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  1. Today
  2. The Patriot would have told La Puma Negra that her responsibility was to protect everybody, even her - until the godling showed up. Sweating, Ashley tried to speak again and found that she couldn't, her mind already spinning ahead with images of permanent muteness, her career, her relationship...no, that's stupid. You know how it is with Quirk. He plays his game, then he's done. You just have to play the game right. While she was having a small existential crisis, Quirk raised his hand and said "Hello there, kitty cat. I am Quirk." He smiled as the baby on his lap waved exuberantly. "My little girl here is a big fan. I bet you can give her a good show, can't you?" He gave a cold, pitiless look to the Patriot, then smirked faintly. "Oh my dear Patriot, upset that your kitty days are behind you? What a shame, what a shame. Stay up here and don't interrupt, or there'll be two catgirls going back to Claremont."
  3. Yesterday
  4. If Bear-Knuckles attacks anyone other than Shooting Star she's gonna interpose.
  5. Shooting Star Alice frowned as the man seemed to be shrugging off their efforts, approaching her and the catgirl while ignoring the wolf. She stepped forwards to meet his advance, placing herself in front of Neko as much as she could, before slugging Bear-Knuckles in the jaw. "You know, that would be intimidating, if you were... You know... Intimidating." She grinned up at the man, although it came out as more of a sneer. She was getting less sure that she could take him, but she could at least keep him from everyone else.
  6. Last week
  7. Terrifica Terrifica was almost insulted. Almost. She’d never visited a tailor because she was one. One of the benefits of being an omni-competent supergenius was, in fact, being omni-competent. She had several ideas, but one stood out. She’d seen it in, of all things, a comic book. The heroine in question was fictional, of course, but it was a good look. Classic. Old school. But properly tailored? Oh, it would be exquisite. Creating more Nano-Fibers would take a while, but oh, so worth it. The key was making everything fit together. With her normal battlesuit this wasn’t a problem. Everything was all one piece aside from the gloves and boots. This, however, was going to have multiple pieces. They all had to work together in harmony for the same effect. The outfit? Oh right, it was a suit. Pants, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. The pants, tie, and shoes would be her usual shade of dark blue. The shirt and socks would be, well, not neon orange. That was a bit bright for formalwear. Just the regular shade would do, thank you. Oh, dear. It required a hat. A fedora, to be precise. And something for a mask. A domino would do. Merrily did both Terrifica and Samantha Carson sew away. She liked making things. She really did. It gave her great job to be a creator instead of a perpetuator of violence. The tailoring of each item was to make them tight fitting but still leave her plenty of room to move and do acrobatics should she need to. Tack on a belt and one of her usual longcoats, and done. It was enough to make her husband Stan whistle in sheer appreciation. Terrifica admitted, for once, that she indeed had a nice figure. Lean and athletic. She’d used her extensive knowledge of tailoring techniques to flatter every inch of herself. She had to admit, again for once, she looked good. No, she looked sublime. Her chest and posterior, well, there were more impressive ones on people she personally knew, let alone out there in the world. It didn’t bother her in the least, but my goodness she’d done a good job accentuating what she had. Oh, yes. Yes, this would do nicely. But first, Stan was feeling, shall we say, frisky? And the children were away with friends… Well…that was…very nice…however Sam had a Gala to attend. It was important to look her absolute best, so she took a nice hot bath instead of a shower. Stan was kind enough to volunteer his backwashing services. On another day it may have led to more…mmm…frisky activities, but alas there was not enough time left for that. Underwear. The shirt. The pants. A modified version of her utility belt, with staff attached. The domino mask. The longcoat. The fedora. A little more mirror admiration. With one last kiss for Stan, she was off. Samantha Carson faded back, and Terrifica settled in. She had no trust in Hades whatsoever. So naturally she’d be quite interested to know the real reason behind this so called Hades Gala. This was the whole reason she was going in the first place. The Greek God of Death could not be trusted to be anything other than a villain. Persephone, however, was a different story. It looked to be an interesting night.
  8. IMPACT Grant mimics Chimera's response almost to a T, his shield going suddenly opaque is it layers on additional protection. Isn't AEGIS American? he wonders. What's with the accent? Like Jennifer, he looks quickly back and forth at the more established heroes before setting his eyes back on the Hood. They're narrow behind his mask. "Anybody know this guy?" he asks. Grant exhales, then draws a calming breath. He's still pumped up from the fight, still looking to lash out. He needs to settle himself down before he makes a mistake. This was a chance to look good in front of other heroes and the government. If he played his cards right... things might change for the better. His shield still up, his hands ready, he waits for something to happen.
  9. Set Set, timeless primordial god of the unspeakable unknown and continuously trending social media darling tossed the gold foil embossed envelope onto his kitchen counter and seethed. “A gala. An Olympian - one who famously espouses the rules of hospitality as though pulling teeth with ill-spun piano wire - plans to hold an event of culture and fashion.” Wisps of dark grey clouds formed along the ceiling, following overhead as the storm-caller paced and made irritable gestures to the empty room. “As though Hades would recognize style were it to break a gaudy marble pillar over his furrowed brow.” Spinning on his heel Set pointed an accusatory finger at the full length mirror mounted on the back of the apartment’s front door, crimson lightning flickering amongst the indoor clouds. “And clearly reformed deific destroyer turned gregarious gadabout tis my brand! Unconscionable!” Jaw set stubbornly the gosling snapped his fingers and his shirtless shendyt look transformed into tasteful if subdued tuxedo with a blood red cummerbund and a lapel pin in the shape of the was sceptre. “Mayhaps I ought to ‘phone it in’. Spats as passive-aggressive spat.” He considered the outfit in the mirror for a split second before snapping his fingers again. Instantly the godling took on a female presentation and the suit was replaced by a backless gown in the same deep red, her dreadlocks twisting themselves upward to accentuate her slender neck and shoulders. She turned in a half-circle and looked over her shoulder at the mirror, placing her hands on either side of her read and experimenting with how far the neckline should plunge. Her painted lips curled into a grimace. “Ugh, nay. Subtlety be for cowards.” Turning back around she snapped her fingers rapidly, trying different iterations. The tuxedo returned but cut for a feminine figure, with then without a dress shirt underneath. Set tried the gown with a male presentation, the something high-necked and severe, something with a massive bustle, a sailor uniform-inspired number with buttoned hot pants, an asymmetrical leather daddy meets Roman centurion look, low-rise bellbottoms with a tight t-shirt that read ‘Demeter Was Right’ over the silhouette of a snowflake, a Sunday-best dress with petticoat and a peacock feathered fascinator, followed by an outfit that was nothing but three strategically placed such fascinators. The outfits sped by one after the other with Set’s form changing just as quickly as they snapped their fingers faster and faster. “Professional, then? Make it a work trip.” In a male presentation this time they adopted a more ornate version of their usual shendyt with a wrap over one shoulder that called to mind a toga. His head took on the aspect of the pointed eared Set animal, short black fur covering a long, canid snout. Considering for a moment he snapped his fingers again and grew two more such heads on either side of the first, each looking down at the outfit from a different angle before turning upward with a chorus of unimpressed groans. “Unbelievable,” the leftmost head grumbled before winking out of existence along with the rightmost. Set returned to a fully human appearance and narrowed his eyes at his own nude reflection. “Not an allusion, nor antic, nor affront, then. Simply… Set.” The godling stood in silent, motionless contemplation for several long moments before slowly adopting a more androgynous physicality than they usually preferred. They reached back to run long fingers through their dreadlocks, letting the brick red hair grow out until it reached down to their ankles in fluid curtain that swayed in the preternatural indoor wind. A single piece of lightly coloured leather wrapped around the lean muscles of their torso in a sort of sleeveless romper, the shorts ending only an inch or two past their pelvis and the neck rising to just below their chin. With a more purposeful snap than their earlier experiments that leather split in a thousand diamond cuts, becoming a mesmerizing expanse of fishnet-like pattern where darker skin showed through. Another snap and brighter red fur, thick and almost feathery, grew around their neck and bare shoulders, part boa and part mane. Light caught sparkling flecks of ruby red, stunning gold and the truest of black across Set’s cheekbone, down their arms and legs and behind countless diamond windows. At a glance it might have appeared to be body glitter but a closer examination would have revealed tiny, perfect scales dusting the godling’s form. They snapped again. Thick golden rings appeared on each finger alongside curved talons that shifted from a smokey black at the base to gleaming red at the tips. Each ring bore a a single etched hieroglyph and as Set raised their arms to either side impossibly delicate golden chains trailed from them to connect to matching armlets then further still to disappear somewhere in the voluminous mane. They moved about is a slow dance and smiled at the faintly tinkling of the links. Similar gold accessories appeared in their trailing dreadlocks with another snap, followed by a thin, practically filigree tiara across their brow that curved upward into two points, more than a foot tall and shaped to evoke the ear of their Set animal head. Their already dramatic kohl eye makeup became something that drew all attention inextricably to their piercing grey eyes, smokey shadow that seemed to roil like something alive and blood red liner cutting through it like the trail of a dagger. They took a few steps in a lazy circle to survey their handiwork from all angles. Each time their bare feet would have set down on the apartment floor a shift pool of sand rose up to meet them, crystallizing into a breathtaking stiletto heel before dropping away into formless grains again as soon as their weight shifted to the other foot. The sand trailed along after them like the train of a wedding dress. Set completed their circle and regarded themselves in the mirror with a smug upward turn from the corner of their lips. They rolled their neck and shoulders with a predatory sort of grace, setting the fine chains clinking in chorus with the soft shifting of sand. The storm cloud that had been hovering overhead rumbled and broke, showering them with a fine mist of summer rain. The beads of water refracted light glinting off of scales, traced crisscrossing lines down the leather netting and highlighted the arched curve of long calves. “Well now. Let none say the once guardian of blessed Ra’s barge has forgotten how to slay.”
  10. Crimson Tiger May 15th, 2022. Early Afternoon. Freedom City Mali gave a little turn and waited patiently. The designer was sketching her body to get a better handle on things. Mali's figure was a bit unusual, she knew, so the designer wanted to design for her. Once a brief outline of her body was done, the designer motioned her over. "Now, color, what are you..." "Crimson and black, please. They're my signature colors, and they look good on me." "I should have predicted." The designer chuckled. "I've been working with you for a while. Dresses aren't my usual forte, but I've designed a few. Besides, you've got a good eye for fashion." Mali nodded. "I'm thinking backless, sleeveless." "Sleeveless?" "I put hours into these guns." Mali shrugged. "I'm a superhero. I wanna be me." "Very well." The designer began to sketch. The top of the dress was attached to a pair of straps that ran up to a choker that Mali would wear. The straps would connect to the dress on her upper torso, split to cover her chest and expose her sternum, then connect to the rest of the dress, which would then extend around her lower body. That gave her plenty of mobility and gave Mali a chance to show off her sculpted upper body. The lower part of the dress would hug her hips and then split somewhere around her right thigh, giving her lower body maneuverability as well. Malia also requested long black gloves to match the dress. She was planning on some plain, relatively simple and comfortable black flats. She enjoyed looking elegant, but she did not enjoy foot pain. "Oh, one last idea." Mali said suddenly to the designer. "I want a shawl. A faux fur shawl." "Oh?" "Yeah, I want it to cover my upper body, my shoulders and upper arms. I want to wrap it around myself and then when I'm out there in public, I can just take it off and wow them." "I can arrange that. What are you going to do for a mask?" "I've got this composite alloy...thing, that someone agreed to make for me. It'll offer basic protection. It has a little clasp I can attach to put it on easy. OH, and I'm getting these contact lenses that will color my eyes greenish gold, like a real tiger." The designer nodded. "Well, I can get this put together with plenty of time. You'll come back for a fitting, we'll make adjustments, then I'll have it ready for you before you leave for the Gala." "Thank you so much. Just let me know when I need to come in for a fitting." Mali said. She stood up and walked out of the store. June 21, 2022 Crimson Tiger arrived. She held up the burner phone she brought and used it's camera as a mirror. Her makeup was flawless, even though people would only really see her lipstick. She smirked into the camera, and put her phone away. Trap or no trap, she was going to have a hell of a night. And who knows, maybe some actual fun for once?
  11. Arrowhawk II Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr Osla felt a little discomfited by how light the cuirass was. The armour she'd worn in Valhalla had been not of the finest cast. It had chafed, been heavy on the shoulders; especially given she was young, and neither an Asgardian nor an Einherjar. The suit she wore as the Arrowhawk... well, Midgard did some wondrous things with materials, but featherlight it was not. Fenrir's gauntlets would make it feel like paper. A mesh of fine, silver mail encircled her neck up until just below her jaw. Moving subtly against the skin, it swept down to an elaborate cuirass of layered blue-silver metal, the neckline swept back with avian grace to finely engraved spaulders. The engraved elven script upon those spaulders, she couldn't read; for it was twisting and elegant and intricate, every word a work of art. She was told it read out many of her honorifics, which seemed apropos for where she was going. 'Osla born Kriger, daughter of John of Clan Fraser, Arrowhawk Incumbent, Valkyrie of the Allfather, Alive Born Dead, Guardian of The Darkest City', it continued in a similar tiresome vein. She wore trousers of a fine royal blue leather, sturdy but light. It didn't looked as if it had been touched by dye, but what matter of bizarre elven beast would have blue hide? She wore a midnight blue sash around the waist, concealing the seam between cuirass and fabric. Boots and greaves of the same blue-silver metal encased her lower legs. The armour only covered the torso and shoulders, her muscular arms exposed. Despite having otherwise conceded to the custom of make-up, she'd refused concealer. Every scar and abrasion was still visible. They'd faded, her constitution... ambiguously human. But on one forearm, tooth marks from some fell beast, a vicious scar on one elbow from where a giant had nearly ripped the bone from her forearm. Minor, recent scars still showed. Bullets and knives. One of the ljósálf stood behind her, the mythically beautiful elves of light. He looked at once ancient and youthful, it was disorientating to look directly at such a being. He coughed politely before haltingly speaking in Norse, the syllables flowing like wine. "Orheidr, not to gainsay your decision, but I do not believe these are the fashions of Midgardian events." "I don't believe this strictly hews to that," she grimaced, looking at herself in the mirror. The mirror itself was disorientating, it was liquid, like a still pond suspended at right angles in a frame of two still-living trees. "The Unseen and his bride host this gala... And I abhor heels." Osla had considered not going. She couldn't see the value. A bunch of superheroes, none of whom she had a meaningful bond to. A high risk of dangerous enemies. It reeked of a trap. 01.34am, 10th June, Bedlam City, Midgard Her father looked old. John Fraser, the Arrowhawk, sat on the edge of a rooftop, his cape sweeping down past the side. His bow and quiver lay atop a nearby metal heating duct. His hood and mask were off. After long years, his hair was almost totally greyed, wrinkles around his eyes. They were no less sharp than they ever were. He was no less sharp. "Yeah, they like to do those whole shebangs every so often. Think it's to blow off steam. I wouldn't walk into it, though. Hades? You know, I don't do your world, but... well, we all know what he did." Osla's hood was down too, her hair almost ethereal against the night sky. The light pollution shimmered across each lock as it blew in the breeze. "Father, when we spoke on the phone, you told me to attend." Annoyed lines twitched around her mouth. John chuckled to himself, looked down for a moment, before gazing at his daughter. "I said I wouldn't. And I said I wouldn't just... walk into it. But..." He exhaled slowly, glancing to the side. "These things can be viper's nests. But he wants to be seen to be reformed, so I suspect your real danger will be politics. Never was my strong suit. And it will give you the measure of the current crowd. Supers come and go." Osla rolled her eyes. "And we'll all know each other for shirking the actual duty, and partying. That's all they do on Asgard. Fritter away the eons with parties and brawls. I'd have stayed home if I were to do that, Father." She folded her arms across her chest, for a flickering instant the image of a teenage girl complaining to her father about some chore. And then it was two seasoned warriors chatting once more. "And I thought you'd take more after your mother in that regard. Not like me." The first Arrowhawk's lips curled for a moment. "But maybe there's some of Him." She knew what he meant. Osla immediately opened her mouth to protest. In what way were her Father and the All-Father remotely alike? "You know, when you find out you have a kid and she's up there in Viking heaven, you get to reading. Seems to me there's stories of times that Odin and his lot were, in their own way, heroes. And from what you tell me, and from what happened to your poor goddamn mother... They became too apart. They became too detached." John laughed wearily. "You know who wasn't? Julia Dawson. She could sesh, that girl. Her sister used to come up from Manchester, and you'd wake up, and... they'd have stuck a traffic cone on every floor of that damn halls..." His eyes burrowed into Osla's, with all the intensity of the hawk he'd become. "I'm honoured you have taken up your old man's gig and I love you for it, kid. I truly do. But I do this, I chose this life, this horrible lonely life for the Julia Dawsons. I do this for you. Now you do it your way, I know you always do. But have some fun, kid. Go give the Heliopolitan my best." Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr The light elf helped Osla don the cape. It was enormous, closer to the heavy silhouette of her father's imposing mantle, than to her own streamlined design. Her father thought he had armoured himself in it; shut out the world in his quest to defend it. Osla thought he was wrong. The All-Father didn't treat his children like the Arrowhawk did. She knew her father laboured under the burden of a lifetime of desperation and mistakes. She knew he wasn't entirely the hero her mother had made him out to be. He was one man. And because of the way he'd become, he'd always been one man. He'd killed people. And it was heavy. She felt it in the cape. The regal blue swept down and behind her, fastening to the cuirass. A mantle of purest white fur was draped, dropping back over her shoulders. She thought it might be some kind of Nifelheim bear, a perverse and dire cousin to Midgard's Arctic bears. "Comfortable?" asked the attendant, waking her from her moment of reverie. "Quite." She turned in the mirror. It echoed Asgardian finery, substituting conventional court fashion for the practical, making up for the overt military use with the sheer force of craftsmanship. This was what they envisioned when they sang sagas. The cape swished behind her. She could still move very easily despite the weight and mass of it on her back. A small smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her chestplate, at the design embedded into the topmost plate. Small, white precious gems picked out the emblem of the Arrowhawk, a white bird shining subtly as the facets glimmered. She turned to look at herself once more in the mirror, and her jaw firmed. It would do. Her brilliant blue eyes were silhouetted by swooshes of eyeshadow, a midnight blue which glittered... but not like Midgard make-up shimmered, like the twinkle of the night sky. Her hair was one curled braid tight against her scalp, a golden swirl against her pale skin. A long time ago. Asgard. Tears streamed down Osla's face. Her rough grey garments were muddy and ripped in a couple of places, her young face red as she tried to fight them back. She couldn't look weak. The Asgardian guard had crudely tossed her into the mud. "Child, why would you think you could enter such an event? You're here on the All-Father's mercy alone. After your mother showed up here, and in her condition, you were granted a considerable amount of tolerance. Do not confuse that tolerance with welcome, child." She turned, looking over her shoulders, fury blazing on her face, quite uncharacteristic of a normal eight year old. "I just wanted to see! I heard the violi-" She wasn't able to finish as the guard spat a curse and cut in, pointing away to the city, to the hills. Their house was out there, away from where anyone else would be bothered by them being there. "I do not care why, and neither will any of the guests. Begone!" He turned on his armoured heel, quick marching back to the palace gates. Back to Asgard. In the distance, she could see the Rainbow Bridge, promising other places. Better places. Maybe Dad was out there. Why wasn't he looking for her? Didn't he know she existed? She sniffed loudly, a wet squelch of tears and snot, as she picked herself up and began to trudge. The Arrowhawk would have beat that guard so badly. He'd have made him apologise to her. Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr "I do hope you enjoy your evening, Orheidr. And I trust this settles our debts?" The elf was helpful as Osla outfitted herself with her weapons. The bow which bore the name of her formal title hung at her waist from the sash, resting atop a thigh-strapped quiver, carved by hand out of a single slender branch of one of this realm's majestic willow trees. Arrowhawk tucked an axe into her sash on the opposite side. After all, she was meant to look at her best, and at her best meant a regalia she would not only be proud to be seen in, but still as capable as she would always be. She'd worked for this for a long time. She managed a genuine smile, for a moment as beautiful as her mother had been on her best day. The elf transparently wanted the debt settled, but still... There were even gloves of the same leather as her trousers, albeit thinner, softer, more pliable. They slid up to mid-forearm, fine stitching of golden thread tracing a willow tree design on the back of her hands. "We're even, Simekr. I feel adequately compensated. There was offer of payment from Hades, but well..." Osla arced her neck. "I've only once asked a favour of gods, and once was more than enough for one lifetime." She began to stride out of the glade. Despite her height and strident pace, the elf attendant kept up well, graceful strides allowing him to walk at what was at once a languid amble and a swift advance. "I'll leave from where I arrived. Your home is beautiful; I don't want to mar it with Bifrostburn." "Quite so, Orheidr," Simerkr's delicate expression twisted with disgust at the idea of despoiling the paradisacal realm of the light elves with the clumsy tools of the Aesir. In no time at all, they were in a secluded glade. The canopy was so dense here, it was like walking into a Bedlam alley, even the grass did not quite grow here, the ground dry and dusty, the stone of Ljósálfheimr poking through the verdant soil in places. Without breaking stride, she drew and fired a Bifrost arrow, the coalesced shard of the rainbow bridge shattering as a shimmering hole in reality opened up. Before stepping through, Osla turned, looking over the shoulder to give the elf a final nod. "You look radiant, good lady." The Arrowhawk beamed. "Well, if it's just for the one night... well, why not?" She let it linger for a moment, as she turned, and walked unflinchingly into the rainbow paths.
  12. "Why can't we just take them out, aren't we heroes or something? We should do something about it, stop them," Puma looked over to Patriot, looking for some sort of answer that she might give. The direction to go for the phone however surprised her, "The phone, why would we use the phone why can't we..." Before she suddenly found themselves not alone. She had been so distracted that she couldn't tell that they hadn't been alone, holding herself from jumping a bit in surprise as before them a man and a small baby were now present behind them. The young heroine wasn't sure whom they were, but it seemed like Patriot recognized him, seeing her refrain from attack him. Her own eyes kept towards the baby, watching as it waved to her in their cute little cat outfit. Did they think she was just a big giant house cat in their infant mind? Puma didn't seem to mind as thoughts went back to the issue at hand.
  13. Jean returned Ashley’s smile. “Of course, just a work associate being friendly and attempting to make the new arrival feel welcomed.” She chuckled, but didn’t stop her guest as she explained her use of the word ‘stag’. “Fear not, I can keep a professional manner.” Reaching back she picked up the envelope and withdrew the card inside. “I suppose that means I should take the time to make myself presentable. I wouldn’t want to embarrass my kind escort. I’m afraid my armor is hardly considered ‘formal attire’.” Jean chuckled again before she stood and offered her hand to Ashley. “Again, I apologize for not having any iced tea. I’ll endeavor to rectify that before another visitor requests it.” She smiled again and gave the woman a small nod. “I’m sure you’re a busy agent. I look forward to working with you.”
  14. Eira was not naked, contrary to the implications of questions that certain people had asked her about her plans for the Gala. The string bikini she was wearing was a little racy by American standards but Americans were rather prudish about such things in her experience. It wasn’t as if she was going to get cold at the Hades Gala. Or anywhere else, for that matter. The bikini itself was an opaque shade of blue with words written on them in bright gold - CHEEKY. It was a reminder to herself about the right attitude to have alongside Pan and in the company of gods and heroes; and it was a message to anyone who actually saw the string bikini. Most people wouldn’t. What most people would see Eira wearing was a gorgeous blue and white rococo dress, with flowers in a Y-shape down the chest of a darling white-laced blue jacket and curlicue paisley patterns at the floor-length hemline and a festive white feathered hat on top Or maybe they’d see her in a blue that was almost metallic, covered in white lace down the sides and in ruffs at the sleeves, topped with a big blue hat that perfectly matched the colors of the outfit underneath. Or maybe a dress that was more aquamarine than blue, with white-gold lace everywhere and a carnival mask over her eyes, her fingers adorned with glittering jewels. Or maybe any number of increasingly implausible dresses, all of them long and brilliant, gleaming with jewels and lace and color, the sort of thing she could wear now that she wasn’t hiding from herself at Claremont but in full flower of the being she’d always wanted to be. Eira wasn’t actually wearing any of these outfits, of course. A cunning series of implanted holographic projectors (which she’d installed into her latest body with her own two hands) let her adopt whatever style she wanted; and after much debate she had decided to simply wear all the outfits she liked, all of them drawn from the rococo stylings that she personally found the most attractive of any old-fashioned style. Sure the outfits were impractical - but she wasn’t really wearing them, so what was the problem? The outfits switched back and forth on a randomized cycle, saccading quickly enough that only an inhumanly fast eye could see through to what Eira was actually wearing underneath. Eira herself could do this, so could Pan, and anyone else whose vision could penetrate holograms - but if they had that kind of power, let them look. All they would see was what Eira herself had made. (After all, she’d made the bikini too) Oh she knew there was trouble afoot at the gala, a god’s sinister schemes and brave heroes who would defeat it. You didn’t have to be clever to see that, and Eira Katastroff was very clever indeed. If anyone called for Angelic to save the day, or even just cause some trouble to make it happen, she’d be there for them. But she had faith in the heroes of Freedom to save the day. In the meantime, what was wrong with having a little fun?
  15. Summers would have used this as a teaching opportunity, Ashley mused: but those men had what looked like real machine guns and this was a teenager. Superpowered or not. "There's no cell service out this far, but you can use the phone on the wall..." She glanced towards the phone and relaxed fractionally when she realized it wasn't a rotary dial. Thank God, place isn't that old. And then something happened. The two heroes were joined by two more people; well, one man and a baby. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, a short brown goatee on his chin wearing what looked like old, comfortable clothes. Sitting on his lap was a chubby-faced tot in a cat costume, really a black onesie with floppy ears. Naturally the baby reacted eagerly to La Puma Negra, chortling happily and waving pink fists at her. The Patriot almost shot the man in the face before she recognized him. "Oh-" "Ssh!" The man held up his finger and though the Patriot's lips moved, no sound came out. "Don't swear in front of the baby."
  16. Neko wrinkled her nose briefly once she'd pieced together the woman's Japanese. "Yes. I speak English okay." She hesitated, thinking about what she knew about the dead demon in the neighborhood. "I know about him. But I can help. I am not from here. But I can talk to them. My Japanese is very - old and country. I am like a...Japanese hillbilly," she said, remembering the phrase Raina had used.
  17. Earlier
  18. The Immutable Betsy Brooks Some might have missed it because of her bluster, or just her great hair, but she was actually a good detective. And she could see in Neko’s eye’s that there was more going on than what she was saying. But one problem at a time was her motto, at least right at the moment. “Bollocks, to all that you’ve been hanging around with the spandex crowd to much!” She lent against a nearby table, after gently moving one of the kitty mob out of the way. “A good friend of mine, who lived across the way…” she gestured towards the house “.. and I could use the help of someone with your senses…” she put her hand on top of her head miming cat ears “… and can talk to and understand the locals.” <”Speak Japanese badly”> which indeed she did.
  19. Horrorshow Davyd's head turned sharply towards Eira, and he opened his moth as if to speak, but quickly snapped it shut. So she does have some misgivings! Good to see she's not totally caught up in the glittering promises of Talos and Rurland. Good to know. But there's still a lot more to uncover... He cleared his throat, and pivoted to face Kay. "I believe this particular avenue of investigation has reached an end. Were there other institutes or exemplars of Rurland's culture you wished to share with us? Or would now be a good time to meet with other members of Rurland's leading body?" He glanced at Eira, then back to Kay, "I'd like to speak with as many Ministers and other Cabinet members as possible - I feel my reports at this time would best be served by going for breadth rather than depth."
  20. "Excellent," said Ashley, her sunglasses in her hand as she smiled at the fox-woman. "I'm going to wear mostly black with a feline theme to match what used to be my costumed identity; so keep that in mind when you're assembling your own outfit. We don't want to show up wearing the same thing," she added. "Even if it's just us girls going out on the town. I think if anyone asks how we met, we should stick to the truth - I met you through my government work and invited you out to the Hades Gala so that we wouldn't have to go stag. That, uh, means going out to a couples event solo," she added, wondering if the term had a very different meaning in Jean's home dimension. "You won't have to pretend anything more than friendship, since several people who'll be there know I'm with someone."
  21. Neko stared at Betsy with big eyes and ears flat against the top of her head, an expression mirrored by all the watching cats, relaxing a little once she saw the ID. She started to say "I don't know anything about that" when Betsy finished speaking; her usual way of responding to English statements that didn't make no sense, until she finished processing all of her words. "Private investigator. Sam Spade. Maltese Falcon?" she said out loud as she remembered. As the film rattled to a halt, silence fell in the barracks. "What did the film teach you, children?" Miko, ever-ready, raised her hand and earned a nod from the Katana. Neko had hardly been able to process what was happening; so many people together in one place, all of them speaking a foreign language. But she'd managed to puzzle out who Sam Spade was; a lone force of righteousness amid a city wrapped in vice. "Americans are all criminals or liars," said the girl frankly, "and greedy treasure-seekers to boot..." Neko blinked away the memories and added "You are very big and strong. I am just a girl alone." The cats seemed to prove that a lie. "What are you investigating?"
  22. The Immutable Betsy Brooks Betsy had been doing this long enough that she was expecting something like this, but she still felt the need to express her feelings on such thing. “Oh for *** sake!” she moved her hand towards her jacket “It’s okay I don’t plan to go hand to paw with your friends, I had a nasty encounter with a Cat-sìth once.” Showing she carried no weapon, she got out her PI license to show to the young Neko. “I’m a private investigator who deals mostly in preternatural personages… and does everything here have to always be so dramatic?”
  23. "No sé (I don't know). You think they are some sort of robbers or something, they kind of remind me of when a friend and I went to some abandoned place," she spoke, remembering the strange encounter she had with a fellow classmate at school. Just thinking about it made it feel even more strange as she thought back to that evening. For these anachronistic potential criminals, there was no doubt they stood out in the green forest. "So, what do you want to do about the guests," she spoke, still observing from their position.
  24. Chimera The symbiote bristled as Chimera looked around in surprise at the sudden new voice, small spines sprouting in response. Spotting the green and red clad man Chimera looked at him curiously. She was suspicious and glanced around at the others to see if they recognized the man. When the man didn’t seem to be a threat the spines withdrew, smoothing back into the tendrils. She watched as he made his way to the street. When he introduced himself she frowned. She didn’t recognized his name, but she had heard of A.E.G.I.S. before. She didn’t say anything and looked from Ghost to Grimalkin to see if either of them recognized him.
  25. To the best Ashley could tell, Jean’s express was serious as the agent expounded on their ongoing discord with the mythical entity. She nodded as she listened intently, her ears perked forward. Her tail the only thing betraying her calm exterior as it swayed in a more agitated manner. “I… see.” She said slowly. Her attention seeming to shift to a spot somewhere in between them. Her mind was already beginning to contemplate the matter, but her attention snapped back immediately when Ashley continued. “Understandable.” Jean commented as Ashley hesitated briefly, curious how this would involve her. When Ashley fumbled through her invitation, Jean couldn’t help my give the agent a reassuring smile. She leaned back, one arm crossing the other she tapped side of her shirt muzzle thoughtfully. She didn’t say anything for a moment as she weighed the options before her. Her eyes searched Ashley’s in that moment, as if gauging the agent. When she finally spoke, her tone was even and matter-of-fact. “Using me as a distraction while you assess the motives and actions of the event’s host unobstructed.” She watched Ashley for a moment, then a smile spread across her muzzle and she gave a quick nod. “A tactic I can approve of. I would be honored to assist you mission.” She chuckled and added with a small grin. ”And if necessary, reassure your partner that it was strictly work related.”
  26. The men down below appeared to be in the middle of an argument, some shouting, some waving their fists, and one with glasses peering at a paper roadmap. Pressed up against the wall behind Puma, the Patriot was peering down too, and her breath caught audibly as the map with the map opened the trunk of the old car to reveal full cloth sacks with dollar signs on them. Ashley muttered a rude remark under her breath and checked something at her wrist before murmuring softly, "It's still 2022."
  27. That will work! Okay, posting now
  28. The argument between the girls (if you could still call them that) wasn't quite finished; the air almost visibly crackling with the stress of their angry regard for each other. Then, as on an unspoken signal, they broke it off together and looked at Davyd. "Is that so different from your own society?" parried Kay after a time. "There are always limitations on resources; those who have more and those who have less. The difference here is that all have the same chance to gain them. And as we grow, so too will our resources. A fully synthetic society will not have the limitations we have today." Still fuming, Eira had moved away, standing near the edge of the studio. "Is that your intent? Global domination?" "If we can uplift all the world, and the world wants to be uplifted, why not?" asked Kay. "That is no more domination than the spread of democracy means British domination, or Wal-Mart American. Besides, Eira, can you tell me you don't think the world would be better off it were more synthetic?" "We are not visiting my place, yes?" parried Eira in return. "I am not the one who sided with Talos."
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