12194/Living Red with Regrets

Living Red with Regrets
Date of Scene:	27 July 2022
Location:	Swordfish Bar (SHIELD)
Synopsis:	Some Red Room veterans and boozehounds meet in the Swordfish and get to reminiscing in the russian way.
Cast of Characters:	Natasha Romanoff, Melinda May, Dottie Underwood, Zinda Blake, Michael Erickson

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Natasha Romanoff has posed:
It's a back area of the Swordfish. Open to eveyrone still. But sometimes those with particular axes to grind or memories to let slide away might gather together in their own little corner of it. Natasha is leaning back over against a wall, looking over at a picture tkaen from a recent social event. Of Lady Shiva approaching Cassandra Cain at a ballet recital. then, it's pushed away as Natasha goes to take out a shot glass.

Melinda May has posed:
May isn't given to public introspection, even at the SWORDFISH. Or, perhaps, *especially* at the SWORDFISH. She prefers to do her introspection by herself, preferably with a bottle of Haig and in the privacy of her own home. She's restless, tonight, however. Has been for days, now. It's like there's a prickle in the back of her skull that just won't let her settle, won't let her rest.

It's different than the constant rage of Vostokoff's serum. It's more like an itch that she can't reach to scratch, or pins and needles tingling in an extremity that's been trapped for too long beneath something heavy.

So, she finds herself in the SWORDFISH, seeking her tumbler of Haig from E behind the bar. The lean, bald man provides it with little commentary, reading her mood quite correctly as always.

He's had lots of practice.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie has become restless creature, unused to so much empty time filing up her days. Always scheming, always cataloguing multiple objectives, always filing away that little bit of information in case it's useful later. But after Iowa, time has been dragging out before her -- purposeless, save for those little pockets of intrigue that sustain her, marrow sucked from a cracked bone.

And of late, it's gotten worse. The familiar feeling of being watched, of looking over her shoulder, but without the comfort of wrapping herself in a protective false identity. She is only herself. And the feeling grates upon her soul.

The chattering noise of the bar swirls around her. Alone in a crowd. Something about the anonymity soothes the itch of invisible eyes on her skin. She smiles, teeth gleaming in the dim light, as she gestures for a drink.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would glance over at May ,"Ah, greetings. Drinking to remember or drinking to forget?" She would inquire over while going to pour her own shot out then and move to take a pull of it. "I'm not sure which it is for me. I suppose it's just as this is what I'm used to." She would muse after awhile, going to pull the drink to her lips and take it down like it were water.

"I'm not sure if I'm ruminating or I have nothing else to do so this is what my default is when I have nothing of any prticular warrant or not egoing on."

Melinda May has posed:
"Just drinking," May says when Natasha addresses her. She picks up her glass and moves to join the Russian, glancing at the shot. "Vodka?" It's a guess. A likely one, as the Widow slugs it back. Her eyes fall on the photo, studying it for perhaps a moment. Neither of the women in focus mean anything to her.

The sense of Dottie at the bar, however, pulls her attention. That familiar restlessness. "Looks like you're not alone," she tells Natasha, gesturing with a faint lift of her chin in the proto-Widow's direction.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
At May's glance in her direction, Dottie's eyes slide to meet hers. And she gives a faint nod. Someone is always watching.

She raises her glass in greeting. Then takes in Natalia...and the bottle in her hand. Her grin at E shifts from feral to polite.

"I just might have to come back for that," she tells him, the nod of her head indicating the vodka in his hand. "Or a new one."

She takes her double shot and throws it back, letting the glass slam against the bar with a resounding thunk. "Ladies!" she calls out, coy in her seeming open familiarity. "Should I just get the next bottle while I'm here?"

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would go to hold up her full bottle over in the direction of Dottie and May in an invite. "But of course. Why would it be anything else? It's familiar. We drink it to warm the body, warm the blood.. And to defrost." There was the ancedotal story that it was cheaper than water at times..

"So, what has you joining us on this evening?" She would inquire over to May while sliding in her seat to let the two come back.

As Dottie would approach, 'Natalia' would glance at Dottie and speak in Russian <<Yes, make it two. There's the three of us here after all and it would be rude to have to get up again that quickly>>

Melinda May has posed:
May understands the Russian. She'll need to be a helluva lot more drunk to try to speak it, however. Chances are she'll never get that drunk. Even on two bottles of vodka.

She gives a shrug in response to Nat as Dottie joins them. "It's a bar. Seems the thing to do." She's not quite at the drunk-enough-to-open-up stage. And, if she's honest, she's not really sure why she's drinking tonight. She just know she wants to be drunk.

Zinda Blake has posed:
The front door buzzes a couple times before emitting a successful <boop!> and opening. A pale blonde with long, ringlet curls takes a couple steps inside before turning to give the door a dirty look. Pushing it closed, she turns to look around the bar.

Zinda Blake is wearing her trademark short skirt and go-go boots, with a white t-shirt under an authentic-looking leather flight jacket. She removes the aviator glasses and perches them atop her curls as she spots the ladies.

"Nat!" she calls out loudly across the room. "Pree-vet, an' all that." Yeah, the southern drawl is of no help with her badly-butchered attempt at Russian.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie collects the unopened vodka bottle from E behind the bar.

"And one of whatever she's drinking," she adds with a nod to May. Everyone else can get their own. A shot glass sits upside down on the neck of the vodka. Taking a bottle in each hand, she winks at E. "Peg'll cover it. When she's back from maternity leave."

Then she saunters over to Nat and May. "It sure is a mood, tonight," she comments with a little too delicate shudder. Her discomfort slips over her shoulders like an old cardigan as she slides back into 1940s Iowa, hair as blonde as cornstalks and a quiet, eager to please, aw-shucks enthusiasm that had her easily overlooked. It doesn't matter that the girl never existed. It's the closest thing she has to comfort.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would lean over, "Well, we have a few to start with." She would wave over at Zinda, "Go ahead and join us. And we're just catching up on tradition. You'll be expected to join us in it if you come over." She would clink over at the several bottles of vodka on the table. "You wish to drink with russians, you drink in the russian way." She would smile up at the blonde and move over at the table.

Natasha looks over at Dottie for a moment, taking in the sudden change of persona and presentation, andg oes to raise up her cup in a light salute. May gets her nodding back. "Fair enough." Shot poured back.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Eventually Michael emerges from the men's room, himself a cornfed spectre like Dottie - whom he sees as he scans the crowd for changes, noting the lethality index has shot up high with all the new arrivals. He stays out of the way, girls' night and all by appearance, and heads off for the bar where a half-empty beer awaits him. Smile flashed at the comrades there if they clock him.

Melinda May has posed:
May smiles wryly as Dottie places the bottle of whiskey before her. Splashing a top-up into her glass, she raises it in silent greeting and thanks. Then she pulls a good mouthful from it.

She can't help but glance between Zinda and Dottie, though. Blondes out of time. The Southern Belle and Miss Iowa (via Moskow). It's actually a study in contrasts beneath the superficial similiarities.

"One of these days," she says dryly to all of them, "I'll introduce you to proper baiju."

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake flashes a poster-smile at Natasha's wave, striding briskly over to the table with the others. "I ain't afraid to drink with nobody." she quips back. Looking around the table at the others, she offers. "Zinda Blake. Damn glad to mee'cha." Zinda plops down next to Nat, looking at the vodka now.

"Y'all are gonna hafta tell me th' rules to this game, now. At least what we're drinkin' to..."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Promises, promises!" Dottie quips, her smile too warm, too friendly. She turns the bubbly sweetness on the newcomer. "Aw, dontcha worry about the order of toasts. Natalie and I can take care of that. And there's only one rule: if we open the bottle, we finish the bottle."

Dottie opens the sealed bottle before her, and pours a shot into the waiting glass. Which stands as an indication for expectations around the table.

She raises it up and toasts,"Let's get started!"

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would consider, "Well, the rules are that we all drink. The same amount at a time. We keep drinking until the bottle is finished. Then we move on to the enxt one. It goes on until someone cannot take another drink or we run out of bottles. It's considered very rude to leave one that has anything left in it." She would smile over at Dottie with a quiet laugh.

The group of Red Room veterans, a crazed American pilot out of time, ALien Birdman, attorney at law.. And a drinking bout.

Melinda May has posed:
May's gone through more than one Russian drinking binge before now. It's actually not a bad way to get drunk. She's probably the least talkative of the group at the table, including the alien birdman at the bar. Another wry smile touches her lips, this one a little more sardonic. She can keep pace with her whiskey, but she also know there are supersoldier serums at play here.

She's just grateful she's not one of those people whose faces flush when they start getting drunk. There are a whole lot of missions she'd never have survived, if she had.

So, she'll keep up. For a while.

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake finds a fresh glass and turns it upright. "Open a bottle, finish a bottle. Sounds pretty simple t'me." she replies. "I'll drink to that!" Zinda leans in a bit, then, making the briefest attempt at lowering her voice. "But if y'all are gonna be toastin' in Russian, I'm gonna ask somebody to translate."

She looks around the table, then, pausing at May. "Am I the -only- one here what don't speak Russian?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Well there's Michael, of course, but he is sitting at the bar drinking the rest of his beer. Amused, at the moment, of the sight of all that feminine carnage-to-be. Fueled by alcohol and all. But as portents of doom go, it's a very attractive one, and so he will not shake his fist at the heavens just yet.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would go to look at May, "Are we just going along with the group?" As if the Cavalry could go along with something like peer pressure? Natasha is taking that rare time to lightly needle her when she can get away with it. Natasha goes to take another shot, then moves to pass one bottle that's on it's last legs around before taking another.

"Michael, good to have you with us." She would point to a seat and gesture while she would take her refill. "And likely." To Zinda. "it's not a hard language."

Melinda May has posed:
"I don't speak Russian," May tells Zinda, completely straightfaced. She *understands* Russian. She doesn't speak it, unless she can do so with a Chinese border accent. Because her Russian accent is shit. So, she *can* speak it. But, she doesn't.

Thus, not a lie. From a certain point of view.

She snirks softly at Nat's quesiton. "Do we ever?" she counters. The answer to that? Yes. As long as the group's going in the direction they want to go.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    And so, pressed into service by the Doom Brigade, Michael pays for another bottle of vodka himself before carrying it over to their table by the neck. "Evening," he says as he sets the bottle on the table between the Widows and the Blackhawk whom he does not know. "Who did it, and what was so bad that it summoned a fury's coven such as this?" Warm, rich baritone voice, local accent if Manhattanites have one. Zinda gets a nod. "Hello."

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake seems a bit relieved when she isn't the ONLY non-Russian speaker at the table. She pours a drink when the bottle is passed, handing it down the line. "Good t'know." she replies.

If Zinda noticed that she's the only one who offered a name (and yes she noticed), she doesn't say anything about it. This whole 'secret agent' bit is still new to her. She's a simple pilot, after all. Then Nat drops the name 'Michael'. Okay, so that's one.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff goes to fold her hands together while going to take another large sip of her drink, pouring a refill almost automatically after as she would scan over at May. "I suppose not. Though sometimes we like to pretend purely for the sake of contrivance." Natasha displaying a sense of humor. She must be relaxed or really loaded.

Gesturing over at Zinda, "So, as the latest includee in our coven, what sort of stamina shall you bring over to teh exchange?"

Melinda May has posed:
"Sometimes?" May replies, black brow arching and a faint smirk on her lips. She could just be poking at her friend. Or she could be thinking of Dottie, whose Miss Sunshine routine hasn't gone unnoticed.

Her dark eyes rake over Zinda at Nat's question to her, however. "I've worn a jacket like that," she notes. She looks to the Widow. "I'm betting she can hold her own." One Pilot to Another.

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake gives Nat a curious look. "What sorta stamina? Honey if you're talkin' about -alcohol- stamina, jus' sit back and keep 'em comin'." Pausing to drink along with the others, she sets her glass down for a refill.

"Even if it's this sissy stuff." She winks at that. Gauntlet thrown. Yeah, Zinda grew up on moonshine.

Looking back to May, then, Zinda flashes another smile. "A jacket -like- this one? Now don't take this wrong, but you don't look near old enough to have flown in the Big One. An' I mean that in a nice way. But we'll hafta go up together some time."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie snorts, interrupting her silent spell. And after taking another shot, she mutters in a heavy Russian accent, "I am Dorothy Underwood. From Iowa." Is she joking? She doesn't seem to be joking.

She smiles at Michael with all her sharp teeth. Both he and May can see danger signs.

"Are we toasting?" She throws out the question as a challenge. "I thought we were toasting."

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would look over, "Oh, you two will get along quite well." She would gesture over at May and Zinda, "You both have a bit in common." She would take a sip of her alcohol, "We should make that a formal contest sometime. Amongst all the experts. See who lasts the longest." Ah, a good olf ashioned drinking contest.

Might Michael feel a sense of foreboding?

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Mat'yakanaa, Dasyetta." Well whatever he said to Dottie just then, it ain't from America. Or Russia. But he's smiling back at her. He pours himself a shot from the latest bottle, lifting it to the others in hail. Then knocks it back. "Mmmm. Good stuff. I should share my flask with you again."

    Foreboding? Not him. He knows, at least, what his own measure of personal stamina is. But the potential for mayhem...is certainly rising.

Melinda May has posed:
May chuckles dryly at Zinda's comment. "I'm not," she admits. "But that doesn't mean I wasn't there." Time travel. It's a thing. She hates it.

As Dottie smiles, all teeth, May realizes the potential for mayhem hasn't just risen. It's *spiked*. She picks up her tumbler of whiskey and tosses back a mouthful, downing what's left in her glass.

"You're not allowed to murder people here," she tells Dottie, eyeing her. "And Enoch will protest if you burn his bar. If you want to go hunting, I know a spot you can visit *after* the bottles are empty."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie's eyebrow raises at Michael's words. Surprised at his comment. Not quite ready to challenge the endearment. But at May's cautioning, she slumps back into her chair - a reprimanded American teenager. It seems between the two of them they have at least momentarily restrained her more life-ending inclinations. Instead she swallows down more vodka.

"Nu, vzdrognuli."

Zinda Blake has posed:
Zinda Blake lifts a brow at May, taking another drink. "Well honey, I ain't old enough to have been their neither." Wink. "Always a pleasure to meet another flyboy. Or flygal, in this case. This don't look like th' place for swappin' war stories, so we'll jus' hafta make our own."

Zinda looks from May to Dottie, then. "Hunting? Murder? I like me a good bar fight as much as the next gal, but I didn't know this was a knife-an-gun club." All the same, Zinda keeps right on drinking.

Natasha Romanoff has posed:
Natasha Romanoff would consider, "Well, here isn't the place for barfights. Everyone is too nice and no one tries to hurt one another. We're all professionals and that takes the edged off it. We have to find somewhere no one is going to be missing anyone when they vanish. We could call it ag irl's night out." S he would smile at Zinda as the woman would fade back.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael has a way to distract people without letting people know he's distracting them. "It's good to see you all," he says after a moment's wink at Dottie, pouring himself another shot. "I apologize for being busy. Is this a casual night? Or should we be planning murders, if not doing them?"