can't dance, hippie?

Chloe slides into the driver's seat with a triumphant hiss of "yesss," kicking the engine to life. Max scrambles onto the battered leather beside her, and she sticks her fist out to her with a grin. "Punch it in, Super-Max!"

Then she's slamming the gas, and her truck zooms past Blackwell with a labored whirr and a cloud of black smoke. Chloe's laughing as she leans back into her seat, flushed with adrenaline and shortness of breath, giddy all over.

Rationally, she knows they shouldn't be making a habit of breaking into Blackwell at night, especially not for stupid shit like this. But Chloe Price is not one to often cave to rationality, and hell, the rush is too sweet for her to possibly care.

"That was epic. God, can't wait to see what Principal Wells has to say about ol' Jerm's makeover in the morning. You gotta take a picture."

(It started with a good cause, see. Mom told her to sort through her boxes of old junk, check what they can keep and what they can throw out, and Chloe -- model daughter that she is -- just happened to come across a whole crate of unused art supplies from like, seventh grade. And she'd hate to waste all those spray cans, not to mention the tubes of perfectly good acrylic.

So now Jeremiah Blackwell's statue looks like a human-shaped tie-dye shirt, with a slew of equally colorful language scrawled across for good measure.)

"I literally can't believe the amount of shit we can get away with," she marvels, casting her partner in crime a quick side glance before focusing back on the road. Her eyes twinkle as they catch on Max's own, and her voice softens slightly, colored by honest appreciation. "You're such a badass."

The stream of excitable chatter dips into a lull there, and Chloe drums long fingers against the steering wheel with a quiet hum.

Then: "Hey, crash at mine tonight? I mean, I could drive you around until security chills, but.. "