6670/This Place Blows

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This Place Blows
Date of Scene: 23 June 2021
Location: Empire Glassworx
Synopsis: Random encounter. Titans and Sif. Everyone is weirded out. Glitter is warned about. Ginny hopes to sign up a client without getting sent to Hel. Or Hell. Or anywhere else.
Cast of Characters: Terry O'Neil, Gar Logan, Sif, Kian

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "—and then Johnny Storm is getting sucked in and out of this white white hole in the middle of Central park, and I'm clinging to the Thing—and Cliff is throwing benches…" the Cheshire cat says as he approaches the door to Nick's gallery and workshop.  He has been regaling his boyfriend with the events of yesterday, whereby he and Robotman had joined the Thing and The Torch in some sort of experiment, and then a police woman had shown up.  And then everything had gone to hell.  "Long story short, I used my Rabbit Hole to collapse the two holes, and the world didn't end.  But you should really make some time to visit your old Doom Patrol buddy… he's going to wonder that you haven't reached out to him yet, you know."
    They step in. Vorpal had been meaning to talk to Nick for a while after the unfortunate Doppelganger incident.  There was that talk about a statue for the tower lobby, after all….
    "It occurs to me that you haven't apologized to Nick yet, have you?" he asks playfully, glancing at Gar while he references the events of the Themysciran ball, soon to be almost a year ago.  He takes in the sight of the gallery, always finding Nick's work rather spellbinding.  Even the more modern pieces that aren't exactly things he can understand very well… because they look like they should be in Wonderland, but have fewer dimensions than they ought to….

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan decided to come dressed normally, tagging along with Vorpal to the glass shop.  Today, that means the plain raglan shirt, with a white base and black sleeves.  It also means a pair of jeans and sneakers, along with a fiery-looking copper pendant of a phoenix hanging from a length of chain around his neck.
    "Yeah, hearing all that, it sounds wild.  I'm totally sure you kept the world from ending, absolutely."  He's not.
    The reminder of Robotman and the Doom Patrol has him looking momentarily uncertain.  "Yeah, but… I dunno, man."  He rubs the back of his head and neck a few times.  "It's been a while since I knew anything they've been up to, and… look, let's just focus on here for now, okay?  I'm not in the right mind to think about all of that."
    He's fidgeting!
    He's also quick to add, "I don't think I have anything to apologize for, either!"  The playfulness has him even more out of sorts, whether expected or not.  He lingers, looking at everything, realizing it is pretty damned good, but so far he keeps his opinions to himself.

Sif has posed:
    The arrival of a short anthropomorph and a green guy masks what would otherwise be an unusual entrance, thankfully.  Outside the gallery some trophy wife/soccer mom walking past stop and stares at the forward displays, lowering a pair of red shades to do that.  This by itself causes a bit of excitement as her sudden stop is the source of a near-collision.
    The man who dodged her seemed about to make something of it until he actually looked… and found himself staring at her upper chest, just below the neck.  Having to crane his neck to even see her face, his pugnacious attitude vanishes, completely disarmed, when a) he recognizes there's something more to this woman than he'd first guessed (the dagger at her hip likely helped that notion along), and b) she instantly and graciously apologized.
    "I am very sorry," she says in slightly stilted… wait, what language is that?  Kian hears it as Akiár'shak, for example while Terry hears it as English.  Though in all cases, if people are paying attention, they'll note that the mouth doesn't quite match the sounds they hear.  (If they pay VERY close attention the very SOUNDS don't match the sounds they think they hear.)
    At any rate, mini-drama ending quickly, the woman takes another glance at the display before backtracking to the entrance and stepping inside.  Practiced eyes sweep quickly over all those present, pausing briefly on each person with an assessing look before moving on.  Then, apparently having classified everybody present, she turns her attention to the statuary in the place, taking in the craftmanship and looking over them, intrigued.  (Not intriguing her?  The presence of a felinoid or a green teenager.)
    More clues that she's not what she seems: while she's dressed as a soccer mom—burgundy yoga pants, tie-dye babydoll, canvas sneakers—and could pass as a trophy wife, most trophy wives don't have hard-edged muscle visible tip to toe.  Most trophy wives don't have a bearing with quite the hauteur and arrogance she has (though the 'Karen' subset will match at least the arrogance).  Oh, and most trophy wives don't carry long daggers in jewelled scabbards suspended from rakishly-worn belts.
    The red clutch purse is on message, though.

Kian has posed:
    Kían keeps his wings pulled in tight.  He hasn't got a history of knocking things over with his wings, but glassware is unusually delicate, and he'd rather not be a line item on this month's Tower budget and on the wrong end of a lecture about being careful.  "Nik?" he asks mildly, and follows up with, "an' what did Gar do that he might haf to apologize for?"
    Fortunately, most glass studios have high ceilings, because air circulation is about as important as room to work, so even the gallery area is open enough for Kían's comfort.

    Ginny looks up from her terminal when the door opens.  Does she live at the studio?  Who knows.  "Oh, hey, Terry, wha—"  And then she notices he's not alone.  "Oh, God.  Please don't tell me there's another double or something," immediately worried that three Titans means three times the trouble.
    The train wreck of competing emotions that crosses her face is almost too brief to catch, but it is there: worry that the Titans' presence means there's going to be trouble, and instinctive professionalism in the face of someone who looks like she could be a serious client, and the overwhelming fear that three Titans means something that's going to screw up meeting a potential serious client.  It's a good thing Kían requires touch to make mental contact with Earth people—it would be dizzying.
    Professionalism wins—it would.  "Good afternoon, ma'am, and welcome to Empire Glassworx," she says automatically, "Is there anything I can assist you with?"  She glances at the three—cat, greenie and feathers—and just hopes for the best.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Oh no, Ginny—at ease, soldier."  The Cheshire cat grins and spreads his arms to gesture to his companions, "I'm just bringing my friends over. I wanted to see if Nick was in to talk about the piece…"
    The Cheshire cat trails off, as his whiskers twitch a little.  Green eyes notice the dagger first, and he tenses ever so slightly.  There is something about this woman, he decides, as Ginny goes to greet her.  It is enough to distract him so he doesn't dig into why Gar is so reticent to connect with his old buddy—
    Well.  Almost.  He will definitely bring that up soon.  But for now…
    He takes a few casual steps to see if he can get a better look at the woman.  Gar and Kian might notice that Something Is Interesting.  He sidles up to the woman, to see if he can get a better look at her face.

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan offers standard greetings to the one working in the place, but he remains on the quiet side for the time being.  Good chance, for those who know him like Vorpal and Kian, he's turning a bit introspective about one thing or another, though he's also giving a closer look at some of the pieces that have been made here.
    The presence of another patron here is no surprise.  After all, it is a place where goods are made and sold.  However, the way she's dressed runs counter to the body type from what he's familiar with, leading to his head canting toward one side in consideration.  "Hey… see anything you like?"  Catching himself, he clears his throat.  "I mean, with all this."  A gesture is made toward the glassworks.

Sif has posed:
    "These goods are made from transmuted gemstones?" the woman asks when Ginny addresses her, the startlingly azure eyes sweeping over the wares on display as if assessing them like assessing troops arrayed on the field of battle.  The eyes are then turned Gar's way.
    "Many of these have a beauteous delicacy about them that appeals, yes," she says, nodding.  "They remind me of works from…"  Her voice halts a bit, face flickering over a complex series of expressions.  "…my homeland," she finally decides upon.  "But with enough of a foreign flavour that they bear further scrutiny."
    Which she does.  Further scrutiny that is, stepping up to displays and viewing items in them from different angles, careful not to touch.
    A tactician among the group might notice she's contrived this way to ensure that all others in the place are in her field of vision, despite not being transparent about it.  In particular the one that appeared to take special interest in her is kept in the centre of her field of vision.
    But of course that's just coincidence.

Kian has posed:
    Ginny relaxes at Terry's remark… but not by much.  Sif's question, fortunately, snaps her back to the here and now, because Ginny is very good at her job.  "Gemstones?  No, glasswork, although one or two pieces have some minerals and minor gemstones incorporated," she explains, taking refuge in professionalism.  "This piece has a thin slice of agate carefully encased, for example…."

    Kían, for his part, reacts in a manner almost certainly unexpected by his companions.  He whips around and stares at Sif.  "Okh Akiár'shak p'sakár-taí?"  It sounds almost more like a demand than a question, and his eyes are wide.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry blinks for a second, not expecting Kian to pull a Klaatu Barada Nikto just like that.  Still, the birdman is decidedly one of the most grounded in reality of the newer generation of Titans, so he doesn't doubt for a moment that the smaller bird-man had a good reason for doing what he was doing.
    He just wasn't telepathic and didn't know what that reason was.
    He has been learning Kian's language… slowly, but he's been making an effort.  He walks up to Kian and puts a hand on his shoulder, because telepathic contact is useful… {Did you just ask her… how she knows the language?  I could swear I didn't hear her speak a word of it…}
    To Sif, he gives a smile and says, "Sorry, my friend here is the very curious sort…."  Pot, meet kettle.

Sif has posed:
    It's time for mounting confusion.
    Sif smiles politely at Kían, saying apologetically, "I'm terribly sorry.  I didn't learn your language."  Which Kían hears in perfect Akiár'shak.  And which Terry hears in perfect English.  (And which some passing old woman from Sicily might hear in the obscure Sicilian dialect of her home village, had such an old woman existed outside of an example.)  "I know it must be unnerving, but please, no offence is intended."
    The words are placating.  The body language carefully non-threatening.  The free hand resting on the hilt of the dagger.
    Just in case.
    "This is mere glass?" she asks Ginny, then, blinking in surprise.  "It is rare to see such craftsmanship in glass.  I am quite impressed."

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan withdraws his phone to take a few pictures of pieces that draw his attention.  "I might call you later about some of these," he explains to Ginny.
    A couple texts are sent, if the tapping and sliding of a couple thumbs and fingers over the screen is a sign, and by the time he's glancing up again he picks out Sif taking them all in, but mostly he's staring between Kian and Vorpal after the former speaks in the Akiar tongue.  He knows a few words, especially since he can be one, and his brows knit together just a bit.
    "Exactly who are you?" he asks her, point blank.

Kian has posed:
    Terry doesn't get much beyond agitation (and a translation of what the birdman said).  Kían stares helplessly at Sif.  Clearly she understood him: she answered him, she understood what he said, and yet… «I don't understand,» he says in his own language.  «I heard you in my language, but… but it looks like Gar and Téri can understand you too, and I know they don't speak my language past a couple words.  I don't understand,» he repeats, deflating a little.

    Ginny shoots a look at Terry like this is all his fault.  Well, it kind of is, since he brought the other two Titans here, and for all she knows, this lady is attracted to High Weirdness.  Which, if she is, means Nick shares a little blame too, even if he's not here.  Weirdness is as weirdness does.  Still, she sounds completely composed as she says, "We have a number of really incredible artisans working out of this studio.  I'm afraid you caught us at a bad time; the ones who are normally in today, one's out overseeing an installation and the other had a family emergency.  Usually it's pretty lively back there," she winds up, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the studio area.
    She flicks Terry another look.  This is definitely all his fault.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry looks absolutely, positively innocent.  Nope.  No fault of his own, no skin off his nose and no salt on his tail!  When Gar asks the question, Terry has had some time to get a good look at the woman's face.  And the fact that her lips do not exactly match the sounds coming out, when she speaks.  It's like watching a Spaghetti Western where some of the actors are native English speakers, and others are native Italian speakers who have gotten dubbed over.  For a moment, he expects a tumbleweed to pass through—except that Ginny would really blame him for that.
    Fortunately for him, it doesn't happen.  And the redhead tilts his head, brow furrowing slightly.
    "You're not speaking English," he observes very calmly.  It's certainly not accusatory.  "There is some magic at work?"  This is just what Kian needs—magic.  The wrench in the works that makes 'how is this possible?' answerable with 'Because, DEAL!', which is probably not ideal for the little bird-man.  Although, it shouldn't be too unfamiliar…
    {Didn't you learn a good chunk of English thanks to that Language spell Garth cast?}

Sif has posed:
    Gar's question, while brusquely put, is a fair one.  Sif magnanimously overlooks the rudeness.  I mean how were they to know they're in the presence of divinity, after all?
    "I am," she says courteously, addressing Gar, but clearly speaking to all, "The Lady Sif of Asgard.  I am known by the sobriquets Sif the All-Seeing, Sif the Valiant, Gentlest of the Gentle, and Sif the Unstoppable."  If she's noticed the subtle contradiction of one of the sobriquets she's showing no sign of it.  "I am Field General of the Asgardian Court and one of the Valkyrior, formerly the Valkyrie Herself before my friend Brunnhilde took up that mantle.  I have also been called Goddess of War."
    She says this in an oddly boasting way devoid of puffed-up pride, reciting it in an almost sing-song way as if this were well-practiced introduction from a predominantly oral culture.
    To Kian she then adds, sympathy across her face as she realizes the bemusement, "And the effect which bewilders you so is a result of the Allspeak.  What I speak is understood by all in the Nine Realms as if it is their own language, and what they speak is understood by me in return.  It is the way of Asgard."
    Addressing all once again, she asks politely, "And whom have I the honour of addressing?"

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan says, "Asgard, huh?  Well, we know about Thor," Gar replies, squinting at all of the titles given.  "You just stood out to me more because of all the fashion faux pas you've got going on there."  Her attire, of course, gets pointed out, but he leaves it there for the time being.  Kian is unlikely to have any tips, but Vorpal might.
    He goes on to explain, "We're members of the Titans.  You're talking to the All Green, All the Time Beast Boy, Beast Boy the Unserious, also known as Tork in Space Trek: 2222, also known as everyone in the indie hit retelling of The Jungle Book.  Okay, so it was a little less than a hit, but it wasn't completely rotten on the Tomatometer."
    Out with the phone again, another text sent off."

Kian has posed:
    Kían bows slightly, not spreading his wings—he wouldn't want to knock anything over.  "Kían s'Kái'Erýn t'Káeh," he says, although she might hear it as 'Kían, of Kái and Erýn of the Hawk clan'.  "An' even if it iss not properly my language," he says, switching back to English (or what passes for it) for the benefit of his friends, "it iss good to hear it anyway."  He grips Gar's shoulder and Terry's arm; they can sense what it means to him to be able to converse even briefly in his own language.  {It only gave me a boost, not the whole language.  I'm further ahead than I would have been, but full fluency was only temporary.  I hope I didn't make you crazy talking my head off, but it had been so long since I could be easily understood.}

    Ginny hears 'Asgard' and sits back a little, picking up her tea mug but not quite able to raise it to her lips yet.  This has gotten a little bit beyond Lois 'fun interviewer' Lane and is starting to rival beating seven kinds of Technicolor hell out of her own doppelganger earlier this year.
    She lives in Brooklyn.  Of course she has a black belt in judo, sometimes she has to walk places.
    She doesn't glare at Terry, but the look clearly says, 'This is totally your fault.'

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry blinks.  Titles were being spoken, and he feels he is a little under/dressed for that.  Which is something that can be easily fixed, as the redhead flips his bracelet over and looks into his eyes, reciting the Magic Words…
    And then Vorpal is standing there.  "I wasn't entirely sure… but I was wondering.  As I live and breathe, The Lady Sif herself!"
    Out of all of the Asgardians, it's Sif who makes his reporter senses go off—because, at least from the mythological aspect, she is the one people know very little about.  In extant surviving manuscripts, most mentions of her are very incipient… and, after his time with Troia, he has come to expect that most mythology got its facts wrong anyway.
    "I am the Cheshire Cat of Wonderland, formerly Omnipresent Inconveniencer of the Monarchy of Hearts.  Presently of the Titans… and of the Daily Planet."  His green eyes glitter with curiosity, and he grins, "And I also have had the distinction of glitter-bombing Thor.  He didn't… uh… spend about a week or two combing glitter out of his hair, did he?"
    Hey, any claim to fame…

Sif has posed:
    Sif visibly commits each name, each title, each mannerism to memory as people introduce themselves.
    All but Ginny.
    Azure eyes pierce her, then, as Sif raises an eyebrow.  "I heard not your name in the boisterousness of the others," she says in a kindly tone.  "And yet it is you who appear attached to this place of trade.  It would be unseemly of me to refer to you in the third person."
    Giving Ginny time to think of how to reply, the goddess eyes Terry, now in his vorpal war form, with frank curiosity.
    "Doing what to the Crown Prince?" she asks, a little bemusedly.  Apparently large colourful cat: Tuesday.  Glitter-bombing Thor: EXPLAIN GLITTER-BOMBING, MORTAL!!!!111oneoneoneeleventyone!!  "And I don't recall ever seeing the Crown Prince comb his hair, no."
 Not comb out glitter….

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose at about the time glitter is brought up.  "Yeah, he kind of has a thing for that," he remarks, sending Vorpal a quick look.  "It gets everywhere, too."
    Following this, he squints in Sif's direction.  "Hold on.  Are you saying Thor doesn't need to comb his hair, that it just looks like that all the time?"  A hand goes up to his, which never seems to be anything but unruly.
    It may be he's not quite sure how to act around Asgardians, leaving him trying to just play it cool and casual instead.

Kian has posed:
    Ginny jerks like she was poked with a pin—or a shard of glass.  "Uh.  Ginny.  Virginia De Luca.  But Ginny, please.  Only Nonna Rizzo calls me Virginia."  Looks at cat.  YOUR FAULT.  "I'm really sorry none of the talent are here today.  They're always interesting to watch.  Especially Nick."  Another look at Terry.  "You seriously glittered Thor?"

    Kían can't help but snicker.  "Terry tenár'h iss known for his use of glitter.  I think we are lucky it iss glitter an' not honey—"  He turns on Terry.  "An' that was NOT a suggestion."
    Better safe than sorry.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Aaaah, sei Italiana?  Ma, doviamo parlare…"  The Cheshire cat turns to Sif now, and grins as tales of his war prowess are told.  "The art of the glitter bomb is a mystic art destined to render your opponent surprised and easy to find in the field of battle.  Imagine, if you will, infinitesimally small squares of shiny metal, of variegated colors, stuffed into devices designed for convenient release.  Once released, these little bits of metal fall upon the target in a veritable tidal wave of light, color and shininess.  It clings to the skin.  The clothes.  The hair.  Everywhere.  And it is in this fashion that, even after the fires of battle have subsided and the conflict is but an old memory, your foe shall one day be in the middle of their daily ablutions and lo—!"
    The cat spreads his arms wide, and for a moment some people might be thanksful that Loki and Vorpal have not yet properly been introduced, because only Odin knows what mischief could arise from there, "Out of a wrinkle, a crevice, a hair, an ear or any other orifice, glittering remnants of your glory shall appear, and they will scream to the sky in vexation, 'No more **** glitter!', for it has been MONTHS and they are still finding them!  And it is in this manner that your foes shall keep you ever-present in their minds, and your glory shall be tenfold multiplied by the constant revival of their hatred, the perpetual restoking of their fire!"
    He pauses, and then grins.  "—it just so happens that Thor got some of the overflow.  But, in my defense, it was a very big target, and he was in the way."

Sif has posed:
    Sif nods graciously at Ginny as she introduces herself.  "Ginny, it shall be then, Ginny of Luca.  And I, too, am bereaved at having lost the opportunity to witness artisans in action.  While a warrior I may be, I know and understand the appeal of talent driven by hard work and practice in reaching full potential.  I have none but respect for the arts and the crafts, despite my relative crudity in same."
    Again her eyes swivel to the rest.  "When the Crown Prince deigns to have combed hair at all, he has servants to do the job correctly."  Her eyes dance with amusement as she regards Gar.  "He is the heir to the Throne of Asgard and future ruler of the Nine Realms, after all.  He has more important things to spend time on than his hair."
    Vorpal gets a more narrow-eyed stair.  "If I did not know better, having only recently left his side, I would swear that you speak and act like the Younger Prince Loki.  I feel it might be instructive having the two of you meet."
    "Far away from any others."
    "In perpetuity thereafter."

Gar Logan has posed:
    Gar Logan gestures with his palms up, phone still in one hand.  "I could get someone to comb my hair and I don't think it'd make any difference.  And, kitten, that's a very roundabout way of describing the evils of glitter.  Don't be swayed by it," he finished by saying to Sif.
    Did he just call Vorpal… kitten?
    Talk of Loki leads to him simply shaking his head.  "In the annals of Bad Ideas, that would go down as one of the all-timers.  We do not need to see that happen."
    About that time, another thing pops up on his phone and he gives the device a brief frown.  "Hate to do this, but I gotta split.  Family stuff.  Nothing bad, so don't worry."  Because Vorpal would.  "Nice to meet you, Lady Sif of All the Things, tie-dye doesn't really go with yoga pants, I'll catch up with you afterward," said to cat and bird, "and I'll be in touch with you," added to Ginny.
    On his way out the door, after giving both Vorpal and Kian a quick hug prior to departure, he adds, "And before I forget… arrivederci."
    Once outside, should Sif still be keeping tabs on him, she'll see what he's capable of as he turns quickly into a green bird of some fashion and darts off into the sky.

Kian has posed:
    Much too innocently, Kían asks, "Loki?"

    "Don't go there, birdman," Ginny says, sharp but not hostile.  "Just don't go there."

    Kían blinks at Ginny, without much comprehension, and hugs Gar before he goes… then looks innocently at Ginny.  "Go where?  I am for now stayin' in this room…."

    Ginny sighs and shakes her head.  "Never mind," she says and gives Terry a genuinely venomous look.  "Grandma speaks Italian.  I don't, outside of 'grandma' and a few swear words she let fly when she thought I couldn't hear."  Taking a moment to recompose herself, she addresses Sif in a much more respectful—or at least neutral—tone: "If you would care to wait, I expect some of our talent back within the hour.  If not, I believe at least three of our regulars are slated to be here most of tomorrow."  Because Ginny will not let the chance of a commission go easily.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    At this, the Cheshire cat's interest clearly is piqued.  Despite Gar's admonitions, the idea clearly seems to take root somewhere.  "Prince Loki, indeed?  Why, that sounds like the meeting of a lifetime."  He gives Kian a sidelong glance, and adds, "Loki the Trickster, He of the silver tongue, the god of Mischief.  Three years ago, he led an assault on New York—it was a bit of an event.  My mom's car got totaled by a falling light post…."  He chuckles at a sudden realization.  "I guess it must be a family tradition," considering that his own car was destroyed during the Warworld invasion.
    Glancing back at Sif, the cat strokes his chin.  "It would certainly be interesting.  I know the draw of chaos and mischief… it's what I used to do in Wonderland a lot…."  He glances at Sif.  "But I imagine you are unaware of Wonderland, being such a relatively young realm. Barely five hundred years old, an instant to one such as you…."
    And then, the Little Lois on his shoulder nudges him.  "I also happen to work for one of the most reputable newspapers—chroniclers—in Metropolis, the Daily Planet.  Perhaps you might do me the honor of an interview one day?  Mortals know so little of you, our records are so incomplete.  It would only be just to correct that omission…."

Sif has posed:
    "I have learned of your short-term historians," Sif reassures the giant colourful cat.  Which she is seeing despite having not had any mead whatsoever for at least one and a half hours.  "The embassy has warned me against them many times now."
    So much for any hope of an interview.
    "Shocking that they would think I would fear untruthful wordsmiths," she continues.
    Interview hopes rising.
    "The price of perfidy would be much to high for any mortal to wish to pay."
    Hopes of editorial buy-in fading.
    "But I'm certain that isn't even going to be an issue with you.  You seem forthright.  You revealed to me your true form without even my request.  I see no reason to fear your words."
    And we have interview!

Kian has posed:
    Ginny is texting.  If anyone could see what she was sending, it might be impolitic, because the message is "Get your ass back here, this is too fucking weird for me" and sent to Nick Lytton… but Ginny is a professional and no one can see her texting that, and for that matter it would take a keen eye to see her sending the message in the first place.

    Kían has a keen eye, but his attention is on Terry, who is, sad to say, his grounding in reality here.  He doesn't know Ginny.  He doesn't know Sif.  Gar has left.  So he's dependent on Terry as his anchor to the real world.
    Poor sap.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Rest assured, you need not fear any falsehood from me.  My impulse for mischief takes the form of harmless pranks… and the occasional glitterbomb.  I reserve the worst of it for miscreants and criminals.  But the Daily Planet prides itself on honesty and accountability… why, it is because of that that I made my secret identity public, so that what I wouldn't have to lie in my reports.  My life is an open book…."  He pauses, and then he grins.  "Literally, in fact.  Does the Alltongue also work on writing?  Because you might enjoy a book I am in called 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'… but we may speak of that later!"
    He spares a pitying glance to Ginny, realizing he is putting some stress on the poor woman.  But he does have a job to do.  "Shall I call for you at the Embassy at your convenience?  After the interview, I have an inkling…."  He taps his chin.
    "Have you ever met Diana of Themyscira, Daughter of Zeus?  I may be mistaken, but I think the two of you might make good friends.  But that might be a matter for later.  I see I have been detaining poor Ginny by distracting her potential clients," he smiles at Ginny, and then at Sif.
    "But let us go for that interview at your earliest convenience."  He reaches over and takes Kian's hand, the signal to snap the poor bird from his staring puzzlement and indicate that they can go home now!

Sif has posed:
    Sif opens her small white clutch and starts rooting around inside it.  Her hand goes in quite a bit farther than the purse would seem to support.  Further, as she roots around in it she starts to take items out, trying to find whatever it is that she's after.
    On the counter appear a whetstone a vial containing some kind of oil.  A handful of gold coins, various sizes.  A roll of cash.  It looks like 50s.  Another roll of 50s.  Another roll consisting predominantly of 20s.  A dagger.  More coins.
    And finally her phone.
    The rest of the possessions are stuffed back into the poor abused throat of the clutch.
    "I have Tinder," she says, holding up her phone.  "No, that is for other purposes.  Uh… Instagram?  I cannot keep track of these mortal trends.  Whichever of these it is that is for interpersonal communication."  She hands her phone, a FrostPhone 5000, to Terry.  "Whichever one it is, put your information in and we shall let our golems interact to arrange this 'interview'."
    Ginny gets a solemn nod.  "While I cannot stay for the nonce, I shall return again, both to witness your artisans in their works, but also to purchase some.  I must inspect my room here, and my halls at home to see which items would best suit the decor already in place."
    If only she'd cared for her clothing with the same level of attention to detail….

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    The series of expressions that didn't pass through Vorpal's face in a microsecond is absolutely amazing.  In the scale of facial expressivity, it would have to be measured in at least four hundred MicroChannings.  It would be a lie to say that entire scenarios—nay, plays—nay, operettas didn't pass through the Cheshire's mind when the question of how, exactly, Tinder is working out for the Lady Sif is contemplated.  He knows there are a great deal of insecure men who cannot date women who are smarter, or stronger, than they are.  In the midst of such insecurity, Sif must be like a sparkler in the midst of a gas leak.  Oh, to be a fly on that wall…
    "This is my Instagram…."  He enters the information, as requested.  "There, now we follow each other, and you can send me a message!"  He pauses, and then adds, "For the interview, you might want to wear your traditional Asgardian clothes for the photographs… Midgardians will love to see that!"
    And maybe, after the interview, he might take her clothes shopping.  It seems that, at least as far as the realm of Midgardian fashion goes, Sif is in dire need of a Gay Friend.
    "Until then, Lady Sif—a pleasure.  Ginny, we'll see you soon!" Terry says, as he exits the venue with Kian.  They will, indeed, see her soon again.
    Too soon, perhaps, by her standards.