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[RedLeftHand36]

Location: Kansas City, Missouri; The Highland Compound

30 Minutes until the annual concord meeting begins...

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March 3rd, 2003, approximately 2:30pm. Partly cloudy, with a pleasant breeze and an amicable temperature of 72f [22c].


In light of recent events, an emergency summit meeting has been engaged by the CIA. Heroes, villains, and CIA operatives alike have started dropping off the face of the earth like flies, left and right, and the Cleaners aren’t behind it this time. The past six months have bore witness to more than 20 disappearances of high profile Persons of Interest, and well over 80 low profile ones. Not to mention all the stolen tech, just as well. The forces of the CIA, the Golden Hand, and MANTICORE have decided to convene immediately, bringing with them their affiliates, representatives, and trainee-program members, not only for the usual responsibilities, but to keep them safe from whatever external threat there may be, and perhaps to dig out what internal threat may just as well exist. Of course, some members can’t help but suspect a traitor or two in their midst, as these events have sparked some amount of tension between all three syndicates.

The Highland Compound in Kansas City, overlooking the Missouri river, is sacred grounds to all three syndicates, and a place of both neutrality and reverence. Any act against another syndicate is met with immediate termination at best, and immediate termination at worst, depending on the severity of the act. Certain methods of peacekeeping are used here, and they are most certainly appropriate for such intense company. A myriad of vehicles of a great many sorts had arrived, from sportscars to aerial vehicles to even horses donning metal armour. A double-door, opened wide like welcome arms or an open maw, offered a sampling of the din inside.

The summit itself takes place within the Highland Castle, formerly the home of Angus MacDonnell, aka the Highlander, one of the original founding members of the Golden Hand, who peacefully passed in his sleep five years prior. The sprawling structure houses the Grand Hall in which the meeting is about to take place. With some semblance to a dinner party, various syndicate members have taken upon themselves to offer comfort to the meetings attendees during such strenuous times, for the sake of their affiliates, particularly the greener ones. The great hall appears not unlike the court of a king, with suits of armor, tapestries, and oil paintings lining the walls, with pillars and staircases to higher floors abound, and polished stone-tile flooring etched with intricate designs. Various oval-shaped tables, capable of sitting up to five people each, and made of dark wood, dot the area, sandwiched between two long tables filled with various foods and drinks, and overlooking it all, a crescent shaped table, clearly where the important people were going to sit and speak.The room was rather dimly lit, as it seemed that the ever mediaeval theme even extended to the lighting, as torches adorned the walls and a candle-lit chandelier loomed overhead. The room bustled with the life of a great variety of sorts, both heroes, villains, and CIA agents. Though the time for talk was yet to come, the tension was almost solid. Like pea soup. Well, more accurately like those halloween smoke-machines when they’ve been pumping that god-awful fog for hours. Maybe less solid and more of a vapour. Something like that at least.

At the crescent table sat nine chairs, three for three from each syndicate. From the CIA, sitting in the centre, Sergeant Major Henry Carson, chewing on his cigarette and glaring at the entire room and his forehead vein visibly palpitating. Alongside him, Master Sergeant Warren M. Piecz, scratching the underside of his nose as his eyes shifted rapidly all around, and, of course, Mr. Woodstock with a massive couple of stacks of papers and files. On the leftmost side sat Nyx, in her exquisitely shiny black dress, looking into a small, round mirror as she intensely focused on a single eyelash, as well as Coldheart, simply waiting in an anxious manner as her right leg bounced subtly up and down rapidly. The chair between her and Piecz was empty, as the man who would sit there was apparently engaged in a cheerful conversation near the food array. On the rightmost side of the crescent table sat Godspeed, mildly scowling across the room at his affiliate being so casual during such a time. Every once in a while he could feel Piecz glaring at him for a reason unbeknownst to him, though it was John’s blue suit and pink tie that irked the Master Sergeant, due to how ugly it seemed to the vet. On Godspeed’s left sat Cypher similarly waiting patiently for things to begin, much like Ares on the opposite end of the table. And to Cypher’s own left, between he and Mr. Woodstock, another empty chair.

The two empty chairs belonged to Apollyon and Justice, whose two massive frames stood apart from each other close to where their true interests lay. Truly, good food was the great uniter. Although their words could not quite be heard over the low-volume commotion of fraternising guests, both appeared to be in relatively good spirits in each other’s company. One might think they were looking forward to the evening, considering how both dressed so similarly in their intricately patterned formal suits, and such outfits even complimenting each-other, with Apollyon donned in black accented with silver, Justice adorned in white and gold. The room was filled with the mingling of rivals and partners, such as Hecate occasionally pestering her sister to help her with her own make-up, or Father Six Eyes and Willow sitting in the darkest corner of the room with several other guests of apparent magical nature. Adriano the Raven was busy talking business with a few other villainous bureaucrats, Sergei Rasputin and Vladimir Medvedev were swapping their most recent adventures, being such long-time friends. Coldheart spoke with intense sternness at Toymaker for some amount of time before going off to make sure the trainees were doing well.

These were the big leagues…

 

[Maverick Six]

The Highland Compound​

---

How long had it been, really? He'd forgotten at what age he'd watch those cartoons as a kid. Decades at least. The memory of a scrawny boy eating breakfast cereal as he watched his saturday morning cartoon felt like he was watching someone else through a TV screen. Maybe a bad sitcom. A part of him wondered how his younger self might think of the man here.

The Big Leagues huh?

Driving a Black Ford Mustang with silver stripes down the middle, Russel made his way towarsd the compound, flashing his card and invitation...then made his way in. Didn't take too long for him to find parking, however, he took his time on getting out. The so called "Psycho Soldier" wasn't sure if he was on edge due the amount of villains present or because of how many of his childhood heroes he was going to see in the flesh. And without any the romance that had come with it. Up until this point, he'd been dealing with low to mid rank nobodies. But this was different. Wasn't this what he wanted? Yet one phrase seemed to go through his mind.

"Never meet your heroes"

He opened the car door -- with a face fit for poker. And he gazed upon his new target: The Mansion.

The doors swung open and those who did so pay attention would be met with a man well suited to blend into a crowd that wasn't this one. The colorful, costumed and suave assortment inside would be witness to a veritable "man in black". Russel wore a black suit, a red tie and a white shirt underneath. He'd a pair of polished dress shoes commandeered from his dress uniform -- a piece fit for any formal event. The suit was woven with Kevlar and he'd a lightweight set of body armor underneath the shirt. It was a bit hot and uncomfortable. But shit he could hit the fan even here. He was strapped too with an FN Five Seven hidden at the waist and ready to be a drawn at a moment's notice.

As he made his way to the mansion -- eventually he found the "Great Hall" which he surmised was the place where almost everything was happening. Big fancy room with medieval stuff everywhere, a big table in the center and a bunch of little tables. Presumably, the little tables being for people like him. But he didn't want to sit down. Not just yet.

First thing he did was find a place he could call "home." Home was finding his own faction. Carson. Piecz. Mr. Woodstock. All familiar faces even if he didn't know them too personally, he checked in just to make sure. "Evening Sargeant Major. Corporal Vargas checking in." He said, hoping he wasn't at risk of making the man's noticeable vein explode. He noticed the likes of Cypher and Godspeed near by, and while he stared for perhaps a bit too long, he'd say nothing. And he would only leave to go back to the go back into the crowd.

Though his face didn't quite allude to how felt, Russel found it most interesting to walk around and get a feel of the crowd. He felt tensions so thick you could cut it with a knife. Yet there were people mingling and enjoying one another's company. Admittedly, it was interesting to see people from this many walks of life getting together. Part of him wondered what a lot of villains were like when they weren't being shot at or being slammed face first into the ground. And he'd wondered what the non-renegade heroes were like well....in general.

Russel himself probably didn't stick out from the crowd. A Caucasian man coming up on middle aged with slicked back hair and a clean shave. A bullet scar riding along the side of his face. Anyone who eye'd him was unlikely to have much doubt on who he was apart of. And indeed -- when a bit of time had passed and he'd been quiet for a bit too long, his eyes scanned the crowd for someone in the CIA. Someone familiar, even if he didn't know them. He wasn't one to hang out with the upper echelons of the CIA and looked for someone or some people around a similar level.

That said, the man didn't seem apprehensive or averse to anyone approaching him. Indeed, when he surveyed everyone, there wasn't a single speck of ire detected. Even when he gazed upon the villains. He'd probably recognize most heroes who've appeared in at least scant interviews, even if they didn't hit the big time with every bank robbery thwarted.

Indeed, just about anyone here would be worth talking to for one reason or another.

 

[ThreeFive]

A big ol’ manor, everyone dressed in their finest, and a thick shroud of anxiety and unease covering the whole thing to boot — this all seemed like a recipe for a very boring or annoying way to spend an afternoon. But still, Vic showed up as instructed.

Not usually one for fancy dress, Vic thought he was looking quite sharp in his black suit, black shirt, and bright orange-and-teal tie dotted with images of sliced oranges. Black really was his color and he enjoyed expressing himself with splashes of loud color. While at first he thought it was weird, he did slowly start to embrace the citrus fruit motif which seemed to encapsulate the powers bestowed upon him by his Princess of Love and Might benefactor.

The added bonus of wearing mostly black, especially at this event, was that it caused people to question his alignment. Most of MANTICORE were dressed in all black, not members of the Golden Hand. Call it his chaotic neutral nature, but he enjoyed causing confusion. He was quite good at it.

Though the meeting itself seemed like it would be a drag, the benefit of it was definitely the food. Superheroes and super villains seemed to have super appetites, and the hosts were most generous to provide a veritable banquet to sate them. Neatly lined up on two large tables on either side of the room was quite the spread: an army of tiny crackers with various salads of unknown kinds on top of them, a kiddie-pool-sized bowl of punch, every kind of cookie one could want, and mountains of eclairs -- or were they ladyfingers? Vic always seemed to get them mixed up. Not that it mattered. Desserts were desserts and he definitely was going to get his fill this day.

The allure of delicious finger food was so strong that even the presence of Justice and Apollyon did not deter Vic from moseying up to the food table and grabbing a plate. Starting at the end of the table furthest from them, he could hear the two conversing, but wasn't paying much attention to what was being said. He had to admit it was a bit odd seeing the to heads of the morally disparate factions speaking with each other quite cheerfully. It kind of gave one a glimmer of hope for the future. It felt like maybe someday there would be no "good” and no "evil,” and no fight between them. It could just be people being people.

Indeed, the fact that the room was filled to bursting with heroes and villains and everyone in between who were all getting along seemingly peacefully was a bit surreal. If such powerful forces, usually strictly at odds with one another in the proverbial struggle of "good vs evil", could come together peacefully for meetings like this, why couldn't they adopt such an attitude all the time? That answer was probably above Vic's pay grade. Politics are weird, anyway.

There weren’t too many other people nearby the food table. Obviously everyone wanted to give the two giants of the two organizations a wide berth, either out of fear, reverence, or just due to being star struck. But how often is it one gets to rub elbows with the elite? Even if one was a superhero oneself, the bigger names were usually busy with saving or destroying things, kissing babies, or participating in other PR duties to really interact with the smaller fish. This was a chance of a lifetime, and all he had to do was seem to be walking the table in search for the desserts.

He sidled over to be in a close enough proximity for them to easily take notice of him, all the while having the excuse of just wanting desserts as a backup plan. Vic was fairly tall in his male form, but was still dwarfed by the two behemoths who stood on either side of the table. He wondered if either of them would know him. Probably not, but that was part of the fun.

“Hey,” he began, smiling into the faces of the two supers and trying to act casual, "what a nice buffet, don’t you think?”

 

[zlexis]

Interactions: Maverick Six

March 3rd, 2003, 2:23 pm​

The black van, with tinted windows and a sleek exterior, barreled down I-70, weaving through traffic with trained expertise. However, the driver was inconsequential. Inside, sitting in the back passenger seat, oblivious to the passing scenery, was Camilla Cream. Her fingers moved swiftly across the number pad of her newest pride and joy: the Nodia 7805. With a sliding keyboard, built-in camera, and colored screen, it was truly a marvel of technology. Sure, it technically belonged to the CIA, and sure, it was probably wiretapped to the extreme, but she loved it nonetheless. With a buzz, the screen lit up, notifying her of an incoming message. She knew who it was without having to check, considering she only had one contact. With a smile, she checked to see what her roommate, David, had sent her.

Who are you going to be
tonight?​

oh, you know. someone
really ugly. wont attract any
attention ; ) lol

Oh?​

yeah one sec

She exited her messages and navigated to the camera. As it opened, reflecting a grainy image of a Caucasian man with a square face and crew cut, she lifted it above her head, pursed her lips, threw up a peace sign, and took the photo. However, she decided to keep that specific image for her own benefit and potential blackmail as she took another serious photo. With a mischievous smile, she returned to the messaging app and attached the image to her following message.

Spoiler: Download: 312 KB

see? rofl

WTF
You asdhole!
*asshole
How is going as me supposed
to be undercover?​

because you have the
plainest face of any of us.
better some random white
guy, than rainbow chick,
right?

Sure, whatever. Lollipop.​

She snickered and snapped the phone shut with a satisfying clack, returning the device to its respective pocket. The car was moving to a slow stop, and she pressed her face and hands against the glass to take in the view of the Highland Castle in all its old-fashioned glory. As someone more accustomed to off-white walls and artificial lighting, the building impressed the shapeshifter, though she couldn't care less about its rich history.

Camilla, the young man, thanked the driver and stepped out of the car, admiring its sleek, ebony exterior and chrome-tanned leather seats one last time. The attire for this summit would be a tailor-made black blazer with a white dress shirt, slim black slacks, and black dress shoes. As she examined the clothes further, she furrowed her brows. Should she have worn a tie? Perhaps. If anyone were watching, it would appear that the man combed his hand through his hair, checked left, checked right, then pulled his blazer close together like a hug. When he returned it to normal, where there was once a loose, unbuttoned collar now displayed a little black bowtie. Perfect. She smirked and strode confidently toward the mansion, flashing the invitation without much fanfare.

So, there it was. The CIA, MANTICORE, and the Golden Hand all convened in one place. Although she wasn't stoked about the circumstances, being close to the big leagues was a reason for excitement. She tried not to goggle at the medieval decor as she made her way toward the Great Hall–especially the suits of armor. Frankly, she hasn’t been one of those yet, and the idea of prancing around as an empty, clanking suit would surely spook some no-nonsense people. She let out a small chuckle, patting each suit of armor on the cheek as she walked by.

Once in the Grand Hall, the food table did not escape her notice and, in fact, took up so much of her attention that she failed to recognize both Justice and Apollyon standing adjacent. She eagerly swiped a cream-colored pastry, took a large bite, and then nearly choked when she noticed their two massive frames. If anyone could see through her guise, it would surely be one of those two, though it seemed they were locked in conversation. Feeling a sense of urgency, she slowly started to back away, and then booked it once a wiry man with a vibrant tie engaged the supers. She mentally thanked him for the distraction and disappeared into the crowd with the pastry locked between her teeth.

The tension in the room did not sway the shapeshifter as she strode through the crowd with bubbly enthusiasm. Thinking that she should probably check in with the Master Sergeant, the only other person in the room who would be aware of her identity, she began to make her way toward the crescent-shaped table. However, her path was abruptly blocked by a man dressed in formal attire, instantly recognizable as a member of the Agency. She glanced over his rugged physique, haunted eyes, and tousled hair. If she squinted through the dim lighting, he looked almost handsome, in a rough, dragged-through-the-wringer way. They were nearly the same height in this form, although David's lean body was all angles and sticks rather than having any well-developed musculature.

“Well, one of us has to change,” she remarked, gesturing to their similar get-up. Her masculine voice was low and euphonic, with a slight tease in her tone. Then, she stuck out her hand (that simultaneously isn't her hand) and shot a cheerful smile. "Name's David. David Shannon. Red Tails trainee. Just here to observe and learn.”

 

[Goonfire]

A limousine appeared in the distance. As it drew closer, its proportions were noticeably off--as in, this was much larger than the standard limo. The hulking vehicle had to have been built on a truck chassis. There was only one other car like it; it was a Beast, a presidential limo-tank. An insignia came into view: a white skull with stylish red cursive letters "DM ". It veered off the road and onto the castle driveway, slowing to a creep behind others who required valet assistance.

Once the passenger door was lined up with the front entrance, it opened and two young women in a mix of black tacticool gear and red ballet clothes stepped out. Clearly, these girls were armed, with submachine guns strapped to their thighs. They silently curtsied to the security in front, then turned to repeat the gesture for their mistress, as she exited the vehicle.

The high-caliber villainess strutted rhythmically up the walkway, the clicking of her designer stiletto heels keeping the beat. Though her red-lensed ballet mask obscured her eyes, her lips were pursed in a grim expression. "Dangeresque, present," she introduced herself with a thick French accent while lifting the silhouette of her chic black cocktail dress slightly for her own curtsy. Behind her, the minions loaded themselves back into the Beast and pulled ahead to park it properly.

The recent disappearances of her old colleagues weighed heavily on Dangeresque's mind. It begged the question, "who is next?" Of course, some people were undesirable enough to never be kidnapped. Case in point: Medvedev. Better known as The Hammer, Dangeresque's archenemy was safe and in attendance. She sashayed over and placed her hands on her hips. "Ah, zere you are. Whatever would I do if our own little Guerre Froide wasn't still ongoing?" she stated, her words laced with a venom that may actually bring an ounce of comfort, given their long-lived rivalry that became part of each other's norm. That much hadn't been disturbed... not yet, at least.

RedLeftHand36

 

[RedLeftHand36]

25 Minutes until the annual concord meeting begins...

Rule #1 about the CIA: Everything's weird. Once upon a time, a monkey beat the brains out of a fish, and now some guy chewing on a cigarette was steering the wheel of life. Warren M. Piecz was a man built like a circus performer, albeit with the skin texture of a dead tree. But among the the masters of magic and mountanous super soldiers, sentient robots and forces of nature, among the most dangerous was a man who once killed a silverback gorilla with a dirty sock. And when his folks came close enough, so came the grenade.

"Vargus, you Metal Gear ripoff!"

The gruff voice of an alcoholic chain-smoker with a penchant for huffing propane and propane accesories came fast and came loud, not unlike a maternal figure. The Master Sergeant's wiry build offered the image of a vast multitude of twitching muscles with how stringy and lean the man was, all the more emphasized as he ground one end of his cagarette between his frontal molars. Not unlike the vast majority of his existence, Piecz was high strung and unamused for reasons the rest of his spiel would clarify with utmost bluntness.

"You're late," he continued loudly, knowing full well that everyone in the room was perfectly on schedule, if not relatively early. "Been smushed between all these frrreaks for far too long already."

The emphasis on 'freaks' appeared by be accompanied by a most blatant glance to his side, staring at the ink-hued Nyx, who in turn gave her own 'what are you looking at' glare.

"Yeah, I'm talking about you, ya living printer malfunction!" He said, energetically shaking a veiny fist. "And yer ilk!"

Piecz turned back to Russel with a discontented sigh as Nyx brushed the situation of with a scoff and an eyeroll. The Master Sergeant took a good long drag of his smoke as he surveyed the room.

"Listen, Scruff," He continued, slapping a nickname on the younger man. "Between you and me, I bet whoever the fuck is tickling our balls while picking our pocket is gonna be here today. I dunno who, and frankly I don't care, just keep your eyes peeled for whatever hooky bullshit's gonna go down, ya read?"

So ended his spiel as another agent came up behind Russel, and soon enough, they would be subjected to a fairly similar speech. Obviously, Piecz wasn't fooled, citing the excuse 'the nose knows' and tapping on the protuberance on his face that had been broken a few too many times for such a statement to be reliable. And of course, he knew who it was, dubbing Camilla as Crayola, or possibly, simply, genuinely forgetting what her name actually was.

Elsewhere, across the room...

When concerning the phrase 'all's fair in love and war', the idea food and festivity has long been utilized as a declaration of peace, even momentary ones. From the Christmas Truce of the First World War during Christmas, 1914, to a supposed legendary origin of the Manchu-Han Imperial Feast during the time of the Qing Dynasty; Today was no different, as exemplified by the supposed adversaries of Justice and Apollyon. Undoubtedly, both has quite the appetites, as Justice reigned supreme over the desserts, and Apollyon conquered the artisinal meats. Any villain of extraverted nature wouldn't be overly surprised. Apollyon was often a relatively intimidating man with a penchant for almost shakespearian displays of power and violence. And he was that stoic warlord, most certainly. But he was also the man who hosted the greatest barbecues in any of the factions, cheerfully ingratiating himself with any fellow villain, big or small, or even hench folk. Justice, on the other hand, despite being in her mid thirties at this point, was often seen as that same naive and overly kind girl her predecessor raised all those years ago, and there had been a history of those who questioned if placing the mantle of Justice upon her was the right choice.

But she was every bit the fighter that her rival was.

These two sizable individuals were excellent indicators of the ‘big leagues’ in a myriad of ways, and as such, there were plenty of folks who had their turns attempting to socialise with them, and though relatively kind individuals by nature, food often seemed a more appealing subject for them both. Plenty of no-names head to their doghouses after being shown up by an apple fritter. Still, they would give the opportunity. And so, when the gawky looking fella with the colourful tie came up, and went straight to asking their opinion on the buffet, what else was needed?


“‘Sh pr’tty goo’,” was the energetic response of Justice, cheeks like a squirrel, looking around as if constantly making sure no one else would be after her treasured donuts. Her wild hair waved around in a non-existent breeze as she turned her head repeatedly, and eyes that could only be likened to a dog conveyed well enough that her intent was simply to hope that no one else would want any, yet would ultimately buckle under any request to have some.

“Undoubtedly outstanding!” came the proverbial flip side of the coin. As expected of the thematic opposite of Justice, Apollyon stood like a king surveying his kingdom, indulging as a king would, and as indifferent to the possible wants and opinions of others just as well, grinning greedily, and dining gluttonously. Yet still, he would prove that his greed was not so self-contained…

“I highly recommend the wagyu strip-fillets,” he said in a voice like the sound of thunder, tinged with a Welsh accent. “Though perhaps that’s because I was the one who demanded them. Not liking meat is fine, but good food should be eaten, after all.”

Elsewhere still…

The festivities of the concord meeting saw its fair share of veritable titans, larger than life in every manner of the phrase. Among them, of course, was Vladimir Medvedev. Once a sort of rival to the Golden Hand, when the Cold War reached room temperature in the early 90s, he made room for himself amongst their ranks, but proved himself a worthy ally time and time again. When the super soldier was confronted by one of MANTICORE’s very own Heads of Typhon, however, he proved to be no less cheery than always. The long-haired man with him known as Sergei Rasputin, however, did not seem quite as pleased, though he kept quiet throughout the encounter.

“Dangeresque you Frankish viper,” the Hammer exclaimed with a haughty yet playful zeal, with exceptional rolling of his Rs. “I would check to see if my wine was poisoned, but these affairs… so dull, da? Could use a little poison in my cup.”

Vladimir inhaled sharply as his thoughts drifted to more exciting things. He looked over his shoulder across the room at the meeting of arcane beings and mystics. And then at Dangeresque, then at Sergei, the two exchanged a rapidfire conversation in Russian before Sergei left to join the spooks, and then Vladimir looked at Dangeresque once more. He spoke again, he spoke much quieter than before, and with a much more serious tone.

“Has Sergei told you yet?” He inquired, though he did not wait for a response. “The magi have felt a disturbance in the natural order. They think it is to do with the disappearances and such among our peoples. He says everybody is acting very strangely amongst them. Have you noticed it?”

A good question. Among the Heads of Typhon, and frankly throughout a fair portion of MANTICORE, those with ties to the world of magic and mysticism were quite numerous. However, such people had a tendency to keep things amongst themselves, rarely divulging information of the arcane kind. Among the Head of Typhon, the foremost of magic among them was Father Six Eyes, who was, assumedly, the oldest being on the council. Nyx and Hecate were knowledgeable, prodigies even, but their experience could never compare to the goat-headed man. However, he was also the most secretive of any Head. Nyx and Hecate did not seem to be any different than usual, but perhaps they had not yet been let in on the going ons of the more senior magicians. Or perhaps they simply were acting no different than usual. If nothing else, a Head of Typhon would know that the next best thing would be to contact the retired, former Head of Typhon… Solomon. The man was a necromancer by trade after all, and as his mentor, surely Apollyon would still be in contact with him, right? One would only know by action.

Amidst the many bodies and faces attending the event, something stirred like an ill wind….

 

[Maverick Six]

The Highland Compound, Grand Hall​

---

RedLeftHand36 zlexis

It didn't take long for someone to Cross in Vargas' path. And judging by the lack of fancy attire -- the person seemed actually somewhat normal. And seeming normal meant that you'd possibly be a candidate for the CIA. Russel took a brief look back and he saw that the man seemed to be enroute to meet with Piecz. At the very least, he could pick that up. Combine that with the fact that the man had very similar attire befitting something of a secret agent. And remarked as such.

Vargas smiled, taking his time to think of something to say. Stuff like this didn't come naturally. But he liked to think he'd been around goofy enough people to come up with decent replies. "I dunno about that. You been spying on me?" He asked only half-jokingly -- extending his hand out to meet the mysterious stranger. "Russel Vargas." He said, beginning to assess the man more closely as he revealed more of himself. A new trainee. Russel smiled warmly.

"New guy and willing to learn. That's what I like to hear. Nice to meet you, David." He said. Given the nature of their job, he was pretty sure they always needed new guys. Though one thing stuck out to him. "Definitely chose a hell of a place to learn. I'd be ready to do more than just observe." Indeed, these were the big leagues after all. Must be a good trainee. There was something in the voice that seemed almost playful.

Must be a sweet talker.

Suddenly, a loud voice cut through the air. Admittedly, Russel immediately and very visibly jolted in place, the hair on his neck standing in end. You'd think someone would have opened a door to be greeted by an IED and blown across the room. Or that an energy blast had just barely whizzed by him and reduced the guy next to him into a pile of ash. However, that was not what was happening. Instinctively, Russel suppressed the very real urge to dive behind a table, flip it over and whip out his sidearm. Instead -- he halted what his entire body was trained to do. His tensed muscles stopped from beginning any part of this sequence. And instead he turned around to greet the one who'd greeted him. This had only occurred over the course of perhaps a second and yet it felt like an eternity. Luckily, his head was enough in this world for him to have heard the shit talking.

The source of the gruff voice was one he'd instinctively known. Piecz had come to greet Russel and the new guy personally and loudly. Yet when Russel came to his senses, the familiar sound of shit talk and berating reminded him felt oddly "at home." As though Russel in truth, could hardly imagine being somewhere else besides the CIA himself. He smiled genuinely in reply, relieved by the smell of cigarettes, the alcohol on his breath and the sight of a clean shave.

He looked at his watch and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. Oddly enough, he smiled -- amused. "My mistake, sir." Was all he said. On time was late.

Admittedly, Russel chuckled as the man went on a verbal tirade, complaining about the array of capes and crooks who'd assembled all about them at the event. His laugh only got a little bit louder as he watched Nyx roll her eyes in reply. Yet there was a grain of truth to it. Like he was telling scruff, things tended to get very strange very quickly.

"At least I got here before things got too weird, sir."

Honestly, if something simply "blew up" they'd probably be lucky. The capes and crooks were a lot like everyone else. But when things went down -- it wasn't all that often that it would be a simple bar fight. And in the case of this, something could be happening, and people would be none the wiser. Arguably, that was worse in Russel's eyes. Like having a garrote wrapped around your neck in your sleep.

Still -- the job was the furthest thing from boring. Russel's eyes remained peeled, and ears stayed open. Meanwhile however, he wanted to know who he was working with. Russel had a good enough feel for a lot of his teammates. But this one while chipper and happy-go-lucky, was the most mysterious. "So Scruff -- " He said, taking to the moniker he'd. "Where you from? And why'd you join the CIA?" He asked. A pretty simple set of standard and easy to ask questions that sometimes led to interesting answers.

All the while, his eyes washed over the whole scene with his peripherals, his eye contact with the person he was speaking to scant. From the buffet to what appeared to be a few recognizable faces from MANTICORE to the circle of mystics who'd assembled. He couldn't possibly see or process everything. But he wanted to keep enough in mind to know what "bad" looked like. Part of him considered astral projecting around the room to see if he could pick anything up if ever there was a quiet moment.

If he wasn't so sure if certain people in the crowd with the technical and/or arcane knowhow weren't going to pick him up in a heartbeat.

 

[ThreeFive]

The edges of Vic's wide mouth pulled into a grin after not one, but two of the most powerful heroes/villains in the room answered him personally. Hell, he even got a food recommendation from MANTICORE's head honcho himself. What a day this was turning out to be.

"Hey, thanks! I'll be sure to try some," He made sure to be in full view as he piled a few of the wagyu strip-fillets onto his plate. Seeing how Justice seemed to lay claim to the pile of doughnuts nearby, those were now off the menu. Getting attention from heroes was one thing, but having the living daylights beat out of you because you took the last doughnut was another.

"So, do you have any ideas about what is going on?" It never hurts to ask questions, right? Maybe he'd get some inside information, and hopefully not a punch in the nose.

Meanwhile, in another plane of reality, a small teal winged cat was generating enough anger to make any being who was even remotely aware of auras take notice. Talking directly with the biggest bad of the biggest baddies?! What the hell does he think he is doing!?

When embodying ☆Princess Citrus Marine Angel Kumquat Star☆, Vic is able to converse freely with the winged cat who was the original cause of his new life as a superhero. The cat adamantly insists that he is a powerful being tasked with the divine purpose of protecting and advising those who channel his Princess of Love and Might mistress. Despite his illustrious background and appointment, he also insists with equal fervor that his name is simply Charmy.

Charmy can communicate with Vic when the latter is in his default form, but not directly. Communication is reduced to sending subconscious feelings and indirect messages via objects in the environment; However, these generally don't make it through to the man, leading to much berating when Vic finally decides to flip the coin and talk to Charmy face-to-face.

In the current situation, Charmy could sense that something seemed very wrong, though in all honesty he himself did not know what exactly. He blamed it on being trapped in another plane of existence and on the interference from the scads of arcane and mystical beings in the room, but he really could not put his paw on what was going on, just that it was off somehow.

Aside from the loud ravings of a man who looked like he drank far too much coffee than was healthy, Charmy did not really see anything concerning. Well, ok, the creepy goat-headed man seated in a dark corner was quite concerning, but he figured the man was invited just like everyone else....probably. The square-faced man with his hair in a neat crew cut had a strange energy about him, too. There was a sort of playfulness about him that did not seem to match his unassuming appearance. Maybe that was part of his scheme, or maybe he was just having as much fun seeing all the bigwigs gathered in one place as Vic was.

Charmy desperately wanted to get a word in with Vic to inform him of his concerns and to tell him in no uncertain terms to stop behaving so stupidly. However, that would be quite the large task indeed, as the man was currently star-struck and distracted by the buffet food. Sadly, alphabet soup was not on the buffet menu, so Charmy couldn't move the noodles around to spell out a brief message. Despite expending a lot of his energy to manipulate objects across realities, that was one of his favorite tricks and it generally caught Vic's attention. Writing a message in the crab dip momentarily crossed Charmy's mind, but then his paws would smell distractingly fishy for the rest of the day. Besides, he didn't want to arouse any fear from the denizens of the room, who were already mostly on edge. Anything he did had to be subtle, yet obvious enough for his oblivious ward to take notice of.

Vibrating the magical coin was the best he could do. Sure enough, Vic took hold of the coin that was attached to a gold chain around his neck, but did not seem interested in breaking up his conversation with Apollyon. He was simply fiddling with it as he spoke. Wow, way to go letting everyone in the room see the only thing that gives you superpowers.

As much as he wanted to talk to Vic directly, Charmy realized that there was no great way to do so presently. The last thing that was needed was to have Vic's transformation to "battle mode" scare anyone into thinking he knew more about what was going on than he really did. That could cause chaos. Magical girl transformations, after all, are definitely less than subtle, what with the sparkles, twinkling bell melodies, and rainbow lights that accompanied them. He simply had to wait to see how things played out.

 

[zlexis]

Interactions: Maverick Six RedLeftHand36

So begins the web of lies...
​

Camilla gave a show of offense, with an exaggerated gasp and a clutch of invisible pearls, as she exclaimed, "Spy? You wound me." The shapeshifter had a flair for the dramatics, a trait that seeped into every persona she took on. It was often difficult to tell if she was being sincere or not, and sometimes, she could barely tell herself. With that, she reached out and eagerly grasped his hand between both of her palms as if meeting a hero. "No way! The Psycho Soldier? This must be my lucky day."

Before she could bombard the man with what would likely be very personal questions, she noticed, with narrowed eyes, the Master Sergeant approaching them from behind, who seemed wound up and ready to snap under pressure. If Vargus was late, then she might as well have missed the event. She let out a small chuckle when he went on his tirade with colorful nicknames bestowed upon the soldier and Nyx, who brushed off his remarks easily. She studied the features of the said woman and promptly decided she’d kill for the fitted black dress that accentuated her features quite nicely. Or she could just shapeshift into her later, she supposed. Oh, wouldn’t Piecz just love that?

She turned to address the older man with bubbly enthusiasm. "Master Sergeant, I would like to thank you again for this opportunity. Don't you worry; I won’t disappoint." She flashed him a knowing smile, showcasing David's obnoxiously pearly-white teeth, but failed to understand Piecz's nose gesture. Instead, she thought he had a couple of loose screws, more than he already had.

She turned back to Russel as he asked about her origins. Oh shit… Panic set in. Where did David say he was from? It’s not like she gained the memories of who she shifted into.

"Boston," she blurted out, hoping it was at least in the ballpark based on his accent. As for lying about the rest, sometimes it's best to stick as close to the truth as possible. She stuck her hands in her pockets and scanned the room. "And let's just say that I have a unique set of skills that were sought after. With my passion for maintaining peace, the CIA was a perfect fit." Not necessarily a lie, but not necessarily the truth either. The only peace she cared about maintaining was her own, and working for the CIA in exchange for its protection was a small price in comparison.

As she looked back at him, he seemed to be barely paying attention, with eyes fluttering around the room. Cautious, prepared. She sidled up closer to him and lowered her voice to a whisper with a shit-eating grin.

“Say, is it true you’re a ghost possessing a soldier’s body?”