Event 6th Annual PMPD Benefit Gala
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Monsoon
New member
The hotness of the summer in the District had been undercut by an upswell of unexpected rain, the suddenness of its arrival revealing Monsoon's presence to the learned observer - for who could mistake the perpetual pitter patter of droplets on the rooftop for anything but his unwritten signature? Though far from purposeful, he had not stifled the weather, which would require he dedicate perpetual focus to clarity of mind - instead, in the aftermath of the Central Park Incident, he had allowed himself to loosen significantly. And so he had remained loose, outwardly appearing stalwart in the face of the crisis, resolute under fire - boasting an impressive new scar on his chest (nevertheless always hidden by his thick MIRA poncho) - he had found in himself a sort of renewed purpose.
Ever alienated from his fellow agents and associates, all of whom had grimly accepted the Central Park Incident with a sort of somberness, Monsoon found himself oddly invigorated. It had been a high profile affair with minimal loss of life, and while the chain of command had been disrupted throughout the operation, he had demonstrated - to himself, if no one else - that even without ground control, he was more than capable of handling things. The after-action report was dry, but a kind of silent pride had welled up within him - one which animated him tonight, and let him proceed through the Gala with quiet confidence in spite of the raincloud which followed him overhead.
After finishing the first, he had surreptitiously snatched a second drink from the open bar, which he now nursed with silent pleasure. His countenance was as grim as always, and the bulging lenses of his patent aerial goggles hid his eyes from the world, but every so often - perhaps once every quarter hour - a small, wry smile would find its way across his face, a private laugh at various goings-on - a subdued reaction to Harold Print's speech, to which he raised his whiskey before knocking it back.
He might be able to obtain a third - as a habit, he never drank, the danger was too great if his power got out of hand - but he was starting to wonder if he was better with a little alcohol in him, looser. The thundercloud overhead felt easier to move around. He didn't intensify it, but he could if he wanted to - drench everyone that was arriving fashionably late - that'd be funny. And they'd hate him for it, but didn't they anyway?
He was popular in Japan (they called him Kamikaze there) and in the Midwest, for his agricultural work. Here? Not so much. But he didn't pursue appreciation. He cultivated an air of silent competence, relentless professionalism, along with a mildly brooding atmosphere - he was enigmatic behind that mask, like a...vampire. A weather vampire. A cool dude.
Third drink. OK, slow down, pal. This one would last him a while longer. In the back corner, someone in a black suit put a finger up to their ear and whispered something into a wristwatch - were they telling on him? Trying to cut him off? Let them try. He was allowed to drink if he wanted. The weather was doing great.
"Where's Scramjet," he said, to no one but himself, eyes narrowing as he glared at the crowd (that was a good thing about the goggles; he could glare and nobody would know). Then he resumed standing as still as a statue, straight-backed - Monsoon, Weather Report, Deluge, Downpour, Galeforce, Storm Man. He'd liked Storm Man as a kid, for an alias. But MIRA wasn't about -man aliases. Too pulpy, they'd said. Well, maybe he liked some pulp.
Ba-doop. A little weather alert buzzed on his watch, red, insistent. He sighed and dialed the rain back a bit. Just a bit. But he smiled as he did it.
Ever alienated from his fellow agents and associates, all of whom had grimly accepted the Central Park Incident with a sort of somberness, Monsoon found himself oddly invigorated. It had been a high profile affair with minimal loss of life, and while the chain of command had been disrupted throughout the operation, he had demonstrated - to himself, if no one else - that even without ground control, he was more than capable of handling things. The after-action report was dry, but a kind of silent pride had welled up within him - one which animated him tonight, and let him proceed through the Gala with quiet confidence in spite of the raincloud which followed him overhead.
After finishing the first, he had surreptitiously snatched a second drink from the open bar, which he now nursed with silent pleasure. His countenance was as grim as always, and the bulging lenses of his patent aerial goggles hid his eyes from the world, but every so often - perhaps once every quarter hour - a small, wry smile would find its way across his face, a private laugh at various goings-on - a subdued reaction to Harold Print's speech, to which he raised his whiskey before knocking it back.
He might be able to obtain a third - as a habit, he never drank, the danger was too great if his power got out of hand - but he was starting to wonder if he was better with a little alcohol in him, looser. The thundercloud overhead felt easier to move around. He didn't intensify it, but he could if he wanted to - drench everyone that was arriving fashionably late - that'd be funny. And they'd hate him for it, but didn't they anyway?
He was popular in Japan (they called him Kamikaze there) and in the Midwest, for his agricultural work. Here? Not so much. But he didn't pursue appreciation. He cultivated an air of silent competence, relentless professionalism, along with a mildly brooding atmosphere - he was enigmatic behind that mask, like a...vampire. A weather vampire. A cool dude.
Third drink. OK, slow down, pal. This one would last him a while longer. In the back corner, someone in a black suit put a finger up to their ear and whispered something into a wristwatch - were they telling on him? Trying to cut him off? Let them try. He was allowed to drink if he wanted. The weather was doing great.
"Where's Scramjet," he said, to no one but himself, eyes narrowing as he glared at the crowd (that was a good thing about the goggles; he could glare and nobody would know). Then he resumed standing as still as a statue, straight-backed - Monsoon, Weather Report, Deluge, Downpour, Galeforce, Storm Man. He'd liked Storm Man as a kid, for an alias. But MIRA wasn't about -man aliases. Too pulpy, they'd said. Well, maybe he liked some pulp.
Ba-doop. A little weather alert buzzed on his watch, red, insistent. He sighed and dialed the rain back a bit. Just a bit. But he smiled as he did it.
Monsoon
New member
Monsoon's eyes leveled on a glossy black helmet far across the room. There he was. Scramjet. Doing that thing with his power again, with his pinkie fingers this time -
"Print," Monsoon acknowledged dryly, eyes still locked on his nemesis across the way. When the bespectacled man told him to slow down, though, his head tilted over at the man at his side. Monsoon glanced at the MPAD Comms Director, at the drink in his hand, and back over at him - the eye movements were all concealed beneath the over-protuberant reflective gogs, but the pause in the dialogue was enough.
"It'll take more than two-and-a-quarter drinks for that. What're you gonna do? Fire me? Take me off the talk show circuit?" he muttered with a small smirk, gesturing slightly with the glass. As the man described the journalist over at 32, he sipped a bit from the glass, though not as deeply.
"I'm good. In fact, I'm better than good. This," he gestured again with the glass, "- is good for me, in a place like this."
With his off hand, he fiddled a bit with the headgear.
"Ahh. That journalist. Want me to lightning him?" he asked, suddenly deadpan, jaw tight, brow knit. He had an air of absolute sincerity. "Seriously."
"Print," Monsoon acknowledged dryly, eyes still locked on his nemesis across the way. When the bespectacled man told him to slow down, though, his head tilted over at the man at his side. Monsoon glanced at the MPAD Comms Director, at the drink in his hand, and back over at him - the eye movements were all concealed beneath the over-protuberant reflective gogs, but the pause in the dialogue was enough.
"It'll take more than two-and-a-quarter drinks for that. What're you gonna do? Fire me? Take me off the talk show circuit?" he muttered with a small smirk, gesturing slightly with the glass. As the man described the journalist over at 32, he sipped a bit from the glass, though not as deeply.
"I'm good. In fact, I'm better than good. This," he gestured again with the glass, "- is good for me, in a place like this."
With his off hand, he fiddled a bit with the headgear.
"Ahh. That journalist. Want me to lightning him?" he asked, suddenly deadpan, jaw tight, brow knit. He had an air of absolute sincerity. "Seriously."
ShoddyProduct
Well-known member
Rowan always loved these sorts of events. For starters, it mostly let her take her mind off the darker, more deadly parts of her job and instead focus on talking. Even before her ability manifested, she'd loved talking. To herself, her parents, her friends, strangers, it never made a difference. As far as most of these people were concerned, she was an open book, a Cloak with nothing to hide and a pleasant voice, someone who did crisis response and charity events. Like this one.
As part of both her public appearance and general attitude, she was dressed much more like a partygoer than a MIRA agent, a long black silk dress and a nice silver necklace.. It helped to make her relatable and approachable. It was better if people came to her with questions, rather than someone like Ravenir or Monsoon, both of whom seemed to be in attendance as well. She hoped the former was okay in the aftermath of their operation, though he almost certainly was. Monsoon, though, she was unsure about. She'd heard the briefing on the Central Park incident, about what had happened. Frankly a disaster, but he didn't seem to be at fault.
No one had approached her with questions yet, though she figured it was only a matter of time. Right now, she was back near the bar, the opposite end of Monsoon, sipping at a glass of champagne and people-watching. MIRA had arranged for more than just a handful of powerful and influential people to be here, and it was always fun to watch as they tried to navigate each other. Much less deadly than what she was used to, that was for certain.
As part of both her public appearance and general attitude, she was dressed much more like a partygoer than a MIRA agent, a long black silk dress and a nice silver necklace.. It helped to make her relatable and approachable. It was better if people came to her with questions, rather than someone like Ravenir or Monsoon, both of whom seemed to be in attendance as well. She hoped the former was okay in the aftermath of their operation, though he almost certainly was. Monsoon, though, she was unsure about. She'd heard the briefing on the Central Park incident, about what had happened. Frankly a disaster, but he didn't seem to be at fault.
No one had approached her with questions yet, though she figured it was only a matter of time. Right now, she was back near the bar, the opposite end of Monsoon, sipping at a glass of champagne and people-watching. MIRA had arranged for more than just a handful of powerful and influential people to be here, and it was always fun to watch as they tried to navigate each other. Much less deadly than what she was used to, that was for certain.
Gilgamesh_
Member
There was nothing quite like politicking to get Gilgamesh out of bed in the morning. He was expected to show up at events like these; fashionably late to keep up his playboy image. He looked out the window. Small droplets of rain water beaded down onto it which he could only assume was Monsoons doing. If it wasn't for his polarity field he'd be pissed at getting water over his newly tailored suit. The last one was torched during the Central Park fight.
"Lucius you can't just decide to make moves like that. You don't have enough pull within MIRA to even consider a stunt like this" Angie, his PA, scolded, "Its not just your job on the fucking line."
He turned towards her and met her gaze. She was fuming but, behind that she was scared. He could see it in her eyes. He gently took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "Angie, you've been my PA since I first broke out into the Young Heroes scene and every step of the way I've been watching you work. Learning from my observations. I need you to trust me on this. You're like family to me and that means I wouldn't put your career in harms way if I wasn't certain my plan would work." The limo pulled to a stop. "Its the best way we can try to capitalize on the incident."
"If it works. If it doesn't its a god damn career nuke." Her hand gently massaged her temple.
"Then its a good thing that it will." He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, his PA following close behind him.
********
MIRA did always know how to throw a party. He noticed the regular crowd of high profile cloaks; Cannonade, Luminary, and a few others mingling with ex-senators and sitting officials. Billionaires and reporters dotted the room as well. Monsoon sat at the back getting what any MIRA agent could tell to be a slap on the wrist from Director Print. The drink in his hand was the missing piece of the equation as to why. Songbird on the other hand was sitting alone near the bar talking with the vigilante Blood Pact. He had yet to have a run in with the Crimson Cape and only knew things from his file. The guy was a real piece of work even if he was effective in the field. Most vigilante's had a hate boner for MIRA agents much the same way stray dogs had to have felt when looking at a wealthy woman's purse riding Pomeranian.
Gil grabbed a drink and moved into the crowd to mingle. He was here, officially, to answer questions. Unofficially he was here to advance his own agenda.
ShoddyProduct
Well-known member
They'd only talked for a few minutes in the aftermath of the operation, but that voice was likely one she would remember for a long time. Rowan turned to face Blood Pact, a wry smile across her lips as she lowered the glass, held loosely in her hand. "Not quite how I would describe it, but I guess that's just a difference in perspective," she said, only letting the slightest amount of sarcasm through.
The following day after their first chance meeting, Rowan had spent a considerable amount of time ranting about her annoyance with the vigilante to Molt, after she had packed away the mental image of the man that had been left by his compatriots. Their tone drove her insane, smug with a genuine mix of honesty.
"You're lucky I believe you. Neither one of us would have been dumb enough to start something here, anyways." She took a sip, at that, turning her gaze back to the rest of the party. Gilgamesh had just arrived, it seemed. She was shocked to see him there, after what had happened in Central Park. "If you mean Molt, I don't know. I asked her to tag along, but it's not her type of venue. If you care to share, I can pass it along."
The following day after their first chance meeting, Rowan had spent a considerable amount of time ranting about her annoyance with the vigilante to Molt, after she had packed away the mental image of the man that had been left by his compatriots. Their tone drove her insane, smug with a genuine mix of honesty.
"You're lucky I believe you. Neither one of us would have been dumb enough to start something here, anyways." She took a sip, at that, turning her gaze back to the rest of the party. Gilgamesh had just arrived, it seemed. She was shocked to see him there, after what had happened in Central Park. "If you mean Molt, I don't know. I asked her to tag along, but it's not her type of venue. If you care to share, I can pass it along."
Monsoon
New member
"It was a joke," Monsoon muttered under his breath, spitefully taking another sip from his drink as the man walked away from him.
There were others in attendance that he recognized - Songbird was talking with someone vigilante-coded near the bar. She had worn a slim dress and was sipping champagne. They hadn't spoken too many times, but they had been on Flanagan! together, an experience he'd thoroughly detested (though it wasn't her fault). In truth, he'd let himself flounder a little bit, so that they'd stop booking him for Cloak ops like that. Never did he feel more useless than when he was smiling for a camera, making lame jokes. Now, Central Park - that was something. And the agricultural work - in terms of lives saved, he had to be at the top. Had to be.
Nothing to be bitter about. He was just doing his job. He was part of a team. An integral part - but a part nevertheless.
What would he be like, without the Joint MIRA-NASA division? Without Stone, and Print, and all this infrastructure? Silently, he seethed to himself, chafing against the pressures of the 6th Annual Gala - of everything. If he were born 500 years ago, he'd be a God. He'd be worshipped for his absolute command over nature. Now...he was a glorified office worker. More efficient, less harmful to others - he wasn't just summoning rain on a whim, but precisely tuning meteorological phenomena. A nudge here, a push there - all in the service of the United States of America. Of something larger than himself.
But before? What would that have been like - before all this? Just him and the open sky, free to do as he pleased. God save the nonbelievers.
"Scramjet, you jerk," he murmured, but stayed put. That journalist would be a problem eventually too. Maybe Print was onto something with taking it easy. (He took another drink).
There were others in attendance that he recognized - Songbird was talking with someone vigilante-coded near the bar. She had worn a slim dress and was sipping champagne. They hadn't spoken too many times, but they had been on Flanagan! together, an experience he'd thoroughly detested (though it wasn't her fault). In truth, he'd let himself flounder a little bit, so that they'd stop booking him for Cloak ops like that. Never did he feel more useless than when he was smiling for a camera, making lame jokes. Now, Central Park - that was something. And the agricultural work - in terms of lives saved, he had to be at the top. Had to be.
Nothing to be bitter about. He was just doing his job. He was part of a team. An integral part - but a part nevertheless.
What would he be like, without the Joint MIRA-NASA division? Without Stone, and Print, and all this infrastructure? Silently, he seethed to himself, chafing against the pressures of the 6th Annual Gala - of everything. If he were born 500 years ago, he'd be a God. He'd be worshipped for his absolute command over nature. Now...he was a glorified office worker. More efficient, less harmful to others - he wasn't just summoning rain on a whim, but precisely tuning meteorological phenomena. A nudge here, a push there - all in the service of the United States of America. Of something larger than himself.
But before? What would that have been like - before all this? Just him and the open sky, free to do as he pleased. God save the nonbelievers.
"Scramjet, you jerk," he murmured, but stayed put. That journalist would be a problem eventually too. Maybe Print was onto something with taking it easy. (He took another drink).
ShoddyProduct
Well-known member
"Gilgamesh was at Central Park, boots on the ground, unlike Monsoon. Him being here is actually probably bad for himself, but everyone got an open invitation, basically. There aren't too many of us that have public facing manifestations, after all," Rowan said with a shrug, glancing back to the vigilante. It was true that he was popular, but... if the catastrophes she'd been a part of the past few weeks were so publicly assigned to her, she'd probably be seeing the same issues, facing the same questions. Being a flex agent had it's perks.
At the mention of recruitment, she raised an eyebrow. She was feeling relaxed, having had a bit of a drink and the time needed to pack away everything that had happened lately, so as a half joke, with only the smallest amount of venom in her tone, she responded. "Is it the blood, or your attitude?" she followed it with a smile, before shaking her head. "But, seriously. If it's something you want, there are worse manifestations. Uglier, if you want to use that word. Odds are, they like the connections you have as a vigilante, though. You have a level of mobility that most of us don't have."
Then, the real reason they'd approached. Of course it was about Hernandez. She'd gotten an earful about both that and Ciccetti, and the smile fell into an almost-frown, an expression she'd had to practice to keep from outright signaling to the world that something was wrong. Rowan took another sip, nodding as Blood Pact spoke. "Mm. If that was the same stuff we," the way she said it was clearly meant to exclude them, "were after, then that means they were dangerous regardless." The glass moved to her lips again, and she dropped to a mumble, to ensure only Blood Pact to hear. "Could've been handled with more tact, though. Guessing no word on where Ciccetti is, then? I figure you'd be out there stalking the streets right now, if you knew."
At the mention of recruitment, she raised an eyebrow. She was feeling relaxed, having had a bit of a drink and the time needed to pack away everything that had happened lately, so as a half joke, with only the smallest amount of venom in her tone, she responded. "Is it the blood, or your attitude?" she followed it with a smile, before shaking her head. "But, seriously. If it's something you want, there are worse manifestations. Uglier, if you want to use that word. Odds are, they like the connections you have as a vigilante, though. You have a level of mobility that most of us don't have."
Then, the real reason they'd approached. Of course it was about Hernandez. She'd gotten an earful about both that and Ciccetti, and the smile fell into an almost-frown, an expression she'd had to practice to keep from outright signaling to the world that something was wrong. Rowan took another sip, nodding as Blood Pact spoke. "Mm. If that was the same stuff we," the way she said it was clearly meant to exclude them, "were after, then that means they were dangerous regardless." The glass moved to her lips again, and she dropped to a mumble, to ensure only Blood Pact to hear. "Could've been handled with more tact, though. Guessing no word on where Ciccetti is, then? I figure you'd be out there stalking the streets right now, if you knew."
She was not herself.
Why the fuck would she be, at a place like this? It wasn't like they'd ever let her out like this without a face, without not being herself. She didn't really give a fuck, though. She didn't wanna be seen here. She wouldn't be caught fucking dead here.
Rowan, though, was way better at this shit. She was dolled up, but it looked - right - on her, and she seemed comfortable in a dress Hannah wouldn't be caught dead in. It was sexy. It was confident. She couldn't help but feel a bit envious. She was better existing in the outskirts, though. That was her place. Currently, she was a slightly overweight middle-aged security guard named Jim. Nobody would look at Jim. Nobody would stare at Jim.
As Blood Pact vanished into the crowd, "Jim" approached Rowan, staring in the direction they'd left in with a disapproving glare.
"That asshole bothering you?" she grumbled, folding her arms. "Can throw them out. Bet nobody'd give a shit."
Why the fuck would she be, at a place like this? It wasn't like they'd ever let her out like this without a face, without not being herself. She didn't really give a fuck, though. She didn't wanna be seen here. She wouldn't be caught fucking dead here.
Rowan, though, was way better at this shit. She was dolled up, but it looked - right - on her, and she seemed comfortable in a dress Hannah wouldn't be caught dead in. It was sexy. It was confident. She couldn't help but feel a bit envious. She was better existing in the outskirts, though. That was her place. Currently, she was a slightly overweight middle-aged security guard named Jim. Nobody would look at Jim. Nobody would stare at Jim.
As Blood Pact vanished into the crowd, "Jim" approached Rowan, staring in the direction they'd left in with a disapproving glare.
"That asshole bothering you?" she grumbled, folding her arms. "Can throw them out. Bet nobody'd give a shit."
Someguy500
New member
Han Dong-Hwan, alias Thermodynamic, was wearing a white shirt and grey vest with matching slacks, and had traded his signature hardened Cloak mask for a regular surgical one. Perhaps he was a little dressed-down for such a high-profile event, but he wasn't here to stand out. He had arrived late to the gala thanks to unexpected weather, and could hear the ending lines of an opening speech as he came in from the rain. It was quite unbecoming of him, and he made a mental note to stay prepared for more mundane situations.
Stowing his umbrella at the door, Hwan scanned the room for anyone he recognized. Since his transfer, he'd been told to familiarize himself with local agents and staff, as well as other people of interest, so he was simply here to socialize and network. Somewhat annoying, but it was important to get a better handle on who's who when he'd likely be working with them in the future. While he still couldn't put a lot of names to faces, he did recognize the three agents who'd showed up on that talk show a while back. The show was purely marketing, to be sure, but at least it helped him recognize Agents Songbird, Gilgamesh and Monsoon of the North-Atlantic division, only one of which didn't look particularly busy. Making his way over to the open bar, Hwan approached and gave a polite nod to Monsoon, who was nursing a drink. He offered a gloved handshake as a neutral gesture.
"Good evening. Monsoon, if I am correct?"
Stowing his umbrella at the door, Hwan scanned the room for anyone he recognized. Since his transfer, he'd been told to familiarize himself with local agents and staff, as well as other people of interest, so he was simply here to socialize and network. Somewhat annoying, but it was important to get a better handle on who's who when he'd likely be working with them in the future. While he still couldn't put a lot of names to faces, he did recognize the three agents who'd showed up on that talk show a while back. The show was purely marketing, to be sure, but at least it helped him recognize Agents Songbird, Gilgamesh and Monsoon of the North-Atlantic division, only one of which didn't look particularly busy. Making his way over to the open bar, Hwan approached and gave a polite nod to Monsoon, who was nursing a drink. He offered a gloved handshake as a neutral gesture.
"Good evening. Monsoon, if I am correct?"
ShoddyProduct
Well-known member
Blood Pact was quick to withdraw, after the exposition. She didn't like the skinwalker comparison for Hannah, but there were more important things to be discussed, so she held her tongue for that. Instead, she focused in on what came immediately after- a second chance at Ciccetti, in Delaware. The vigilante likely could see her eyes light up momentarily, taking another sip before finally setting her glass down, deciding this was too important to be drinking over.
Rowan took the slip, not even bothering to read it, tucking it in her palm to keep it out of sight. It was clear Blood Pact wanted to do this below board, but that wasn't an easy thing to pull off. Some of them- namely, herself and Hannah, the exact two they asked for- were kept very close track of, on account of how their manifestations functioned. MIRA didn't want them going rogue, after all. There wasn't enough time to address them before they walked off, so Rowan watched instead, puzzling over what she should do, when what seemed to be a security guard approached.
It was her fault that Hannah even decided to come. Rowan had asked, partly to get Hannah out of her room, and partly to try to get her to dress up for once. It didn't work, unfortunately, but she was glad to have her here regardless. "No, it's fine. Gave me this," she said, taking the slip of paper and tucking it into one of "Jim's" pockets. "And they also told me something I think a friend of mine would like to hear about." She retrieved her glass from the counter again, dropping to a whisper as she leaned towards Hannah slightly. "They found Ciccetti, and want our help. Whoever else we might want along, also. I can share the rest of what I know after, might try to follow them and make sure there's nothing we're missing."
Rowan took the slip, not even bothering to read it, tucking it in her palm to keep it out of sight. It was clear Blood Pact wanted to do this below board, but that wasn't an easy thing to pull off. Some of them- namely, herself and Hannah, the exact two they asked for- were kept very close track of, on account of how their manifestations functioned. MIRA didn't want them going rogue, after all. There wasn't enough time to address them before they walked off, so Rowan watched instead, puzzling over what she should do, when what seemed to be a security guard approached.
It was her fault that Hannah even decided to come. Rowan had asked, partly to get Hannah out of her room, and partly to try to get her to dress up for once. It didn't work, unfortunately, but she was glad to have her here regardless. "No, it's fine. Gave me this," she said, taking the slip of paper and tucking it into one of "Jim's" pockets. "And they also told me something I think a friend of mine would like to hear about." She retrieved her glass from the counter again, dropping to a whisper as she leaned towards Hannah slightly. "They found Ciccetti, and want our help. Whoever else we might want along, also. I can share the rest of what I know after, might try to follow them and make sure there's nothing we're missing."
Hannah's scowl deepened.
"I don't like it. They're not -" Like us. One of us. Trustworthy. A friend. There were a million different things she could say. "- being straight with it all. I don't fuck with all the coy, playful shit. They wanna help, they help, drop the fucking act. Stop trying to - sweeten the pot, and act all friendly, and just fucking tell us what they know and fuck off."
She grabbed a glass from one of the passing platters and downed it in a single go, wiping at her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
"Sides. They were oggling you. Bet I can guess why they wanna help."
She huffed.
"They say if MIRA knows, yet? They're gonna have to know. We're gonna have to tell 'em, if we're gonna do this."
"I don't like it. They're not -" Like us. One of us. Trustworthy. A friend. There were a million different things she could say. "- being straight with it all. I don't fuck with all the coy, playful shit. They wanna help, they help, drop the fucking act. Stop trying to - sweeten the pot, and act all friendly, and just fucking tell us what they know and fuck off."
She grabbed a glass from one of the passing platters and downed it in a single go, wiping at her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
"Sides. They were oggling you. Bet I can guess why they wanna help."
She huffed.
"They say if MIRA knows, yet? They're gonna have to know. We're gonna have to tell 'em, if we're gonna do this."
ShoddyProduct
Well-known member
Rowan responded with a shake of the head. "No. Odds are they don't. I'd also bet that they don't want MIRA to know, but..." She shook her head again, then shrugged her shoulders. "If they want us in, they'll find out regardless. That's why I'm going to go try to find them and have a little chat, where we don't have all these eyes on us," she said, finally leaning away. With a final sip, and her glass finally emptied, Rowan set it back on the counter and smiled at Jim in an attempt to put the person within at ease.
"Oh, please. Didn't they seem a little too professional for that? And even if they were, can you really blame them?" she asked with a wink, her voice playful. She began to walk away from the counter, in the direction they'd seen Blood Pact head off in. "If you're coming, just- don't be too obvious, okay? They did want to see both of us, but no one else needs to know what we're doing yet, yeah?" And then, she was off.
"Oh, please. Didn't they seem a little too professional for that? And even if they were, can you really blame them?" she asked with a wink, her voice playful. She began to walk away from the counter, in the direction they'd seen Blood Pact head off in. "If you're coming, just- don't be too obvious, okay? They did want to see both of us, but no one else needs to know what we're doing yet, yeah?" And then, she was off.
She really didn't want to talk with that asshole. Really, really didn't.
Didn't want Rowan to talk to them alone, either.
"Fine. My - face is slipping, anyway," she grumbled, covering her face as Rowan walked away. "Need to reup it, or just - take it off, I guess. Not like anyone here gives a shit."
Hannah continued to stare over her hand as Rowan left, then turned to leave, herself, finding some dark corner of the building to make herself presentable again. Always a fucking chore. Always a hassle. This was why she didn't go to these things.
Didn't want Rowan to talk to them alone, either.
"Fine. My - face is slipping, anyway," she grumbled, covering her face as Rowan walked away. "Need to reup it, or just - take it off, I guess. Not like anyone here gives a shit."
Hannah continued to stare over her hand as Rowan left, then turned to leave, herself, finding some dark corner of the building to make herself presentable again. Always a fucking chore. Always a hassle. This was why she didn't go to these things.
Monsoon
New member
Early on in his MIRA career, Monsoon had done shots with Cowboy after a press event. Cowboy was one of the coolest Cloaks in the world. His manifestation was a well-kept secret, and some doubted he even actually had one. Not even five shots had gotten him to divulge his hidden ability. What was glaringly obvious was that Cowboy was an expert shot with either one of his two revolvers. He'd twirl them and do little tricks, and he had plenty of stories about going up against supervillains. Monsoon had never seen him in action personally, but he'd watched all his tapes, and they were extremely impressive. All that skill couldn't save him when he went up against Yellowjacket. Watching that video still gave Monsoon chills - it was part of the MIRA CONSPEC training now, to show you exactly what not to do.
He'd heard there was going to be a new Cowboy, but this time, it'd be a girl - he wondered if they'd change the name, or if she'd also be called Cowboy. He should ask Print.
Before he could hunt down his good buddy Harry, Monsoon was intercepted by a man in a white button-up and gray vest with matching slacks. He was of Asian descent and wore a surgical mask over his face. When he reached out for a handshake, Monsoon took it, executing the perfunctory greeting gesture with all the grace of a robot trying not to spill its drink.
"Yeah. Er...do I know you?" he asked slowly, his mask betraying no change in expression around his eyes, protruberant goggles concealing the upper half of his face; the lower half of his square-shaped jaw merely widened a little, lips pulled tight. It wasn't like Monsoon was wearing a nametag, but he could hardly be mistaken for anyone else. This guy could be anyone. A journalist, maybe. A fucking journalist. Or maybe a Chinese spy, or something. Monsoon had to act fast, so he finished his drink and ordered another.
He'd heard there was going to be a new Cowboy, but this time, it'd be a girl - he wondered if they'd change the name, or if she'd also be called Cowboy. He should ask Print.
Before he could hunt down his good buddy Harry, Monsoon was intercepted by a man in a white button-up and gray vest with matching slacks. He was of Asian descent and wore a surgical mask over his face. When he reached out for a handshake, Monsoon took it, executing the perfunctory greeting gesture with all the grace of a robot trying not to spill its drink.
"Yeah. Er...do I know you?" he asked slowly, his mask betraying no change in expression around his eyes, protruberant goggles concealing the upper half of his face; the lower half of his square-shaped jaw merely widened a little, lips pulled tight. It wasn't like Monsoon was wearing a nametag, but he could hardly be mistaken for anyone else. This guy could be anyone. A journalist, maybe. A fucking journalist. Or maybe a Chinese spy, or something. Monsoon had to act fast, so he finished his drink and ordered another.