7661/Quente means HOT!

Quente means HOT!
Date of Scene:	02 September 2021
Location:	Palm Tree Boulevard and Main Street
Synopsis:	New allies found after frank exchanges of values.
Cast of Characters:	Beatriz da Costa, Michael Erickson

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
    There she was just a-walkin' down the street,
    Burnin' from her fingers and scorchin' from her feet,
    ...

OK, bad paraphrasing of Manfred Mann aside, there is a woman walking down the street, and she's attracting a lot of attention. Briefly. Before people shrug and move on.

Apparently former models walking without a stitch of clothing on down the street in the late afternoon as the sun starts to get that ever-so-slight hint of red are a common occurence.

Especially when the naked woman is flaming bright green.

And that is where the mystery is laid bare. Beatriz has become a daily facet of life and she's well known both as Beatriz da Costa and as her alter ego, as now, Fire.

Spending the afternoon window-shopping while she enjoyed the sunlight without the constraint of clothing? That's heaven to her. And if it helps make other people's lives more surreal, so much the better.

Michael Erickson has posed:
There is a fire. Green fire. There are many chemicals that can produce such a blaze, most of them horrifically consumptive and largely violent. That's what he sees from on high as he streaks by, a red-chromed meteor; meant to be a practice flight, the sensors of the suit his consciousness currently steers are sharp enough to pick out the flickering column of green plasma from thirty thousand feet, but the pilot does not think of the possibility that the embodiment of said flame would be so...well. Beatriz-shaped. And so does the Red Sentinel, in his new incarnation of a gleaming red metallic body that's a cross between a murderous Art Deco hood ornament and an anatomical model. Descending. At supersonic velocities. There's a sonic boom and all.

But when he reaches the sidewalk, he's slowed down enough that when he lands it's with just a bit of a rumble and no damage to the pavement. The winglike aerofoils that extrude from the underside of his arms remain so as he descends, the violet glow of its helmet's v-shaped visor surging slightly as he finally makes landfall. << ...Good evening, >> he says in a voice that's as stern as it is polite, needing a moment to start as he sees that the green flame is in the shape of...well. Of Beatriz. << Is everything quite all right? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
Bea's face registers amusement, though until someone gets used to how the roiling plasma that is her Fire form acts it can be hard to work out her expression. "Yes, it's all fine," she says in a pleasant voice, tilting her head curiously at the ... thing? ... person ... who came out of the sky to inquire as to her health.

Or, probably, other people's.

"I don't think I've met you before. Are you in the habit of swooping down to chat up hot girls?"

Sure her face is hard to read. But she knows EXACTLY what she just did.

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Quite a lot of hot girls on this planet, >> he replies, hands on his hips -- the wing-foils flatten back against his arms, but their suspiciously blade-like edges remain visible. << Very few of them literally so, in my experience. But... >> The general disinterest of the populace is noted, now, as he tears his senses away from her general 'heat' to their reactions. << ...I see that you appear to be harmless to the population. Physically, at any rate. >>

Back to Beatriz. << Well. I suppose I've wasted your time. I'm sorry about that, Miss...? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Beatriz da Costa. Bea. Also known as Fire, once of Justice League International." She makes the helpless shrug. "I'm guessing you've been sleeping under a rock for the past decade or so and didn't know about the model who sets things alight."

At this she chuckles musically.

"But yeah, generally I'm harmless to the population. I kinda more protect them. Today I just wanted to walk around comfortably, so ... like this instead of my non-inflamed form."

A slight smirk forms on her face.

"I'd offer to show you that, but I'm out in public and it would get awkward." I'm not wearing any clothes, you see, and ... well ..."

Michael Erickson has posed:
<> No time for public nudity, Doctor Jones! The armored figure looks down the other end of the street for a moment before finally returning his attention upon the beautiful, flaming shape of her. << I don't have the bandwidth to know every single metahuman on this planet, I'm afraid. But it's good to meet you, Miss da Costa. I'm called the Red Sentinel. Obscure, but I've been about for quite some time so it's just dumb, bad luck that I've missed you in the past. >> A redchromed hand is offered her, the fire apparently no concern in the moment. <>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
Bea extends her hand and shakes, without any excess heat leaking. She apparently has tight control over the heat of her plasma. "And it's easy enough to have missed me. I retired for a while after ..." Her face grows tight. Pensive. "There was an incident. I was there for it and had to ... I lost everything. All this, I mean." She gestures at the body. "The flames. So I concentrated on fashion."

She snorts a little then. "So really I'm more surprised you don't know me from fashion magazines than as Fire. Fire was a long time ago and I only restarted a while ago with the Genosha thing."

Michael Erickson has posed:
Ah. An incident. << There's always an incident, Miss da Costa, >> he replies, his voice taking on a momentarily softer tone. << I'm sorry that it happened, especially if it took you out of the game. But I don't follow fashion, I'm afraid. If you saw me out of this suit you'd probably say that's an understatement. >> Giving her hand a firm shake, he extracts it. The wings, oh so suspiciously guillotine-shaped, have slid soundlessly into his arm plates. << Well. I don't want to distract you from your...walk? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Window-shopping," Bea finishes helpfully. "And, truth be told, showing off a bit. I like being the centre of attention and I think people ..."

She suddenly takes to the air in a burst of flame to arc up and over and behind a teenaged boy.

"... like this one! ..."

And just as quickly she's back in front of Michael.

"... who think I don't notice them taking footage are adorable."

She turns and waves at the shell-shocked kid, blowing him a kiss. That flies in green plasma from her lips to dissipate just before his camera. (Kid has good instincts. He kept the camera running.)

"He'll get some clout on social media now for sure," she says to Michael, grinning broadly.

Michael Erickson has posed:
With the armor - and a lack of a face - it's hard to tell /what/ expression might have registered at /that/ little show. Instead, she gets a slightly distorted chuckle as she returns, shaking his head and nodding. << Well at least you know what you want, >> he replies, amusement written all over that vaguely mechanical tone. << So you just wander around out here, on fire and naked as they day? I mean the display is lovely, certainly, but I assume you're protected from the elements. What if it rains? >> Dumb questions time. Or perhaps not. Maybe he's just messing with her.

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"If it starts raining," Bea says with a deadpan face, "it depends on how much. A real downpour ... I might wind up having a bad day." She chuckles again. "Or I might wind up making a hasty purchase of clothing and changing quickly."

She gestures at the street.

"It's not as if there's nowhere close by to do that, right?" Then a wicked look crosses her face. "And of course there's always the people hoping I don't make it."

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Hey, I don't make any assumptions. >> His head tracks the sky. << Well, the weather's supposed to be nice today, so your modesty is safe. >> Such as it might be, center of attention and all. Likely the 'making it' has nothing to do with survival, either. The smirk that doesn't register is audible in his voice. << Well. Please, feel free, Miss da Costa. I don't want to get in your way - I'll just tag along, if you don't mind. I'm curious. >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"It's always nice to have company when looking at shop fronts. I do apologize in advance, however. This will be hopelessly girly."

No sooner has she finished this before she pauses in front of a motorcycle shop, staring at (and giving every sign of drooling over) some of the racing bikes shown.

"You know, I can crack Mach 4 if I give it a bit of effort, but nothing quite feels like being on one of these babies and flying down the road without regard for personal or public safety."

What follows is a surprising amount of deep knowledge of engines, manifolds, transmissions, gearboxes and all the other things that are approximately as ungirly as you can possibly get as she crouches next to, sits astride, and generally geeks out over the bike.

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Making assumptions, I see. >> He chuckles, following her along. And, of course, behold, there is a land vehicle, and she is cooing over it. He knows a good bit about the machine himself, of course, but given this whole planet is basically one big living history exhibit where technology is concerned he more politely smiles and nods as she gushes over the details. Good thing she's on fire, of course. Dealerships tend to frown on bare skin of the lower regions mounting the merchandise.

<< It's a different experience, certainly, >> he offers instead, hands tucked behind his metal beck. <>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Half of the appeal is, of course, the massive vibrating machinery between your thighs," Bea opines with a wink. "Teaches you to concentrate really hard no matter what the distraction."

She stands up then, and continues moving down the street, chattering away about random things that pass her vision.

She's one of those.

A talker.

And the next stop...

A dress shop. Which she spends as much time on as she did the motorcycle earlier. Looking at one dress in particular that ... well ... it looks like someone repurposed a scarf.

And not a very wide one.

Michael Erickson has posed:
<> Well, not with a metal crotch, one assumes. He follows politely as he goes along, listening to her talk, noting the city as they go - he's trained to soak up information, after all, and he's a good listener by extension. Armored hands behind armored back, that faintly glowing visor taking in who knows what.

And then they're at the dress shop. Behold! A wrapper for her naughties. Barely. Without speculating on the actual structural integrity of such a garment, or how the public might respond to her andering around in it, he eects to say, simply, << An exotic choice. Do you think you will buy it? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"You think that's daring?" Bea looks at Michael with genuine surprise. "I wear much more daring stuff than that at the beach." She pauses a moment, then considers. "I'm from Brazil you understand. We think differently than Americans. Less ... how you say ... puritanical."

She gestures to the dress.

"That's a perfect summer dress I think. But I won't be buying it now because, well, I'd need to try it on when I'm not on fire. That's why I'm window-shopping right now, not buying. I need to try this kind of thing on when I'm flesh and blood."

Michael Erickson has posed:
It's a good point, of course, but Michael chuckles. <> he points out, << Not daring. But absolutely, exotic to the location in which it has been found. >> He looks to her, sweeping his own uncommon eye over her again. Can he see through the fire? Would he admit to it if he could? << Why do you feel the need to be the center of attention, if I might ask? You are very obviously among the most beautiful women the city has likely known. >> He can think of a few that rank up there, including a particular professor of marine biology of his recent association. Where /is/ she, anyway?

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"I come from ... a place most people don't like to think about. The barros in the slums of Sao Luis in Maranhao. Maranhao is a poor state, and coming from the slums? We didn't have a lot of money."

The tone is purely conversational, like she's describing a story she's heard, not something she's lived. As if she's distancing herself from her past.

"So I make money. We have a nice beach near Sao Luis and I went to Calhao to be a pretty girl to take pictures with. Tourists want picture with me, twenty bucks. Want picture with me pretending to be like their girlfriend, fifty bucks. They touch me wrong, I steal their camera and they get 'accidentally' held up by a couple of parceiros while I run like the wind into the barros and lose them. Then I sell their camera and any pictures inside sometimes for hundreds of dollars."

Bea smiles at Michael. "You think you can do that kind of gig without knowing how to be the centre of attention? Then I was catching the eye of a producer and became a showgirl. More money and less running." She shrugs. "About the same amount of grabby hands needing a beating. Again, you live by being centre of attention. I was in the chorus when I started. I was lead when I stopped. Can't do that if you don't like people starin' at you, can you?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Ah, well. That makes sense. >> He chuckles very faintly, though there's not much humor in it. << But that was rather a whi--well, no, not /that/ far along ago, I suppose. >> Let's not make the lady feel /old/, Cal'hatar. You're likely three times her age. <>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"It's not an act. It's a way of life." Bea's cheerful grin says it all. "If I get married and respectable, of course, that all changes. But I'm not married and I'm going to enjoy my time until then."

She spins in a circle in the middle of the sidewalk.

"And that means having people stare at me and wonder if I'm louca sometimes. Or staring at me because they're hoping a piece of cloth will fall. Or staring at me and hating me because they ain't me.

Michael Erickson has posed:
The machine actually /grunts/. << Why on earth should it change if you're married? A partner that won't allow you to wander around naked and on fire after having courted you knowing full that's what you're about -- what's the point of that? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Oh, you always change when you marry. What makes a good romance doesn't make for a good stable life." Simple philosophy. "This? This is to get the attention. Find the guy brave enough to come up to you. Tell you they're interested. Have a good fling. Learn about them. But for a lifetime together? This can't be everything. You got to grow up sometime."

Bea looks at Michael curiously. "You don't work that way where you come from? Youth and single life is the same as age and married life?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Well, I've never been married, so I suppose that I will defer to you on this point. >> A beat. << But it does seem to me that the nature of the person shouldn't be expected to change because of a marriage. If you were good enough to marry as the person you were, you should be twice as good as you were afterward. >> The strange armored man shrugs. << This is my feeling. >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Oh, the personality is what you look for. Fun-loving or serious. Kind or stern. That shouldn't change. But when you're single you're carefree. You don't have responsibility toward anybody but yourself. If you marry, that's bringing two lives together."

Bea cocks her head and looks at Michael. "And when you have responsibilities for other people your thinking has to change a bit. If I spend all my money, I'm the one who's hungry. If I spend all the money in the household, that's two people who suffer. Or more, if there's children." She chuckles. "So you have to be more mature. I like being immature, though, so I won't marry for quite a while."

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Mmmm. >> He looks skyward. << And yet you already have responsibilities for other people, do you not? Ah, well. So long as you're happy. There's enough of that missing in the world as it is, I'm sure you would agree. >>

The metal face turns back to look at her. << So. This city alone is your place of defense? Or do you go out into the world to combat oppression? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"I can go anywhere. I was part of the Justice League International and we went everywhere. I retired, though, after losing my powers and when I got them back I kept it quiet because ... the quiet life suited me me better. I needed time to be part of the world instead of flying over it to save it."

There's a bit of a troubled look on her face as she says that out loud. Guilt.

"The thing in Genosha made me come back out. But that responsibility? That's all my own choosing. I didn't swear to anything or anybody. I felt the need to. And I still do now. But it's not the same as the responsibility inherent in attaching your life to another's, or in mothering."

She looks around Happy Harbour's main economic drag. "This is just where I live, to be honest. So they see more of me because, naturally, I come back here. But I'll defend those who need such anywhere that I can go."

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< There is much to defend against, >> he affirms, his own turn going grim. << Only recently an offworld fleet was pushed out of orbit by a combination of American agents and the Justice League. Nearly cracked open the moon. >> He turns toward her bodily now, all that lovely flame reflected in the red chrome skin of his plate. << Can you fly into space? Can you survive there? >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"No. I can't go anywhere that lacks the oxygen this mess inside of me needs. No space. No underwater. To go into space I'd need to have a space suit and then I'd need to make sure I didn't flame on because I'd flame out very quickly afterward, but my space suit would be gone."

She puts on a very over-the-top serious face.

"That is, what we call in science circles, 'very bad'."

Michael Erickson has posed:
He's quiet for a long moment. << You need a containment field, >> says the Sentinel. << Perhaps I could procure one for you, if you'd like. Hardly the kind of accessory you might usually seek, but it could well be one you'd never be caught dead without. >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Or I stay where I know I can work," Bea laughs. "I mean I can already go loads of places other people can't. Volcanoes, for example. Oil refinery fires. Gas station bathrooms--though they don't usually like me going there since my instinct is to burn everything until it's charred to kill the germs and cockroaches."

She sweeps an arm in a semi-cirle around her from sea to land. "There's plenty of places I can go where people need help. I don't need to go to Atlantis or to space as well."

Michael Erickson has posed:
<< Certainly. >> He agrees easily, no sense of judgement in the synthesized male voice. <> A mental smirk at her comment about the bathroom, but he doesn't comment audibly. << Well I wish you luck, Miss da Costa. It sounds as though the people in this city are well cared for. >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"Oh, this city and surroundings have more than just me protecting it. We're like an army. Without any sense of coordination, uniformity, organization, ... so, you know, exactly unlike an army."

Michael Erickson has posed:
That gets a metallc chuckle, long and slow. Throaty. Might even sound attractive if it weren't being projected through a toaster. << Well I imagine the firepower makes up for any lack of direct organization, >> he says. << Right, then. I think that I will get back to my patrolling, and let you get on with your shopping. Thank you, Miss da Costa, for speaking with me today. Truly, it's good to have met you. >>

Beatriz da Costa has posed:
"And if you need an undisciplined, fiery sort to help you with a problem, feel free to drop me a line. If you've worked with the League, you can get in touch with me. I'm still a reserve, though they don't appear to call on the reserves very often."

Bea shrugs.

"Probably still miffed that I went quiet. But they know how to get in touch with me if it's needed. Enjoy your patrol and I'll finish off my window shopping. Then I'll do something like be a one-woman barbecue or something."

Michael Erickson has posed:
 <> he says with a shake of his head. << I'm afraid I'm something of a loner myself - but I'm changing that. We'll work together in the near future, I think, if that interests you. In the meantime... >>

 He takes two, three steps back from her, even as the long razored wings extrude from his arms once more. He sketches a salute, fist brushing against his breast, and then...he's off, hurtling skyward, the hood ornament strapped to Death's own hotrod. The sonic boom catches up once he's clear of the city, but not so far that teh windows all around don't rattle in their mountings.

 Showoff.

7661/Quente means HOT!

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