5848/im a baroness

im a baroness
Date of Scene:	04 April 2021
Location:	Location
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Roxanne Spaulding, Neena Thurman

---

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
~~ EARLIER ~~

@DIRKTHEKNIFE02 relationship status: SINGLE
@DIRKTHEKNIFE02 is on the market ladiez, @gravitybites was nice but WAY uptight #backdoorbestdoor

"Ohmigawd. No no no NO NO NO NO THAT ISN'T EVEN WHAT HAPPENED UGHHhhhhhh--" In the living room of their apartment, Leslie casually turns the volume on the television -up-. Roxanne's muted shrieking is drowned out just as it careens into expletives. This is widely considered to be a masterful director move in retaining the scene's PG-13 rating.

Anyway, she's pissed.

~~ A LITTLE LATER BUT STILL EARLIER ~~

@gravitybites: yes i need u to fuk up a guy's house plz
@ladyluck95: sure. $$?
@gravitybites: so much. im a baroness
@ladyluck95: you aren't, but we'll talk when i get there.

~~ DIRK'S HOUSE, NOW ~~

It's nighttime. The house is a frat house off of the NYU campus, three stories and pretty damn typical if you've ever seen or been near a college campus. Roxanne's here, furious, phone in hand and -death in her eyes-.

THE OUTFIT: She's wearing all black for sure. Black turtleneck, black miniskirt, black thigh-high kitty stockings (they were all she had), and black sneakers. She is the NIGHT.

She is waiting for her accomplice.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino's down on her luck. It's been -weeks- since some organized crime outfit has hired her to guard their meet up to swap drugs or guns for cash or drugs. Maybe something to do with the last two times she was hired ending up with bullets flying, blood spurting, and hapless mooks throwing her the money in their death throes.

Or maybe it was that stupid King Murderdeath guy and his stupid gameshow. That blew her Twitter up bad, and she's been ignoring her account for weeks. But hey, finally a paying job! And a baroness! Nobility's always good.

And hey, at least that dumb gameshow got her the longcoat she's wearing overtop a black t-shirt with a faded Slayer logo, and tight faded blue jeans. Domino's a little worried it contains the spirit of an evil ghost cowboy robot.

But she's pretty sure the coat has to be with the hat for that to kick in, and she doesn't wear them together. It's a rule.

Domino is not the night as she pulls up, a duffelbag strapped to the back of a garish green sports bike, and a baseball bat slung over her shoulder with a makeshift sling made out of paracord. The bike lets out a muffled screech as she pulls up to the curb and kicks the stand down, swinging herself off and stretches her arms above her head, sketching a little salute to Roxy. "Hey, you must be the baroness right?" Her eyebrows shoot up as she looks at the dorm, "So like... y'got this dope's room number? I mean, that's a lotta windows."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
Everybody knows King Murderdeath is a stupid asshole. There's a rhyme about it, somewhere. That's on you, Domino.

Fury turns to mild confusion when Roxanne's hard-boiled mercenary arrives on a bicycle - not particularly well-regarded as a stealth vehicle despite its unparalleled silence. The general stealthy nature of the night turns that screech into a damning shriek, and Roxanne's flinching despite herself, pocketing her phone, and turning on a heel to give Domino her *full* attention because *what the hell*.

"I'm totes a baroness, yes! And you're SO LOUD, oh em gee." Roxanne isn't exactly being quiet. She hushes HERSELF after she realizes her decibel violation, lavender eyes slanting sideways while she hushes on up. She indicates a hedgerow nearby - houses always have these - and hides behind it.

"I got no idea, for REAL. But I do got this. Pay attention to the windows!" Roxanne withdraws -- HER PHONE. She dials -- AN ASSHOLE.

Ring. Her voice pitches up an octave, sunnier than before.

"Oh heyyyy Dirk~" Furious eyes to Domino, then to the windows of the house.
"Yeah! No, there's a crazy orgy happening outside of your place! Everybody is TOTES NAKED. I was just seeing if it was like, your house or something? Some weird party? 'Cuz I'm totally down to go..."

domino if this idiot is looking out a window for a make-believe orgy we need to ruin him are you paying attention

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino is skeptical Baronesses have robes, or dresses, or -capes-. And probably don't date frat boys. This is a new low for her. But, hey, there's nowhere to go but down.

She dives behind the hedgerow, peeking up... and it turns out stark white skin that practically glows under street lights -also- isn't very stealthy. She sees movement in a window... third floor. Great. She bites her lower lip, nostrils flaring with a sharp exhalation of frustration, brow furrowing. Okay, she's got this. Just gotta improvise. Adapt and overcome. Other quasi-military motivational slogans. Gleam the cube or whatever.

She sneaks out from the hedgerow, a slow jog bringing her to the door, whereupon she hits one of the intercom buttons. "Hey! Pizza delivery! Lemme in!"

She pauses for a moment until a dazed voice sounds from the tinny speaker, "Heh, the wall's -talking- maaaaan." Sigh. She tries another button, "Candygram!" "Oh my god, did Jake send you? Because I told him I got diagnosed with diabetes? What a DICK!!".

Right. This isn't working. It's time for plan B. She rolls her shoulders, bringing two fingers to her lips and making a sharp, quick whistle, "Hey Baroness! Get the duffel bag!" ...Right, it's time to simplify things. ...It's too bad Roxy looks like she weighs eighty pounds soaking wet, because the duffel bag is awkwardly heavy, mostly one large, very heavy item, but other slightly smaller than baseball sized items can be felt rolling, and heard clinking when it moves.

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
They -always- fall for the ol' 'orgy on your front lawn' trick. Roxanne, you're a fucking genius. The teen watches while Domino takes some initiative and moseys up to the front of the house - she's substantially less pale white, but fluorescent pink bangs are their own brand of 'highly unstealthy', and she's visible from pretty much anywhere. From Domino's place at the door - not that she's looking - coral lips tilt downwards in a clearly unimpressed frown at the first and then -second- attempts at an INT check.

Despite this disappointment, she doesn't exactly look like she knows what she's supposed to be doing when Domino whistles like that. The reaction the merc gets from the hedgerows is quiet confusion, spiked eyebrows and a twisted-up face - you want her to what? Duffel ba- OH. That. A wink and a thumbs-up, and Roxanne's creeping her slinky ass over to the bike and its cargo. It's -weird- how she grabs the thing, too - a single grunt and the flicker of a strain, and then she's tugging it up over a shoulder like it weighed a quarter of its weight. Like a *backpack*.

Roxanne creeps across the lawn in a comically obtuse way. Hips swivel side to side while she takes overlarge steps, toe-to-heel. It's hard to imagine how anybody could be more obvious in their movement. It is exactly how a baroness would infiltrate a frathouse.

*WHUMP* is the noise the bag makes when Roxanne dumps it at Domino's feet, extraordinarily heavy once again.

"Okay," she hisses, eyes on Domino's.

"We've got exactly five minutes until CAMPUS POLICE show up." A timer appears in the top-right corner of the screen.

"What's in the bag??"

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino unzips the duffelbag... and hauls out what is -surely- overkill for 'My ex lied about why we broke up'. Or maybe it's not. After all, nothing says 'It's over' like a six round cylinder loaded 40mm grenade launcher. Domino whistles softly to herself, working the break action to pop the cylinder open, showing six void-black chambers that yawn like bottomless pits. "Oh, it's a noisemaker. He'll get the message." She rummages in the bag, pulling out a round, it's... a grenade. It looks like every other grenade, aside from the base, painted with a solid blue band. "Hm. Tear gas...? Nah, his neighbours aren't to blame." She drops it casually, pulls out another one with a white band. "Oooh, white phosphorous... nah, someone's going to take exception to warcrimes on US soil..." She rummages for long seconds... four minutes and fifteen seconds left on the timer when she pulls out another grenade. This one's got alternating stripes of green and black. Her eyebrows perk up in a brief moment of confusion. "Huh... never seen one with stripes before." She shrugs lightly, drops the round into the launcher, and swings it shut with an ominous clack.

She zips the duffel up and swings it over her shoulder, beginning to back up slowly towards the sidewalk, as she flicks up the folding sight on the launcher, hefting it up to her shoulder, one eye closing as she aims for that top floor window. "Oh... can you start the bike and like... wait on it? I'll just be a second."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
Roxanne's reaction to the 40mm grenade launcher that *isn't* a nickname for some fratboy's hog? She purses her lips, makes an impressed-sounding noise, and sort of watches while she glances - increasingly frequently - towards the street. Holy shit. She has no idea what sort of hell she's invited on these frat idiots. She was thinking, like, bats and toilet paper? Maybe slashed tires? Hopefully the COPS don't show up.

Four minutes left on that timer.

"Okayyyy, uh. Uhm. M-ayyybe grenades are a little Carrie? He made a buttsex riff, he didn't, like, sacrifice a baby to the Devil." Roxanne is actively dissuading herself *while* she explains her reasoning, and winds up reneging even as she's stepping off of the porch.

"But, like, seriously, it IS sort of social media murder? That's kinda like real murder. Look, uh. This is way heavy? Maybe we don't gotta..." You know what, Rox? You're in over your head. Just back up and start the motorcycle up, because -even if nothing happens- there is a -grenade launcher- involved. She maneuvers back across the lawn, exactly as idiot-stealth as she'd been before.

In moments, she's on that bike fiddling with the key. How does this work again? The only gear shift she's ever toyed around with was--

--well. She's out of her depth.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino's a professional. Sure, she hasn't had a job in weeks, and now she's -clearly- just settling some Twitter beef between a teenage girl and her dumb boyfriend. But she's getting paid, and that calls for a certain level of commitment. Plus she's really curious what green and black stripes mean.

And so with a pull of the trigger, there's a decidedly unstealthy FWUMP and a metallic sphere is rocketed into the air. It's just too bad Domino was lazy this morning and didn't zero the sight in.

Or maybe, it was lucky. Because the grenade goes careening about fifteen feet too high, and impacts the support strut of a water tank.

And it friggen -explodes-. No bright flash and sharp bang like it's some sort of concussion grenade. No burst of flame like it's incendiary. There's a blinding flash, an all-consuming roar, and a fireball blossoms in place of the water tank supports, the tank hanging in defiance of gravity just long enough for Domino to think 'Ohhhhhhh. Green and black stripes mean high explosive.', and then gravity kicks in.

The tank collapses, tumbling down to crash onto its top on the roof, directly above Dirk's dorm room, crashing through wood, and rupturing the thin metal of the tank. And it's been rainy.

There's a sizzling zap as hundreds of gallons of rushing water immediately trip the building's breakers, shutting the lights out... and then a shattering crash as a wave of water explodes from the window Domino was aiming at. And look! Dirk's surfing!

Well, not surfing, he's more being propelled by the angry fist of Poseidon, launched into a convenient tree, hanging by his underwear from a branch.

Not that Domino gets to see anything past the explosion as she -bolts- for the bike, practically vaulting over Roxy, one booted foot kicking the starter, popping the clutch, and trusting inertia to bring the kickstand up as she shouts out, "Hang on, sparky!" and gives the bike all it can handle, tire squealing, smoke billowing before the tire bites in and she's blasting off like... a water tank hitting a dorm room, "Sooooo... you didn't tweet about where we were, right?"

Oh, this job is going -great-. Domino's going to need to go punch some leprechauns or something soon.

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
EX-BOYFRIEND. More of a hookup. He made the post because his bros saw him making out with her at a party. Fling? We'll call it a double. It doesn't matter, Roxanne's staring wide-eyed at the frathouse while a f*#&ing -grenade- jounces on up to the roof, announced by a basso '*poomp*'. Her entire face squinches up at the brilliant light and *sound*, but it's impossibly clear the poor thing's never actually dealt with explosives before. She's lucky her eyes were more or less closed for the worst of it.

She can *barely* see.

"ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmiGAWD" is the litany greeting Domino while she vaults that bike and guns it. Roxanne's busy fumbling around with a cellphone and sort of gives Domino a one-handed reacharound while she leans *way* back to angle her phone back at the carnage. She's precisely a cross between horror and glee, but teenaged sociopathy allows her to focus on what's really important - herself. Dirk's going to be fine. The scene's PG-13. Poseidon's mad, but he's not MURDEROUS.

"WHICH DOOR'S THE BEST DO-gyeek!" What should be a damning clapback is interrupted by the roar of the engine and Roxanne nearly tipping the hell over - she lurches forward to grab Domino more closely and presses her chin to the other woman's shoulder.

"WHAT? NO WHY WOULD I, LIKE, DO THAT? THAT'S STUPID, I JUST TWEETED HASHTAG ANAL IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD" Roxanne frowns while the bike motors on. Well. Now that she's said it out loud...

"CAN YOU DELETE TWEETS?"

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino would look over her shoulder at that question about deleting tweets, "Uhhh... I think so, buuuuuut..." She frowns... is that a siren? It might be.

And so Roxy's taken on a bit more of a ride, as Domino angles the bike for the curb, getting enough air to clear the chainlink fence running alongside a train track, flooring it down the tracks and feeling the world go fuzzy from the sheer vibration.

At least it's mercifully short, pulling off the train tracks at a sprawling cargo terminal, one hand sliding into her jacket pocket, doing -something- that reacts with one of the cargo containers up ahead, doors opening, cheap fluorescent lights flicking on. It's basically a combination bedroom, stockroom, and enough space to work on a bike, one of her many safehouses, "Heyyy... so uhhh... we're gonna have to hang out in here for awhile! It's cool though, we'll figure out how you delete a tweet and save your rep. Y'know... just uhh... keep this nice and -quiet-."

Roxanne Spaulding has posed:
It's a siren. It's several sirens, really. In fact, by the time Domino's pulling off of the railroad tracks, there's the distinct sound of a helicopter circling the area and at least a DOZEN sirens. If this were a different game, the pair would have at -least- a three star crime rank. At four the FBI gets called in; they're not there yet.

Roxanne's left rosy-cheeked by the sheer excitement of the getaway, eyelashes fluttering while she finds her feet after Domino parks the bike. She's unsteady where she steps - the spritely teen throws a hand out to catch herself against the wall of the cargo container before sinking down onto buckling knees, and from there onto her rear. She pushes *back* 'till she's resting more easily against the opposite wall, and simply stares for a moment, lavender-eyed shock manifesting as a particularly glazed expression. Eventually a lucid spark brings life back to her face; she blinks twice, tucks pink bangs behind an ear, and glances Domino's way.

"Y-yeah," she agrees, swallowing.

"I'm gonna go ahead and work on deleting, like, that tweet?" She needs to collect herself. Find her cool. Get her wit back online. C'mon, girl.

"This cargo container is *so* lit. You're like, so totally Bond, if Bond were a stacked murdergirl." She's not quite there yet. Shit. She's freaking out, man.

Neena Thurman has posed:
Domino wheels the bike into the storage container, another hit of the button in her pocket and the doors swing shut on silent hydraulics, the shipping depot utterly unremarkable again, the thrumming vibrations of the bike cutting out.

She sighs and mumbles out, "Gotta remember to include a cheat sheet in the grenade bag. Do that tomorrow."

Domino shakes her head and laughs bitterly, "Oh please, Bond gets the girls, and he never has to steal some douchey club guy's motorcycle because his car's been towed. I mean, what even is a 'loading zone'?"

She swings her coat off and sighs out, tossing the unused bat across her back into an umbrella holder in the corner. "Well, you just try to... stop shaking so much. Twittle or Tweetle or whatever. You can take me to an ATM tomorrow or whatever for the fee. Or like, a cashier's check."