Owner	Pose
Slips	Angelo's has yet to get the drunken crowd ambling in before stumbling on toward various tenements and passing out in the bushes. Standing just outside, blinking as she peers in through the window to spy if there are any pies already warming under some light like so many other places. The young woman reaches back and rubs the back of her neck, her coffee extending slightly as she balances her shifting weight. Which is exactly when a dime gets dropped into it, because quarters are too precious. Laundry. "Wow." She looks down in the black cup. "I don't know if I should feel bad for you or for me," she says to her coffee.
Heather Danielson	This has been a helluva night. Heather is a member of Metropolis's superteam known as the Titans. But she's in New York because.. well.. work. Not Titan work, modeling work. This is where much of the fashion world bases their operations, and where her agent has an office. And since the hyperloop means both cities are a simple commute from one another... it makes it easy for her to make meetings.     But that's not what tonight is all about. Nope, she'd love it if the night was all about her posing for a camera. But nooooo, she ended up in Brooklyn because a friend of a friend of a friend called their friend for help, who called his friend, who called her friend Heather. Long story short, Heather has just finished rescuing a kidnap victim from a warehouse in the area where she got shot seventeen times.     Now, it should be mentioned that Heather is as bulletproof as your average ten year old. But she heals like Deadpool. Well, without the scars. Either way, she turned the kid over to the police, showed them her Titans ID card, and then asked for a police windbreaker to replace the teeshirt she had been wearing, which is basically in pieces now. So in skinny jeans and a police windbreaker unfastened enough for cleavage because... well duh.. she comes half-staggering into Angelo's because.. healing takes energy and energy requires calories.     She places her debit card on the counter and says, "Can I please get two extra large meat lovers?" In a voice that sounds slurred due to exhaustion.     It should be noted that under that windbreaker, there -are- drying bloodstains. Because getting shot is -not- a bloodless affair.
Slips	Sometimes one doesn't need to have saved, well, anyone at all to just be hungry for a slice.  Sometimes it's a good idea to forage after wandering around aimlessly, uselessly, and, well, accidental panhandling is a hard day's work.  She's dressed in a pair of well-loved faded black skinny jeans, a simple black v-neck, and a sage green cotton jacket with black and blue ribbed cuffs.  Dark hair is pulled back into a not high, but not too low pony tail.     Arya pushes inside, causing a little bell to jingle.  She moseys up to stand behind Heather, none the wiser of who the woman's backside before her actually belongs to.  It's not like she makes a serious study of backsides.  She doesn't think.  As Heather orders, Arya seriously considers...lifts her coffee to sniff, and then promptly gets told by someone behind the counter that outside drinks are not welcome.     "Shit."  Arya looks back to the street, presses her lips together, brow furrowing, inhale.  Chug.  At least until she reaches the metallic object.  "The things I do for you," she mumbles to the empty cup before looking up, catching a glimpse of one of the bloodstains.  "Rough night?" she asks as she fishes the coin out of her empty cup.
Heather Danielson	"Well, I could say yes, but... let's just say that rough is relative." offers Heather as she turns and offers a smile your way. Then she glances to the cup, the coin, and inclines her head as she turns around to face you. "Nice cup." she says simply. But she is handed her debit card and nods her head to the clerk before she steps aside to get out of the way.     She doesn't walk away however as... having started a conversation, she's not the sort who is so rude that she'd just walk away. "Late night snackage for you too, huh?" she asks
Slips	"Pineapple?"  Arya tilts her head, tapping her fingers along the side of her cup rhythmically as she continues to consider the toppings.  "Wait.  Pineapple and bacon.  Personal size, whatever that is please.  And a soda, whichever."  She digs a silver bill-fold from her front pocket and slides out a few bills to pay, ending by manipulating the dime out of her palm and flicking it into the tip jar with a little clink.     "You could say that," Arya says with a shrug and a soft, lopsided grin.  "I'm more of a night person, but apparently you have to wander around in the day to find an apartment.  You mind some company?  I promise not to add to your body paint...unless somehow my pizza flies out of my hands.  I can't be held responsible for casualties," she says as she leans her hip against the counter, hands in her jacket pockets.
Heather Danielson	"Well, I hate eating alone." offers Heather. But she glances at the cash on the counter. "Make that a small pizza, and a pitcher of soda. Put it on my tab." she suggests to the clerk.     Her eyes flicker about the restaurant and she grins, "Corner booth is where we'll be." she says as she does her best to guide you that way before you can object to her paying. I mean even if you -do- put pineapple on pizza. Yuck.
Slips	"Lucky me then."  When her money is shoved back her way, Arya just dumps it into the tip jar without hesitation as if it's easier than putting it away again.  She then pushes off from the counter, "Yes Ma'am."  Yes she did.     Arya trails Heather in a casual stroll.  She flops down into the booth with a near boneless grace.  She leans back into a slight slouch like someone just settling into their couch.  "Thanks.  So what's with the giant nosebleed?"  Because it's right there!  Too tantalizing not to ask about.
Heather Danielson	"Well, the 'nosebleed'" says Heather with finger air-quotes fully in use. "Was more of a submachinegun going off at about four foot range." She shrugs, "It's rather messy but I got better. It's what I do." (There was some fame from a flap back in February when a SI Bikini model got shot on set and healed instantly. Stupid metahumans. Stupid healing factor.     Heather grins as breadsticks are delivered, "Oh good! Food!" she remarks as she reaches for one and takes a large bite, closing her eyes to enjoy the feel of food going down the gullet.     "Like I was saying, I got shot. I think it was an MP-5." She says like she knows anything at all about guns.
Slips	Quick on the uptake, Arya dips her chin.  "Submachine nosebleeds are the worst.  You feel all that?"  Dark eyes glance up when the pitcher of sodas arrive along with two plastic cups that look like that they're at least fifteen years old, stacked.  Arya splits them and works on pouring them each a glass while listening.  Heather's gets hers first.     "Just stop me when I get annoying.  I'm only allowing myself 3 questions you've probably heard at least a thousand times before.  But unlimited of the questions you've heard more than a thousand times," Arya casually warns.     When Heather whips out the gun knowledge, Arya's eyebrows arch slightly, amused, "So you figure that out by how it felt?...How many different guns have gone off in your gut?"  She leans against her elbow, her free hand darting out to snatch one of the breadsticks.  "Personally, I try to get to know weapons from the other end."
Heather Danielson	"Well yeah. That's the sad truth. Healing factor don't make pain not painful." offers Heather with a rueful smirk. She reaches to help steady the glasses so that you can pour more easily.     "Well, I had a bit part on CSI, and one of the prop guns was an MP-5...uhhh.... MP-5K is what the propmaster told me. This one looked a lot like that one... but larger."     She tilts her head to the left and then shrugs, "I'm not much for guns myself. But this makes the.." And she starts counting, using her fingers. She pauses and asks, "Are we counting incidents, or each bullet separately?"
Slips	"I heard CSI is pretty accurate...once upon a time from a stoner who somehow mad it through 3 semesters of ivy league schooling."  Arya's gratefulness for help with steadying the glasses is communicated merely with a look.  "Honestly I don't even know what an MP-5 looks like.  Or, why add a k?  Guns aren't my thing either.  I'm a bit more delicate."  She's just...holding that breadstick, too busy talking and listening to eat.     "We can take tabs later.  Who can count on an empty stomach anyways, yeah?"  When Arya's 'food' comes, she waits till Heather gets her pizza before chowing down.  Talkative, personable, but by the end of the meal, Heather might realize that Arya never offered her name.  As the late late night crowd begins to filter into the pizzeria in clusters, Arya pushes up from her seat.  "I think that's my queue.  I'm not sure whether I should follow the drunks back to where they live or just mark their dwellings on my map as places to avoid."  She shrugs.  "Thanks for the company," she says with a grin that's brighter than her laid back tone.  When she gets to the door, moving to the side as she dodges someone and looks back, "And the pie!"  Then she steps out into the night, pulling her hood up as she disappears from view.