| Owner | Pose |
|---|---|
| Jane Foster | A trove of ancient files unearthed from SHIELD archives became a hot commodity for HYDRA. Most of them have been accounted for, whether buried in a vault, lost to time, or stolen. The floating options awaiting recapture now fall under Jane's remit, which may be an odd departure for Doctor Foster. But can she really claim to be a SWORD diplomat or translator for the monarch of a hidden city? "Rise and shine, sleepy head," is only something she can say to Blackagar on account of working at night as often as day. Regardless of him sleeping or the hour, he can receive the lovely admonishment. "We have two tickets to trouble, and the Furiae were busy. Care to show HYDRA contacts trying to buy a stolen bit of tech on the black market the path to peace?" She already happens to be packing a change of clothes, looking between a slinky green dress and a formal suit. Well, it's more of a jumpsuit, the elegant kind that requires a drop necklace, and she eyes it up doubtfully. "I may be able to run in this, but I also look I came from 1975. Darcy's fault, she must have purchased it." A wrinkle of her nose explains why it still has a price tag on it, so she puts that back in the closet of things that will never be worn. "They are going to be meeting in Miami, so at least it will be warm. Though too many high rises and escorts for my taste," she adds. "It seems like they'll have the 0-8-4 on site to transfer it, lucky me. Nothing like staking out a party or a posh parking garage." |
| Blackagar Boltagon | Sleep is something not really necessary for the Inhuman as much as others on Earth, but he does embrace it particularly to help provide resilience against the virus he fights and also because it serves as an excellent opportunity to simply co-exist without expectations or duties to perform. In other words, sleep is a function of enjoyment rather than one of necessity. This means being roused from it is far less of an issue, blue eyes snapping open quickly. Catching sight of packing taking place, Blackagar lifts an eyebrow in surprise, curiosity on his features as well as he hears the basic outline of the purpose. <<Is this a journey to an elegant party?>> he asks when she examines the green dress, amusement showing as he slowly pushes himself out and starts the mirrored task of getting dressed and packing a simple backpack of items. <<I have not been to Miami, tell me more of these escorts?>> |
| Jane Foster | Sleep as a function of pleasure and relaxation belongs to the realm of infants, cats, and Inhuman kings, facts to preserve to impress others at parties. The party in mind apparently is one that involves liquor-soaked pastimes, flashy displays, and pretty people. So, in short, suitable for royalty and cats. Jane being neither of these will have to make do. <<Yes, love, it involves me infiltrating a party full of an unappealing assortment of business people, financiers, at least two import-export dealers who smuggle things, and socialites who get invitations everywhere.>> A trace of bemusement accompanies the existence of those celebrities, but arguably she has no idea why some people find satisfaction in life being simply among other famous people. Truly a mystery to her, all said and done. <<I'm not going to be able to sneak in as catering. Too short of notice for SHIELD to work up the credentials and a substitute vendor, since they only got word of the movement last night. I was a guest judge at the Met Gala last year, I can pull this off. Care to be my date?>> The green dress is it along with a pair of bracelets that will compliment the very unassuming golden bangle on her wrist that knows exactly what Blackagar is up to. It's never far. <<Escorts are hired company for an event, usually selected for their beauty and occasional conversational skills. They help to make a party more lively or present an appearance of power and influence among other prestigious guests. They're trying to impress one another. At least one of these financiers has a record of hiring them. The real target is a Cristobal Fernandez, an export logistics guy. Plenty of money, works out of Miami and Buenos Aires. Based on our best guess, he's the recipient of the device. Whomever meeting him is working for our favourite octopus people, or hired through back channels. I'd expect firepower and heavy security, though I can get through some of that without too much trouble. Not so much the guns.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | Blackagar looks at Jane steadily and as she finishes, the uplift of his eyebrow is very visibly seen. <<So it is a social gathering of high-powered, influential people. Money. Power.>> That expression he has doesn't wane, instead, he just looks at the woman. <<Have you considered the fact that you perhaps know someone who has immense wealth? Is it not custom that the most powerful and influential of this world often are also the most anonymous?>> His slow smile grows. <<Why not simply walk in?>> Turning, he heads towards the closet he has claimed for himself, starting to open it and pondering the wardrobe there. << After all, it is not as if I have the resources of a millennium-old kingdom at my disposal and the wealth of it as well. How much of a display would you like me to put on?>> |
| Jane Foster | Clasping the halter neck of the dress shut at her nape, Jane catches her reflection in the mirror and makes a few small adjustments. The flow of the gown works well enough for her purposes, so the bracelets go on and then she has to find shoes fit for purpose. <<That's the point of you being my date, darling. I plan to swan in there with you looking like a few million dollars, and conveniently locate Cristobal or wherever they've stored the 084. It shouldn't be overly large, about eight inches around. It looks like a ball carried on a horse's back.>> Getting shoes on and reclaiming her purse is easy enough, especially when the only thing that the purse needs to contain are basic incidentals. That and a few sensors bundled up in a small makeup case. <<Indeed, not at all like you're a king and rolling in money, darling. How much of a display do you want to make? We have to locate the globe and remove it back to our custody without civilian casualties. The last one I had to reclaim ended up dropping the safe house on the Franco-Spanish border falling atop me in the Pyrenees, so expect this could go ugly. They won't have the thing on display, so it will be a matter of moving through and locating the way down.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | A million bucks. He can do that. He grabs the suit that he picked up a suggestion from someone while shopping one day in New York City. The tux is extremely nice and as he sets to work dressing, he glances in the mirror. <<The salesperson told me that it made me look like James Bond?>> he offers in mild confusion. <<That is a literary character, movies and the like, correct?>> Yes, he is fishing to know if it is an acceptable look, something he should be seeking or if it is perhaps a less than ideal appearance. <<So anonymity and stealth. Keeping the civilians safe is a noble ideal, but if it is a trade-off between that and keeping Hydra from gaining access to this device, the latter must be pursued. I shall be prepared for any conflict. If any houses will opt to drop on us, I shall be ready to catch it.>> He stands in front of the mirror finishing his tie. <<Have you thought about how we are going to arrive to this location? Perhaps we should have gotten dressed /after/ settling there?>> |
| Jane Foster | <<SHIELD would have serious questions if I asked for a Maserati or a Lamborghini rental. We can manage a tinted SUV with the appropriate trappings from the local office. I'd considered that, though my way is simply more direct.>> She slings the purse gracefully over her shoulder, and then adjusts her hair slightly. <<James Bond is the very look, yes. He is a literary spy written by a Briton who settled in Jamaica after the Second World War. Very famous fellow, and you have the chiseled look for it.>> That said, she gives him a particularly direct look and then pauses, headed over to the jewelry box that she robbed for bracelets. Plucking a pair of green cufflinks from the third drawer, she hands over the objects in their small case. "Wear those. Something sharp and something rare, a gift from me. I'd meant to keep them for Christmas, but it will work just as well now." Her voice sees its occasional use, though her thoughts are warm. <<Either way, we're taking the shortcut courtesy of me. Whether we take a car there or use the coordinates provided by SHIELD and drop right in, that's up to you. Making an entrance doesn't require a splashy vehicle.>> She gestures to the tablet with a copy of the high-rise layout, parking garage, a tony garden restaurant next to it. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<You continue to think in terms of what SHIELD could provide,>> Blackagar muses towards her, straightening his tie as he accepts the cufflinks into his hand. He begins to put them on and then looks over at Jane. <<I could have made those arrangements you know.>> That is when he smiles warmly. <<An advanced gift? You should not have. You know that I do not have a want for physical things, but rather value /you/. But I am greatly appreciative of the gift.>> He puts them on carefully, examining them. <<You know I have wondered over the giving of gifts. I have considered so many options for you. But I feel as if you would simply express the same.>> Stepping forward towards Jane, he extends his hand to her, smiling. <<Shall we?>> Travel to Miami? That will be easily undertaken. Walking outside to their balcony and wrapping them in a bubble of electron energy so that the wind itself does not touch them. He holds her bag in one hand, his backpack over a shoulder, and the other arm to slide about her waist. Lifting into the sky and skimming them with easy and flight towards their destination. |
| Jane Foster | <<Love, I'm not used to having the freedom to /ask/ you, I'll admit.>> The corner of her mouth lifting, Jane touches her fingers to her lips. She presses a kiss to his cheekbone when Blackagar takes the cufflinks and applies them how he will. <<I value you, too, but giving you small tokens of my affection simply because I can pleases me too. You know us very well, and valuing company and activities together over material possessions is normal.>> Providing him a last one over, she nods smartly. Jane Foster and Blackagar Boltagon: coming to steal back SHIELD's rightful property. <<You can give me a strawberry and I'd be happy, you know.>> Thoughts to cross the void with as they go tumbling across the distance spread from New York and Florida. The swampy heat of autumn on the peninsula isn't quite so bad after rushing across the ocean, his speed far and away exceeding anything a jetliner would casually manage. The skyline of staggered pink and white skyscrapers rise and fall, gathered up along the fringes of the ocean. Jane gives a few basic instructions for them to approach the Miami Tower which stands like a staggered pyramid under the gentle evening's fall. The chameleon-like steppes are hard to miss, shining on the neighbouring tower. At ground level, a discreet sign literally reads 'Black Market Miami.' It's probably some kind of joke on their part. Sports cars and limousines handled by valets or security teams weave through Miami Avenue, all sorts of shiny glitz on display for the tower's little soiree. Even if it were a perfectly private venue, the rich like their focus being on them. Details are the most noteworthy thing about the place being meshed in protective layers. The entrance is guarded, the flat glass windows in flashes of pink for breast cancer awareness and darker neon hues across the windows. All anonymous, of course, with the adjacent parking garage fairly damn posh by anyone's standards, wrapped in a fake Art Deco feel. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<You should get used to it,>> he reminds her with amusement on his features. <<Small tokens of affection. That is a good way to frame it. So if I were to gift you a mountain, that would perhaps be too much?>> Blackagar's amusement does not cease, it remains present in his features. As they settle into the street not far from their destination, he takes a moment to check himself over, then her as well. <<It occurs to me, that I could have called upon Lockjaw to bring us. It would have certainly taken less time. But I believe bonus points are earned for your hair still being in place?>> The details of the location begin to appear in his eyes. Wealthy, affluence, all those elements that are quite broadcast. The dichotomy of attempting to be anonymous but also be recognized in that anonymity makes little sense to the man. But then again, humans do make little sense sometimes. His hands lift, moving in visible sign language as he begins to gesture to Jane. ~It is beneficial that I have a translator present. In addition, I would suspect a wealthy individual unable to speak would most likely be reclusive as is. So this perhaps will provide aid.~ His small smile remains as there is an incline of his head towards the main entrance. ~How shall we approach it? I am a fan of simply walking in like we belong here.~ |
| Jane Foster | <<I will never take it for granted. Giving people something to show I was thinking about them pleases me though. We live in a culture where it doesn't happen enough.>> Being sheltered in an electron field is well and good, but checking her hair and correcting a few creases in her dress from being carried over the distance by the Silent King takes Jane little time. She reaches up to alter his collar a smidge, running her hands across his shoulders to check the fall of the coat. Shaking her head, the amused tone of her mental voice rings like a bell. <<You have no right to be so breathtakingly handsome. It won't distract me but it will make you a predator among them.>> Warning and compliment both, isn't that fair? <<I could have brought us as well, but stop second-guessing our transportation. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Not that I don't appreciate Lockjaw, who is undoubtedly the goodest boy in Attilan.>> He's certainly better behaved than Maximus and older than Triton, who would probably resent being called a good boy by anyone, let alone a human. Miami, then. Ocean Tower has all the amenities of the private clubs -- resorts, really -- on famed Ocean Drive and up in Miami Beach where the truly swanky gather. Infinity pools, private entrances, and an abundance of glass or glitz exude wealth. The restraint for such moneyed individuals begins with the glossy glassy exterior and the same variations on crisp, smart lines and tuxedoed staff scattered throughout to handle drinks, directions, and possibly deadly hits on enemies. Scattered glitterati make their way in once exiting their cars, though the big or paranoid boys go through the garage and up the lift privately. ~We walk straight in. I would approach it no other way. I'm not a Russian assassin.~ Black Widows do things a different way, and what's the point of stealth in a dress? She tucks her arm in among his and nods. <<Let's be on our way, then. Straight in.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<You speak as if I am not aware that I would be a predator among them,>> Blackagar quips back with a small grin. <<Do not forget, despite being isolated on the Moon, I still had to learn all those little quirks of social interactions should the day ever come that I had to deal with political interactions. But let them see the predator, truth is, it may not be far from the truth.>> Blue eyes sparkle, a playfully devious glint to them. <<If we wanted, it could be as easy as walking in and I simply /ask/ for what you want.>> Even with the thought, he doesn't express further, instead with arms looped he starts towards the door casually and as they approach, he signs for Jane to see. She knows the words before he signs them, but it is a show. Meant for the security, for the witnesses about to see and feel comfortable. ~If the food is not up to par as it was last time, then I will be having words with the catering staff. I do not leave the island to come to the mainland for anything less than five stars.~ |
| Jane Foster | <<I speak as if they do not know what's about to hit them.>> Clarification and a mild correction pass without a break of a smile from the astrophysicist. She can hold back the grin physically with an effort. <<Your education would be remiss were you not prepared to be the stern father as much as the benevolent patriarch, or the feared marshal to go with the peacemaking diplomat. Your roles are many and surprising.>> Certainly it's par for the course for a somewhat absolute monarch of a hidden population, small as it is. The notion dances along. <<You'd put yourself at risk to even suggest you know they have the 084, let alone came to purchase. I don't want you risking yourself or Attilan more than you must. Besides, this is my responsibility is it not? Leveraging you to reclaim it will be suitable when we go to recover certain devices marked with a security clearance that would suggest almost certainly they come from an alien origin.>> Let him chew on that fact, since not many alien races have touched Earth with a name to put to them. Her gaze falls to his hands now and then to check the language, and that smart hint of a smile met when they glide up to the door. ~Five stars? Six has become the new thing. They haven't any renowned chefs here.~ Michelin is not a word that a foreign sign carries well, but the notion is there. The first issue comes at the door, bypassing security who frankly have no idea who /he/ is, Jane being another matter somewhat. Checking guest lists by way of a comms link is one option. "And you are?" briefly begins the trial by fire of Blackagar Boltagon. A very small fire. Perhaps a minor candle flame. For Jane, it's a point of smiling brightly and with that vague, unassuming air of someone who is no threat, mastered by women all over the place. She glances to him, fingers curled and flickering. ~Introduction time.~ "I am his interpreter," she adds brightly and dismissively. Security is merely that, so far beneath... mentally, the idea is horrifying, but she can hold to it. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | To believe that he is a man who would normally walk around in simple blue jeans, a plain shirt, and to carry himself in the most casual and humble of ways would perhaps be difficult as they approach the security. The transition is smooth but immediate. Posture, disposition, even the invisible aura around him seemingly shifts. This man exudes not just wealth, but Royalty itself. Power, influence, importance all wash over and off of Blackagar as they approach the security guard. It is not an act, of course, those things truly exist. A judge of character would look at him and immediately know that he is who he appears to be. The power underlying the surface of just the Monarchy exists as well, feeding that image until shoulders seem broader, posture seems taller. Blue eyes, iced colored now like the depths of the ocean at the arctic glare with a frozen fury at the Security guard who simply asks _And You Are?_ to him. The tone. His hands rise slowly, the signing taking place very slowly. He is clearly directing the words towards the Security guard but it is meant to be translated. ~You will inform this guard, that he will not strike that tone again. I am Regent Antonio Igindor of the Maldives.~ The speed with which Blackagar uses that, the small flicker of humor in the bond between them -- he has used this alias before it would seem. It may in fact even exist as an alias, he is so tight-lipped about the resources Attilan has maintained on Earth over the years. Yes they do not visit often, but there is visiting that takes place. |
| Jane Foster | Jane delays for only a moment, observing the motions and then raising her gaze to a point flatly beyond the unruffled security guard's ear. The wire isn't lost on her, nor the fact a good many of those others milling inside the foyer of the elegant building probably back up the notion of security with something stronger than harsh words or denial. In Miami, waiting for hours to be turned away from the hottest venues is essentially par for the course, after all. Regent of an island nation /does/ potentially earn a question mark mentally, but that's well after she has spoken. "Mind your tone, sir, or you will give offense to one of the guests. His excellency, Regent Antonio Igindor of the Maldives will not stand for such behaviour." Using a quietly contemptuous tone wouldn't do here, so she settles on affronted and scathing in kind after exchanging a glance. "He will not be kept waiting out here as some common investor when he is expected inside to conclude his business." The lower tone reminds a servant of his place. It comes a little too easily and that alone earns another mental cringe. <<I should not be able to dismiss someone so easily. I'm blaming Undrjarn.>> Or blame swinging from a branch of a tree for months and not days. Theirs could be a staring match, but it's one ultimately dismissed with grudging irritation on part of the guard. He scowls plenty and stares at Blackagar, but the decision is made against the cost of the clothing and the posture. Some things cannot be faked. He steps aside, though with a frostiness implicit on the thinnest sense of courtesy. A taste of elegance exists on the other side, this time wrapped up in the veneer of dark marble and the eye-popping swatches of green used as a counterpoint. No one mills around up there. Instead, elevators whisk guests up to the higher levels. There is no sort of menu or guide to indicate where to go, the shuttles stopping at the third, fifth, and tenth floors almost exclusively. For the lower floors, the dance floor and a broad, expansive spread of food await. The middle hosts more spaces to mingle along with the ever present humidor and bar. The top floor of course contains the outdoor element and indoor side, where a pool and too many pretty people gather to recommend nothing good at all happening. Between business meeting and high-flying party complete with cocaine and drinks for those in need, it practically radiates privilege gone sour. <<Garage entrance is through the second floor, and the secured office spaces are between the fifth and seventh floors. Cristobal is meant to receive it. Casing the offices might be a quick way of clearing out any possibility of shenanigans.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | As they are given admittance, Blackagar stares at the SEcurity guard with the same frosty look he had previously but then steps past him with Jane. While moving, he considers back. <<Just channel the demeanor I present? Blame me?>> He offers with a small amount of amusement there. <<You know if he wasn't going to let us through, I was going to simply either bribe him or break him. I probably should have asked, is there a limit on how much ... confrontation you wish to avoid during this?>> So casual. So comfortable in this second skin. Even if it entails breaking some random poor guard. <<Do you wish me to stay with you? Or shall I continue the ruse up to the higher levels and see if through that we can gain knowledge of Cristobal?>> The thought is given as they approach the elevator, that small smile appearing as his blue eyes drift to the woman. <<I am rather certain staying in communication will not be an issue.>> |
| Jane Foster | <<They intend to test me with competency in recovering a lost artifact. This represents using resources, and better that we approach it directly than me trying to use a wormhole to transport something between two separate points. That has promise, though. I should try and see if I can manage it for something larger than an eraser or a can of a deadly mysterious gas that supposedly might be fatal. Unless one is you, of course.>> The lively tone isn't easy to sustain as they grace the floors of the Ocean Tower. So casual in that second skin might make her skin crawl otherwise, except Blackagar's steadiness behind the facade is no different much now than then. <<I'm a girl in a dress and you are in a suit. Of the two of us, I unfortunately am likely more memorable. Let's put that to our advantage. You go mingle while I abjectly run the gauntlet of the ladies' room to see what I can See.>> Emphasis there comes as a bit uncomfortable but a fact of life. The soul sees what the body can't. <<You'll be looking for a delicate silver globe on the back of a horse. Whatever you do, don't touch it. The notes suggest that it can be used to activate effects of some kind with the globe as a proxy for location. It turned out /very/ poorly the last time it was used with a candle nearby.>> Her fake smile plastered on matches her idle gestures as they enter the elevator, and she has to squeeze past a thicket of people -- four -- who won't move in order to hit '3' on the illuminated buttons. 5 and 10 are already highlighted. <<Great Fire of London.>> A gloomy truth, that. <<Not for nothing should this come home. Use whatever means you must to acquire information. I have poor intelligence on the HYDRA informant -- we got a few grainy pictures, not much better. Cristobal is hard to miss; he wears a black pearl earring, has a thin beard or goatee, and he... dresses like an Argentine with something to prove. Colourful compared to all the black suits here.>> Two stops isn't long. Ding, the doors open, and it's her time to get out. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<A test?>> Blackagar asks towards Jane, tilting an eyebrow upwards towards her with a bit of curiosity on his features showing. <<Well knowing that, then I shall do everything in my power to not skew the results.>> He offers the explanation with an oh so innocent expression. Whatever he means he keeps secured away in his mind for the moment. <<How am I not memorable? Should I have worn those pants with out the bottoms? The chaps?>> He thinks that is the right word. However, the King does nod in assent that he will be the less distracting one and the mingler. <<A globe, silver, don't touch it.>> Very simple directions that even he can follow. As the elevator stops, Blackagar offers a nod and steps off, starting to make his way through the vicinity and fetching a glass of bubbly from a tray that slips past him. Blending he can do, mingle he can do. It also helps that he cuts an exquisite figure in that suit and cleans up so very well. The downside? He doesn't speak. Fortunately, he prepared enough to bring a small notepad and a pen so that as he makes his way through the area, he is able to write a greeting to those he encounters and make /small talk/ through the writing. But it does quite a number on his anecdotes. |
| Jane Foster | Jane touches her hair to see the coiffure remains largely in place. The usual gestures expected of a woman about to enter public follow as she says, "Pardon me, gentlemen. This is my stop." Pinching a pleat of her skirt up in her fingers, she squeezes by the labyrinth of men who didn't move when she entered and hardly rearrange themselves now for her sake. <<Be safe. No need for chaps, I'm in a colourful dress. Running after the dark-haired man in the suit is much harder in a place such as this.>> She embarks out into the foyer, passing a spread of banquet tables arranged under chandeliers. Few dancers mingle on the floor, more of them interested in clumping together to talk. The careful perusal of people begins by stopping to pilfer a napkin or two, ostensibly for hors d'oeuvres, but the better to deal with no fingerprints. No one immediately presents themselves as interesting in her long walk for the ladies' room, though a cluster of primped arm-candy and debutantes are already loitering there. --- Small talk, then, is the slow route for him to zigzag through the crowd. Most here have business intentions, and speak at length on their importance without saying much. A man who doesn't talk gets odd looks at first, the more inebriated cracking their veneer with sharp comments. "Fernandez's contacts get weirder by the minute. But if you can pay, huh?" The higher floors hold acess to the offices, spilled over the fifth to seventh, separated by swish glass walls and shut doors. An empty desk emblazoned by the Ocean Tower's logo faces a visitor lobby on the sixth, a bored security guard watching over a bank of screens in a room behind frosted glass beside it. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | At the commentary offered him about being a weirder contact, Blackagar's eyebrow lifts up very slowly and he moves to slowly shift his jacket, the cufflinks of fine quality that Jane provided showing. As does the ornately expensive watch, status symbols all. There is the subtle way of indicating one is of stature, then there is the blunt ways that these seem to employ. But in the less direct ways, it is his blue piercing gaze. He has a lifetime of practice of communicating through body language, commanding people far more powerful than these around him in many regards. So that is how he carries himself as he makes his way through the environment. One does not need to _speak_ to look down at someone, to dismiss them with a glance, to measure them visibly and set them aside. Perhaps the direct knowledge of how insignificant they really are does creep in, adding to the layers of self-importance that he adopts. Not the humble, jean wearing and smiling visitor. But this is all King. His eyes continue to scan for Cristobel, as described by Jane, but for the most part he does his best to simply be present. After she had expressed it being a test for her, he is maintaining the casual expressions and being less active. However, his walking does bring him past a few areas where he can look and see, relaying information to her as he does. <<I am assuming that it would be inappropriate for me to slap several of these?>> |
| Jane Foster | Cristobal Fernandez doesn't appear immediately. Mingling on the fifth floor is beneath him, leaving the open glass stairwell soaring up to the sixth with its bar and seventh floor humidor and elegant smoking rooms a likely route. Men of a different cut slip in and among the crowd, the rare woman among them of a similar too alert poise. Their tight, expectant body language speaks to a king whose lexicon of such talents is fluent and capable. Such individuals are a living network listening to conversations and watching, the eyes for a central figure, and likely the hands if the need comes down to it. Close to the seventh floor stairs, a forgettable grey-haired man plays an observer discreetly, his impatience in very subtle tells. Anyone who goes past has already been cased top to bottom by the time they're likely to spot Cristobal nursing a tumbler of armagnac, caught in a laugh and vapid small talk among several more important people clustered with a view of the Atlantic. Not impressive, as logistics experts go. Past him, doors lead to offices. They're with more frosted glass, closed doors, the occasional moving figure in one at a distance. Telling. Damning. <<You might get shot or thrown out. I don't know in which order.>> Jane switches to a different mode heading into the ladies' room, clutching her skirt and dabbing at the pricy fabric. Soft complaints about clumsy staff net a few knowing looks, if not sympathetic from the perfectly primped and coifed beauties who don't see another shark, just a nuisance. She makes a sharp turn, headed to the private room at the end suitable for dealing with fashion mishaps. Moments later, she presses a small sensor with a sticky back to the ceiling above the door where marble and trim won't let it be seen. Her phone comes next, shifting to receive the signal and listen for the corresponding ripple. Details flicker and resolve until she flattens herself into the corner, overturning a small bin to stand on. <<That turned out to be accurate. The cases were marked, and I have a signal. A weak one, but it's to the northwest side of the building. Somewhere with a seaside window. Going past floor 8 is too high.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<If you recall, the last time I was shot it did leave a bruise for a few hours,>> Blackagar points out across the floors, humor in his mind at the memory of such. Still remember the armed robber who shot him at point-blank with the shotgun and the surprised look from the robber that it did nothing and the surprise in his own expression that he had even felt it. <<But I suppose it would create quite a scene, which if you require one in order to gain access simply let me know. I do not mind flourishing some of these about. These are the sorts of individuals that make my skin crawl.>> The lamentation of his belief of the /lower/ elements of human society are well known to Jane. Greed and avarice certainly do bother him. Drawing himself up to full posture, Kingly in disposition, Blackagar slowly begins to move through the more elevated crowd not as if he belongs among them, but that they are beneath even him as well. To convey the pompous, self-superiority is that distinct deviation from his normal behaviors. Definitely a display, one to rarely be repeated as it so definitively goes counter to his beliefs. But for this place, he does not intend to approach Cristobal, but rather to put on such an air that to not approach him would be foolish. <<If your target is beyond this floor, then you will need some kind of distraction will you not? Something to draw attention away from the need to elevate but not so much of one to place them upon alert?>> |
| Jane Foster | Jane, in the third floor ladies' room, relies on her phone to navigate on the weaker signal for the possible 0-8-4. Three floors up, Blackagar navigates the field of sharks where dangerous men mingle, awaiting a handoff for a deal signed and sealed well beyond Miami's glitter. Their bond holding fast over that distance is purely the Midnight King's work, but it certainly beats worrying about text messages constantly alerting him. <<You might ruin a perfectly splendid suit. We dressed up to the nines, and a bottomless budget for repairing perforations in your jackets wastes Attilan's resources.>> See, she cares about foreign economic policy. Correcting her lipstick and dabbing at her skirt finishes up the expected primping, and she heads out in a swirl of dark gossamer. <<On the move. If it's faster for you to reach the globe, I can snarl Cristobal. A chance to practice my Spanish.>> She heads for the elevator, the pod taking precious seconds to bring her to his floor. Hardly a sensation to see another woman in a fancy dress flitting unescorted, mingling briefly for a few murmured words here or there, to slow the pace. She occasionally checks her phone, the curse of a young, connected generation. Yes, texting is so much more interesting than hearing about someone's drinking preferences or eyes focused on her bosom. Slow maneuvering heads for the stairs, where she has to run the gauntlet. Blackagar, however, already has his path before him. Arrogant behaviour is nothing new, but heads turn, eyes sizing up the man who deigns to lord over the masters of industry, hedge fund managers, too important to tolerate it without reacting. Cristobal isn't quite on the alert yet; he watches, but hasn't scurried. Another man approaches, ordering a gin and tonic, throwing it back with careless effort. "And who are you?" is one way to start a conversation. <<Unless you expect me to play damsel or directly ask that fellow up there for an escort, probably. Bypassing him otherwise means a flashy light show, defeating the purpose. I'm not a great spy, am I?>> Amusement colours the thoughts. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<You say that like it is a bad thing,>> He responds calmly, managing a small smirk at the man who speaks to him, asking who he is. Reaching to his refined tablet, he produces a quickly typed message in pristine format declaring himself a Private Investor based out of the Maldives. B. L. Agar. The small smile is afforded the other gentleman before he adds in a flourish of tapping about the mundane nature of the gathering. How common is it to come across a mute these days? A man who does not speak but affords himself the luxury of communicating by writing. A curiosity perhaps, something to draw that needed attention. Piercing blue eyes motion towards the drink the man is ordering, another followed to the bartender in the indication to prepare Blackagar one as well. /And you are?/ he inquires across the tablet with an intrigued eyebrow lift, his expression one of near equal dismissal as he was afforded. To conduct a conversation, an observation, and a separate line of discussion in his mind should be a challenge, but the extent of co-existence has made the ability to speak with Jane near second nature. <<Give me a couple of minutes, I believe intrigue over my presence and who I am is beginning to stir. Nothing quite draws a crowd like a silent, powerful figure.>> |
| Jane Foster | Stopping, then, bring Jane to a cluster of unpalatable choices to converse with. Small talk isn't anything new, letting her fall into polite introductions and overtly mistaking someone for appearing at an awards show the previous year. <<We can find better uses, surely?>> The subtle shift of Blackagar's unintended companion to the tablet, he looks up and down. "Really, Mr. Agar. What sort of acquisitions are you pursuing stateside?" At least he's not one of those people who slow down speaking on the assumption foreigners are mute and deaf both. "Eduardo Manfredi. Representing private capital." He could go further, but the veiled amusement is the benefit for being a member of /that/ family with /their/ connections. Dismissal is nigh to a sin, but then, he harbours a smirk. Others will pull together, drawn in, Cristobal among them. Drinks are drinks, exchanged with a splash and expectant look. Chatter rises and falls, and the shark watching over it all is unperturbed. She isn't in a place to check her phone without becoming incredibly rude, so all she can do is mentally set a timer. Her fingers curl at her wrist. Above, near the seaside window, an office is almost tempting -- almost in reach. The painful aftermath of theft weaves together. <<I can't see anyone obvious up there, but I doubt highly they wear signs reading 'bad guy.'>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | ~In this case, human capital.~ the response is written with the plainest of expressions, clearly, as if the mere thought of it does not bother the man externally. Internally? The thought is a difficult one. Granted, he leads a society that is stratified and some would perhaps even consider borderline slavery. If other elements had their way, it would be such. But he battles against it, but despite such the wash of disgust in his internal persona can be felt even if his face remains plaintive. ~I have been informed in the past that Miami is quite a reliable location for such a resource.~ <<I am beginning to suspect that very few of these people warrant what they have. Is it common to find such figures gathering together to glutton upon their wealth and advantage?>> Sure, he's going to ask philosophical questions while she's in the midst of breaking and entering. It is only fair after all. Blue eyes turn to look at the others being drawn in, a bare glance given to Cristobal himself, almost dismissive of the host. Playing these games of politics are an annoying factor for Blackagar, but learning to navigate the courts had been necessary. |
| Jane Foster | "Human capital," repeats the Maggia investor, easily swirling the liquor around in his glass. "You'll find a somewhat limited pool for that locally, though not impossible. If you're willing to make some allowances." Another sip stains his mouth, and he smirks. "Options can be plucked from Miami, Atlanta, Charlotte. Word of advice, stay out of Louisiana, not worth the trial or effort." Quite casually he seems to take up the cause without much of a blink, but the Maggia are what they are, and criminal enterprise washes over legitimate shores so easily indeed. Cristobal listens, of course, but the smirk he wears is perpetually sharpened. Dark eyes shift away, the pearl studding his ear dark as a puddle of night. He stares out the window and slides away, headed up to the seventh floor and all its mysteries. No collision course there with the brunette astrophysicist likewise checking her course in undulating paths straight for the top. Not in a rush, but then, passing the mandarin acting as a guard to the Celestial Court is quite another thing. Who has the mandate of Heaven? His scowl drops to her, and she raises her chin with an empty, pretty smile. It won't get her past him, not one bit. "You aren't a member. Turn around, doctor," is a simple enough word. The penny drops. She raises a smile. In her thoughts, lightning. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | ~I shall keep such in mind,~ Blackagar responds to Maggia, smirking slightly. ~I do find that the acquisitions here are far more independent than you can get in other locations. However, the requests have been made so investigating is merely due.~ Oddly knowing what he does sends another shiver down his spine. But the information he gets does give him purpose now. Jane may have her investigation she is doing, but Blackagar may be starting to put a few ideas together himself. Such as dealing with some of these /human capital/ situations himself. He does need a hobby after all. He is about to say something else when his blue eyes shift upwards slightly, towards the 7th floor, instinct kicking in with the realization that something may be amiss. The flash of lightning in the mind making him quickly write, ~Beg Pardon, I need to use the facility.~ Abrupt, but it is what he does and begins to walk. |
| Jane Foster | Eduardo Manfredi, scion to criminal lines and wicked family fortunes, only smirks. So does the other businessman alongside Blackagar. "Is that what you're after? Nassau," he adds coolly, "much better profit to be had than dealing with Miami. Import is smooth and efficient." They might idly converse as business people do, swirling through the schemes and gambits of a hundred years practiced and polished. When the Inhuman king leaves his post, a shrug and some Dupont heir slides in with just as equal ease. The knots and clumps of people in conversation aren't truly drawn yet to blood in the water, but it's but a matter of time. For his part, the Argentine -- Cristobal -- proceeds to the upper floor past Jane and the shark who isn't about letting her past. He gives a look to them both, already cleared by whatever rules ban her from enjoying offices and company. Up, and then his lean profile slides out of view. Lightning dances, the ancient warning running through uplifted brown eyes. <<I know those eyes.>> An odd sentiment to make on her own, but she withdraws a step before she's grabbed by the upper arm, some recalcitrant child. <<So much for the direct way up.>> "This isn't the way to the lounge? They assured me I could reach the gardens up here," she chimes, looking out for some poor soul to accuse. <<Take advantage of it while you've got it.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<The ease in which your people so readily will sell their others into servitude is disturbing.>> Blackagar laments sadly in thought, but underneath that sadness, Jane could detect the tones of a boiling anger that seems to be building up. Yes, his people have a terraced societal structure. However, the mere idea of some kind of abuse of someone in the structure is unacceptable. He has issued punishments to people who have treated those in a lower class inappropriately. The truth that all societies have a structure is not lost on the man, but this is outside that realm for his tolerance. Approaching one of the security looking persons who seems to be lurking about, Blackagar produces his slate once more, upon it is written a request for directions to the restroom, which he follows and proceeds to enter. Once within, the Inhuman looks around and spots three people that are presently there. Two men, and one woman. The implications are clear and as he enters the calm facade crumbles slightly and he slams his hand down upon the marble counter, a crack erupting from it as it begins to split in two. The King's hand lifts, points at the two men each in turn, then towards the door to signify they should exit. There is no look of consideration in his blue eyes, they have gone to ice. A blizzard swirling. <<Would it be simpler if I were to turn this entire city to ash?>> |
| Jane Foster | Anger is a rarity in the Midnight King, such that its presence guides Jane to quiet her thoughts for a moment. His disappearance for the meantime forces the only point of contact along the shared telepathic bonds, and the rising ice brings vestiges of the Arctic adventure that robbed Blackagar of reason. No precise risk, merely a frozen terrain that briefly leaves her breathless. Or would if breathing were precisely necessary. Her palm outstretched finds a mirror to where his hands might start gripping the polished counter rooms away, except this feint of weakness on her part technically isn't. Another member of the security detail peels away as the Argentine vanishes, his sentry still blocking the path up. Power players with their expensive cognac and other spirits mingle, unruffled by the disappearance of a newcomer to the trafficking game or a disturbed brunette spotted and exiled from proper company above. It just don't do. <<We are not all like that, Blackagar. Do you believe me an outlier instead of representative of their values?>> A gentle question proves not overly tinged in anger. She waves off the suit-clad man looming her way. The smile shines faintly. <<What would the future offer if you ashed this world? The Moon, jettisoned into a lonely exile through the cold reaches of space, increasingly inhospitable for your people. Lonely exile and darkness should not be our lot or theirs.>> There has already been plenty enough of that. Eventually she retreats to the elevator, heading up to the wilder party climes above. Or that's the plan, two floors ridden up before reaching the snug nest with Caribbean stylings and intimate lighting folded around the heavily populated bar. What's a party without abundant libations and scantily-dressed partiers stripping down to their bikinis to lounge in the infinity pool? She will /not/ honour the notion of ashing the planet just because it's a horrendous show of excess. <<I should be using my power for good. Primarily to report people to the IRS. The taxman learning about corrupt deals taking place here might do the job for you, with fewer casualties.>> Sliding for the fire exit is the easy part, and removing her shoes a necessity to creep down the flight and a half of stairs needed to reach the barred seventh floor. Going around the back way might help if someone weren't bloody loitering by the fire exit door, too engrossed in his phone to really notice her descent. May never has trouble taking people down. Daisy can make them faint. Jane has no other alternative but heels, fists, and feet. Regret saturates the committed motion of striking from behind, going hard to lock her arm around his neck and cut off circulation temporarily. Silence gives so few choices. Choking the guard, bringing him down fast... use what you got. <<If this doesn't work in thirty seconds, I have to switch tactics.>> Undrjarn is not impressed, but then Undrjarn is probably used to a head-on battle with someone who can punch fifty tons aside like nothing. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<You are an exception to these people,>> Blackagar returns in thought. He writes on his board for the woman to see as the other men leave, the words are simple ~You are dismissed as well.~ No judgment in his expression or tone. Waiting for the woman to leave, he turns the lock on the door then breaks off the handle with a move of his hand to seal the bathroom shut. <<I believe I am two stories directly below the area on the floor you wish to access. If you wish, I will meet you there.>> A pause, <<And I will attempt to do so without taking notice.>> The plan falls apart quickly though. The two that he chased off have alerted security, who now are attempting to gain access to the bathroom. The sound of the banging of shoulders against the door begins and casually Blackagar folds his arms across his chest. <<To be fair, I may have created a diversion for you unintentionally.>> Ok, maybe a little intentionally. After the past few minutes? The sensation coming from him hints that he may actually have gone from the amusement of playing incognito to wanting to actually get into a bit of a fight. Not that it is a fight for him to consider. Granted, he also is unaware of that purple-like haze that's clouding his judgment, the slowly working anger triggering some of the viral load that he carries in him prone to unanticipated outcomes. |
| Jane Foster | Not a word answers him, simply more of a feeling through the rushed focus that comes permeated enough with flashes of relative pain. Someone heavier and taller than her, even taken by surprise, isn't going down without a fight. Practice drilled into her head by countless drills over the last five years punctuates a silent stream of conscience, using the bracelet around her wrist to block the guard jabbing at her face. Hurts to be him more than it does her; uru's density is considerable, especially when she flips the bangle over her fingers to use as a form of brass knuckles. Unfortunately the bone-breaking kind, if there's enough force behind it. The backing into the stairs gives a disadvantage to the brunette, though not enough for her to ignite in rage. The overlying aim to stop him from summoning help or bringing another person out into the stairwell is strong, and if it means taking a hit or two in the stomach or side, so be it. Those punches hurt, but not nearly so much as using an enchanted Asgardian artifact hosting the celestial Mother of Storms does. <<Stay with me. I doubt anyone here can give you a remote challenge. Ow, that was a low blow. Hold-->> Two kicks and another jabbing punch later, and she's left standing there, gasping for breath, and forced to figure out where she put her shoes. Someone will notice a barefooted woman more than you might think. Forced to straighten her outfit and grimace at the tenderness to her midsection, she cautiously steps over the crumpled man and compresses that blood flow until he's thoroughly passed out. Dangerous move, but someone has to do it. The pat down for a cellular phone to call with takes moments, using his tie to avoid leaving prints. <<Off to steal treasure. You coming?>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | During the fight, Blackagar simply floated himself upwards and removed a ceiling tile. The solid floor above him would normally prevent access but instead he presses his fist into it, electron shaped to saw through the material and create a gap for him to slip through. Once between the floors, he replaces the tile and then continues his ascent through the sixth floor. Fortunately, he emerges in an empty space after breaking through the floor. A glance around, and with a shrug, Blackagar proceeds in the same way to the seventh. The guards that bust into the now empty bathroom are left with a space that appears to have nothing in it except a broken door handle. <<I still believe it would be much easier to just... dispense with the spycraft and simply conduct the operation in the most direct way possible. While normally I would agree that protecting civilian lives are important... these? I find it less important to protect.>> Following the sense in his mind, he winds through a hallway after exiting the room he is in and upon spotting Jane, manages a small smile. Somehow he kept even the drywall and concrete off him to remain immaculate. <<The bacon wrapped shrimp was good at least.>> |
| Jane Foster | <<Peggy Carter's the one judging my performance, and given what we are after, nothing says the real criminal doesn't teleport himself halfway across the world or decide to rain fire on somewhere with the aid of a small silver globe.>> How does one conduct themselves calmly while walking through a dimmed office area? Like many swanky places, the open floorplan really doesn't lend itself so well to hiding. Low, swishy desks spread out loosely around plush rugs make for something more of a sophisticated look, and all those corner offices bear hallmarks of pretension: frosted glass, locked doors, personal assistants in a pit outside. <<How very Mad Men of them. You haven't seen that, have you? We should watch and you can see how far we've come in sixty years.>> Her initial glance around from the fire door leads to approaching while ducked low, keeping a minimal profile. Somewhere out there is Cristobal, and doubtful he would be alone with a buyer showing up. How Blackagar is not ghostly with plaster or electrocuted by broken wires remains another of his star qualities. Life can be so unfair in divvying out gifts. She pauses, sinking low to put a knee on the ground and drop her shoes. Both hands are needed for her phone, tracking the imperfect signal from the sensor left in the ceiling of the women's room earlier. <<Southeast. That direction, bank of offices facing the Atlantic.>> Lockpicking probably isn't her forte, not the way Natasha would dispense of it in a heartbeat. <<A dealer in there works with HYDRA. If you apprehend him by a bit of force that doesn't attract the goon on the stairs, be my guest. Otherwise the priority is the 084.>> So begins the sneaky task of sneaking unseen, scampering to duck behind an ugly vase on a stupid couch-height table and waiting to hear if trouble approaches. Or Death; as long as the skulls over their heads are small, all is well. Tick, tick, tick. Advance. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | There's a sense of humor from Blackagar as he watches Jane sneak around, moving this way and that. Does he tell her that he could just erect an electron bubble around them, use it to skew their presences? It'd be far less entertaining so instead, he just watches the way she moves about and joins in. While he knows it is not a game, the small sensation that it's very humorous remains. All fun and games until someone lose an arm? <<I have seen reference to it however, so I am aware of the basic premise. It seemed to have a lot of tropes within it that did not directly appeal to me.>> He pauses, standing against the wall trying to look casual while she moves closer. <<This is your operation dearest, it is yours to conduct. If _you_ want me to deal with the Hydra agent, then state such. Otherwise, I am but here as a useful tool at your disposal.>> A pause, humor again, <<An Inhuman Army Knife?>> When she approaches the door and the concept of lockpicking presents itself he doesn't offer out the fact he could just remove the door handle. No, she knows what her partner in this is capable of. He'll be a good assistant and follow orders. |
| Jane Foster | Could he well just filter it out? Could she not simply teleport into the office? Yes, she can, but that's not the point. Explaining how she acquired something with a suite of abilities she technically should not /have/ by any SHIELD designation is one thing. Spycraft is as much mundane talent as anything. <<Let it be said there are better careers out there. I prefer astrophysics to trying to scale a ceiling with suction cup gloves.>> Not that she has those; Widows only. Mostly. <<Darling, you're more than an army knife.>> She glances to the door, the clear silhouette of someone within reason enough to stay, well, behind the door and not the frosted glass. A direct approach is bound to be a pain in the ass. <<I don't like harming people. Though Jemma swore a Hippocratic Oath and hits people with ICERs, but try hiding one in this getup.>> Not a chance. Some things cannot be helped, and she looks over her shoulder back to him. <<You handle the door and subdue him while I get the 084. I don't know if Undrjarn works as a bag of holding, but we'll find out. I have yet to discover any non-sentient form she /cannot/ take, if it matters.>> |
| Blackagar Boltagon | <<A sledge hammer then? I do not know if this situation will allow absence of harm considering the situation that is developing.>> he replies with an amused thought before stepping towards the door and taking the handle in his grasp. There is a bit of lean against the door to test the weight of it, expecting it to hold more than it does. But a sad misjudgment of the situation results in that test nudge knocking the door inwards with a forceful compression that sends it flying back into the room with a crash. A half step backwards and Blackagar blinks, offering a small apologetic smile towards Jane followed by a shrug as he then turns and enters the room. Blue eyes drift and scan, considering everyone around before he spots the buyer, that was who she wanted him to deal with, yes? <<Is that him?>> Blackagar asks thoughtfully, tilting his head at the man with curiosity more than any outward sign of concern. The aura of confidence is around him, he has no reason not to feel such. |
| Jane Foster | Cue lovely office with an ocean view, the coveted spot of wealthy people who have expense accounts and things to prove. A leather couch that's probably seen its fair share of nefarious deals matches up with a swanky set of deep chairs, a desk that's minimalist and a fancy desk share that screams "I am an important man!" more than a Dodge Stratus. The abundance of abstract art, chosen to look self-important, doesn't diminish from the sleek computer docking station or sleek fellow, Argentine and all, with that damn black pearl in his ear and a suit worth more than some houses in relatively nice areas. Nice by Argentinian standards, anyway. 'That him' being the only him, since the only other person on the floor is possibly spinning from the stairs and headed like an angry Donald Sutherland their way. The one who recognized Jane might do it again, the stair gargoyle spitting out, "What do you think you're doing?" at the fracas not so far away. He pulls a gun because direct words are best punctuated by commas, semicolons, and bullets. So too does the stunned Argentine, Cristobal, who does what smart people do when confronted by problems. Push the damn panic button. Push it a few times. Edge away. <<It's in here, but desk or a wall safe, I don't know. Look out for-- wait, you don't care about bullets, do you?>> Must be nice. Her lunging dive isn't the most elegant, but it gets her away from glass speckled by cracks when the first shot hits it, not penetrating fully. Which must say something about the business. Forget subtlety, she rips that painting to reveal depressing textured wallpaper. No safe. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | No, he doesn't care about bullets. Especially the little ones. It was quite a shock for Blackbolt to discover that some bullets are bigger than others and the bigger ones were slightly more thuddy than the little ones. The guns that he is looking at across the glass, spiderwebbed by those firing after the panic button is pressed qualify as medium in his book. Even then, it is rather simple to ignore them. The icy eyes fall on Cristobal, considering the Argentinan for a few long breaths before he starts to walk towards him. A shot comes again from the other side of the glass which cracks further. But it is not a deterrent for Blackagar. <<Ask him where it is.>> He thinks in the direction of Jane, but his gaze is settled directly on the man. <<If he does not answer, I shall make him answer.>> |
| Jane Foster | Halfway through turning, perhaps missing the obvious leaves Jane flat-footed. Her thoughts take a second to cycle. Chalk it up to breaking in, the anticipation of being fired on. <<Right.>> She can discuss overlooking the better idea later. Point for Blackagar as aid. The shots are circling on the glass to the busted door, since Donald Sutherland's evil twin has no compunction about shooting through the entrance. A bottle in a shelf explodes in a puddle of good armagnac, an utter waste. She flinches and darts for the desk, still vaguely sheltered by the door. If the Midnight King has such advantage, she isn't sure. "Give us the package you're holding for your buyer." Her advance drives Cristobal further to the corner and looking out as if he has a free choice there. Chips of wood fly up. Another shot, closer. "Or we're going out the window together and he finds it anyway." "You don't want to do this," begins the Argentinian, his expression darkening. "Making enemies you cannot afford, and you have no way out." His narrowed amber eyes shift from Jane to Blackagar, the scary one, and barely bother to stay back. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | Blackagar is relatively certain that if Jane gets into serious trouble her bracelet will leap into action to keep her safe and protect her. But it is only a relative mindset, what is more annoying in his mind is the audacity of these people to shoot at him. When Cristobal begins the classic rants 'Enemies you can't afford' 'No way out' All that happens is the Inhuman smiles and picks up the table that is between him and the man tossing it aside with a literal finger. That swelling purple hue can be felt, the impatience, the annoyance beginning to grow. Steady steps bring him closer to the mastermind of the situation and as he approaches, Blackagar angles towards the glass view out towards the ocean. He traces his fingers over the surface, like one would do with a fine fabric before a pointed look is given towards the man and lifting his hand, he flicks at the glass with a casual motion. Granted, Jane would feel that he focuses his energy into that small flick, striking the breaking point of the glass in a way to make Karnak rather proud. Everything has a shatter point, the irony of finding it on the glass window is certainly dredging up humorous intents. The cracks erupt outwards from the point of impact, the distinct sound of structural integrity breaking before it drops into fragments and it ceases. Tilting his head, Blackagar lifts an eyebrow in a casual way that almost speaks on it's own the /you were saying?/ consideration. <<All you darling.>> |
| Jane Foster | <<I've had it up to here with human traffickers. He works with HYDRA.>> The decision tips over a simple enough choice even as Cristobal swears in his native Spanish, tying together words and clenching his fists. His calls to 'just shoot them' aren't going too well when she rips a drawer open. It sticks partly, the box inside wedged, but good enough to force it to pop free. <<Catch!>> Hopefully Blackagar is up for grabbing a plastic-wrapped cube still stamped by SHIELD's peculiar Dewey decimal system equivalent for filing dangerous objects. If he doesn't, they can do a second tour. The Argentinian shouts, and that's about the moment she plows into him. Throws and tackles are one thing too often practiced on the Triskelion mats, over and over. The gentleman in the doorway takes easy aim. Bad news for him when the plate-glass window reinforced to withstand a Floridian hurricane starts to breaks outward, splintering entirely along gorgeous fractal designs. Two bodies drop from Ocean Tower, a hail of glass and shredded fabric as a result. Cristobal's profanity is fine, not as good as French. More like using three-ply toilet paper, rather than silk. There will be no violent splatter on the pavement. Either by hoof, copper wing, or electrons, he'll stop before the end. |
| Blackagar Boltagon | Catch she says. Eyes turn to look in the direction of the call and the object is in flight, grabbed by his hand just as Jane rushes past and tackles the figure out the window he just shattered. It looks almost like a coordinated plan, some kind of group effort. If only he had any idea at all what was about to happen. There is a small grimace as she goes out the window, taking Cristobal with her. When travelling with her, there's hesitancy to go too fast. But at this moment, much like the night upon which he had to fly back from the moon, Blackagar dashes past them via flight, out of the window and to the ground to await the arrival. Yes, he could intercept them midflight but there is an element of satisfaction felt making the smuggler and arms dealer feel the tension of impending death. Upon the ground however, he will catch both of them, Jane in his arms, Cristobal by the scruff of his jacket before looking with an annoyed expression and tossing him to the ground in a way the man most likely has not experienced in his life. A piece of garbage like so many others. |