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Post by mcr on Mar 1, 2021 0:43:50 GMT -5
-- Elsewhere -- ============================================================= -- Meanwhile -- An unassuming man in a non-descript suit approaches Azazel at a previously arranged location, greeting him briefly in Russian: " Privetsiya, tovarishch. He looks around, switching to heavily accented and broken English just in case they are overheard: "We had heard you were back in game. Glad to see rumors are true." Covertly fishing a dossier out of a pouch, he explains: "Operation Paperclip: Secret American military program housing thousands of Nazi scientists in U.S. under new identities and employing them to develop and improve American technology and infrastructure for inevitable conflict with us, da? There is one in particular of interest to us, but we believe he change his appearance as well as name. During Great Patriotic War, Nazi suka is working on device which is shielding mind from psychic detection. Is very dangerous for Americans to have and not us too, da?" Awaiting a reaction from Azazel, he points to a photo:  "For obvious reasons, we do not wish to provoke open conflict with Americans. But this man? He was prisoner in camps. He has been hunting Nazis on his own. Very easy to pin blame." Closing the file, he passes it discretely on to Azazel: "He has meeting with your new blonde friend. See what he knows. Maybe he is solving problem for us? Dla rodina?" ===================================================================== -- Sometime Later -- Erik Lensherr paces nervously, his sleeves rolled up his arms, working up a bit of perspiration. He notices Kate Pryde out of the corner of his eye. The small star of David hanging around her neck gently moves on its own as he approaches her. "Hello, miss. I couldn't help but notice...?" He reaches out to finger the jewelry carefully, tracing its shape. An old tattoo on his arm displays a string of numbers that he seems to now wear as a badge of honor, taking no effort to hide it. "That is quite a lovely piece." He gives her a warm smile. |
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Post by OurLadyWar on Mar 1, 2021 9:41:04 GMT -5
Elsewhere, Elizabeth had put the kettle on in her flat while outside the morning fog burned away under the slowly revealing sun. Over the last few days, she had practically inhabited the library in some more drab stylings of a disguise, anything to keep media or fans away; she had work to do. So, through a pair of posh reading glasses she had time to herself to pour over any archived news articles she could surrounding not only the burning of Braddock Manor, but any other news surrounding Essex at that time, and taken notes accordingly. Those were spread out on the kitchen table now. She had also pulled any books she could regarding demonology and mythology, maybe she could find clues to Dormammu or her shadow followers there. The last piece of her investigation involved pulling a small box out from under her bed. It was about the size of a shoe box, maybe a little bigger, hinged and locked. Inside, the few things salvaged from the burned manor, including something Jamie had spirited away, pressed into her hands before he was dragged off to the loon house: a half-burned journal from her father's study. Maybe there were some answers in here, now that she was more aware of the Otherworld. Her father had set things in place with their bloodline, perhaps there was more he left behind for her (or the boys) to find. Then again, it was more up to her these days, with Brian gone and Jamie locked away.
With that in hand, she returned to the kitchen just as the kettle was beginning to whistle. She set the journal down delicately, one more touch given to the corner to make sure it was truly settled on its spot on the kitchen table. After pushing her reading glasses over her head, she fished two mugs from the cupboard, cream and sugar followed, and she shut the heat off beneath the kettle. The high pitch screech died down to a murmured whistle and hiss. A five pound note was shoved into the back pocket of her jeans and she adjusted the strap of a tucked in camisole on her way to the record player. She was not sure when Pete would arrive, but for now would put on some MC5 and tug a long kimono-style robe around her shoulders to fight the morning chill.
Kick out the jams, motherf***er!
===*===
Health 4
Energy 12
Action 1
Intelligence 4
Gather information, looking for clues or contingencies
Action 2
No Action
Health 4
Energy 8
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Post by Gris on Mar 1, 2021 10:38:11 GMT -5
Pryde had been on and off for a few days, nervous energy pushing her back and forth. She tried to be a woman of action, one that took initiative and sorted out her path, but she had trouble sailing uncharted waters. For once she didn't want to just move forward without regard, as her recent experience had taught her that she was far from invincible. Small doubts started to seed in her usual bravado, but that only made her itchier, seeking for trouble.
Old Kate had been keeping to herself more than usual. It was true that she usually wasn't a fan of chatting idle, as her precarious situation inside her younger counterpart made her feel like an uninvited guest that stayed for too long. Their strange trip into a sort of oneiric unconsciousness and a fleeting dream, perhaps a memory, of Rachel had her longing for the woman she loved. Their story was patchy at best, events scattered around her formless mind, but even if she couldn't nail the particulars, there was something she could know without a doubt. She felt it, true deep within. Her love for Rachel. Since she was hitching a ride in poor Kitty, she had noticed the young one's discomfort with the whole idea. She was being challenged on all fronts, their experience on that realm within a realm blurring the lines that separated the two women, so Kate understood why Pryde was concerned, if not outright afraid, of losing herself.
Abandoning Millbury's home in seek for fresh air, Pryde was just restless. She had bitten more than she could chew, and it bothered her needing the guidance of either those schemers of the Club or even Kate herself. How aimless was she? Couldn't she take her own decisions anymore? Were all of them shaped by-
"Hey!" distracted, Pryde hadn't noticed the man close to her, reaching. She didn't notice the fondness in his gesture nor the warmth of his smile, just an invasion of her personal space while she was distracted, so she grasped his wrist. "Who do you think y-" she started, finally noticing the tattoo in his arm, next to where her fingers were grabbing him. "Fuck! Sorry! I was distracted and you startled me" she apologized, shame and worry in her eyes. Luckily she didn't grab him strongly enough to do any harm but a fleeting mark of her fingers, but it was still embarrassing. "I'm Pryde, I mean, Katherine Pryde, and I'm very very sorry sir" she continued. "One of those days where you are angry with something you can't punch I guess, so you startled me" Pryde finished explaining herself of sorts, feeling the awkward silence.
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Post by mcr on Mar 1, 2021 11:03:41 GMT -5
Erik waves off Pryde's concern:
"Erik Lensherr. Please, think nothing of it. I must apologize - there are few who would wear it so proudly, even today. It is a trait I admire. And I know the sentiment all too well, to feel impotent against things you believe you cannot overcome."
He adds softly in Hebrew, almost to himself:
"Never again."
Leaning in a little, he asks:
"May I show you something, Miss Pryde?"
=========================================
-- Meanwhile --
As Betsy thumbed through her father's old journal, she idly sipped at her drink, looking for some kind of clue that her father may have left her. The warmth is a welcome relief from the dreary weather outside, careful as she is not to drink too fast and let it burn her. Continuing to read, she notices that two of the pages appear to be stuck together, only coming apart because of the heat of the mug that had transferred from it, to her hands, to the pages.
Anxious as she was for answers, she carefully pulls them apart to see an old war photo from her father's time in the Service glued to one of them. On the front, he is standing over a field of bodies strewn about, appearing to be checking them to see if any were still alive. On the back of the photo, but not in her father's handwriting, are the words "Bergen-Belsen, 1945".
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Post by Black Sam on Mar 1, 2021 15:08:01 GMT -5
Azazel shouldn't have been surprised at the message waiting for him from the hotel's front desk. Someone left an unusual bottle of wine for him that morning; no note or name, just the bottle. It was the wine itself that was the message, he knew right away – his old comrades at the KGB were nothing if not efficient. And persistant. And patient. And unforgiving. Obviously they wanted something from him, otherwise their message would have come in the form of an assassin's bullet.
Khvanchkhara, famously his father's favorite wine, was the creation of a Georgian noble nearly one hundred years ago, the Gold Grand Prize winner of European wine festivals before becoming the darling of Moscow. His Father had loved it so much that production of the wine was confiscated and nationalized in 1943 – Azazel was very familiar with the history of Khvanchkhara, as he'd personally executed the old vinter who owned it at Stalin's command. He'd peeled back the label of this particular bottle to find an address written on the corner, a movie theater, where Azazel waited patiently for his new "handler" to arrive.
As Count Dragoș, Azazel sat on the second from the back row with his small bucket of popcorn, box of Dots, and a giant Coca-Cola, keeping the entrance in his periphrial vision. He was thinking about his recent adventures with his potential new allies in the Hellfire Club and how this incursion of his old life into his new life would impact his plans. He was of a mind at first to disabuse the KGB of their delusion that he was still an asset, but it occured to him that since they were able to locate him so easily they might know something useful about his real objective...
The undercover KGB agent entered during the opening scene of Elizabeth Taylor's "Celopatra," a plainly dressed man, casual suit, slightly frumpy, in an American style. He didn't look at Azazel, but took a seat behind him. Count Dragoș held up the popcorn to his shoulder, offering the spy a handful which he took without acknowledgment. Azazel didn't bother to hide a smile.
"Privetsiya, tovarishch," the man said. "We had heard you were back in game. Glad to see rumors are true."
Azazel sighed quietly.
"Rumors usually hide a sand of truth, comrade, but your English is enough to draw more attention than a red flag," the assassin replied in English that was only moderately better than the spy's, pitching his voice under the loudness of the movie soundtrack as he gestured to the half-dozen patrons around them, all sitting at least twenty feet away. He'd alerady brushed the surface of their minds and saw nothing in them to cause alarm. "These are peasants. Tell me how I can serve Matushka Rossiya."
The man slid a dossier between the seats.
"Operation Paperclip," he said, ignoring the jab about his poor English. "Secret American military program housing thousands of Nazi scientists in U.S. under new identities and employing them to develop and improve American technology and infrastructure for inevitable conflict with us, da?"
Azazel opened the folder under the level of the seat backs, his eyes perfectly adapted for seeing in darkness.
"There is one in particular of interest to us, but we believe he change his appearance as well as name. During Great Patriotic War, Nazi suka is working on device which is shielding mind from psychic detection. Is very dangerous for Americans to have and not us too, da?"
He reached over the seat to point at one of the photos in the file. Azazel was silent as he absorbed the contents of the dossier.
"For obvious reasons, we do not wish to provoke open conflict with Americans."
Azazel refrained from snorting in derision. Yes, for very obvious reasons. The Soviet Union is in decline because of weak leadership, he thought. With Father gone, small-minded men have hoarded power to themselves. All the more reason to persue my own ends...
"But this man?" The spy continued, "He was prisoner in camps. He has been hunting Nazis on his own. Very easy to pin blame. He has meeting with your new blonde friend. See what he knows. Maybe he is solving problem for us? Dla rodina?"
Blonde friend? The White Queen? Azazel nodded, not for the reason the spy would assume, but because he'd tipped the KGB's hand. Of course – they know about me because they have assets inside the Hellfire Club.
"Of course, Comrade," he said to the man. "And since we are friends once again, there is something you can do for me as well..."
He turned to face the man for the first time, elbow twisted around on the back of the seat, his bright blue eyes catching the streaming pitures being projected above their heads. He pulled the man's name from his mind.
"The Committee probably wonders where I've been, Major Preobrazhensky," the man flinched, but just barely, "why I have not reported in so long. I will share in time. Now, there is a woman of personal importance to me, potentially a valuable recruit as well. A woman so talented...I'm certain you will have a file on her as well. Raven Darkholme. Find her for me, da?"
Azazel offered the man his trademark grin, looking into his thoughts for answers.
********************
HEALTH: 4/4
ENERGY: 18/18
ACTION ONE: 3 stones into Black Ops to interact with the spy on the down-low
ACTION TWO: 4 stones into telepathy to search the man's mind for Azazel's dossier (finding out what the KGB knows about him), 3 to overcome his mental defense and 1 for subtlety
ATTACK: none
DEFENSE: 3 (RD)
PRESCIENT DEFENSE: shift stones from Black Ops and escape to the roof
MODIFIERS: Enhanced Vision (see in darkness); Healing Factor (heal 1w stone/hour); Limited Prescience (shift stones allocated to other actions into Teleportation after other stones are revealed); Metal Defense 4; Reflexive Dodge 3
HEALTH: 4/4
ENERGY: 11/18
REGENERATION: 7
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Post by phencerx on Mar 1, 2021 17:23:01 GMT -5
Peter had escorted Elizabeth back to her flat that evening and made his way back to Portwell House. He needed to update his files as well as search through the readings that O had pulled to see if he could gleam anymore information to this latest threat. By the time he arrived, O had already left which was probably for the best. If he was still there, O would have insisted on reminiscing on old times while simultaneously lecturing Peter on his arrogance and recklessness.
After he had finished up, Peter headed up to the room he kept on the third floor for when he was in this part of the country. He never trusted the local lodging houses and had many such setups all around the British Isles. The room was quaint. No pictures, a few books, a bed, a wardrobe, and a dresser. Before finally going to bed, he did the same nightly routine that he does every time he stops in in one of his safehouses. Walking over to the dresser, he removes the neatly folded clothes and reaches in to release the latch revealing the false bottom. From within he pulls out ammunition, a whetstone, and a coded journal. After replenishing his spent rounds, making sure his knife was sharp enough to shave a baby's cheek, and coding in the events of the past 24 hours, Peter places everything back in it's place and finally gets the rest he'd been fighting off ever since leaving that accursed realm.
After a couple of days of research, drinking, and endless nightmares, he wakes up just before the crack of dawn and begins to get ready. One of the curses of being a military man is the inability to sleep in anymore, no matter how much he may want. After getting cleaned up, Peter leaves Portwell House and makes his way to one of the local bakeries. He had agreed to meet Elizabeth in the morning, but there was no need to show up at such an ungodly early hour.
As he walks in, the bell hanging over the door chimes and a plump redheaded woman in her 50's comes out from the back, covered in flour. "What can I do for you this morning dearie?" Suddenly she stops upon seeing Peter. "As I live and breath, if it innit lil' Peetie come by to see lil' ole' Florence. Now you come over here and give me a hug right now. Why didn' you let me know you was back in town?" Peter looked down to make sure his overcoat was buttoned up. The last time he was here, he forgot and left with two rather large bosom imprints left in flower on the front of his suit. Moving in to give her a hug, "Aww come here you ole' gal. I just got in last night. Passing through on a bit of business." Reaching into his overcoat, "And before I forget, I got you some of that black liquorice you so love."
Florence takes the liquorice and pulls Peter down by the coat to give him a kiss on the cheek. "That's so sweet of you. I spend all day baking these here breads, pies, and tarts. It's nice to have something that adds a bit of bitter to the sweet. Now come on. Sit down and tell me what you've been up to." Peter had known Florence since he was a child after his father had kicked him out. She had always been kind to him and would give him the day olds so that he didn't go hungry while he was living on the streets. Florence pulls out a chair and taps on the table for him to sit which he does. "Oh you know Flo, work keeps me busy, but at least I get to travel and see interesting things."
Florence had no idea that Peter actually worked for MI-13. As far as she knew, he was traveling freelance photojournalist. Florence jumps up out of her chair, "Well if you ask me, they're working you way to hard. You look next to death, you do. I stopped by the butcher this mornin. Let me run in the back and fry you up some bacon and get you a cup of coffee." Before he could object, she was already in the back. A few minutes later she comes out with a small plate of bacon and a fresh cup of coffee. Florence had always made the best coffee. People say it was the dash of cinnamon that she added, but Peter knew it was really the splash of Irish Whiskey that kept the customers coming in.
The two visit for the next half hour or so before Peter stands up. "Well it was lovely seeing you as always Flo, but I must be off to meet an acquaintance for an early meeting. Any chance I could get a few croissants and some fresh butter?" Florence jumps up again and runs into the back. Coming back out, "Fresh out the oven luv. Here you go. I don't want to keep you from your business." Peter reaches for his wallet at which point she slaps his hand. "Come now boy. I known you since you was knee high. It's on the house." He goes in for one last hug, and slips a ten pound note into her apron pocket. "Thanks luv. You're the best. I'll stop in again next time I'm around these parts."
As he leaves the shop, Peter looks down at his watch. "A quarter past eight. Hopefully the princess is up by now." He makes his way through the streets until he reaches the flat that he had dropped Elizabeth off at a few nights prior. As he makes his way to the door, he can hear MC5 blaring inside. "So the princess likes punk," he chuckles to himself, and knocks on the door.
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Post by mcr on Mar 1, 2021 17:57:27 GMT -5
Azazel might have thought it odd, at first, when reaching into the mind of Preobrazhensky, that a man of such high rank, one trusted enough to reach out to him, to try and re-establish contact with Azazel, was one he hadn't known. As Stalin's secret weapon, the paranoid ruler tried to keep Azazel's existence a secret only a trusted few knew. And in digging deeper, it became apparent that Azazel's distaste for the new power structure was well-founded. This particular louse had obtained his position through that age-old combination of graft and blackmail, climbing on the backs of men far more deserving than he. Azazel currently saw images of the man's wife, in a rather salacious position astride a second man, one he assumed was a rival, as, from within the man's mind and his perspective, he snapped photographs of the incident. This was a man with no shame and no honor. Moving past the torrid scene, Azazel dug deeper when he finally saw someone he recognized, even from the old days. He could not shake the rigors of the brutal training regime he had endured as a child. For over ten hellish years, for as far back as he himself could remember. And although Time had done its work on the man, the man's was a face forever etched into Azazel's own mind: Piotr Phobos.  Phobos had a knack for making grown men, powerful men, act like terrified infants, and the Major was no exception. Azazel could almost taste the man's fear as Phobos summoned him, explaining his need: to find the Count and attempt to bring him to heel. Searching for information on Raven, however, led to a dead end for now. It was obvious that Preobrazhensky was a glorified lackey with instructions, one doubtless chosen precisely because Phobos expected the mutant to attempt to probe the mind of whomever was sent, one who knew of Azazel not on a personal level, but only as a rumor. And digging deeper, he got the feeling that Preobrazhensky was caught out - that Phobos almost expected Azazel to kill the man now that the wheels were set into motion. There were dozens of other faceless goons he could send, no doubt. But whatever the man felt inwardly, for he could not have known Azazel capable of reading his thoughts, he at least showed some outward nerve: " Da, I will look into it, and meet you by same manner." He stood to leave.
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Post by OurLadyWar on Mar 1, 2021 22:41:20 GMT -5
The muffled music behind the door became blaringly clear as Elizabeth answered the door, a triangle of toast in her mouth. She crunched the corner off as she stepped aside, but tucked her bite to the side of her mouth. "Crome irn," she said around the food, chewing quickly so she could speak clearly again. The door was shut behind him and bolted as he crossed the threshold. She made quick strides to the record player, the robe splaying out behind her like lazy, light wings before settling against the back of her legs as she came to a full stop at the system. She turned the music down enough for them to talk without raising their voices, but was not about to switch the record over to something else. Unless he asked anyway.
So, this was how the rich lived. For the celebrity she was, perhaps he had expected more. Elizabeth kept the lavish space to keep up appearances, and while there were perks to having good digs, her furnishings and decoration were pretty spartan. The windows overlooked the river and there was a balcony for entertaining guests or simply taking in the view. An entertainment center had a television and a record player, latest models, but nothing extravagant. A reading corner was tucked away and surrounded by books.
Elizabeth flicked a couple crumbs from the corner of her mouth. That was when she noticed he had a bit of a parcel under his arm, accented by the smell of baked bread. "You brought something. Erm... there's plates to the right of the sink. In the cupboard. I just took the kettle off, so feel free to help yourself to some tea." The kitchen was roomy and bore essentials, but most of the color was a bouquet of flowers sitting in a narrow window. Her kitchen table was littered with notes, books, and a charred up journal. "When you're settled, I'll show you what I have so far. No sense in rushing, I'm sure we'll be on our feet plenty with this business," she said as she came into the kitchen behind him, plopping her reading glasses back onto her nose.
"Please," she gestured to a seat, if he wanted it. "Sit, stand, make yourself at home." Once she was sure he had done just that, she produced what she found in the journal. "Treasure this early in the morning -- who'd've thunk?" She said, affecting an American accent at the end.
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Post by Gris on Mar 2, 2021 13:29:07 GMT -5
"Careful" Kate interrupted. Memories jumbled, events hard to order up in time, her past was a scrambled puzzle that was missing pieces and now she didn't even know if it would by young Pryde's future. Her mere presence there had shifted it, so how could it be? But even when considering things she didn't interfere with... was she even born in the same decade? Mulling about it only caused her a feeling eerily similar to a headache, even if she lived in a borrowed one. Maybe one of the scientists of the Club or some associate could shed some light into it, but that was hardly the time to discuss it with Pryde. "Maybe he means well, he usually does, but Erik is one of us and not one to be squeamish about his methods" she warned. Kate remembered him, sometimes terrible, sometimes endearing, with an effort she remembered him... on a wheelchair? No, it felt wrong and yet... not quite. Either way, the choices were Pryde's to made, she couldn't force her.
"Noted" Pryde thought back. "I find it easy, to wear it" she smiled, caressing the star for a moment. "But I guess that's because it's my choice, not something I've been branded with" the woman admitted with a sigh. Pryde shared his discomfort, Erik's words of impotence echoing true after her last experience, but the source of their pain wasn't the same. "Sure, lead the way" she nodded, curious. Pryde considered Kate's words, so she wouldn't be off guard, but there was something in how Erik carried himself and that shared belief that it made easy to trust him.
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Post by mcr on Mar 2, 2021 14:02:40 GMT -5
Erik had that look in his eyes - the devil-may-care attitude that often landed him in unenviable positions because he knew what he was doing was right. Leading Kate to a nearby panhandler, he approached, unfolding his wallet to place a 10 pound note in the man's hat, taking several pence out and kindly telling the beggar to keep the rest.
Looking around to make sure no one else was watching, the Master of Magnetism held out his hand a couple of inches in front of him, letting go of the change. But instead of falling, the coins stood on air, bending and twisting to form intricate little stick figures that began a stilted kind of dance, almost like an impromptu puppet show with whatever he had on hand. With concentration on his face, he brought the metals closer together as they started to glow with a palpable heat, fusing them together, forming a perfectly smooth ball the size of a golf ball. And with the same effort, the metals came apart, linking together in a chain to form a small bracelet. Waiting for the metal to cool before handing it to Kate, he said:
"We are not as powerless as we think. Hopefully a second reminder to always keep the faith?"
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Post by Black Sam on Mar 2, 2021 17:40:01 GMT -5
Azazel sat in the uncomfortable theater seat and thought about what he'd discovered. The introduction of Phobos to the game changed things significantly. That the old man was still alive and still had designs on him was...disturbing. "Opyat' taki." Again.
Azazel held his tiny hand just above the pencil, the soft tip of his tail twitching back and forth unconsciously in his fierce concentration. He could see the object. He knew it was there. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much the nadsmotrshchik commanded it, he could not teleport something without physically touching it. It was impossible.
"Idiot mal'chik," the white-coated man mutterred. Azazel turned to look back at Phobos over his shoulder.
A surge of electricity shattered the boy's defiance; a giant, excrutiating spasm that started at the metal colar around his neck and clenched every one of his adolesent muscles from the device to his fingers and toes. His tortured body collapsed to the concrete ground, his red flesh burning under the 100 kilovolt jolt. Professor Phobos kept his thumb on the remote trigger of the collar a few second longer than necessary – he'd learned early on that the child-monster's body could heal itself with supernatural quickness, and he wasn't shy about exploiting the insight.
Azazel, already stripped to his underpants in the cold laboratory, lay in a puddle of his own urine. His depleted muscles refused to participate in his rebellion.
"Your instinctive ability to teleport is impressive, but instinct alone is insufficient," Phobos said, switching to his perfect English. "You must exercise conscious control. You must push through your limitations...or die trying."
At last the devil-boy managed to pull an arm into a position of leverage, and he lifted his face and torso up out of the stinky puddle, head hung in shame and impotent rage. I will find him and kill him. Then perhaps I will kill Khrushchev as well, to make sure the right people get the message. But not until after they proved useful to him. Not until he found his Raven. Mysterious creature that she was, he had no doubt the KGB was capable of locating her given proper motivation. With a subdued flash of flame and smoke, the mutant vanished from the theater and appeared on the roof of the building, overlooking the parking lot. He crouched low so that no passerby would see him and waited for Major Preobrazhensky to make his exit. He'd follow the man to his next destination, perhaps his personal residence, perhaps a safehouse, perhaps to the local KGB operations center itself. Phobos no doubt intended to throw away this tenured agent with a stagnant career to Azazel's sharp blades, but instead Azazel would make him his own tool. He didn't care for the man's repugnant morality – Azazel himself had done far worse at the bidding of his father. First, he'd find out more about the people keeping tabs on him, then he'd see about this Operation Paperclip target. |
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Post by mcr on Mar 2, 2021 19:20:45 GMT -5
The moment the Major's back was turned to Azazel, he had disappeared in his trademark flash of smoke, nowhere to be seen. Astonished but not surprised, for there had long been rumors of Azazel's mysterious ways, his koldovstvo, the man went about his business.
Azazel's task was laborious, as the Major had apparently a rather pedestrian lifestyle. Literally. He spent a good time walking with seemingly no aim, meandered from place to place, stopping at seemingly every shop, stand, and corner store to browse their wares. Going in one way, and coming out the back. Revisiting some of the places more than once, zig zagging back and forth. Classic spycraft to shake a tail, no doubt. But traditions ingrained in him for standard counterintelligence were of only marginal application when normal measures - travelling in and out of crowds, choosing narrow paths with few points of ingress and egress, moving in random directions - could not stop a man following in literally any direction but directly below.
Apparently satisfied that no one was following him, the man finally stopped at a cheap wire service, stepping inside.
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Post by Gris on Mar 3, 2021 4:55:13 GMT -5
Maybe it wasn't wise, but Pryde followed Erik, disregarding common sense and Kate's warning. A show of power wouldn't make her stare, eyes wide open, at least not anymore, not after all she had gone through the last few days. And yet stare she did, an admiration caused by the restraint, the finesse, the focus. It was something small, but telling, if Erik could carry himself like that having a gesture with someone he just met, what could he do when, as Kate warned her, wasn't squeamish about his methods?
"I guess we aren't" Pryde admitted. "Beautiful" she said honestly, even if it was a simple chain without any garish adornments, what was important was how and why it was made. "The reminder is more than welcome" Pryde nodded, phasing for a small moment to get the chain around her wrist without having to open and close it. "But sometimes I'll admit it's hard, even if that paints me in a less flattering light" she sighed. "I'm having the kind of week that makes me want to punch fate in the face, hence me being jumpy" maybe she was indulging the stranger more than she should, specially given Kate's advice, but she had been feeling lonely and such a man like Erik inspired confidence.
Pryde just hoped she wasn't misplacing hers.
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Post by mcr on Mar 3, 2021 5:37:31 GMT -5
Whether Erik was surprised to be meeting someone who shared the gift, he did not show. It must have occurred to Kate that he was here with a purpose, and he still looked as if something were troubling him, even with the welcome distraction. As if asking the question that was on her mind, he asked:
"I suppose it's not a coincidence that we happened to run into each other, is it? You work with my son, right? A few years younger than you, got that rebellious teenage streak still. Goes by the name Peter or Pietro? Always running around, hard to keep tabs on that one. I was supposed to meet someone who said she had news of him."
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Post by Gris on Mar 3, 2021 7:21:38 GMT -5
"There we go" Kate hummed, sensing that a change of pace was coming. It wasn't anything bad that she feared, but it seemed that Erik's involvement was unavoidable so all that remained to be seen was how this Erik behaved. "No coincidence and yet..." Pryde wasn't sure how to explain it. "I can't really say I work with him as we have just stumbled upon each other recently in the weirdest of situations" added with a tired shake of her head. "It's better if we go in" she gestured back to Millbury's home, it seemed that she wouldn't have a chance for a walk away from there if she wanted to know more about Erik. "He'll have a chance to explain things that I'm still wrapping my head around" finished, wishing that Erik didn't question her much longer as she didn't have any good answer to give him. Side by side, Pryde walked with Erik to Millbury's.
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