milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Why is Clint Barton in the rafters, when he's by all rights way too old and (by some accounts) dignified to climb up there?

Well. He was drinking his morning coffee when some thing touched the back of his foot with a long tendril, and all he saw was its weird misshapen form skittering away.

It was weird, okay? Anyway. He's sitting on a rafter, watching the room below, with a mug of coffee in his hands and a jar of peanuts next to him.

[tiny tag: creepy doll
ooc: No new threads, unless we've talked about it :)! I'll be around this weekend, but I am at this point Friday asleep.]

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"Working harder than I ought." She sighs, surrendering. At this point, it'd take a full memory wipe to get out of this mess, and she's pretty sure that'd cause more problems than it'd fix.

"These things your problem? Or is there some trick to killing them?"

One he could take up.

She pauses, and makes a resigned gesture. There's really no helping it - she isn't Olga. Two steps take her back into the dark shadow cast by an overlarge patron, and then there's soft footsteps echoing along the wood of the rafters.

"Da, but not one you are going to pick up. The best would be to catch them and let me deal with it. As for them being my problem..." The light below casts odd shadows across her face as she moves to sit near him, her legs dangling over open space. "Say more the problem of a friend, that has grown beyond his capabilities."

"It happens." He's less surprised than he should be, maybe, about the shadow thing. But once someone turns into a tiger, surprising takes on new meanings.

"I could slow them up from here without hurting anyone," he says, after a moment, "but Security would be pissed at me for using a weapon indoors."

He's thinking.

Her expression says volumes about what she thinks about the 'Security'.

"They must catch you first, da?" She queries, grinning crookedly. "Eh. Even if you simply deny them your fear, it will slow them."

"Can they actually do anything? Other than creep around."

"Usually that is their range. Some of the more highly spelled ones can carry messages. They are tools, usually of Dark witches, who use them to bolster their strength." Katya explains, idly grabbing a boot knife free from its holster and undoing the stitching on her current quarry.

"Well," Clint says, watching her unstitch it. "Then I guess I better embarrass myself by climbing back down."

It's not going to be graceful.

"Well, you are less likely to be bothered up here." Katya allows, flaying the stuffed creature in quick, efficient movements. "It will be a problem, going back down?"

"Nah. I just...," he pauses, and laughs. "When I was a kid, I was in the circus." He rubs the back of his head. "So I feel clumsy now."

He tilts his head at her. "Security's less likely to get pissed if I start taking out dolls from down there, anyway."

"... They are going to be less upset about you doing the same thing from a poorer vantage?" Katya asks, incredulously, and then mutters something uncomplimentary if her tone is at all related to the words.

"You would need a lift?" She asks, curiously.

Clint laughs. "I don't miss, at this range." The ever goes without saying. "But they don't know that.

"... Could I get one?"

She rolls her eyes, because at this point, with her experience, she's beyond giving points to the Watch, here. But somewhere, between one blink and another, there is a tiger instead of a girl, still huffing her opinion.

Don't tug, I'm not a pony.

... That is not what Clint was expecting. He was thinking 'I can take you with me when I do weird shadow hopping'.

This is cooler.

"Got it. Let me know if I do." He thinks he's situated.

Heavy muscles coil underneath him, and it's a quick drop to the nearest table top, sending waitrats squeaking for cover.

Better than lion taming, circus boy?

Clint laughs, breathless, before sliding off.

"Much. Thank you."

These tables must be made of ... something really strong.

Natasha's going to be so jealous.

To be honest, she's being slightly underhanded, and keeping herself from crashing through the table. The table will, most likely, forever be a bit wobbly.

Stay safe, mmm? My friend is already prone to overblown guilt, he does not need help.

"Sure," he says.

He taps the Bar, and orders three drawstring bags, a backpack, and a set of four one pound throwing beanbags.

Once he has them, he says "I'll wave when I'm full up." He kind of suspects it'll be awhile. Sandbags have a better chance of knocking them over than something with less surface area, but these things are fast.

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