Owner	Pose
Sebastian Shaw	Lunchtime at the Hellfire Club. Its high class membership are in the various throes of business meetings, engaging in them here in the VIP lounge where there is quiet isolation from the still culturally elite, but less wealthy group down on the dance floor below. Titans of industry connect, and those who had the good luck to simply be born into fortunes linger as well, enjoying the fruits of the hard work of their ancestors. Amidst all of this sits Sebastian Shaw. His meal appears to have been concluded as there are no plates in front of him, but he does have a glass of wine in hand as he casually watches the elite engage in his playground. He is wearing a purple jacket with gold filigree, beneath that a white shirt with large lace that pops out of his collar and sleeves.
Abigail Brand	Abigail Brand is about the furthest thing from high class, culturally elite; frameless shades and black leather with green accents are meant to ''show'' it. The Hellfire Club is where the 1% huddle in sparkling, teeming masses to enjoy the fruits of wealth and the pleasure of refined company, safe from the rabble damned to merely dream of finer things. Boots clicking sharply against the floor, riotous green hair pulled into a neat ponytail, and an insignia depicting a sword piercing a horizon intercut several stars indicate that Abigail is one of one-- a cohort of her own making looking down on the world with a knowing frown. There is a manila tucked under one arm, against her chest-- an absurd anachronism likely meant to accentuate her distinct image. Or -- perhaps -- amplify the drama; after all, it's Sebastian Shaw's table she's cutting directly towards. It's the Black King she's peering at unerringly through those shades. It's the Lord of Lords who she claims a seat across from-- pushes that envelope ''towards'', freeing herself to rest her palms on the table-- -- gesture, briskly, towards a passing waiter so she can give her order - 'Whatever he's having; he's good for it' - in sure and even tones. The folder's stocked with a paper trail running from Shaw through corporate fronts which ultimately lead to contracts associated with 2013's Sentinel project. The cover sheet's a basic intelligence work-up on Shaw himself-- and while it is incomplete in ways which readily suggest that Brand's sources have yet to fully uncover the depths to which Shaw's tendrils have rooted themselves in the world, there's ''enough'' to indicate that she at least has a concept of who she's sitting with-- including his posthuman status. "Afternoon, Sebastian," she offers, folding her hands atop the table after ordering.
Sebastian Shaw	Of course, Sebastian was waiting for her arrival. When he was informed that a rather pushy director of SWORD was attempting to gain entrance to the private club, he advised them to let her in. Surely, if she was interested in talking, it was about something worth having the conversation about. And it would appear he is correct, because it is him. He always liked talking about himself. "Ms. Brand." His eyes move up to take in her expression, before briefly glancing at the array of evidence gathered before him. Much of which is generally available with some good research publicly. Even if his involvement with the Sentinels was something of a shell game. "Please, have a seat," he says, with no trace of irony even though she has already sat herself down. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Abigail Brand	"I woke up this morning," Abigail exhales, crossing one leg over the other, "and I had a thought:" "'What if Arr-slash-Neoliberal's favorite son got outed as big ol' hypocrite? That'd be funny, right?'" Her fingers stretch and splay towards the folder in a grand gesture. "Then I ''finished'' waking up, and I realized that, nah-- 'rich guy is actually an asshole' is kinda hackneyed, these days," she continues with a muted smile. "Everyone expects it, right? So:" Brand curls her wrist just so, puts her palm down on the table, then slides it towards Shaw. When she takes her hand away, there is a plain black flash drive waiting to be taken. "Instead: what if the rich asshole uses one of his old, rich asshole projects to do something '''good'''? Something like what it was ''intended'' to do to begin with: Trask pitched the Sentinels as a way to protect Earth in case there was another alien invasion, remember; the racism was a bonus feature," Abigail continues, smile dropping off until she's looking at Shaw with the utmost of gravity. "Nobody," she says, low and pointed, "could've possibly known that Trask was gonna program them to get all genocidal, after all; right?" She takes a beat, both to let Shaw interject and to let her distaste for Boliver Trask's racist people-hunters fully permeate the air. "How much access do you still have to the old project's data, manufacturing-- all of it? Any of it. From before the Uprising fucked everything."
Sebastian Shaw	The information slid across towards Sebastian barely earns an upraised eyebrow. Instead, he turns his attention towards Abigail. He waits out her speech, and then nods. "You are fishing for something, Ms. Brand, and you I suspect do not even realize what it is that you are fishing for." He raises the glass of wine to his lips, and takes a sip. "Yes, I was involved in financing of the Sentinel program. No, I did not have any idea that it was intended to engage in the mass murder of mutants." A pause. "In fact, you may be shocked to find out that I attempted to pull the plug on Trask's little fascist murder bot program as soon as that little detail came to my attention." Shaw fixes her with a steely gaze. "Further inquiry may find that the first victim of the program sponsored and sanctioned by the US Government was my fiancee." He watches Abigail carefully, as if to see if this is new information to her. "And so I am well aware, in retrospect, of both the intent and the actuality of this program. Enough to know that there are reasons why it was shut down, and those reasons were exceedingly valid." He slowly finishes his glass of wine. "I assume when you speak of going public, it is to accept responsibility for my fiancee's murder in a public forum, and show some accountability?"
Abigail Brand	Is it new information? Any of it? The shades make it awfully hard to say. "Like I said: going public's the hack move, in this day and age--" Brand glances up to receive her incoming order, then takes a leisurely moment of her own to try it. One green brow gradually arches in recognition of Shaw's taste as the wine washes over her palate. "That kind of public, anyway: the kind where your name gets dragged through the mud because for all that you surely TRIED to save your poor, unsuspecting fiancee, it was still your money, your tech, your failure to do your due diligence in properly vetting the guy you built weapons with, your need to sop up those juicy, '''juicy''' contracts from the big, bad military industrial complex..." Abigail lifts her glass, cradled in her palm with the stem seated comfortably between her middle fingers. "Condolences, by the way," she offers, sincerely. "No, Shaw... if we're ever gonna talk seriously about going public, it's gonna be to sell the story of the brave industrialist who had the vision, the foresight, and the '''balls''' to look at the state of the world," Abigail narrates, swirling the wine around its glass with careful motions, "where amateurs in skintights playing nuclear-grade cops and robbers with the whole planet as their field decide they're ready to open the world up to threats they haven't the slightest CLUE of... and reached back into his past, grappling with the tragic failure of a bloated, corrupt government to wrench out a solution for protecting humanity from a minority of short-sighted egotists who figure they've got the Mandate of Heaven to put the whole planet at risk over good vibes." Brand then knocks a big swig of wine back, taking just a moment to swirl and savor it before swallowing. "'til then, though: I'm here because I think there's room for us to do business together," she states. "And I wouldn't have bothered if you were the kinda guy who let scruples get in the way of a good opportunity-- even if it's one you've gotta keep in your back pocket for later."
Sebastian Shaw	For the longest time, Sebastian seems like he is considering throwing Abigail out of his club for her temerity. But he has always been patient, thoughtful. And most of all, opportunistic. "I'm listening." He watches her as an attendant comes over to refill his wine, and hers as well, and he takes another sip.
Abigail Brand	Abigail finds her smile again, muted though it may be. "How much access," she repeats, "do you still have to the old project's data? Its manufacturing capability? Anything predating the Uprising." Another, much more measured sip, then: "I wanna know what it'd take to turn the lights back on-- sans the racism, obviously. The Amazons are going to drop this space port on our heads no matter WHAT I have to say about it... and short of declaring war on the island of Themyscira, and then the lion's share of Earth's superhero community, my hands are tied to stop it. The whole POINT of SWORD - besides all the other points, obviously - is to moderate extraterrestrial migrations to Earth and keep another Invasion from happening; if these people are arrogant enough to think that they can do my job FOR me while offering us an 'invitation' to be represented in their bullshit..." Abigail takes a long, deep breath and holds it for several seconds before letting go. "The Sentinels were supposed to be a last resort in case of an alien invasion. Or angelic siege. Or demonic uprising, or any of the other myriad doomsday scenarios we're so fortunate to have to plan for," Brand then states, lowly. "And when this act of insane, poorly-considered optimism starts to blow up in all of our faces, I want SWORD to have THOSE Sentinels -- those ones that never quite left the drawing board, because Boliver Trask had a hard-on for killing metas -- on deck and THEN some to clean up their fucking mess.
Sebastian Shaw	An eyebrow arches as Sebastian hears her request. "That would, in fact, I think, prove to be rather useful to you." He considers her quietly. "What would I gain from this...partnership?" He slowly takes another sip from his wine, watching her.
Abigail Brand	"Besides the obvious--" (Averting the hackjob.) "-- and the boost to your image if and when the rejuvenated project were to go PROPERLY public... where's YOUR 'in' for exploiting this new frontier, Shaw?" "Where's your foothold among the stars?" A green brow arches as Abigail takes a slow, steady sip from her glass. "Partnership means having me as a friend instead of an enemy-- and while I may not be the kinda friend who'll just look the other way while you do absolutely ANYTHING your little heart desires, I am abso''lute''ly the kind of enemy who could make so much as THINKING about space cost you weeks of meetings with your legal team to figure out how they're gonna keep your ass outta trouble," Brand explains, peering at him over the rim. "Another set of opportunities to consider."
Sebastian Shaw	Listening to her quietly, Sebastian's face is impassive. Until she mentions having an in for exploiting the new front. He almost seems prepared to answer, but Abigail continues, and he waits. "I believe that the Sentinel program badly suffers from a branding problem. I will look into what details I can find from the research if you can gather your focus groups and determine what you want to call this new version of Earth's defenders."
Abigail Brand	"We really ARE a long way out from any kind of unveiling," Abigail assures him with a little half-shrug, "but so far, we're thinking something that retains a little of the classical flair from the originals, just with a twist. Something a little more esoteric; something a little religious-y, because who DOESN'T love a nice, dramatic Biblical reference? Something alluding to the fact that - yes - we KNOW it didn't work out last time, and this time's going to be a make good." "This time's for ''real''," she continues with a lift of her glass. "'He was a mighty hunter before the Lord'," Abigail recites, reaching across the table to hold her glass in his reach-- the rich social club luncheon equivalent of a handshake. "'Nimrod, who began to be a mighty one of the Earth.'"
Sebastian Shaw	A slow smile crosses over his face, and he nods toward Abigail. "That sounds better already." And he leans over as well, extending his glass, clinking it with hers. "To the future." He draws it back and takes a long sip.