claim if asked. He is here because he is supposed to be, even if the ongoing pressure of security doesn't really predict a riot to break out during July the 4th festivities, although you never fucking know. This reason is one he may deny, even if, at a glance, he bears a similarity to some of the other men and women set to prowl around and watch for anything uncouth or remotely suspicious. He also isn't the first to break away from the perimeter and head for where a cooler of beer is set down upon a table, being periodically eyed by whoever donated it so that lurking teenagers can't get their paws upon it.

Moves a little like a particularly desperate coyote reluctantly treading this close to human settlements, only instead of scraps of food, it's alcohol, and instead of people in general, it's children with filthy hands and. Well. People in general, ordinary ones. Avoidant without being particularly rude, eye contact fleeting at best, Logan withdraws a green glass bottle and takes up the opener to twist off the metal cap. He himself is remarkably ordinary, to be mildly hypocritical, though his shoes and watch are both nice. Denim is plain, as is opened shirt and clingier cotton beneath, all greys, blacks and greens, and a radio at his belt that isn't making a sound on account of not really needing it to be on.

Delilah has the foresight to take her earrings out, but only after shifting in her chair to plop Walter butt-down on the table. His feet hang off, and he wiggles under the palm keeping him there. She tucks them into the side pocket of her dress, unknowingly giving the baby a view of somebody with platinum locks waving at him. Maybe he doesn't see it- or maybe he does, and it puzzles him- but he peers in Daphne's direction, ready to put some knuckles in his mouth. Not so fast! Mom has his paws, and she is wiping them off with a napkin from the table.

"I think this is a pretty good day so far." She whispers to him, glancing over his head to take a look at some people sitting at the table one over, and then past that one to where the lone coyote Logan is hanging around. Brown eyes turn back down to the baby. "Could be better though. Nobody sick and everyone together, right?" Hoisting Walter back into her arms, the redhead makes her way over towards the drink end of things, settling on a dew-dropped can of Hawaiian Punch. Unfortunately for John, this means there is going to be a sticky little baby in his vicinity.

The pixyish speedster makes a face at Walter to see if she can make him giggle, but then he's being moved away, so she goes back to poking at the array of food on her plate a little halfheartedly. A glance goes toward Delia, who she recognizes, having been fed bacon from the redhead once, and then to the man sipping beer. The proverbial lightbulb alights over her head. Mister Logan is the Logan she'd met once at a soiree and twice in dreams. She snorts a little as she takes a sip of water with this revelation.

"See the ones with the red lids under them?" Delia slides up beside Logan, speaking low enough that he's the only one that can hear. "Don't take anything out of them… I ran out of spam." Not that he would touch the food anyway but still, it's an ice breaker. It also gives him something to puzzle out, if she ran out of spam— what sort of other meat substitute did she use in their creation?

Lacing her fingers behind her back, she rocks on her heels and gives a casual glance around. "Do you know everyone? I can introduce you to some of the people I know if you don't."

"You didn't sacrifice Cheza to the cause, did you? She's be stringy as fuck." Only once spoken does Logan notice that there is a woman and her infant standing nearby, and a splay of fingers from where his thumb grips beer to palm is meant to connote some sort of apology, diverting back to the conversation when Delia implies she might have him talking to people or something like that. "Can't say I know many — my neck of the woods is slightly differrent." For instance, everyone is overdressed.

He doesn't immediately catch on to the fact that Delilah is the bird that he may have told Sasha about as a good person to hurt that one time, but he does spy outstanding platinum in the throng of Neighbourhood, pale eyes snagging there for a second. He isn't good at mortification at the best of times, but going to a neighbourhood sausage sizzle (figuratively) in the middle of soldier town and getting caught in some way isn't ideal.

Delilah isn't immediately able to open the can, obviously, but that doesn't mean she isn't going to let Walter inspect it with one hand first. He wipes at the water on it, and flexes his fingers at his mouth. The baby tilts slightly to look over his mother's shoulder, large eyes baleful when they hit another redhead, and then the man with the bottle. Knuckle leaving mouth, he is quick to say something under Dee's ear, and something about the babble has her looking over her shoulder to see what he does. She holds a moment of raised-brow recognition for Delia, though the man, at the moment, escapes her.

"Hullo, Robin." A point is made to use the name that Dee gave her, more as a note of that recognition than effort to hide a name. Walter lifts a hand in the air while he gabs about something, motioning vaguely at her from his perch. Red hair is a dealbreaker of some kind, possibly.

Poking at a bit of something like strawberry shortcake, Daphne watches the little gathering of people she sort of knows from the corner of her eye, but then something else catches her attention: two children with a plate full of brownies have sought refuge with their stolen baked goods under the same table as Samson. Picking up a gooey square of brownie, one child holds it out to the gentle giant.

In a flash of lime-green and gray and white, Daphne catches the child by the hand, lifting both hand and plate of brownies out of the reach of the dog before he can partake. "Doggies don't like chocolate," she says, wrinkling her nose as chocolate fingers push her away and the the little girls begin to cry, darting out from under the table to find their mother.

Daphne wrinkles her nose at the sticky dessert in her hands and crawls back out from under the table. She could be in France in a few hours… if it weren't for her jewelry.

Delia's eyes follow Logan's to the shock of bleached hair and the redhead smiles widely. "That's Daphne," she introduces from afar, nodding toward the woman before glancing back at her housemate. "I invited her to breakfast once, she didn't stay. I guess she was in a hurry." She quiets for a moment, letting Logan's initial remark to her greeting sink it. "And don't worry, your dog is safe, her food might not be though." The smile turns catlike, complete with a merry squint to her eye.

Walter's hello and then Delilah's earns a wave from the young woman. "Hi guys," she says a little more subdued, "you can call me Delia." She points to her ankle bracelet, making a matching set to the one that Daphne has, "I'm all nice and legal now." It's said with a touch of good humor and she edges closer to the beer, following Logan's example in partaking of the numbing substance.

Yes, that is Daphne, Logan knows. Knows a little more now, the electronic anklet pinging and wired into the network that draws like an invisible spiderweb over the social gathering and indeed, the rest of the Blocks. When she blurs again out of focus with sheer speed, rustling the table cloths and the hair and clothing of those around her, Logan pulls his attention away for the time it takes to take a long sip of beer, palm stinging and wet with the iciness that greases down the glass as ice and water. Absently offers the opener to Delia when she goes in for her own, and languidly refocuses on Delilah.

"You're— " A customer. Teo's friend. Pretty much anything but her name, and as Delilah lacks an anklet and the idea of rifling through any telecommunications devices on her person through all this pinging is enough to give Logan a headache on its own, he mutely grasps after the tidbit of information that doesn't come. "Haven't I seen you around before," he settles on, accent crisply tolerant.

He glances at the kid. No one mentioned that part, in the rare moments when Trafford pinged on Logan's radar.

Samson is not the type of dog to ignore children, and especially not children that bring food into his nose range. He does know better than to take things, at least. When the whoosh of sound and shape come along, the dog stands up fast enough to tilt the table. The ladies sitting on the other side catch it, and the things on it, but glaring is saved for the big dog. His eyes turn away, only to fix onto Daphne, peering up past his lowered brow. He didn't even do anything! Samson ambles out from under the table, hesitantly going to lean up against Daphne's thigh.

"Can I? Oh, bugger, you too?" Delilah purses her lips into a frown when she turns to step closer, gaze on the anklet. Walter leans his head against her shoulder, and she feels more free to take a look at the man. Baby too close for comfort yet? Logan is getting the fullest dose of smiling mum with babe on her hip. "I think so. You look familiar. Maybe you have." If she is getting any inklings about names, dates, or places, she is showing none of it on her face, or in her eyes.

"Well, regardless, I'm Delilah. Are you with Delia?" Not so much with, as just with her here. Miss Trafford does her best to play hostess while Delia gets a drink of her own. "Did you have anything to eat yet? There's a noodle pot over there that I think might disappear soon, it's delicious."

The brownie plate is set back on the table, along with the brownie, and a napkin is grabbed to wipe off sticky fingers before the speedster bends to console the dog. "Hey, hey, Samson, how are you buddy?" she croons to the dog, sitting back on her own haunches to pet the beast's ears, ruffling him affectionately. "Sorry about that. Those nasty children tried to poison you, didn't they? Didn't they?"

She stands and glances over to the group. Sighing, as if being forced by some unheard voice to go say hello, she walks that way, wiping her hand with the napkin in case she has to shake any hands.

"Hey," Daphne offers a little awkwardly, looking up at the three familiar faces. "Nice spread, Delilah. Good to see all of you." There's a more uncertain smile to Delia — who she'd run off on the last time she saw her, and an arch of brows up at the radio on Logan's belt.

"Delilah and Walter," Delia fills in quickly and on the heels of the other redhead's self introduction. Standing on her tiptoes, the young woman grips her beer bottle a little tighter and stretches her neck out in search of Sable. "I followed Sable in but she disappeared, she helped me move in to the house."

When Daphne makes her way over, the beer bottle is finally cracked open and Delia takes a swig before nodding to the speedster. "Hey," returned just as awkwardly, "I brought casserole."

"Burlesque," Logan supplies, easily, and there is an easy step back taken from the young mother and her attachment. Single moms and the hollow empty spaces in their tiny lives can make for a good port of call, but, you know, he doesn't want to get trapped into a situation where he has to interact with it or anything, and they do that, occasionally. Glug glug, and then a glance over his shoulder — not quite looking for an exit, nor really trying to find trouble. Something in between these two things. A glance grounds him back into the conversation, as well as Daphne's eyes at the radio.

His own track down, down to her ankle, then back up again (if not that much up). He doesn't offer explanation in the same way he isn't asking one of her. He can fill in the blanks. "Don't eat it," he tags onto the end of Delia's offer. That would be the second time he's saved Daphne's life. One hopes she is counting. "Logan," he adds, a shift of a look to Delilah to signify he is talking to her.

Samson wouldn't call them nasty children. Smelly, touchy, pinchy children, perhaps. The dog allows the woman to fondle his ears, mouth opening slightly to give her that hot day doggie smile before she goes off to find his master.

"Yes, Walter too." Delilah looks down and lifts his hand to mock-wave at Delia and Logan. The baby sees more fit to stare than anything, his other thumb now in his mouth. "Sable is probably somewhere whipping those busboys into shape. I guess they think she's funny, but they're not gonna like it when she turns drill sergeant. She was telling me she was helping someone move in, a while back, but didn't say who it was." Go figure it was Delia. "Hey Daph. Couldn't have done it without the Outreach group. They were kind of like lube on a rough night, seriously."

And because what she said wasn't strange enough, Delilah keeps on as if she hadn't. "Burlesque? Oh-" And now, surely, with his name and location, she no doubt recalls him- and it flickers there behind her eyes, but not for long. She can't let it straggle. Doesn't mean she can't be nosy. "What are you doing out here, then? If you had that going for you?"

"I saw," Daphne nods to Delia, and then smirks a little at Logan's advice. "I think I'm full. Watching my weight. Can't exercise like I used to. Must be old age." The choppy fragments are tossed out quickly in her usual fever pitch, and there's an edge in her voice that suggests she's not counting Logan's favors at the moment. Not when he is clearly The Man.

"It's a nice party, though it'd be better if there was something to feel patriotic about these days. You won't be offended if I pretend it's Bastille Day instead? Color palette still works." She moves to the cooler for a beer.

The casserole is full of weight management meat. It would be Delia's argument if she was really interested in peddling her dishes. For now she's satisfied by watching them from afar and giggling internally whenever someone risks a spoon full. "I'll drop some by later or something, I'm sure I'll have leftovers."

Her attention is pulled from staring at the buffet table when Delilah begins to question Logan and her eyes flit toward his for a moment. She opens her mouth to start to say something but then brings the bottle to her lips for another pull. "What do you mean lube on a rough night? Like castor oil or something?" It means something completely different to her.

While it would be a rare person that would call Sable shy, she suffers a foundling's peculiar fear of social functions. She's more comfortable when she's got somewhere to be, something to do, some function to serve that won't draw attention to her feeling - at heart - quite profoundly out of place in this sunnily domestic gathering. But there are only so many busboys to harass, and when things have reached equilibrium, she saunters back into the hoi polloi, drawing a wrist across her brow to clear the spines of dark hair her sweat has plastered to her forehead.

Plus, did she hear the ever so delicate Machesterian pronunciation of 'lube'? What the hell is she missing? Up to Delilah's side, reaching out to touch lightly at the small of her back.

Of the gathered, most are familiar. Daphne she remembers with a twinge of guilt, and she gives the speedster a half nervous smile and a nod. Bastille day- what's that again? She thinks an old flame of hers might have used that as a reason to get blitzed - which Sable was all for but didn't mean she knows much about the actual date. Delia she gives a crooked smile. "Gotta get things flowin' if you wanna keep goin'," she chimes in which- well, there could be worse ways to speak with children around.

Logan, however, is an unknown quantity. Yellow eyes assess him with cool consideration, maybe just faintly territorial. Just a little. "Takes all sorts," she interjects, briefly, as someone who just joined the conversation really ought to.

There is the slightest of feline pulls at the corner of Logan's mouth, naturally finding humour in the less-than-mature portion of the conversation if mostly due to the inquiry chirping at his elbow, and the tiny lesbian's response. She gets cool consideration in return, before looking back to Delilah. "New endeavors," is what he chooses to run with. The real reason he is here seems a bit complicated to explain over beers and spam(?) casserole. "I manage Saint Clare's, some few blocks east of here. I don't know if— " A quick, assessing glance around the circle of female he's found himself talking to. "— any of you would know it.

"Still have a stake in the strip club, just moved out here. Security reasons," is said with only the smallest of ironic sneers, not quite disguised by another sip of beer.

"You can pretend it is whichever day you want." Delilah laughs, and watches Daphne be the next to grab a brew. Her brows lift when Sable comes creeping up behind her, and really, should not be surprised that Sable turned up when she did. "I kinda meant the other kind of- rough- night-" She has a lot of pauses, volume petering out when Sable effectively takes over that explanation. Thank you. Or something. Delilah edges her elbow into Sable while she is sizing up her opponent(?), which mostly just means that Dee wants the use of both arms, and she should take the sunscreen smeared babe for a while. He is already reaching for Sable and talking, exchanging his babytalk nouns and adjectives for apparently Diego-centric ones.

"Clare's? Well, I can't say I haven't heard about some things." The redhead chooses her words with an aloof manner, though there is always that remaining hint of knowing to what she does say. Otherwise, John is still getting a bit of a foil out of her, and she might be getting a bit too interested. "Security reasons are as good as any, I suppose.. are you a security risk then, mister Logan?"

St. Clare's earns Logan an arched brow from Daphne, but she turns to nod to Sable, just as self-consciously in her reciprocation of the other's greeting. She doesn't feel guilty like Sable does, but instead embarrassed for what she cannot help. Her cheeks flush a little pink at the sight of her fellow rebel, though those not in the know probably assume it's due to the girl's off-color comment or perhaps Logan's off-color profession.

A chug of beer is taken, ducking her embarrassment behind the bottle is as good away as any to try to cover up her awkwardness. "That's okay," she finally says to Delia. "Let's limit the meals you cook for me and I don't eat to one, 'kay?"

"Flowin'— Oh like an ene— No? Oohhh OH!!" Delia's cheeks go from a pale pink to a deep red in a split second before she turns bodily, away from the conversation in an attempt to look at anything but the people in the little group. The beer is chugged down until there's only a quarter of an inch of liquid left in the bottom of the bottle, the bit at the end that usually gets to warm to drink.

Looking down at Samson, she looks over her shoulder at Delilah and then Sable, offering them a touch of a smile. "Maybe your dog will like the casseroles, I don't think many other people will eat it." Even though it's covered in cheese. Not the spray kind either. "Next neighbourhood party I'll bring a jello mold or something." If she can figure out how to grow the mold.

Sable knows that elbow. She reaches for Walter even as her eyes flick down to Logan's nice watch and fancy shoes. Strip club owner? H-fuckin'-mmm. "Mobbed up, eh?" she says, bold as brass before she takes the baby, and changes her expression to something ridiculously enough to draw a smile from Walter. She doesn't follow up her impudence with further insult, giving Walter a 'greatest hits' of her more grotesque facial expressions.

She does steal a look back at Logan in the wake of Delilah's question, expression going sly, eyes narrowing a little. Delia steals her attention, however, with her direct address. And she's got two ears, after all. "Have y'all offered him a slice, see if 'e'll bite?"

"Me?" is said in the same manner of who, moi?, accompanied by a broader smile that is perhaps a double bluff. Of course he isn't really a security risk. Except maybe he is? It isn't as though civilian watch attracts good samaritans. "Not a chance, I believe I'm paid well not to be one. And I'm not the one with a little tracking accessory, now am I?" He doesn't throw in a no offense to the two women that, you know, do, mostly because it doesn't occur to him to do so. Pale eyes dart between Sable, then back to Delilah, as he adds, "Well, if you like what you hear, do come around sometime — they welcome all sorts."

A flourish of a swig finishes his drink, and he reaches passed Delia to settle the bottle down, taking the opportunity to brush a hand across the small of her back as he withdraws a step. "I suppose I should get back to work — I'm on the clock. Ladies." And he moves to make his leave, a hand drifting for radio without touching the buttons on the device.

If only Dee could hear her fellow ginger's inner monologue. It would be both painful and the most hilarious thing all day. Not quite as entertaining as Sable making faces and Walter squealing with giggles at them. "We'll see about that…" Delilah only offers Logan a wiggling wave of fingers in farewell, rather than try to remark at him; she might see him around, and that would be the proper time for it. Delia gets her words, even if Logan gets her thoughts. The can in her hand gets a crank of lid, finally.

"As long as there's nothing bad for dogs in it, he can have some. He eats as much as a grown man his size, so overindulging doesn't concern me much." Delilah chuckles and looks across the grass to the dog, who seems intent on watching people going by with plates with bits of food destined for the bins. What a waste! Oh- no- there we go. One man stops and puts own a platter plate still with some morsels of food on it.

Dark eyes are narrowed at the comment about tracking devices — Daphne's self absorbed enough not to notice Delia's, and thinks the comment is all for her and her alone. "Right. Thanks for the grub. We security threats need to keep our strength up for trying to wreak havoc and mayhem at every chance we get," Daphne says brightly, lifting her bottle in a mock toast to the others present.

"Happy 'Independence' Day," she adds, the middle word dripping with irony. She sets her now empty bottle down on the table nearby and begins the long, tedious walk of a quarter mile.

Where Daphne takes the road of defiance and rebellion, Delia's head tips downward in shame for her own little tracking device. One foot slides behind the other leg in a vain effort to hide it, knowing full well that she won't be able to. Chewing on her lip, she attempts a weak smile and shakes her head toward both Sable and Delilah. "I haven't tried to feed it to him yet but I can guarantee that there's nothing in it that's bad for a dog." The cans in her trash on the next pick up day will guarantee it too. 100% pure horsemeat.

"Bye," is offered to both Logan and Daphne on their departure. Her bottle finds its way next to Logan's on the table and she reaches for another, changing her mind at the last second and turning away instead. "I should get home, I have some things to do before I head into the city tomorrow." She picks up one dish and covers it, then puts it down before starting on the next one. "Thanks for the lovely party, if you want to come over later and watch fireworks from the roof— that's where I'll be."

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