Owner	Pose
Kate Bishop	Half the mess in the apartment usually shared by Kate Bishop, the much better and more awesome archer known as Hawkeye and Clint Barton, the more experienced and dorky older archer known as Hawkeye can usually be so attributed to either archer it's hard to tell. Or at least half of seventy percent. The other thirty is usually from Lucky when he gets in his zoomies. Hunkered down on the floor at the coffee table, the brunette is working on setting up a few quivers, some standard load outs. Explosives, tranquilizers, restraints, and classic pointy bits all being loaded into the rotating carousel at the base that feeds out what she needs. Clearly the tedious part of being all badass normal when you don't have a butler or your own kid sidekicks. Dressed casually in faded and ripped skinny jeans, a purple halter necked muscle top leaving her back and arms visible but not her front. Some sandals on her feet letting toes wiggle while she can also avoid accidentally stepping on arrow heads. Some random TV show playing providing background noise while Lucky is flat on his back snoozing on the couch behind her. It's his world, and Kate just lives in it.
America Chavez	LITTLE KNOWN AMERICA FACT: in the Parallel Utopia, messes don't exist. Nothing needs to be cleaned, because it's perfect just the way it is! It's been a long time since America Chavez resided in the Parallel Utopia, where messes don't exist. She's seen a lot of real messes since then, that are very far from perfect just the way they are. Kate Bishop's messes might just take the cake though, in her humble opinion. Maybe that's why she's always drawn here. Regardless of the why, though, America -is- here. Or at least, she will be in the two seconds it takes for that big, sapphire star to form just beyond Kate's coffee table and the next second it takes for a red, white and blue sneaker to punt a hole in space. There's a gush of wind and the smell of cinnamon-sugar and death(??) before America Chavez emerges, dressed in a high-necked, red-and-white striped sleeveless shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue short-shorts, her usually wild mane of curly brown hair bound behind her in a simple ponytail. That portal shuts behind her. America wipes her hands, little wisps of what looks like cinnamon-sugar dust puffing past her fingers and forming into little macabre sugardust skulls in the air before they fade. Maybe it's better not to ask. "I feel like every time I see you, you're making arrows." Like, once or twice at best; but she can't help ribbing.
Kate Bishop	The influx of wind and that somewhat odd conflicting smell. Like a deadly donut is enough to let Kat know who just arrived. It's also one of the few people Kate doesn't mind not knocking on the front door. The large section of her wardrobe and the toothbrush in the bathroom all in patriotic colors and not just shades of purple helping indicate that America Chavez is as welcome as it gets. Th bright light of the portal closes and there's less squinting so Kate can see more of the bigger Latina woman. "Ugh, the downside of now powers. Can't always recover arrows. So gotta prep new ones constantly. Not always cheap, relatively, even with bulk orders. But I think our fletcher has been giving us the shaft." there's the sort of grin that comes with maybe she had been waiting forever to use that joke. That and she probably stole it from Clint along with the intellectual property. "And at least this time I'm not seeing any holes in your clothes. I swear I should get you some decent armoring. Just so you don't wreck an outfit you like!"
America Chavez	'But I think our fletcher has been giving us the shaft.' America Chavez stares at Kate Bishop for ten whole seconds of silence. It may not sound like a long time, but time has a way of stretching on further than you expect when you're being explicitly given the Judgey Eye for every single second. It's only by the eleventh second exactly that she says, "You're hanging around Barton way too much," as if she knows EXACTLY where that joke's coming from. That Clint is a bad influence! With that though, noted Good Influence America rolls her neck in a slow casual motion and then takes a few short steps towards Kate's makeshift work station. The tall young woman settles down comfortably in front of the table off to Kate's side, sitting cross-legged as she leans in to inspect the currently-assembled arrowheads. "What, go to one of those career superhero clothiers or something?" she wonders as she plucks up an arrowhead, turning it between her fingers to inspect it. "That's basically one step away from wearing a uniform, princess. That's not me." And ruining her clothes is...?? She sets down the arrow, before plucking up another. "What's this one do? Tac nuke?"
Kate Bishop	The paler of the two dark haired women leans back against the couch to slump a little, hair brushing against Lucky's side. He'd wuffed a hello but is clearly more interested in dozing that fawning at America. Sometimes dogs can really be more catlike. The stare even gets that goofy grin of Kate's holding. "Thankfully Clint is off doing whatever, archer hero stuff. He's probably also tied up in some Tracksuit basement bantering them into submission." she ponders. As for more durable outfits, Kate can respect the opinion but she also likes some of the clothes Chavez often fills. "It's not so much a uniform as it is just custom tailored clothes. The really good outfitters often do stuff for celebrities and other rich people. Luckily I am very rich. So you can then have stuff that would survive a gunfight, and then you can rock a dance floor soon after. Hell, I bet Janet Van Dyne would squee at being able to design for you!" she points out. "That arrow is secure foam, rapidly expands and then solidifies. Kinda like an impact resistant gap filler. Just delivered by arrow and not caulk gun."
America Chavez	Lucky gets a simple, casual upnod of respect before they both give each other their personal space to relax in. America and Lucky: kindred spirits. One palm planting into the ground beneath her, America leans back against the powerful brace of her arm, raising her other hand up to inspect the arrowhead pincered between her thumb and forefinger. "Huh," she exhales as Kate theorizes the current, likely-imperiled state of Clint Barton. "I feel bad for the Tracksuits." She may give him hell, but America knows most people who value living a life free of pain shouldn't be in a basement with Clint Barton. Long legs unfolding from beneath her, she bends one at the knee, forearm draping across it as she listens to Kate's explanation. A frown touches her lips. "Not really a measurements-and-couture person," is her first thought. She looks sidelong at Kate, pushing the idea with such enthusiasm, and her brows furrow. Silence reigns from her, even after the explanation of the arrow. And then, twisting the arrowhead to press against her thumb, she speaks. "... But if you're paying, then fine." And then she casually flicks that arrowhead gently, to send it flipping through the air towards Kate; she's confident Bishop can catch it without hurting herself. ... Or getting caulked. "You can fancy me up a bit."