Participants:
| Scene Title | Tinkerbell |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A pixie vists Brian and rubs off some of her dust. |
| Date | January 8 2009 |
Before the bomb, Chelsea was most known for being "gay-friendly," home of the stereotypical "Chelsea Boy." It was a place of culture and art, of eclectic ethnic restaurants and cutting-edge performing arts studios.
One of the last places in Manhattan to be reopened to the public, the streets of Chelsea almost give the impression of an urban ghost town. Many buildings are dark, inhabited only by the homeless, if by anyone at all. Their walls have been tagged with graffiti, the windows broken; forgotten cars line the streets, slowly rusting away. Close inspection reveals that their interiors have already been gutted of anything valuable or useful.
Housing in Chelsea is quite cheap; it therefore doesn't stay on the market long, despite the potential threat of residual radiation. The population has become a mixture of all ethnicities, desperation being their thread in common; those who have the money to live elsewhere do. Culture seems to have been washed out entirely on the neighborhood scale, survival taking vast precedence over art.
Bundled tightly against the cool wind that whispers through the gutted carcass of Chelsea, a slight figure walks on long strides. The coat she wears is battered and old, its pale beige color spattered by slush. Head cocked slightly to catch this sound or that, she marks a particular pattern of graffiti along one beleaguered wall, recalling landmarks on the way to a rendezvous she did not set. The weight she bears is considerable, a small woman done up like a pack mule with a canvas backpack slung over her shoulders and the dark, dull gloss of a heavy briefcase borne at her hip. Uncomplaining but not unaffected, Leah's breath comes in quiet puffs of steam as she moves from shadowed building to darkened alley, and there is an undying alertness to the drag of her gaze over her surroundings, accustomed to the dim and the gloom and seeking the telltales of movement as she passes.
There's only one… or two of him out tonight. It's Deckard, no need to bring a mass armada or whatever. So down a dark alley where he was told to go, one Brian sits impatiently on an empty crate. A hoody and jeans, the man vainly rubs his hands together to try to create heat.
Leaning against the other side of the alleyway is an identical man. In everything but clothes. He wears a black coat which is hugged tightly around himself as he looks down at the ground of the alley waiting. He shouldn't have told Brian to come if he wasn't going to be there at that time. It's cold.
What a dick.
Pausing at the mouth of the alley, Leah stands with her square boot heels planted wide. Halted, her long loose hair falls forward about her face, the cool wind flapping at the hem of her coat, flapping it against her legs. Narrowing her gaze in the dark, she marks the man on the crate and his buddy by the wall. Huffing one last steamy breath through her nose, she advances on them with purpose. The only sound given voice is a low, annoyed grunt as the heavy briefcase she carries bumps against her thigh.
At 5'4" tall and definitely female-shaped, she is clearly not Flint Deckard.
One hand starts to go to the weapon talked into the back of his pants. But she's small. And doesn't seem to be carrying a nuclear bomb or any other type of weapon that may cause him permanent damage both emotionally and physically he starts to stand up to face her.
"What are you doing back here?" One of them asks.
Confronted by this question, Leah stops and settles on her heels, partway down the alley. The briefcase thunks into her lead again. It will bruise. Her brow creases as she scowls up at the men, attempting to discern features in the dark. "Looking for a friend," she says shortly. Her voice is low, the dryness of her tone delivered out of exasperation. "What are /you/ boys doing back here?"
"Waiting for a friend." It is reported rather quickly by the one who had up until most recently been sitting on the crate. His hands tuck into his pockets as he takes a few steps forward. Brian cocks his head at the woman holding a briefcase, it is quite odd for someone that is not him and not Deckard to be back in an alley like this. Especially a woman. Especially a woman that's not seven feet tall.
Smile twitching her mouth up at one corner, the twist of Leah's expression is one of great irony. It is a pity that, in the meager light of the dark alley, it is difficult to see or appreciate. "Hi," she says. "I think we might be friends." Swinging the briefcase in front of her to take possession of its handle in both of her gloved hands, she tests, "'Breeanne'?"
(Yeah. What a dick.)
He can't help but let out a chuckle. Vintage Dickard. Though the mirth doesn't last too long. "Who are you?" Brian grunts. "He's never done this before." The young man comments. One of the Brians walks forward slowly towards her, to retrieve the briefcase.
"Just call me Tinkerbell," suggests the younger Deckard with a slight, amused narrowing of her eyes. "I'm sure I've answered to worse." Cocking an eyebrow at the approaching Brian, Leah runs the tip of her tongue along the back of her teeth and snorts. Her gaze skips from Brian to Brian in the dark, but does not linger overlong on either. She snaps open the catches on the briefcase, flipping it open to display the neat rows of its contents for his perusal. "As ordered," she says, in a brisk tone that suggests it damn well better be. "The rest's in the backpack, just a sec."
"Got it, Tink." Brian says, tucking his hands into his pockets. The other stays in position, against the wall behind him. "Where's Deckard?" The closer one asks as he goes into a crouch to look at the ammunition that has been delivered albeit a little late. "Looks good." He looks up to see the rest in the backpack.
This Leah swings down from her shoulders, shaking back her hair and blowing stray locks out of her face with a slight 'pbbt'. Dignified. "Taking a nap," she says. "He's goddamned lazy, you know that?" The the zipper takes her a few tries, its little head fumbled in her gloved fingers, but she pulls it open to show him the boxed shells inside, and then straightens, rolling her shoulders now that they are free of the weight of backpack and briefcase. "Longtime customer … s?"
"Yeah. He is lazy." Brian comments, going to pick up the backpack. He tosses the thing over his shoulder. He doesn't need to say anything to alert the other guy he's tossing it. It's caught quite easily without the first Brian even looking. "Not really." The young man comments fitting the briefcase back together. "Customer." He mutters. "That's just my twin brother."
"Ah," Leah says, the syllable granted odd significance. Unvoiced laughter furring the next word, she puts her hands to her hips and ducks her head in a single wise nod. "Family." Her lips press together in a closed-mouth smile.
"Family. I've got a big one." He says, slinging the briefcase behind him once again. The other Brian catches it easily once again. The backpack is eased over his back. His hand tucks into the handle of the briefcase. "You say that like you've got something to say about it."
Tucking her gloved hands into the deep pockets of her long coat, Leah intones with warm humor, "I think everybody and their dog has something to say about that one, pal." The restless skip of her gaze dancing here and there along the alley, to its end from its mouth, and over both Brians. "Tchyeah. Yours is big, mine is small — down to two, actually — but that's where the collective neuroses of the human race collect, am I right, my friend?" Like many people who say 'am I right, my friend', Leah does not appear to expect a response to it. "Anything else you in the market for?"
Screwing his face up a bit, Brian isn't about to admit that he doesn't know what 'neuroses' means, or that he hardly even understands that last bit of the sentence but he gives a little chuckle combined with an awkward, drawled, "Yeahh…" To her 'amirite'.
"Not really." The young man mutters, looking her over. "How did you get into this business?" The young man asks.
"You could say…" Leah hesitates, considering her reply to this question. She might even hover, momentarily, over a real answer! Her head tips, mouth quirking to one side. But what she says is, "I like money. Don't you?"
"Prostitutes do too, I think." Brian quips back with an arched brow. Though he gives a shake of his head. If she doesn't want to tell him why Deckard isn't there, or who she is, he's not going to press. "Well, thanks for the stuff, Tink. I guess I'll catch ya around."
"Yeah, but they got a lot more to worry about than I got." With a bright glint in her eyes, Leah says, "Maybe it's in my blood. Who knows?" Lifting one shoulder in a partial shrug, she unearths a hand from her pocket to give him a little wave, gloved fingers wiggling in the air. "I'll look forward to it, Breeanne my man." The rhyme makes her laugh, a swift, bright soud with some relation to a cackle. "'Cause I'm sure you will. Deckard and me, we go way back." To illustrate this, she jerks a thumb back over her shoulder.
"Seeya Tink." Brian says with a little smile. If only he knew she was a Deckard he would be kicking himself for showing such a gesture, but for now she's as pleasant as any woman with bullets in the night would be. The two Brians turn, the first one giving a little wave to the woman. "Be careful, now."
Leah smiles slightly, her eyes narrowing as she turns in a slow pivot on her heel. "You too," she says, and moves on up the alley towards its mouth, her step noticeably lighter now that she is free of the delivery. What nice young men! There is, however, a noticeable lack of glitter or flight to her departure.
 January 8th: One Last Look |
 January 8th: What Did You Think I Wanted? |
