4295/Chance Encounters in New York still happen believe it or not.

Chance Encounters in New York still happen believe it or not.
Date of Scene:	03 December 2020
Location:	Upper East Side
Synopsis:	Spy Museums get all times. Illyana and Mark Milton end up chatting about it.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Hyperion

---

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
On the front of it, the Spyscape Museum shouldn't stand out. Anything devoted to actual espionage really ought to be overlooked, forgettable. An office building in a dull park somewhere on the outskirts; a basement stuffed with server equipment. Some rented empty flat with the equivalent of a fly-by-night company wedged in. This is a bit different, the line snaking out the door into the cold taking advantage of a rare discounted day in New York. Maybe espionage has a delicious flavour given the candor of certain spies come to the light; the redheaded Avenger and her bow-wielding counterpart as a good example. Though someone who might actually fit the mold, in her way, is far less obviously such a thing at all.

Slipping out the front doors through a turnstyle produces a weary chime from the building, a flash that goes off threatening to dazzle those Arctic pale eyes. Shifting her weight, flicking her chin down to conceal her gaze behind that thick fringe helps. Some. It's a grotesque game of what was actually played in Russia; a hideous reminder of possibilities gone awry, insensible games between superpowers played to fatal consequences. Probably meant to go on their social media page, but she frowns slightly. A hissing word to nothing in particular passes, her breath steaming in the chill.

Give or take ten minutes, and something's going to slither or jounce out of the shadows to erase that memory. But until then, she has to catch her bearings while mildly light-dazzled.

Hyperion has posed:
    I mean really, would not the best museum dedicated to spycraft be like.. an empty warehouse? Giving nothing away, and telling everyone that they aren't cleared to know and should just move along?
    But things like this -are- of interest to the newcomer to this Earth. Mark Milton.. in a red flannel buttondown and loose-fit blue-jeans.. he stands in line to get inside along with the others nearby.
    Yeah. he's going to pay admission and follow the rules. That's what he does. His auburn hair needs a cut. That's what he thinks as a lock of it drops down to get in the way of one of his blue eyes. And so a hand comes up to brush it back up into the rest of his hair even as he draws his 'totally for show' coat about his shoulders a bit more tightly. I mean he doesn't -feel- the cold, but he needs to keep up appearances, right?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Just a gift shop. One that traces materials and threatens to note that insecure use of an RFID chip is bound to give away one's secrets. Possibly just a branch of the DMV that isn't.

Things like this are what humanity revolves around, the open secrets and awareness that conspiracies exist all around, but few people really stop and pay attention. Intelligence agencies given acronyms by the jumble aren't so impressive, are they? More important to catch the 6 or get tickets to the off-off-Broadway getting all the rave reviews, the one about the tortured relationship and the woke people chipping away at the system. Yeah, that's how it goes, the blare of newspapers and several shrill twenty-somethings yammering about it. Right. That's the important moment that keeps Illyana stopped.

"Excuse me." Two words, that Russian accent. It's sure to snap heads in the crowd, widen a few eyes. Blonde in a black coat, definitely chic; the kind of femme fatale projected on the big screen. If trouble has a colour, she'd fit the design, right? The whispers around Mark rise and fall. It's a curiosity, the word "Commie" repeated by some of the older people there. She smirks, doesn't meet their eyes, headed out of that dark entrance.

Lives crossing. Lives in passing. New York likes to screw those up.

Hyperion has posed:
    Well, in the modern day and age... Russia isn't exactly the Soviet Union, is it? Mark does notice the distinctive accent though, and his eyes flicker in that direction. And they linger. What? MALE! One corner of his mouth lifts in that sort of tiny start of a smile many people can't help but project when they see something (or someone) they consider attractive. But again, that only lasts for a moment before his face goes back to normal.
    But after that, he inclines his head. "Forgive my curiosity." he says in his trademark Midwest accent. "And I do not mean to offend, but.. I really hope your name isn't Natasha. Because mine is certainly not Boris." Yeah. His best skills in life really are...
1) Bad jokes
2) Overkill
3) Bad Jokes.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
It's not the Soviet Union and it is. No planned economies, full of kleptocrats instead. Ruled not by a dynasty of ancient men but one very powerful one, fearless, ambitious. Importantly the tasks set out before people are the same; loss, hardship, not enough wherever they are, whether in the weathered villages little changed after two centuries or among Moscow's twenty million.

Pulling her hair around to the side, the blonde steps forth to the trafficked sidewalk, melting into the many people streaming up and down even in the cold. But the heel doesn't land, the toes don't touch down.

Illyana stops, the slow swivel acknowledging the direction the voice comes from. She certainly hears Mark; he's not entirely estranged from the spectrum of familiar accents. "Nyet," she replies. "more of a Ivan or Anatoliy, with colour like that." If he doesn't speak Russian, he's not alone. Best jokes in life are the sharpest, subtlest ones.

After all, Anatoliy means sunrise. It may be more apt than either know.

Hyperion has posed:
    Indeed. Some -have- called Hyperion the man with the power of the sun. But that was back when he was with his friends in the Squadron Supreme. Here, he's trying to help out, but also trying to start over and build a new life when he can't go home again.
    His smile becomes more of a boyish grin at the response, and he bobs his head. "Please forgive the joke. I am always told that my jokes are dad jokes. But since I am not a father, that makes me a faux pa." Yes, he pronounced the last word of that more like the old west Pa than the French term.
    "And now you must forgive my humor once more. Sometimes I just can't help it." he says as he shakes his head, "But no, I am not an Eevan, or Anatoly." (Spelled the way he pronounces them. He doesn't know Russian, but he does know that Ivan is not supposed to be pronounced Eye-Van.)
    A hand extends, and he says, "My name is actually much more simple. Mark."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Man with the sun, man burning bright. Whatever it is, he's simply marked in some way. Russians are what they are, a people shrouded in cool stoicism and dark, almost elemental humour stretching to the morbid. Her gaze follows as Mark nods, giving some measure to the joke between dad and pa. Maybe it sails over her head. Things like that often do for second language speakers. Nuances they just don't have; but then, they don't have Charles Xavier's command of language encoded into their mind, their bones. "Mark. Like the saint, da? St Mark's Square." A hand held up gives some recognition thus, though she glances back. "Prettier there than here. This is a place about being anything but."

Hyperion has posed:
    "You might say that. But I am no saint." offers Mark with a shrug. "So, what's this place like?" he asks as he gestures to the museum. "Or have you not been inside yet? If not, perhaps you might join me?" he asks as he steps a bit to one side as if making room beside him.
    His is the sort of countenance that shows he isn't careful about much. He just truly deep down believes he can't really be hurt. So he has that confidence born of having little fear. Plenty of regrets, but little fear. For those who have seen it before, that is difficult to miss.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Nyet?" A question that hangs in the balance owes no response, lingering in quiet silence. Laconic, this one. She isn't particularly given to talking at length, but that's hardly all that unsurprising, is it? Americans are measured by a different yardstick altogether. "I have come out. I can return. Your eyes are different from mine, da?" Why not? The price isn't considerable and it gives more time for one of her subjects to do away with that annoying photograph snapped by something or other. Some poor camera.

"Why see this?"

Hyperion has posed:
    Well, Mark has no idea about any photographs or whatnot. But he shrugs and replies to the inquiry by offering, "Well, I haven't seen it before. And.. I figure places like this should be seen at -least- once in a person's lifetime, eh?" he asks.
    "I mean it's that, or I could offer to buy you a cup of coffee.. maybe tea." He smirks and adds, "I thought the museum might be more... unique than the usual invitation."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana doesn't answer that question, giving an easy and minor shrug of her shoulders. Again, restraint; it's all about that, especially where she is involved. The cool air flows around as she falls back into line, technically cutting. Hopefully no one complains, and an invitation is an invitation. Not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, her.

She tilts her head slightly to watch. "Usual invitation?" That warrants the slightest hints of a smirk, scarce more, but she's not complaining. Neither is she an effusive bumblebee; it's part of what and who she is, no doubt. Or the show. "What do you think it should have? A spy museum, that is."

Hyperion has posed:
    Nodding his head, Mark shrugs his shoulders, "I mean, it always seems to me that invitations to get a cup of coffee or a drink at a bar are just... far too common. Why not make it interesting and enjoy company at the same time as enjoying the museum?"
    And then he tilts his head left, then right, and adds, "As for what to expect inside... I highly doubt that it'll include anything in the spy movies. Or at least.. not much that is in them."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
There's no epiphany on the doorstep, no sudden burst of a surprise. "Spy museum, da? Cold War enemies, now friends. Or we live in the same neighbourhood." Hers isn't a Muscovite accent, but so far to the east it's practically falling into the Pacific Ocean after tripping over Mongolia or the northern reaches of Korea to get there. Such is life. Mark is given his own reasoning with a nod, and she slides through the first of those twisty corridors marked by printed newspapers, fake pinhole cameras, and a panoply of faces from Civil War Pinkerton heroes to actual Cold War heroes and beyond. A few cases contain gear suggesting what lies ahead.