Rachel generally keeps her routines to the morning. Today, however, she had some extra creepy-crawly-restless energy to burn off, and as such, is coming out of the elevators to the garage sometime after Happy Hour has started.
She does a quick scan around the tables to make sure there's no one present who might whine about her morphing suit/workout outfit, and walks to the bar for a drink.
What she gets is a surprise bartender.
"Helena, right?" Rachel asks, smiling as she slides onto a stool.
She won't say the woman looks better but-- wow, she really looks better.
Grinning, Rachel twists the cap back onto her drink and leads the way to the elevator, keeping the bottle in one hand. She's not much for elevators in general, much less when there are other people in there with her. But there's enough room in this one that she can lean against one wall and leave plenty of space between herself and Helena.
"Just running? Or is there other stuff you wanted to work on?"
Running; climbing; target practice; fighting... the options run though her mind and she wants to do them all.
"Everything," she says with a wry smile.
But a hand goes to the spot on her stomach where she was shot. With it still so fresh it's unlikely - impossible in fact - that she'll be able to manage as much as she usually would.
The grin is automatic, excited and understanding - but Rachel's gaze drops to the spot on Helena's stomach, too, remembering the way she'd walked before.
"There's no equipment for anything," she points out after a moment. "I've been using those cement curb-things as balance beams, and there aren't any mats. But it's empty."
The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
It's empty, concrete, and cold.
...except for the unending expanse of cars, trucks, planes, spaceships, and everything-else-you-could-possibly-imagine-in-a-garage.
Rachel steps out of the elevator first, looking around. Helena's voice and obvious interest make her grin when she glances back. "I have no idea, they might all have owners. I don't mess with them."
"No," she says in a quiet voice, reaching out a tentative hand to the nearest one.
"These are the real thing."
She pulls her hand back and steps back from the car, her face set with anger, and she searches around. A tire iron catches her eye and she snatches it up.
She brings her arm up over her head and brings the wrench down, hard, on the surface of the Batmobile, again and again and again.
After a few minutes the fire goes out of her attack, the screams peter out and turn to sobs and she's just a woman, breathing heavily and holding a tire iron in her hand.
She does a quick scan around the tables to make sure there's no one present who might whine about her morphing suit/workout outfit, and walks to the bar for a drink.
What she gets is a surprise bartender.
"Helena, right?" Rachel asks, smiling as she slides onto a stool.
She won't say the woman looks better but-- wow, she really looks better.
Reply
Some that she doesn't even have names for.
"But there's plenty of open space, too. I've been using it for gymnastics and no one's ever bothered me."
Reply
She is in No Way thinking about sneaking down to the garage and trying out a few moves...
Reply
And Rachel is totally not looking at her as if her expression and tone of voice are rather telling.
Nor is she getting off her stool to offer casually, "I can show you. So you can check it out when you feel better."
Obviously.
Reply
"Sure," she says, wiping her hands on a cloth and coming round to the front of the bar. "I'm just about done here anyway."
She ignores the appearance of a napkin on the bar which tells her in some very colourful terms that she has NOT finished here yet.
Helena is going to pay for this later.
Reply
(like bartending herself, maybe)
Grinning, Rachel twists the cap back onto her drink and leads the way to the elevator, keeping the bottle in one hand. She's not much for elevators in general, much less when there are other people in there with her. But there's enough room in this one that she can lean against one wall and leave plenty of space between herself and Helena.
"Just running? Or is there other stuff you wanted to work on?"
Reply
"Everything," she says with a wry smile.
But a hand goes to the spot on her stomach where she was shot. With it still so fresh it's unlikely - impossible in fact - that she'll be able to manage as much as she usually would.
Reply
"There's no equipment for anything," she points out after a moment. "I've been using those cement curb-things as balance beams, and there aren't any mats. But it's empty."
The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
It's empty, concrete, and cold.
...except for the unending expanse of cars, trucks, planes, spaceships, and everything-else-you-could-possibly-imagine-in-a-garage.
Reply
Helena's eyes go wide when she sees the sheer size of the... room? cavern? and the various vehicles that are down there.
"These don't belong to anyone?" she asks in a small voice.
Reply
Reply
Hey is that the Batmobile over there?
Helena breaks away from Rachel and heads to a fleet of black cars.
Batmobiles plural, then...
Reply
Rachel smirks a little. "I'm guessing an avid fan with too much time on his hands."
Reply
"These are the real thing."
She pulls her hand back and steps back from the car, her face set with anger, and she searches around. A tire iron catches her eye and she snatches it up.
She brings her arm up over her head and brings the wrench down, hard, on the surface of the Batmobile, again and again and again.
"Bastard! You bastard!"
Reply
Then she turns and looks around and-- Rachel knows that expression.
She doesn't see the tire iron until Helena's holding it. But she still knows what's coming before its up and swinging down hard.
Rachel's mouth opens, a soft sound escaping as she stiffens, eyes wide like she might protest and--
Doesn't.
Watch dents appear and listens to the screech of metal on metal and a woman going postal on a car she can't see.
Reply
The iron falls to the floor with a clang.
Reply
Doesn't know what to do.
And is suddenly very aware that she does not belong in this situation.
She's still standing about fifteen feet back, still and tense, poised and waiting.
Reply
Leave a comment