18145/Interdimensional Pancakes

Interdimensional Pancakes
Date of Scene:	01 June 2024
Location:	Starpower Publishing - Entryway
Synopsis:	Eve goes to the Young Avengers HQ to seek out Invincible. She talks to Ms. America instead. They have pancakes, and the offer to patrol together was set.
Cast of Characters:	Eve Wilkins, America Chavez

---

Eve Wilkins has posed:
It was a dark and stormy night.

And for Atom Eve, kinda a busy day. Not only was there superheroing, but a party getting ready for summer, and barbeques... but... she wasn't expecting to fly into weather.

So she was totally soaked by the time she steps into the lobby of the place.

"... bad timing on my part," she says, bringing up her phone, texting someone.

She glances in the mirror, noting her crimson hair sticking to her face and shoulders due to the rainstorm. And well, the sad state of affairs that was her Atom Eve outfit. She crinkles her face up.

With a snap of her fingers, a pink wave of energy flutters over the hair. She couldn't affect the hair, but she could turn it towards damp by getting rid of the water around it, and converting her outfit to a nice and dry knee-length skirt, and muave tank top.

And a pair of nice flats, of course. She glances at herself in the mirror. Still, overall damp, but... presentable. Sorta.

Her nose crinkles more.

America Chavez has posed:
Lightning cracks in the skies above Starpower Publishing. Every thunderbolt alights the interior of the lobby, showcasing the work-in-progress of the place in brief flashes of yellow-white as rain pounds their steady percussive streams across the rooftops.

Really, it's not bad. It needs a little love still, but it's coming along. It's also, at the moment, very empty save for one Atom Eve, every flash of lightning merely serving to highlight the emptiness of the lobby. Until--

"Not bad."

The voice cuts in, so calm and effortlessly flat it should rightly be able to dry up the storm still raging outside. Another flash of lightning helps to highlight the source: America Chavez, left shoulder leaned against the archway leading from lobby to living room, arms folded over her chest. She's dressed in defiance of the weather, a red crop tank top striped white, dark blue short shorts, and star-spangled sneakers looking more fitting for a day with clear skies and sweltering summer heat than the dreary drench of rain.

The ringlets of her curly brown hair, bound up in a tight ponytail, bounce and bob mildly as she cants her head to regard the stranger in her lobby. Was the color commentary for Eve's outfit, or her awesome powers of matter transmutation? America certainly doesn't clarify.

One dark brow lifts, just so, instead.

"Want me to get you a towel, chica?"

Eve Wilkins has posed:
The very work-in-progress of the area. When she gets a return message, she was in the middle of rolling her eyes towards the heavens when the voice cuts into her thought. She glances up, blinking a bit as she lowers her phone.

Eve had a bit of a resting serious face at baseline, with easily crinkled brow and intense sort of look. But she could soften it when needed, and after a moment of that look, she does just that.

"I didn't mean to show off," she says, her smile turning a bit wry. The powers, or...? "But it's terrible out there, as you can tell. It's not flying weather," she says.

"I wouldn't mind a towel, actually," she says. "I can never quite get that last bit of damp out, and now that I muscled my way here..." she shows America the phone.

"Looks like he's not even in the state. That's why you text first, rather than surprise people, I guess," she says, the redhead's posture relaxed, comfortable.

"You know Mark Grayson? Or Invincible, I guess?"

America Chavez has posed:
Resting serious face, meet resting poker face. Outside of being a mind reader, it's practically impossible to read America's mood just to look at her: the deadpan of her tone matches her expression perfectly, from the intensity of her own, brown-eyed stare to the neutral line of her lips.

The only thing that compromises that impressive neutrality is the vaguest hint of a smile when Eve proclaims that she didn't mean to show off.

"I didn't mind," is America's easy response, before pushing her shoulder off of that archway. She considers that phone and Eve's explanation for only a second, before she turns smoothly on a sneakered heel, lifting a hand in a brief wag of beckoning.

"You'll get him next time. C'mon."

Into the lounge America ducks, where the atmosphere of the Young Avengers' HQ takes a shift: for as uninspiring as the lobby is, the lounge is much more relaxing. Couches, chairs, and diner-style tables are all arranged with a feng shui eye for comfort, with an impressive kitchen connected off to the side. There's a couple televisions, a few game consoles -- the works.

"I know Mark," continues America as smoothly as ever; she's still walking, arms stretching up and over her head as she speaks. "He's alright."

From America, 'X is alright' is extremely high praise.

"So, what, you're his friend? Partner?" America looks over her shoulder. One brow arches. The smile on her lips is a small but teasing thing. "Sidekick?"

With that joking question asked, America rounds to the nearest cabinet, cracking it open and peering inside.

Eve Wilkins has posed:
Eve was good at the microexpressions. She was a fan of them herself. Her own eyes, a solid green to go with that red hair, have that baseline steel to them. "Glad you didn't. Eve. Or Atom Eve, if we're going by the superhero names. Don't know if you know me - was big in the Teen Team," she says, even steps as she follows along with America in response to that gesture.

"He talked about trying to get me into the Titans, but eh... I wonder sometimes if there's more to life than superheroing," she says, stepping into the lounge itself. "I like this hideout. It's very... realistic," she says. "Not showy. It's a good energy," she says. "Did you set it up?" she asks.

She didn't know America so much, but she lets the Mark is alright thing slide by. He kinda was acting a little off lately, by her reckoning. Or he just... changed.

But they all change, right?

"Knew him since I was little. We were in the teen team together," she says. "Like... when I was 13," she adds. "So that's a little different. He moved on from that to... this and the Titans," she says.

"Are you on the Avengers team then?" she asks. "Or did you just move in when it looked so empty?" she asks. Was that a bit of a tease? Probably.

She was trying to give a little of what she got, although she moves to peer inside the fridge as well.

America Chavez has posed:
"Atom Eve, huh," muses America.

"Catchy name there, Eve."

There's something very casual about all of it. From the (very) lived in living space, to the laid back sort of swagger that America seems to live and breathe. There's not much of the prestige of the vaunted halls of the Justice League here, to say the least.

'Not showy,' as Eve calls it, a declaration that earns a little look of approval from America before she vanishes behind that cabinet door. Did she set it up?

"Something like that," answers the queen of vague answers.

Eve finds a mostly well-stocked fridge, if a little tilted towards the 'junk' scale of food. There's an unhealthy amount of soda and energy drinks in there. But also, actual, fresh ingredients. -Someone- at least puts a token effort towards healthier foods. A soft snort fills the air in response to Eve's teasing riposte; apparently America appreciates the bite back.

"That's me. Just squatting from superhero base to superhero base until they get tired of my shit."

That deadpan tone, tinged with traces of amusement, comes in just behind Eve. It's accompanied by a tanned finger reaching out to tap her shoulder to get her attention; if she looks, she'll find America standing there, towel on offer.

"Name's America," she offers up along with that towel. "America Chavez."

Once that towel is passed off, the Utopian woman eases back until she is settling her posterior back against the kitchen island. A little scoot, and she slides into a seated position atop it, one leg coming up to rest her heel against the counter edge. Her arms fold on top of her upraised knee, chin settling on her forearms as she peers at Eve.

"So you and Mark, part of Teen Team. He moves on to other teams." She considers the redhead with those piercing eyes for a few seconds. "But it's not for you." She says it without judgment; it's neither good or bad. If anything... she seems to understand where Eve is coming from, there.

"So, what's your deal?"

Eve Wilkins has posed:
"Made it when I was thirteen. I broke the rule of using your name in the superhero name, though," says Eve, with a little sigh. "Not that it's been a big deal. Never been on the same level as someone like Wonder Woman," says Eve.

"If I was... would probably change my name at that point," she says.

There was approval, a comfort in the space. Eve had very middle-class upbringings, and in some ways - was happier in lived in and homey rather than the glitz and glamour of most superhero bases.

Although it was fun to play with that, sometimes.

Eve was way more direct, so the vagueness that the woman used was super counter to her. "I make my own bases," she says, thoughtfully. And her own outfits, and homes, and can sometimes work with food...

The items in the fridge were perused, and the stress and energy of flying over here from a few states over catches up in a growly belly. She was stepping towards the fridge, distracted by the healthier options - was that a bit of hummus? When the tap on her shoulder draws her eyes there.

She flushes a bit scarlet, reaching out to take the towel. "Thanks," she says. "America Chavez," she repeats. "That's a unique name. I like it," she says. "Is that your superhero name, like Atom Eve, or your name name?" she asks, her eyes flickering over the other woman's face. "Hard to be in the Teen Team, when you're not really a... you know. Teen," she says.

"But we keep in touch, or try to. We've all kinda spread out at this point," she says.

A sigh passes her lips.

"My deal? A superheroine that never really took off, that went overseas and did the rich white girl thing of trying to help out in bad parts of the world, and then... came back and is still trying to find herself?" she asks.

"Is that the thing you're talking about?" she asks.

"Because if not, I didn't mean to make you my psychoanalyst just now, sorry," she says, her cheeks still flushed, and it wasn't going down anytime soon.

"And what about you? What's your deal, America?"

America Chavez has posed:
Eve laments over her choice of name, but America's response is a simple one:

"It's bold. I'm into it."

Says Ms. America, whose opinion is definitely unbiased.

Making herself comfortable on her kitchen island perch, a brief grin dances on tan lips at the sight of Eve's blooming blush. She just offers a wink in response to the redhead's gratitude, leaning back just a bit.

"Any time, Atom Eve."

As for the rest, well; vague as America can be sometimes, she doesn't seem to have a problem answering questions, either. "It's my real-ass name. Moms gave it to me and everything," she says, shoulders shifting back as she plants her palms on the island space behind her. "People call me Ms. America. You can call me whatever you want."

But as Eve expands on her deal, such as it is, America just watches with that interminably unreadable expression. Her head tilts to the right, her brows lift til her forehead wrinkles, giving the distinct impression of incredulity perfectly timed to help deepen the other woman's blush all the more.

"Huh. That's a hell of a lot to unpack for an introduction, Eve," she says, tone carrying that subtle undercurrent of 'how dare you.' A second passes. And then America gives up her teasing game when a little smirk tugs at the corner of her lip.

"I'm just fucking with you," she finally assures; the smile lingers. "You're alright. As far as rich white girl philanthropists go."

She has more to say, but she tables it for now as Eve turns her own question back on her. America shrugs with the roll of strong, tan shoulders. "Place I grew up in was nice. ... Too nice." Her gaze goes distant, for a few seconds, before she shakes her head. "So I left; there's not a lot of help you can offer to a place that doesn't need it, y'know?" One hand lifts, gesturing with the slight swivel of her wrist.

"I've been doing this since I was six. Helping people who actually need help. That's the job; doesn't really matter how you do it." Those chocolate brown eyes turn back on the other woman, thoughtful, before America continues: "So, trying to figure yourself out, huh? You got a game plan, now that you're back?"

Eve Wilkins has posed:
Eve was pale. Very very pale. Blushing on her was dramatic and obvious. Remember the towel? She did. She starts to use it, starting on her face - she didn't wear makeup, so all was well there, taking more time than needed to dry her face, which gave her the space she needed to find her center again.

She could be fiesty sometimes.

"Miss America?" she says, with a quirk of her lip again. "I like it. There's the Miss America beauty pageant, but you've probably been reminded of *that* fact dozens of times by now," she says.

Now there were her arms, the cotton of the towel applied to that.

Either way, that blush was on the downtrend now that she was getting ahold of herself again.

"I just... didn't know what to do with myself. The Teen Team was falling apart, I tried to figure out something to do here, but my friends all found themselves in other things." A pause. "I just wanted to do something that felt like helping, and beating up silly villains in silly costumes never felt like that. So I went to Genosha and helped them - I could build houses, wells, whatever with a thought," she says.

"But I guess in the end I just kinda perpetuated that whole thing," she says, with a snort. "Although it was nice to feel needed for a while."

A beat.

"...I feel I get it, then, how you feel. You wanted to go someplace you felt you could help," she says, green eyes meeting dark brown.

"I'm going back to school," she says. "Making new friends, new connections. Actually finish a degree in science, although I feel I can basically teach a lot of it."

America Chavez has posed:
If nothing else, America appreciates feisty. And she gives as good as she gets, in her own way. Case in point:

"Nope. You're the first." How she answers Eve's amused observation about how often she must be compared to Miss America pageants, effortlessly blase in a way that so completely lacks affect it'd be genuinely difficult to tell if she's joking or not, under most circumstances.

"Most people are too scared I'm gonna toss them to the moon."

But she obviously is joking. Right? ... Right?

... Probably.

She keeps up the banter easily, at least, as Eve dries herself off, watching the redhead at work with a curious eye. She's silent as Eve ruminates on her past choices and what brought her to make them, head tilting just slightly to the left. She waits, until Eve's completely said her peace, glancing askance when the other woman says she understands her.

Silence lingers for a few seconds, before those dark brown eyes ebb with faint cerulean light, and a five-pointed star of brilliant blue energy pulses to life at America's right side.

And then promptly shatters when she punches her fist through it.

From Eve's vantage point, she might be able to glimpse the inside of that shattered star. It looks like -- a hole in the air. And inside it, there seems like there's an assortment of dry foods, snacks... a pantry?

A second later, America is pulling a bag of flour out of it before that shimmery, shattered star in space and time literally seals itself shut.

With that -- the Utopian woman hops off the counter and brushes past Eve on her way to the fridge, opening it up to start getting ingredients. Butter, eggs, milk, sugar...

"Nothing wrong with that, y'know," she says off-handedly as she assembles her ingredients. She's grabbing mixing bowls from the pantry even as she continues. "Going to school. Even teaching, if you wanna. But you wouldn't still be zipping around in that cute costume if that was all you needed. Yeah?"

America takes a second to look over her shoulder, before she returns to her work, cracking open those eggs and pouring them into a bowl. She slides another one to the side, filled with the butter.

"Want to melt those for me?" she asks. And then: "You need to find the way you can help. I get it. But it doesn't have to just be one way. Those goofy-ass costumed villains? Sometimes they need to be dealt with. Believe me; even Mole Man's got it in him to royally fuck things up. But... it can be rebuilding, too. It can be tackling the big shit. The shit that matters."

A few brisk swipes of a whisk with super strength gets those eggs mixed together better than any beater ever could.

"What matters is just being there, one way or the other."

Eve Wilkins has posed:
"This perfect place you're talking about..." Eve finally says, letting her voice get a bit cautious. "Is it Themyscira?" she guesses. I mean. Just look at America's build. When America answers that question with the 'you're the first' line, Eve just looks back at her levelly.

Whether or not she /should/ be, Eve had the fearlessness that came from the fact that knowing that with enough forethought and technical thinking, she had a shot against just about anyone.

The star of energy beside her... Eve, being the sort of person that intricately understood things on a molecular level, was briefly mind-boggled against it.

"What the..." she says, taking a step back.

"... what was that?" she asks, her tone curious and interested. But she seems to catch herself getting all inquisitive, and swiftly amends.

"If you want to talk about it, at least," she says. She gets her senses again, even as she takes a moment to dry off her legs, leaving the bits beneath the skirt undried for now. She lifts the towel in front of herself, and with a glance up and down it... and a wave of pink energy, dries it and cleans it entirely, her eyes narrowed on that task before she begins to fold it neatly.

"I just figured if I'm going to fly around town - in a skirt and shorts would look weirder than if I actually wore my old costume. Although given how it looked out there? Should've made some raingear," she says.

She pauses a moment more as America gives that statement, bringing up her hand. Vibrating the molecules, keeping the butter butter but making it liquid. It was a different sort of energy, rather than transmutation. The pink energy does wash over it then.

"You have a point," she says. "But... I guess it just takes one bad night for this whole thing to go wrong," she says. "... and I can fix a lot of things, but I can't fix people," she says.

"That's the part that hurts the most. People," she says. Her voice gets quiet.

"When things get bad, it's easy to forget about them," she adds. Perhaps there was a bit of vulnerability to her voice. But something about America made it easy for that.

"Do you think you manage doing that? Being there?" she asks.

America Chavez has posed:
Is it Themyscira?

In those moments before America just casually breaches the laws of time and space to get herself some good flour, those dark brows of hers knit briefly inward. Her lips purse.

"No," she answers after a pensive moment. "... Not all that different, I guess. Just... a lot further away." She shakes her head, curly ponytail swaying with the motion.

"Doesn't matter. There's no going back. It's the same idea in the end: paradise is fine, as far as it goes.

"But you can't do jack for a perfect world."

It's a reasonable assumption to make, of course. Just look at her build!

The not-quite-an-Amazon is already working on putting her ingredients together by the time Eve's next question comes. This time, she doesn't so much as pause, whisking together her dry ingredients into a nice, white pile as she explains, with such an endlessly nonchalant voice:

"It's a hole in spacetime." Matter-of-fact and conversational. Like she was just talking about the weather. "Connects where I am to where I want to be. And everywhere in between. Doesn't matter where."

America, of course, doesn't expand on the implications of that, instead looking over one broad tan shoulder to size up Eve's outfit again.

"Dunno. It's a pretty nice skirt," she remarks, off-handedly. "Next time just whip yourself up a nice pink poncho to go with it. Really sell the ensemble..."

Those teasing words trail, however, as Eve gets to work on that butter. America watches with a curious gaze as what was once solid becomes liquid. She reaches out, plucks up the bowl, and turns it in her palm, watching that 'melted' butter slosh around.

"Handy," she says, suitably impressed. Of course, she -also- saw Eve doing a complete, magical girl costume change right before her eyes, so really, she should be prepared. But still! Melting butter with no fuss? That's the good stuff.

Soon enough, America is whisking all those ingredients together into a thick, creamy batter. She tilts her head in the direction of the stovetop, and remarks, "Skillet," to Eve, to ask her help in getting that stove ready for whatever she's whipping up.

She pauses only briefly, a frown settling on her lips as Eve utters those words. That's the part that hurts the most. People.

"..." The tall young woman exhales a heavy breath.

"Yeah. People get broken easily. They do dumb shit. They hurt each other. I've seen the worst they can offer."

She looks back Eve's way.

"But I've seen the best, too. Just means the good you put into the world is that much more important."

Her batter finished, she sets it aside for the moment, turning around to lean against the counter, cross her arms, and regard Eve. Does she think she manages?

"Why don't you tell me?" she suggests, suddenly. "Here's what I'm thinking. You and me, we have some pancakes. We talk about whatever. And then we find some time to patrol a bit together. See what good we can do. And we can see where your head's at." She cants her head. One brow lifts.

"Won't even tease you. Too much," she offers with a little smirk. "What d'you say?"

Eve Wilkins has posed:
"It's not Themyscira, but... paradise," says Eve. A beat more. "... heaven?" she ventures a guess, although that lends a certain supernatural element. Valhalla was a little more likely, but with America being vague... might not be best to pry. "Nevermind. The vibe is that it was good, and here? Not so good," she says.

"And you gave it up to... help," she says.

"You know how noble that is?" she asks. "Although if you're the sort of person to give up paradise to help people - you're probably not the sort of person to chase praise, either," she says.

There was something to cooking that Eve was still studying. The imperfections that the process involved. She could arrange atoms just so, make bread, make meat out of essentially nothing, or dirt. But the perfect sandwich? It rarely was arranged so perfectly. There were imperfections from the process.

So there was value to getting the items together.

"A break in the spacetime continium?" she says. The reason she was studying physics was that, while she had an innate understanding of chemistry, physics completely eluded her. And it made up everything.

One could see her mind racing, see her shoulders tensing up as she thinks through the implications of all that.

... and lets it go, maybe taking some lessons from the girl across from her already. "Cool," she says, at the end of it.

"Raincoat and waders," she says. "Rather than the cape and mask," she says wryly. "At least for nights like this - although I'm suppose I'm lucky I didn't get hit by lightning..." she says.

"Iron alright?" she asks. "Stainless steel is a lot lot trickier," she says. "It's an alloy, after all, so I have to... focus more," she says.

So, she starts. Bringing up her hand, she aims for a piece of kitchen equipment - she'd rather do that than change all the air in the room to something and leave them nothing to breathe for a few seconds - and chooses a kettle. Narrowing her eyes, she waves her hand, and the pink energy starts slowly washing over it, the kettle vanishing and being replaced by a cast iron skillet. It was a simple one, but it even had the little divot at the end.

Her finger twists in a gesture worthy of Dr. Strange, and she squints one eye, letting that go.

A breath out, afterwards.

"Pancakes is good," she says. "I uh.. eat a lot, though. I use a lot of calories. Usually," she warns. "Well, give me a few minutes to get my bearings. Might even start teasing you back, Miss America," she says, with her brow curling afterwards.

Seems to be a yes.

America Chavez has posed:
Noble. America snorts.

"I was six," is her answer, as if to dismiss the idea. True to Eve's observation -- America doesn't seem to be particularly interested in the accolades and approval.

The redhead's mind is racing -- it's easy to see, even at a glance. America watches her with the slightest squint -- and then, when she lets go of the deep dive into the mechanics of America's powers to just summarize it all in that single syllable word, she gets the single, firm nod of approval from her tall companion.

"Damn right."

Batter prepared, America settles back against the counter, a look of amusement making its understated mark on her tan features as she imagines Eve soaring across the world in the world's pinkest raincoat. "Adorable," she decides, because America cannot speak a lie. Probably.

Fortunately, she leaves it at that, just giving a nod of an okay to Eve's suggestion of cast iron rather than stainless steel. Her hands settling at her hips, her thumbs hook into the waistband of her shorts in lieu of pockets as she watches Eve get to work. It's subdued, the interest in those sharp brown eyes as she watches that kettle slowly unravel in a swirl of pink, reassembling the microscopic bits and pieces of it into something entirely else.

In the aftermath, America waits until the -exact- moment that Eve finishes off her fabulous flourish before she lets out a whistle of appreciation. She grabs her bowl of batter and walks past Eve, bumping shoulders with the woman as she goes.

"Lucky you," she begins, "I make kick ass pancakes, and I make a lot of 'em. Just one of my delightful talents."

Butter slicks the heated skillet. And the first of that batter hits cast iron with a pleasing sizzle, filling the air with the scent of cooking pancake batter as Eve offers that brow-arched confirmation.

America looks Eve's way with an 'oh really' look. And she doesn't even break eye contact for a second as she performs a perfect flip of that first pancake, hitting the skillet golden-brown up.

Which is just -entirely- her showing off.

"Looking forward to it, Atom Eve."