For someone who loves to break the law, Chloe is of the mind that the entire concept behind the Purge is utter bullshit. Part of what makes her so good at her job is that she doesn't get caught and the idea of the very thing she's spent years crafting into a near goddamn art form suddenly being available to every idiot to do without consequence is insulting. And, further to that, the thought that people need to blow off steam in this manner every seven years in order to decrease crime is laughable, because it sure as hell doesn't seem to be working in this city and she can't imagine it working anywhere else.
She had planned on staying in. She'd planned on riding this out without even so much as looking out a window, she had planned on watching TV with her .45 in one hand and the remote control in the other, but she should have known better. One doesn't retain the ability to follow through with most plans when one finds themselves attached to a certain Nathan Drake. It's his fault. It's obviously his fault. She doesn't worry about anyone except for him, because this is the sort of night she's sure pings all of Nate's heroic little buttons -- and a few of her own, but she'll deny it to the day she dies -- and when he doesn't answer his phone after the fourth call, she knows something is wrong.
Coop, on the other hand, does answer his phone and without really explaining why she's concerned -- because that would mean admitting to concern in the first place -- she asks him to meet her at Nate's apartment, although once she arrives, she doesn't even have to go upstairs to his place. There on the ground, obscured by a few bits of trash, is a very familiar gun. Someone else might not recognize it as Nate's, but Chloe knows his gun about as well as she knows other parts of him and she picks it up, checks the safety, then tucks it into the back of her pants.
"You bloody idiot," she mutters, looking for something else. Another clue, another bit of information to tell her what's happened to him and it's just as Coop is arriving that she spots the blood.
no subject
She had planned on staying in. She'd planned on riding this out without even so much as looking out a window, she had planned on watching TV with her .45 in one hand and the remote control in the other, but she should have known better. One doesn't retain the ability to follow through with most plans when one finds themselves attached to a certain Nathan Drake. It's his fault. It's obviously his fault. She doesn't worry about anyone except for him, because this is the sort of night she's sure pings all of Nate's heroic little buttons -- and a few of her own, but she'll deny it to the day she dies -- and when he doesn't answer his phone after the fourth call, she knows something is wrong.
Coop, on the other hand, does answer his phone and without really explaining why she's concerned -- because that would mean admitting to concern in the first place -- she asks him to meet her at Nate's apartment, although once she arrives, she doesn't even have to go upstairs to his place. There on the ground, obscured by a few bits of trash, is a very familiar gun. Someone else might not recognize it as Nate's, but Chloe knows his gun about as well as she knows other parts of him and she picks it up, checks the safety, then tucks it into the back of her pants.
"You bloody idiot," she mutters, looking for something else. Another clue, another bit of information to tell her what's happened to him and it's just as Coop is arriving that she spots the blood.