Event 6th Annual PMPD Benefit Gala


"-- and we are hoping that the Liberty for All initiative in Philadelphia is an important step forward in getting at-risk PMPD youth away from organized crime and gang violence. We're also hoping the nation can take notes that this condition is a blessing, not a curse, despite what some legislators may believe..."

Miss Liberty was in the midst of a small keynote towards the end of the night-- the party continuing as normal. Blood Pact seemed to have executed an Irish exit-- no goodbyes, no sign of leaving. Disappeared. On the back of the slip of paper, however, was an address and a date-- The Fastidious. April 10th, 8:00 PM. SAY U KNOW ME. NO GUNS. The Fastidious, upon a cursory Google search-- or, perhaps, a moment of deliberation within memory-- was a club within Manhattan. Exclusive. Given Blood Pact's reputation and particular branding, it made sense that they were ultimately a more cosmopolitan type.

Gilgamesh, meanwhile, was left relatively alone-- until a familiar face seemed to cut through the crowd. Brown hair was slickened back; black slacks, a tan button down with the sleeves pulled up, and suspenders. A satchel around the hip, and a notepad in hand-- though the most obvious hallmark of a reporter, of course, was the PRESS lanyard around the neck.

The same one from the thwarted bank heist, in New York. The one that'd asked some more hard-hitting questions.

"Vincent Garde, with the Manhattan Post." He extended his left hand. Under the light, now-- and with his sleeves rolled up-- it was revealed that his arm was some sort of composite material, made from metal and high-strength silicone. A prosthetic. "Got a moment to chat about some recent events?" His tone was flat-- his eyes focused. Probing. "Just have a few questions."

 



Gilgamesh was doing his usual Gala routine. Senators, lobbyists, police chiefs, and the like. A whole lot of mutual glazing without any sincerity behind it. There was the occasional moment where someone asked to see his powers in action. Since his was a manifestation that played well at parties he was contractually obligated to do at least 3 showings. It helped drum up press and having a seemingly untouchable Juror helped sell MIRA's capabilities.

An ex-senator threw a right hook mid conversation and then everyone cheered as the fist seemingly froze in mid air. Gilgamesh laughed with the crowd. "Your form could use some work." Was spoken with a manufactured smugness that came with his brand.

When Vincent came up to chat the Untouchable Juror fought back a sigh of relief. "It was a pleasure to meet you sir." A firm handshake was his ticket out. The moment his back turned he mouthed Thank You to the reporter. It took him a moment to really remember who this guy was. When he first signed on with MIRA as a cloak he was provided a list of important reporters whose names and faces he committed to memory. This guy wasn't on that list.

"Of course. Ask away." He grabbed a cocktail off a servers tray as they passed by and slipped a twenty into their pocket. "They're the real heroes here" He joked towards Vincent.

 

"Right." Vincent remarked, dryly. Whilst the gathered group of socialites, politicians, and assorted high-profile individuals bought wholesale into Gilgamesh's charisma-- whether they actually believed it or not-- Vincent Garde seemed to have an impassive opinion of the theatrics. A warm greeting touched the cold, porcelain expression upon his face, whereupon it was promptly snuffed out to leave a moment of dead air between the two.

"I'm just curious about the attack in Manhattan. MIRA's silence involving the particular details of Christopher Hartford's death seem to indicate guilt on the side of the agency-- and given you were reported to be at the incident, I figured it would be particularly interesting to hear your side on the matter. Are you aware of the circumstances involving the killing?"

The mirthful chuckles faded. Some politicians simply took up conversation around the pair, knowing it was none of their business; others looked on awkwardly and took a few sips from their drinks.

"Additionally, are you aware that the attackers were escapees from a PMPD Crisis Center dealing with mentally disturbed individuals, according to a statement by MIRA's North-Atlantic branch?"

That was a new piece of information. Rumors, of course, had circulated-- but any information that was developing had likely been under investigation by analysts. Which did not fall upon him.

 
Hwan withdrew his hand at what seemed to be a good time.

"Ah. No, I don't believe we've met."

He wasn't sure how capes in the States were with their names, but Op-sec reminded him that there were very few ways to un-disclose information, and even fewer good ways. Besides, it was unlikely that MIRA standard practice would differ by much overseas. He decided to play it safe.

"Thermodynamic, Mid-Atlantic Division. I may be working with you in the future, so it's good to make your acquaintance."

Attempting to mirror his new colleague and put him at ease, Hwan pulled down his mask and ordered a glass of white wine from the bar. His blank expression almost became less readable after losing the mask.
 



He sipped the drink. His attention remained locked on the reporter. Thankfully he didn't want to waste time and went straight into the hard hitting questions. Here he was thinking he'd have to deal with getting buttered up for the thousandth time. "I'm aware of the circumstances. Incredibly unfortunate and heartbreaking. My thoughts are with Mr.Hartford's and everyone else who needlessly suffered because of the crisis. There are procedures in place within MIRA. When we Juror's make a threat assessment in the field we have to send it up the chain for approval. Its not the fastest process but, it does allow our decisions to be double checked to make sure we're making the right call."

While Gilgamesh was fully aware of the nature of Christopher's death he wasn't aware of that second bit of information yet. Granted that was probably being handled by Daggers to avoid drawing unnecessary public attention to a possible failure on MIRA's part. Vincent probing about it was a verbal landmine. Saying the wrong thing could completely overshadow the narrative he wanted to spin.

"Unfortunately my skillset isn't suited for investigative purposes to information like that is often kept in better hands."

 
Finally, someone who Monsoon could stand next to and look interesting. This guy was drier than President Fielder's wife on their wedding night. He snorted lightly, an inadvertent giveaway of his moderate drunken contempt; Thermodynamic didn't even have a costume on for the gala. His mask might as well have been his face, for all the expression he was showing. And white wine? Talk about a lightweight.

God, he was a mean drunk. He felt thunder rumbling overhead - his doing, no doubt. That thought filled him with renewed bitterness. Then he thought fuck it, let it rumble, see if I care. He'd brewed up a storm and it made him happy to let it go.

Alright, time to conversate. Something light to start with.

"So. Thermodynamic. You ever ice anyone?"

You done anything I'd care about?
 

"Mhm. Better suited for beating convicts without asking questions. I guess."

Vincent's gaze was ice-cold. He let the silence linger a moment-- only the small scratch of a notepad and pen.

"I just think a man of your caliber would have better things to do than look pretty and contribute to overpopulation in detention centers. Not that the cameras capture the dirty work half the time, right? What do you think about the fact that Jurors are not required to wear bodycams-- a requirement for other civil servants, like police officers. And surely you're aware of bipartisan efforts to strike down transparency bills targeting MIRA? Or are you not suited to those details, either?"

A chuckle sounded from behind Gilgamesh. The familiar sight of Harold Print graced his peripheral, like a life preserver thrown out to a drowning victim. Or a hawk swooping down upon prey. It was hard to say, given the strained look of diplomacy in his eyes.

"Christ, Vince, you'd think a journalist would take a hint after failing to reach my office through my assistant. And, somehow, my personal phone."

"I just want a statement from you that isn't under a layer of spin, is all," The reporter replied, his expression otherwise a bit unfazed. If not vexed by Print's presence. "And if I have to talk to your Jurors to get a straight answer, so be it."

"They'll tell you the same thing I will. That we are separate than an entity like a police force and that the complicated issue of aliases in MIRA isn't as simple as throwing open the door. Gilgamesh has a family. What's stopping some obsessive freak from singling him out and trying to attack them?"

"What's stopping a Juror from being protected after committing a hatecrime?"

"I can assure you that our agents are held to the utmost standard of respect for the law and protections granted to all people within it, Mr. Garde--"

"-- oh, rich, very rich, coming after Minneapolis--"

"-- which was an independent bad actor who had zero affiliation with MIRA, as was proven by the DoJ investigation--"

"-- which is why there's rumors of Fielder debating the declassification of Juror identities and employment records, I imagine."

Vincent smiled. Print's eyes creased, a moment-- silence pervading him-- before he sighed.

"Don't believe everything you hear on the internet, Vincent." He stated, carefully, before looking to Gilgamesh. "I have someone I want you to meet. Let's go. Enjoy the party, Mr. Garde."

"Mm." Vincent looked to Gilgamesh, then back to Print. "Tall order."
 



Vincent was a stone cold son of a bitch but, Gilgamesh already knew that. Even if he hadn't met him before he could smell the 'ACAB in Bio' like it was Armani's latest scent. This was exactly the type of reporter he needed to talk to if he was going to truly move the needle in his direction. Gilgamesh maintained his smile despite the subtle jabs. He wasn't planning on taking the bait. He also didn't want to steer the conversation. If his read on the reporter was correct the muckraker would steer it right where Gilgamesh wanted.

'Fucking Print' he thought when he heard that all too familiar chuckle. If there was anyone at this party who would gum up the gears of this interaction it was MIRA's own PR grenade blanket. He waited patiently for the two of them to finish their back and forth while making sure to keep his ears open for any information he could look into at a later date. Either way the conversation was clearly over. He wanted to stir the pot but, not too much just yet. For his plan to work he needed to help grow the cracks in MIRA's walls.

"Sorry Vince, my boss needs me but, we'll pick this up next time eh." He shot the reporter a shit eating grin and walked away.

If the guy was as perceptive as Gilgamesh expected him to be he would notice the card that fell out of his pocket. A tastefully thick and subtly off white business card. Scrawled across it, in raised silian rail, he would find the number and email address of Gil's PA.

"So whose the big time donor you want me to meet? Or were you just scared your best trained cloak was gonna make you look bad?" He muttered to Print through a subtle grin.

 

"I have about ten Jurors I can think of that would've handled that better," Print stated calmly, his own face a drying resevoir of diplomatic politeness. A strained look was cast the way of Gilgamesh-- to the side, of course, as he didn't want to manage anything further-- as he cut through the crowd with the agent in tow, adjusting the rim of his glasses as the bodies around them parted like the red sea. The walk took them off of the main floor-- down a small corridor, just as thickly settled as the main gala floor. Then, the pair turned into a side-room that was cordoned off from the hallway with a curtain.

It was readily apparent that this was a room for VIPs-- a sort of pitstop to return to, at least. Here, the upper echelons of political prestige mingled with Print's own subordinates-- media-trained analysts, MIRA outreach staff, and similar practitioners of the ever-needed art of spin. The two seemed to bypass the main crowd, however, and moved towards a table in the corner; it was set beside a flatscreen, displaying recent events and nationwide happenings.

"... follows a recent statement by the White House Press Corps, in which the Fielder administration has expressed a clear and present desire to pursue-- in their own words-- 'transparency and egality' for PMPD-affected individuals."

"Yeah, what we're seeing here, Pauline, is clear damage control; I mean, you look in places like Milwaukee, like Los Angeles, like New York, where Jurors have consistently evaded any scrutiny because of protections afforded under MIRA. The recent push to declassify records related to the 2028 Milwaukee riots is not enough, and there needs to be more--"

"Mister President. Someone I want you to meet-- one of our finest up-and-comers. Gilgamesh, this is former President Chuck Torres."

The look on Print's face could not have said do not fuck this up any clearer. A stockier man-- short, but only slightly, and in a way that only seemed to emphasize his barrel-chest-- stood from the couch, turning to face the pair. It was certainly fucking Chuck-- he had a face few could forget.

"Gilgamesh. Hell of a name." Torres extended a hand out-- expectant. "Doing God's work out there. Print told me good things about you, ah... New York, not too long ago." He smiled, at that. Despite the portrayal of recent events as a tragedy, he seemed relatively unfazed-- if not pleased. "Glad we've got men like you to keep this country safe, still." He spared a smug glance to the television, chuckled, and sat back down-- inviting Gilgamesh to sit. "How long have you been in MIRA, son?"

 
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"We both know the audience can see right through your spins that at this point Print." Gil bit back with a shit eating grin. The two of them moved into the private room and Gilgamesh almost shit his pants. He probably would've broke if not for his extensive media training. This night was about to get so much better. This was the perfect persons ear for him to get to occupy.

"Thank you Mr. President, thought of it myself" He responded. He accepted the outstretched hand and gave it a firm shake. "A little over two years now sir."

 
Thermodynamic's vacant stare seemed a mirror of Monsoon's own enervating life, perfectly crystalized in the form of pleasantries at a gala put on for the benefit of the MIRA machine. What had at one point been a dynamic system unifying superheroes from all corners of the United States had become a plodding juggernaut, bogged down in paperwork and public relations. And he was a cog in that machine, both product and producer. An acute sensation not unlike tinnitus began thrumming in his ears as he reflected Hwan's silence back at him. Monsoon quickly found himself looking around the room for an escape, and briefly considered sending a lightning bolt through the skylight, just to have an excuse to leave.

PRINT!

Nice. Better wrap up here.

"Hold this for me," he said, downing the rest of his drink and inexplicably passing the emptied glass to the silent Thermodynamic. "I'll take care of you, Thermodynamic. I'm your number one company guy. You'll be my sidekick. Like Kato." He patted him on the arm, flashed him a quick thumbs up, then brushed by him in pursuit of Print and Gilgamesh.

Moving with uncommon dexterity, Monsoon nudged his way past the curtain into the side room - nobody wanted to fuck with him - and found, on the scene, none other than Gilgamesh, Mr. Print, and President Chuck fuckin' Torres.

That's my President, he thought proudly.

At once a mask of professionalism, Monsoon drew himself up to his full height, shoulders back; he held back a salute, opting instead to stride over to the pair with enthusiastic speed.

"President Torres. Gilgamesh. Good to see you again, sir," he grinned, also extending his own hand for a shake. "Have to say, I miss the days when you were in charge."
 

"Son of a bitch." Print muttered under his breath as he saw just who entered the room-- his phone already pulled out and dialing. "I have to make a call, Mr. President-- there's..."

And then he approached. Clenching his jaw, he lowered his phone and hung up-- contorting his face back into an expression of neutrality that was almost impressive. Being the one that was facilitating this meeting, he lingered at the fringe of the interaction, putting on a smile to Torres and flashing a side-eye to Monsoon.

"Wonderful for you to join us, Monsoon." He stated, curtly. Torres seemed confused, a moment, then turned that confusion into his usual charisma-- standing up to shake the hand of the newcomer, smiling and nodding as an expression of recognition seemed to dawn on his face. He looked to Gilgamesh, then to Print-- pointing at the poncho-laden Juror with a bit of disbelief.

"This man. I know you. September, 2020-- Hurricane Paul. Must've been over a hundred billion in damages--" An inflated figure, most certainly. "-- and I heard about you, while I was still governor. Controlling the storm, trying to help with the floods. Helped me with the disaster response, that's for damn sure. Thousands of lives saved," He gave a dry laugh, letting go of Monsoon's hand-- and pointing one last time at the man before he turned to Print. "Probably won me the damn election!"

On that note, he sat again. Gesturing towards the TV screen, then looking back to Gilgamesh and Monsoon.

"This... nonsense, nowadays. Fielder doesn't know what the hell he's doing. Had his goons open up a formal investigation into the Milwaukee riots," Chuck stated, waving off the allegation as if it was no major blow to his legacy. "Doesn't realize that the only crime I'm guilty of is keeping this damn country safe for eight years. MIRA was the best damn investment I ever made," He continued, clasping his hands together and nodding. "And Print, here-- well, we had our disagreements, but lately, we've been seeing eye-to-eye on a few matters." A pause. Print looked to be his usual collected self, not offering much of anything in the way of a reaction. "And I came to him with a problem. A problem I think MIRA can solve. So I tell him I need trustworthy guys-- and he tells me he can introduce me to a few people. Which brings us here."

He tapped the table with a single finger.

"Now, what can I trust you both with?"

It seemed to be a question he wanted-- demanded-- an answer to. Chuck watched them both like a hawk. Waiting.
 
"You ever ice anyone?"

Thermodynamic let the question hang in the air for a moment as he sipped his wine. 'Ice', of course, being slang meaning 'to kill', if he was correct. He took a moment to consider what exactly Monsoon's goal was, here. Was he trying to get him to say something like 'Indeed. I, Agent Thermodynamic of MIRA, have killed someone in cold blood' in front of what could possibly be dozens of reporters? Hwan put the thought from his mind. It would be rude to simply decline to answer, of course, so that was out of the question. He would have to be tactical about it, perhaps a subtle nod of his head while he gave a noncommittal answer that was vague enough to--

Oh, Monsoon was leaving now. He practically thrust his empty cup into Thermodynamic's hand, gave a thumbs up, and walked past.

"Of course, I shouldn't keep you," was all Hwan could say before Monsoon left earshot, and even then he wasn't sure if he caught that. Going back to the bar to return the glass, Thermodynamic shook his head and sipped his own glass of wine. Despite what Monsoon said as he left, it didn't take a genius to know his first impression was lukewarm at best.

He finished his drink. One was enough, no telling what people would say if a MIRA agent was seen drunk in public.
 

The bar continued to maintain a generally low-pressure atmosphere, in the aftermath of Monsoon's departure. As Thermodynamic returned the glass, however, a voice sounded to his right-- slightly modular, as if it came from the microphone of a headset.

"Thermodynamic, right?"

If he turned towards the voice, the reason for the odd tone became apparent-- the man getting his attention seemed to be in a helmet of sorts, bearing a distinct aesthetic to that of a fighter pilot's oxygen mask and visor. Given the nature of the gala, however, the Juror didn't seem to be clad in what would have otherwise been his standard dress-- instead of armor and equipment, he was wearing a tuxedo. The juxtaposition was rather comedic.

He still wore gloves, however-- as evidenced by the covered hand he extended out towards Hwan.

"From Korea. Heard about your work! And I see y'met Monsoon, too. Great guy. In his own world, sometimes, but... eh." A pause, at that, as he shrugged. "Scramjet, by the way. We'll likely be working together, at points, since you're Mid-Atlantic; figured I'd introduce myself. How're you finding Washington?"
 



Monsoon's arrival didn't just throw Print for a loop, it also came incredibly close to short circuiting Gilgamesh. The reason was different though. Gil had never heard Monsoon utter that many words in his life. Watching this guy, who only a couple weeks prior was fumbling their way through a talk show, walk right up to the Ex-President and lay on a thick layer of glaze was not something he thought anyone in MIRA would expect. After the brief moment of shock Gilgamesh's mind snapped back into media mode.

He listened intently to Torres. His actual opinion of the guy wasn't a good one. In fact he thought Torres was a garbage fire of a person. That being said he was also the kind of guy with enough pull within MIRA that having the opportunity to use him couldn't get passed up. Despite Gil being mostly aligned with Fielder he employed his signature stoic expression. Designed to be nigh unreadable.

"Everything but your wife sir." Gil joked back to the president. Not eager to let the air of confidence he exuded fall away.

 
After what had felt like years of relentless criticism, and the routine, scripted, generalized celebration of all Jurors, direct praise from Chuck Torres had an illuminating effect on Monsoon. In that moment, he felt like less of a walking natural disaster, and more like an American patriot. Recognition for his efforts - actual recognition, from someone who mattered - was better than all the alcohol he'd sampled that night. And what was even better: he was being offered a mission.

As Torres released his hand and sat down, his attention returning to the television screen, Monsoon answered him swiftly.

"Anything."

He answered from the heart, and it'd be the same answer fully sober. But he wondered about Gilgamesh, and Print. President Torres wasn't...well...the President anymore. MIRA was part of the executive branch, but...

He probably just wants nice weather for his granddaughter's wedding.

Monsoon smiled.

Right, Jimmy. Get real.

This was still the best thing that had happened to him in forever. No backing out now. When he talked to Chuck Torres, he felt like the superhero he was. Not some bureaucrat pushing clouds around.
 
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