Owner	Pose
Melinda May	Harry's Hideaway is about as close to the Triskelion as any bar, situated as it is up in Westchester. It's a shorter trip than it would be down to Manhattan, certainly. May took some time to clean up the worst of her bruises and abrasions. The blood has been cleaned from her face, and if there's a bit of purpling, well... it's to be expected. And she's not worried about it. The fact she's here at all, and with Dottie, no less, is something of a surprise to her. She still hasn't managed to break the fury that's gripped her since Melina's attack. But the ridiculousness of the bout with Dottie at least helped her regain a certain equalibrium. And there are enough happy people in the bar that she can more easily mask again -- more for the sake of the public than the woman she's chosen to drink with. Dottie, May realizes, won't care about either the mask nor any courteous proprietries she might prefer to display. That's actually helpful. It means May doesn't need to mirror the emotions around her, she only needs to use them to help channel away the worst of the rage. Though, of course, god help any mutant telepaths or empaths who happen to be in the vicinity. Regardless, May takes a seat at one of the corner tables, where they can both sit with their backs to a wall and look out over the rest of the bar and the patrons there. It's almost relaxing.
Dottie Underwood	Dorothy Underwood appears unsullied, innocuous and gentle. Fashionable, but only fashionable enough to be ignored, the severity of her red sheath dress masked by her long dark jacket. She still prefers skirts to pants. And wields the weapon of femininity as second nature. Lipstick coats the salve on her cracked lips, powder conceals her bruising. Her hair hair is pulled back from her face -- no attempt to mask possible marks of ill use behind dark sunglasses and long hair -- styled just enough to appear effortlessly casual. All of which took surprisingly little time. Practice makes efficient, after all. After acquiring a bottle of Stolichnaya from the bartender, as well as two tumblers, Dottie returns to the table. Yes, May owes her the drink, but Dottie insisted on picking the poison. They can settle up later. She places the bottle in the exact center of the table, flanks it with the glasses on either side. Her lips twitch as she's reminded of 'no man's land' between the trenches. It seems an apt metaphor. "Well?" she says to May, arching an eyebrow.
Melinda May	May's brow arches in return. She looks at the two tumblers. "You're expecting me to pour?" That's fine... Just don't expect her to toast in Russian. Her accent will either offend or induce helpless giggles. She's not sure which, and would like to avoid both. "Fine." She reaches out and cracks the bottle open. "But I don't speak Russian." Which doesn't mean she can't or that she doesn't understand it. "And you need to order the food." A couple of shots on a sour stomach is one thing. But not the whole bottle. Nevertheless, she pours a finger of vodka into each glass. It's enough to qualify as a shot, at least. She raises her glass. "To not killing anyone today." A beat. "So far."
Dottie Underwood	Dottie nods her head and raises her glass. "To not killing yet," she says. The amendment is slightly sinister, as is the gleam in her eye. But then, so is Dottie when she's not pretending. She drinks the vodka and pours them each a second shot, barely pausing her fluid movements. "To surprises," she toasts. And then she places her hand on the shoulder of the bottle, guarding it from May's reach. "And you should order the food. Get something you like." She smiles again, almost teasing.
Melinda May	The amendment isn't out of the range of what May expected. She resists the urge to roll her eyes, however. It's not that she doesn't believe Dottie will kill today -- she knows the woman will, if necessary. But she also suspects a lot of it is just an attempt to rile her up. Too easy to rise to that bait. She resists saying 'Try harder...' too. Instead, she chuffs something halfway like a laugh and raising the refilled glass. "Surprises," she agrees, and she slugs it back. Given she doesn't have a Widow's constitution -- and idly she wonders if Underwood has been subjected to enhancements similar to Romanova's, or if she's just got the century of practice Peggy does -- she takes the opportunity to order herself an appetizer that consists of enough starches to start sopping up some of the alcohol. She can feel the curiosity of the woman opposite her. She knows she attracted the proto-Widow's attention. That's fine. Dottie has hers, too.
Dottie Underwood	Dottie orders a plate wings -- meat to tear, bones to crunch. Yes, she's absolutely baiting her companion. She pours them both more vodka. No toast this time as she takes a leisurely sip, her red painted mouth caressing the rim of the glass. She will not toast the dead girls yet. "So," she purrs. "What's gotten into you, Agent May?" Amusement spills from her, dancing in her eyes, in the twitch of her lips. "I hear you're not exactly feeling yourself lately...Or are you? Is that it?"
Melinda May	May's eyes narrow slightly at the insinuation and amusement under the words. She leans back, more or less mimicking Dottie's posture, though purposely without the archness or poise. That's not May and she's not trying to put on any affectation at the moment. "Just been a rough couple of months," she replies, taking a sip of her own vodka. There's both caution and a purposeful casualness in her tone and body language. Somehow, she's not surprised Dottie would pick up on such things. She wonders briefly how many people really give the Russian woman the credit she's due, given she can do almost everything Romanova can, but with considerably less support. It brings a thoughtful, speculative look to her eyes.
Dottie Underwood	"You're angry," Dottie asserts. "Maybe you should try meditation." She looks as though she would say more. But she waits, prodding the laconic woman before her with her silence. She plays with her glass, the amusement pouring from her as restless as the rage bottled inside May.
Melinda May	"I'm always angry," May replies, deceptively mildly. "I just don't turn green and explode all over the place because of it." Yeah, she'll leave that for Banner and Walters. She studies Dottie for a moment. "What do you want, Dottie?" she asks presently. "An apology for getting rough in the training room? That doesn't sound like you." Not that May wouldn't offer the apology, if she thought Dottie actually wanted it. Or warranted it. If she's going to apologize for anything, it'd be for projecting... but she doesn't quite know how to make that sort of apology.
Dottie Underwood	"You may not turn green, but you are exploding," Dottie says, taking a calm and collected sip from her glass. "Don't think I didn't notice." Another sip. "It's not like you to be so careless." She waves away any notion of guilt or recrimination or apology. "I've had worse. I've done worse. And I've done worse to myself. This isn't about *me*." Dottie empties her glass. "What do you want, Agent May?"
Melinda May	May doesn't flinch, but the lines at the corners of her eyes and lips do tighten faintly. She can't deny she's been exploding. That doesn't sit well with her. The fact Underwood is the one to both note it and challenge her on it -- as opposed to Peggy or Phil, who, to be fair, actually know the reasons why behind it -- is a mild surprise. She doesn't particularly think Dottie cares... except, perhaps, that it affected her directly. That's reason enough to care. She snirks softly and sips at her vodka again. What she wants is to drag Vostokoff out of her cell and force her to take her someplace where she can break this damned serum's control. But she can't take Vostokoff without someone she trusts along. Someone who knows the trigger words and can stop her. Phil, maybe. Or perhaps Daniel. Peggy's too pregnant. Peggy suggested Romanova. That could work, too. Probably better, actually, since May suspects Vostokoff has some sort of interest in both Romanova and Belyakov. Hell, maybe she should just take who whole Red Room squadron along with her. She eyes Dottie for a moment. "I want to go after Draykov," she says, skirting the very edge of what she's allowed to talk about. "That's what I want."
Dottie Underwood	Dottie's eyebrows raise in over exaggerated surprise. But May can sense the genuine feeling spark above her surface curiosity -- a mask within a mask. And then her eyes narrow with suspicion. The puzzle pieces start to fall into place, flashes of rumor and insight, SHIELD's growing number of Widows. And Melina. With her mind control serum. Coming to collect. "I see." Dottie's grin grows sharper. First Mother. Now Draykov. "You'll need help."
Melinda May	"Mm-hm," May agrees. "Probably a team. An experienced one." A team that knows the odds and knows how to defy them. And who knows the stakes. The food arrives and she gives the waitress a brief smile before the woman retreats. When she's gone, May picks up fry and dips it in some nearby sauce.
Dottie Underwood	"Do you think that if he's dead, you'll be safe?" Dottie asks around a chicken wing. It seems oddly casual. "Or is it something else?" The Red Room raises the best. But the best are not team players. Or when they are embedded in a team, those below are used for support. A team of Widows...would any of them survive?
Melinda May	"There's always someone to replace a man like Draykov," May says, picking up another fry and repeating the dip. "I just want to take care of a couple of his projects and make sure he -- and anyone else that thinks to try it -- understands just how bad an idea it really was." Safe? No. May knows safety is an illusion. But she'd certainly be safER. Especially if she can find another dose of that damned antidote in addition to destroying his ability to manufacture it.
Dottie Underwood	Dottie nods, pulling apart a chicken wing to suckle at the bones. It certainly is an intriguing prospect. She asks, the spike of ire May senses belying her thoughtful tone and mild expression, "And after, will you be sending SHIELD the same message?"
Melinda May	The spike of ire is a spike of warning, as far as May's concerned. "If I find them doing the same thing," she says carefully, "I just might." As far as she *knows*, SHIELD isn't running its own Red Room or subjecting agents to mind-control to create sleeper agents or force them to betray everything they hold dear. That said... she does know there are black ops projects she's not privy to, even as Commander of STRIKE. And she wouldn't put it beyond Fury to weaponize that sort of thing. She would, however, all but guarantee it's not happing under Peggy's watch. Which means, if it's happening, it's happening either above her head or outside her jurisdiction. May is a careerist. She's under little illusion that not everything SHIELD does is either pleasant or, unfortunately, entirely ethical -- even if it's for the right reasons. But, right now, she's not concretely aware of any such projects in SHIELD. If that changes, mind... so could her willingness to play ball with them. She's tired of the games.
Dottie Underwood	"Good," Dottie nods again. And she tosses the bone in her fingers onto the plate. Picked clean. "I'm in."
Melinda May	May nods simply in response, picking up the burger that came with her fries. "I'm thinking Romanova and Belova might be good to help round things out." And Vostokoff. That's step one. Break out Vostokoff... or else convince Peggy to let her go free for the sake of what Melinda has planned. Either would work. "Need to know where to go, first. Where the asshole is."
Dottie Underwood	After cleaning her fingers daintily, Dottie pours more vodka into their glasses, emptying a substantial portion of the bottle. She sips thoughtfully. "You know who would know that." She means Melina, of course. His little messenger would surely be able to make contact. And might be persuaded to do so in such a way that suited their purposes.
Melinda May	May expression darkens. She chuffs a soft growl that's little more than a huff of acknowledgement. "She's on my list." What list, she doesn't specify. Probably a couple of them, though. She reaches out for her glass, washing down a mouthful of food with the alcohol. "I need to pulls some strings." Or throw her own weight around. Or maybe just crack a few skulls. Any of that would work.
Dottie Underwood	"Doesn't it worry you?" Dottie asks, her tone light and playful. "Russian is our Mother tongue." It isn't a threat, merely the specter of one. She drinks deeply from her glass and makes a silent toast of remembrance for all the little Slavic girls adopted by Mother Russia.
Melinda May	"And Cantonese is mine," May replies, giving a smile in return as she takes another swallow of vodka. "I said I *don't* speak Russian," she says, then. "Not that I can't." All that said, May recognizes the trust she'd be placing in Romanova in all this. Her greatest worry isn't the language, it's that she doesn't share the Widows' experiences. They will have a field language she doesn't know, terms that mean one thing to her and something else to them. Shared references she can't hope to interpret, like family in-jokes that represent favourable tactics. It's the nature of the beast. Nevertheless, she does trust Romanova. It will have to do.
Dottie Underwood	<That wasn't my point. *I think* that Melina gave you a little present. And now you're talking about taking us all back home like some sort of suicide bomber.> Dottie lapses to Russian. Because May said she could understand. And Dottie understands this.
Melinda May	"I can't talk about it," May replies in English. There's subtle emphasis to the words, though, a stiffness to them that confirms Dottie's suspicion. "But it's not like I have a lot to lose right now. And it's not like I won't have a backup plan." Why is she admitting this? Why risk it? May studies the Russian woman across from her. "I'm actually more concerned about them getting hold of any of you, than I am for myself. But I also know how good each of you are. I trust *that*, more than anything else." She sips at her vodka again. "I don't believe any of you -- your friend included," it's her only nod to Vostokoff, "is at all interested in becoming Draykoff's puppet. No more than I am. I don't think it's in any of your best interests to leave his projects up and running, either. And I think you all know that." She sets her glass down. "Call it a calculated risk."
Dottie Underwood	Smirking, Dottie upends the vodka bottle into their glasses and offers up a final toast, "To having nothing to lose."
Melinda May	May raises her glass. "Nothing to lose," she agrees. And then she slugs it back. God, her life is strange, these days. That's SHIELD for you.