9532/Agents of S.C.A.R.

Agents of S.C.A.R.
Date of Scene:	08 January 2022
Location:	Commander May's Office: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Agent May has been secured for the nascent S.C.A.R. group, and dinner was had by all. Space is doomed.
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Melinda May, Dottie Underwood, Jessica Drew

---

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Polite, sharp, punctual. The knock at the door follows Erickson's request for an appointment - and, in his gray suit and wearing a black band about his right upper arm, he stands quietly awaiting the entry call from the imposing woman on the other side. Data tablet under one arm. Very serious, he is, but isn't he always?

Melinda May has posed:
May glances at the time on her tablet as Erickson knocks. She's never met anyone as punctual as he. "Come," she says, and the door to the office slides open to admit him. She blacks out her tablet and sets it aside. "Mr. Erickson," she greets him, rising. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He smiles faintly as he arrives, stepping into the room and speaking with the pad under his arm yet still. "Thank you, Commander." The pad comes out, then, and he turns it on. Holds it up so she can see it: images of alien faces, cycling through. Some human - more or less - others utterly monstrous. "Major races," he begins. "Badoon. Kree. Chitauri. The Brood. And, yes, even the Shi'ar. All of them, as you and I know, we have S.W.O.R.D. to help counter it. However, countering is not enough, to my mind, and as a member of one of those spacefaring powers, I have gone to S.W.O.R.D. and to Chief Carter in S.H.I.E.L.D. for permission to form a small operative unit that would combine the strengths of both, just as I have been trained as a battlefield soldier and a spy alike." A pause. "May I sit down?"

Melinda May has posed:
May gestures to the chair. She doesn't say anything. Shouldn't need to. Once he sits, however, she does as well. "Sounds like a smart plan," she agrees. "What is you need from me? STRIKE agents or an overview of our training?" That is, after all her actual job around here. Commander of STRIKE. And a trainer. She's been doing a lot more of that, lately.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I actually want you, Commander." He goes to take a seat, laying the pad down. "I'm calling it the Special Combat, Actions and Reconnaissance group -- S.C.A.R. for short. It seems fitting, what comes from when a shield and sword meet." His brows arch as he looks down at the tablet in his hand, reading off more. "I don't have many slots, budget being what it is -- in fact, most of the equipment being secured is entirely outside of the agency's budget. So too have I elected to go ahead and skip the niceties of command and go for the personnel I truly want. Which would be you." A beat. "Professionally speaking, of course. You are astonishingly canny, as to be expected." He looks up. "Would you be interested in hearing more?"

Melinda May has posed:
May blinks at that. A brow rises. She nods. "Yeah. Let's hear it." Firstly the premise sounds interesting. Secondly, though... it's potentially off-world, which strikes her as ideal. It also promises a certain modicum aggression therapy, which is always good. So, yes. She's totally on board for this. For the moment, anyway.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Very well." The smile picks up a bit, and he looks back down at his datapad. "Now in its current plan, S.C.A.R. is meant to be laid out along the same lines as the Imperial field reconaissance forces - small detachments, supplementary to the Battle Legions. Reconnaissance, sniping, raiding actions, that sort of thing. Generally soaking up information and destroying things. Unlike the Legions, who benefit from their battle armor and supply lines, units like the one I led were able to prosecute all manner of hellacity upon the Empire's enemies while surviving on our own, without supply, for extended periods of time across a wide variety of planetary environments and hard vaccuum."

    He glances up again. "Still with me?"

Melinda May has posed:
May nods. "So, you want me to join a new squad preparing to do similar things on behalf of Earth?" It's an interesting idea. "How often are these operations expected to run?" Because she does have other responsiblities...as much as she'd like to flee them.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "That's about the long and short of it." He looks back up, turning off the tablet and putting it on her desk. "It is, by and large, going to be driven by on-site procurement. From sources here on Earth, elsewhere in the local systems. Like a black unit, really. Just except it's approved."

    Michael leans back in his seat, legs crossed, hands laid atop his knee. "So. Let's deal with the r'thar in the room: I am a member of a race that, while powerful, is alo feared and hated by many in the universe. While my proposal has me wearing the bars on an operational basis, when we get out there, I can't represent SHIELD, not officially. Agent Drew is my handler, and I trust her to keep me honest. You, Commander, I will need to serve as the woman in charge when we get to situations where official representation is required. I will, of course, do my level best to ensure that you don't have to put too much where that's concerned. And of course, nothing is planned or executed without your approval. I'm fairly sure your government would not allow any of this if an alien officially ran the show."

    And of course, there are...emotions. Driven, interested - this is old hat for him, and while he realizes it's necessary there's part of him that wishes he could just step up as his old rank allowed and just make this happen. But this isn't the Empire, and he isn't a noble, or a Captain-equivalent, anymore. He's just a guy with a long career that is now over, and he's trying to do what's best for the future as he can. Not that he'd ever show it. And the idea of being offworld, well. That appeals to him as much as it probably does May.

Melinda May has posed:
May considers Erickson's explanation. "It... makes sense," she concedes, mulling it over. "Drew is your handler?" She actually had heard it. She just hadn't given it much thought. Now that she's met the alien, though... That pairing seems... odd. She'll have to look up Drew's file again. See what her experience is. Because a man with Erickson's experience should be handled by someone more than just L4.

Nevertheless, that wasn't her call. And perhaps she's wiser to stay out of it.

"So, what you're saying is, Drew is there to satisfy protocol while I'm there for political reasons." A brow arches as she says it, a faintly wry smile subtly touching her lips. The irony isn't lost on her. Very few people would call May a political animal.

"I'm sure you're right about the government. And even the brass." It would, she knows, make Peggy feel better to have someone she knows and trusts on the team. Fury, too, likely. She'll end up reporting to both, she's sure. "Regardless, your plan has merit. Who all are you tapping for this?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Agent Drew is my handler, yes," says Michael, and there's a momentary splash of anger - and defensiveness - there. And not a little bit of pride. "Despite her rank, she has demonstrated more proficiency than many of your senior agents upon my arriving here. Only she wasn't fooled with my human act. She's only the rank she has, I believe, because she doesn't want more." A pause. "You may trust me to listen to her as well, in any case." He clears his throat, then, and switches legs.

    That said, he takes a deep breath. "You aren't there only for political reasons, Commander. I genuinely want you in this unit. The way you handled the xenobiological event the other week was admirable -- I was pleased to serve with someone of your skill. Agent Coulson, too, although I am not yet convinced he would be interested in this sort of thing. No, Agent, I want you. As sure as I would want any...Serenii or Thaltoi or Shi'ar. You are a supreme asset, and that is all. As is Agent Drew, whom I would also rather have even if I were an agent. The politics are necessary, but I hate them and I would much rather put the mission and duty first."

    A moment; he checks a rather sizable watch hanging from his wrist. "I've asked the first S.C.A.R. member to join us as we speak. She should hopefully be along soon enough."

Melinda May has posed:
May notes Erickson's anger. She can't help it. She's an empath. It flashes momentarily through her own eyes; it's very hard for her not to respond to that emotion, right now. But she's well practiced, so it's channelled away -- particularly as he schools himself. She reaches out subtly to the minds in the rooms beyond them, seeking someone with a calmer, more curious mein to draw on. Eventually, she finds something that will do, though as she sorts through the signatures she stirs a little at one she senses approaching.

Inhaling slowly, she leans back in her chair. "I appreciate your vote of confidence," she says, mirroring his tone, if not his posture. "I get the feeling you're pulling together a real mix of people?" It would make sense. The only way a unit like that would survive is if there were a good mix of skills and personalities that could cover most contingenices.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
There's that smirking curiosity and intense curiosity strolling into May's office. She isn't at all surprised to see Dottie Underwood standing in her doorframe. She wears a crooked smile. "Hiya, May."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "A real mix is the best way to do it," Michael says, chuckling. "Nothing standard about this sort of thing in the Empire. I've commanded Sretain Bloodcrushers, Atallin reavers, and..." A pause; he turns to see Dottie there, glorious and horrible. "Ah. Dorothy. Please, join us, won't you?"

    He looks back to May. "Our first S.C.A.R. operative. Dorothy Underwood." You see? Exhibit A. He smiles, suddenly, with his face and his mind. She's his /friend/. WHAT.

Melinda May has posed:
No. May's not surprised. Irritated. Wary. And very, very careful to keep her attitude from showing any of that. Especially when she senses Erickson's affection for the woman who stands grinning in the doorway.

Really, May's probably more controlled now than Dottie's ever seen her. Precise in her movements and selective in her speech. Part of it is how she draws on some of Erickson's more useful emotions. Part of it comes from others who have no idea how useful they are in this moment. And part of it comes from long years of practice.

But one thing is certain. May has never been openly hostile to or about Dottie. Part of her 'gets' Dottie. The problem is... Dottie is the original Red Room prototype. And the Red Room has recently become a bit of a trigger point for the asian woman.

Thus, she's very, very careful not to react with more than a faintly raised brow and a stiff gesture to invite the woman in.

"Who else have you recruited into this squad of yours? Including Drew, I count four, so far."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie's eyes narrow slightly as she observes May. There is something fragile about that control. Interesting. Atypical. She makes a mental note.

Leaning against the door rather than taking a seat, she asks, "Did you bring her a sandwich?" Curiosity radiates from her with her seemingly innocent question.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Oh, Dottie's the wildcard," he says, gesturing to the lady as she comes and sits. "I know she's considered persona non grata around here, but she's extremely competent and frankly needs a mission - so, here we are. She's an amazing operative, as you know, the gravity of her origin aside. We all have dark pasts and backgrounds, I find, myself /most certainly/ included."

    Once that's said, Michael leans back in his seat. "We all have our monstrosities, Commander. I hope that you won't hate her for hers, so long as she does the job and does it cleanly. She has Chief Carter's vote of confidence, after all." A pause. "As for the rest...I had been interested in also pressing Agent Tampambulos into service as well. And a number of other, lesser agents that fit the profile." He looks to Dottie again. "I thought we'd all go out to dinner, actually, assuming she's still in."

Melinda May has posed:
"Oh, I don't hate Underwood," May assures Erickson, not quite ignoring the Russian in the room. She's even telling the truth. Dottie... she's actually okay with, to a large degree -- though she never loses sight of the fact the woman is partially unhinged. Who wouldn't be, given what she's gone through? Not that May's privy to most of it. But she knows enough.

Indeed, it's all the baggage Dottie brings with her that's the problem. And the way it now intersects with May's own baggage. New baggage.

"She's a product of her training and the monstrosities that were inflicted upon her. We've all got our... scars." The word is amusing in this context, and it's not lost on her.

"I'm quite aware of Chief Carter's history with her." She was there for part of it. Yes. In the 40's. Time travel is a bitch. She hates it.

She studies Dottie openly for a moment. In the end... her gaze slides away and she gives a small nods. "Let's do this," she says. "The mission's the main thing." Yeah, she's in.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Good." A deep breath. "Well, then. Let's get something to eat." Michael rises, tucking the tablet under his arm once more. "My tradition, you see. Everyone eats together. It's...traditional, for any unit that I've been a part of." Michael smiles. "And we call each other by our names, please, Commander, when we do. Cal'hatar will do for the evening. Once we're out of the Triskelion. We're going to be strangers in a strange land together, and while military discipline is important, the unit needs to be able to pull together." A look to Dottie, and he smiles again. Good lord, he really is fond of that psycho. "Will you join us, please, Commander?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie watches the two of them discuss her. As though she's not standing in the room. Since the meeting seems to be over, it's a good thing she hasn't bothered to sit despite the invitation. "So you didn't bring a sandwich," she surmises.

Melinda May has posed:
No sandwiches. But alcohol. May could defintely go for some alcohol. And maybe some shooting practice. She'd spar, but someone would end up broken. And she really doesn't care who. Nevertheless, she nods. "I can make nice," she says.

And she can. When she wants to. Or needs to.

She turns her attention to Dottie. "I'm glad you're finding a niche." And she is. Especially if it redirects the psycho's attention away from the Carter-Sousa family. Except, of course, that May remembers Dottie in the Framework. Remembers things about her Dottie can't remember... because she wasn't there to experience them. Things that made Dottie helpful. Protective. Family, in Peggy's eyes -- and she knows Peggy still remembers, too. "You're very good at what you do."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I brought one for /you/," Michael says to Dottie, smirking slightly as he extracts from inside his suit jacket a plastic bag in which a single, angled tea sandwich is contained. "You're too thin by half." Like a proper babushka. "Cucumber and crab spread. Light, but enough to carry you along until we get there."

    Back to May, then. "Excellent," he says, still holding out the bag to Dottie. "Where's your favorite, then? I'm buying, of course."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Isn't he just the sweetest?" Dottie says to May, taking the sandwich from Michael. She oozes slightly too close to both of them as she plucks the plastic bag from his fingers.

"I *am* very good at what I do, Melinda," she assures the other woman, still grinning. When she is allowed to do it, she doesn't say.

Melinda May has posed:
"My favourite is an hour away through traffic," May says dryly to Michael, acknowledging Dottie with a faintly arched brow. She rises and reaches for her jacket. "But Harry's pub will do." And it's not that far away in Salem.

It also gets her away from the Triskelion and it *might* let her find people to draw on who aren't all focussed duty and secrets.

She gestures to the door. They can lead the way. It's her office.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I can just carry you, you know," he says cheerfuly to May, flashing her a wink - but it's happily enough away from...well, everything. And so he leads them on.

    Harry's, of course, is busy - because it always is, good upstate pub like that. A table in the corner, big pitcher of beer, and whatever food and other drink that's wanted by his tablemates on the way. Michael's a happy man, smiling warmly with people sitting around here. Eating. Drinking. It's like the more of a spread there is, the happier he is. "I've called Jessica, if you don't mind," he says, 'Agent Drew' now out the window. "May? Did you want something to eat? I must insist on at least a little, even if it's only cursory. It's the way of things." A sidelong wink at Dottie, and he clears his throat.

    "I haven't been here before. What's their specialty?"

Melinda May has posed:
Table in a corner. Yeah, it's inevitable that May will place her back against the wall. Being away from the Triskelion *does* help. There's not the same level of stress in the people surrounding her here. There are a lot of happier emotions to absorb.

Thus, when she does slide in to the booth, putting the wood to her back and the table between her and the rest of the world, she actually projects the veneer of someone at ease with herself and the situation.

"The burgers are good," she tells Erickson when he asks. "Nachos and wings, too. Most stuff, actually. Though their butter chicken is American, not Indian. Not really." A beat. "Still good, though."

Jessica Drew has posed:
The tavern is bustling. Jessica stands aside at the doorway to let other patrons through, unwinding her scarf, looking for familiar faces in the crowd. Sighting them brings a smile to the dark-haired agent's face; she keeps the surprise at seeing Agent May at the table to herself. She knows Michael's need and joy at gathering people he fights with together over food. Some Shi'ar chemical bonding instinct that happily coincides with humans.

She winds her way through the crowd to the corner table, noting wryly to herself that they are all facing outward. No one is going to ambush this crowd. She slides out the 'dead man's chair' to sit, shrugs off her coat to lay over the back.

"Agent May, good to see you. Dottie," she smiles at the latter just to see how she will react to it.

"Michael, feeding us again, are you? What's good on the menu here?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie grins, sharp and brilliant teeth flash in the dim light of the bar. "It's Melinda's pick. You should be asking her." She swallows her vodka.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "You should share that vodka, you know," says Michael, shooting Dottie a grin - and then there is Jessica, and his smile widens ever more. "Ahhh, hello there, Jessica! M'trana vosya baan - please, come, join us. Nothing more I love than the best of company." He drains his beer mug and sets it aside in case Dottie wants to share that vodka, and then gestures to May. "Look! Melinda has decided to join our little band. I was about to talk about the situation."

    He looks to said veteran agent, grinning. "So you're a pilot and a peerless fighter. What else do you wish to contribute to our merry little cause? I haven't secured a starship for us yet, but I'm working on it."

Melinda May has posed:
Drew's surprise at seeing her isn't lost on the Empath. Indeed, none of their emotions are lost on her. Nevertheless, she gives the younger agent a brief nod of greeting, "Drew." She has a Guinness near to hand though she hasn't made a heavy dent in it. Yet. And, indeed, since she *does* have to return to work, tonight, she likely won't. Stills, she raises the glass briefly to the others and takes a sip.

Having Dottie sitting beside her, however, despite the fact Michael is on her other flank, could prove to be an interesting challenge. Because when Michael asks his question, it's Dottie's sharp, brilliant amusement that colours May's tone. Her dark eyes settle on the alien as she picks up the First Widow's tendency to poke. "I'm Inhuman," she says, reflecting his casual tone.

She knows there are a *lot* of aliens that don't like Inhumans, that perceive them as abominations and threats. Time to see if this Shi'ar is one of them.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jess shares s warm smile with Michael, then takes an audible breath and looks at May with amusement and interest dancing in her green eyes.

"We need agents of her caliber with us." Taking advantage of the din of conversation, she says loud enough to be heard by the others, "Between the three of us, two Inhumans, Dottie and an alien, not many will underestimate us more than once." Her gaze flicks to Michael who she knows has no aversion to Inhumans unless they warrant it.

She shifts her regard to Dottie, amused challenge, sparking in her eyes, "Vodka? Then, with a slap to the table, "Hamburgers and Vodka. A dinner for heroes!"

"Agent May, have you gotten the full plan Michel presented to the chief?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie drains her glass and arches an eyebrow. "Are we doing that again? A bottle for the table?" She grins at Jess, remembering her condition after dinner at the tea room. May's attitude, while familiar, almost a mirror of her own, sits ill on the woman's shoulders. Spikier somehow. A mace rather than a blade. She turns her attention to the woman next to her. "Are you prepared for that?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Just Melinda, here," Michael says, glancing to Jessica. "We just use our names here at dinner, remember. And I gave her the bulk of it - but I have some news on supplies, actually, that I wanted to bring up now we're all here. I met with Reed Richards; he's going to give us proper suits to use on mission. Armored, even, though I have asked for light protection. We aren't frontline soldiers, after all. But it they will protect us from radiation, the elements, light weapons fire while allowing us to move with speed and relative stealth. Roughly the same specifications as Imperial reconnaissance armor, but at some point I aim to secure for us defense field generators to supplement."

    A look to May, then, at her affirmation. "And I'm Shi'ar," he tells her, as if this were simple and obvious. Which it is. "Means nothing, Melinda, because we're comrades above all. That's what this is all about."

    Dottie gets a squint. "Probably best not to, tonight. But next time we meet, I will bring a special bottle to celebrate our core group coming together. A bottle from my homeworld. You'll like it."

Melinda May has posed:
"Not tonight," May says to Dottie. "I have more work to do after dinner." She can't stay and party. Nor drink herself into a stupor. She glances briefly to Jessica as she asks if Michael's told her everything. "And I certainly hope so." She hates surprises after the fact. She hates surprises most of the time, really.

Still, at least the Shi'ar isn't flinching from the Inhuman. Of course, given his reaction to seeing Drew, she may have an inkling why. They seem... friendly. "I'm an Empath," she tells him, glad he's not likely the kind to snicker at the irony of that particular statement. The Ice Queen of SHEILD turned into a walking emotional sponge. "I sense the emotions of sapients, as far as I can tell." She got a sense of that plant, after all. Though maybe that was just its thralls. "Sometimes, I can even alter them."

As he begins explaining the new supplies he intends to bring in, she nods with some approval. She also, however, raises her left hand and points to a band around her wrist that looks much like a wide fitbit. "This is 31st century nanoarmor technology," she tells him. "Does a lot of what you've just described already. I'm not saying don't bother procuring anything for me, I'm just letting you know, operationally, what I've already got." A beat. "This and a pair of lightsabers." Okay, plasma blades. But everyone on Earth knows what lightsabers are. "And I have access to a specialized Asgardian fighting staff that's off-limits to anyone else."

And right now, *should* be off-limits to her, too.

Jessica Drew has posed:
"That is great news, Michael. Well done. You're really on the move getting us outfitted. I'm pleased about the radiation protection."

It's an adjustment using senior agents' first names. Jess acknowledges it with a nod. Then grins, saying, "Awwww, alright, I wouldn't mind a burger and a beer. Fries, too."

She snorts a laugh at Michael's proposal of a homeworld bottle. "That stuff will take the top of your head off, Dottie. Fun stuff."

She quiets, listening intently to Melinda, nodding several times as the senior agent describes her abilities, once her mouth tightens against a smile at the irony. Jess considers herself lucky on two counts: she didn't die as many mutants do when exposed to terrigen, and her powers made sense in light of her other abilities.

Melinda's list of unique weapons gets a quiet whistle of admiration.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"It seems some of you have learned your lessons," Dottie says, the singsong in her voice reminiscent of a school teacher. She finishes her vodka. And her only comment on Michaels offer, "Brewed from the bodies of his enemies, no doubt."

She eyes May's wrist band speculatively. Fascinating toys all around it seems.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "That was just to share with you, Dottie," Michael says with a smirk. Is he serious? Who knows? A nod to May, then. "Does that suit also double as an environment suit? Spacesuit, rather?" He quirks a brow, interested himself. "And of course, we need to secure service weapons. But I have a plan for that." A smile for Jess. "Thank you."

Melinda May has posed:
Frankly, May prefers being called 'May'. Not Melinda. Only exceptionally close friends get to call her Melinda regularly. Which, currently means 3 people: Phil, Peggy, and Daniel. Everyone else... Yes, this is chafing her. She's sitting on it for now, however.

"I think so," she says in reply to Michael's question. "I'll have to ask... my contact to verify. But I think so."

As for service weapons, she rather likes her ICER and the futuristic sniper rifle she has hidden in her gear. Which she forgot to mention. "Oh. I also have a variable bore sniper rifle from... well, I'm not sure which century, to be honest." Melinda May, Agent of T.I.M.E.

Or, more accurately, close contact to time jumper Lily Chen. Bane of May's existence and an existential crisis waiting to happen.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jess adds nothing further to the conversation for the moment, the addition of another special weapon to May's arsenal receiving a tiny nod. A news station blares from the bar reporting on the attack on Manhattan, she turns to watch the subtitles rolling as dramatic pictures of a sharp white explosion over Manhattan reminiscent of a clean nuke are displayed behind the anchor's head.

"What does the Chief say, Michael about Grand Central?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Well, aren't we just a happy little crew?" Dottie purrs, bored. "I'm getting another drink." And hopefully out of this dinner ritual as soon Michael's bonding needs are satisfied.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "If so," says Michael with a nod, then great. "As for service weapons, there's a white supremacist anarcho-technological outfit operating in Germany that are responsible for creating a stable, advanced electromagnetic coil platform used in sidearms and battle rifles they supply to certain terrorist and crime syndicates. Still new, but advanced enough. Those will fire in any environment for the most part, and have the equivalent firepower of a modern .308 assault rifle but with a tremendous ammunition capacity. Single and burst fire. More than enough for our needs and well within this planet's technological capacity to field and repair if need be. We're going to shut them down and take their toys as our opening sortie. That will resolve all the expensive things that SHIELD's budget cannot shoulder, short of a spacecraft. And I am already starting to put that plan together, thanks to a database of information that Doctor Richards provided me about the majority of the major powers operating in our neck of the galactic woods. I..."

    He looks up, sees the television. Frowns. "Well," he says after a moment, "I don't know, I haven't talked to her. Armoring Grand Central Station wasn't exactly something I did with SHIELD permission. It just needed done, so I did it. Opened it up to SHIELD along with everyone else there when I was done."

    Then it's back to the topic at hand. "So. Aside from securing a working spacecraft, we'll be largely supplied. Everything else can come from the SHIELD armory without a problem - ICER rounds can be fired from the coil rifles as well, as it happens. As can flechettes, drugged needles, all that sort of thing." He goes to pour beer into his mug again, now, as everyone's food begins to appear. "Anyway. The suit to which I am bonded allows me to travel interstellar distances without a spacecraft, but honestly...on a lot of planets, showing up as a Raptor is like showing up in a SS uniform. The Raptors have done a great deal of truly horrible things in the name of the Empire, and I won't subject people to that or risk the team in the field without the need. I'll be using a standard field suit until the Raptor suit is needed. Now I do have a small cache of Imperial small arms and other devices. I'll be training you all in their use, just in case, but they'll be mostly considered specialized arms for now." A wink at Dottie. "Dorothy can tell you, they're fun to shoot at least." He senses said boredom, because, well. It's not hard to see. "Dottie, that reminds me. I need you down at Grand Central when you're free. We have angels to shoot. Combat patrol. Are you up for it?"

Melinda May has posed:
May flew evac missions in and out of New York, but has had little to do with the AngelWar. And, though she'll not admit it aloud, she's glad of it. She had struggle enough when she went to Hell. (Literally.) She has no desire to add more confirmation of religious icons to her repertoire. She was happy being an aethiestic, nomial buddhist. Now? She's staunchly, aetheistically human. Forget philosophy.

The food arrives and Michael continues outlining his operational logistics. She falls silent, disinclined to talk further and, perhaps, feeding just a little off of Dottie's boredom. It's preferable to the ripple of anxiety the images on the news cause the Saturday night patrons. (And, indeed, it's only moments before some loudmouth is calling for the channel to be turned to whatever sports show happens to be airing now.)

She nods in the appropriate places to Michael's information. But this strikes her as less bonding and more shoptalk. Which, okay, yes, she prefers. Empath or not, touchy-feely isn't her jam. But she's finding it hard to concentrate.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Managing Michael as an asset has become a full-time job. Jess divides her attention between the news report and his description of the weapons they had discovered on the Tannhauser op, which they have yet to recover. But she has learned about his drive and optimism and how he can make something sound finished before it has even begun.

Looking at May, "We have yet to run that operation. The situation in Manhattan has slowed that up. However, those weapons might be what we need for angels." She shakes her head incredulously at the word being far from a believer of any kind. "The chief knows we are planning it. And yes, they are efficient and fun," she adds with a tight smile.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie returns with her drink. And a basket of french fries. "Here," she says, pushing them in front of May. "Eat these. And then you'll be free to go."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    It gets Dottie a smirk, that comment. But yes. He reads the room. "All right, all right," Michael says, "I've talked enough. We'll meet again soon with a raid plan and get those weapons. Thank you for putting up with me."

    And so it's a quiet night after that - pleasant, shop talk and not too touchy-feely for the sake of the easily bored psychotic and the possibly unwilling empath. But eventually, it's time to go, and Michael gestures for them to do so, while deciding to stick around and do 'homework'. Before long, he'll have to go back to Manhattan. But at least it's a good night out. And things have gotten done. He's happy.