Owner	Pose
Scott Free	It's a gig. It's not a -great- gig, but it's a real one for Scott Free. Freelance magic shows aren't exactly a crowd buster and there's only so much a guy can make doing street acts. "Don't screw this up." Scott speaks to his reflection in the mirror. It stares right back. He pulls a comical face, extending his jowls and rolling his eyes, then screwing his face inwards until it looks like a wrinkled fruit. Muscles relax and his skin and muscles relax to their normal disposition. "Free!" someone shouts. Scott looks in the direction of the other vanities in the green room. The stage manager, a middle-age man in a bow tie and black vest, holds five fingers up at him. "Five minutes! On your mark!" Scott looks towards the manager, nods once, then turns his focus back to his reflection. "Self," he begins, and airguns at himself. "You got this. Go be awesome." The last measure to be put in place is the mask that goes with the rest of his costumed attire, leaving only his eyes, and mouth and chin, exposed. A dramatic swirl of his cape and Scott heads towards the edge of the curtains while the all-girl dance revue finishes their last number.
Big Barda	In the short months she's been in New York, Barda has not once failed to think about why she was here, in exile, away from her compatriots. Scott. Scott Free. The man who awoke in her a sense of what's right and wrong. A man whose peaceable demeanour touched her in ways she'd never known she could be touched. The man whom she'd helped escape Granny Goodness' tender mercies, only to have those turned upon her for three years before being taken in once again into her fold and inner circle. The man who prompted her own escape, complete with details of Darkseid's impending invasion of Earth. Months of working in construction, flirting on the edge of the law, keeping ahead of immigrations seeking illegal aliens. Months of trying to become an Earthling. Months of being in the middle class, renting an apartment, cooking--she loved cooking!, cleaning, and occasionally lifting very heavy objects that saved construction companies so much in equipment costs that they aided and abetted her avoidance of immigration officials. Then she saw the news item. One of those "on the lighter side" pieces. "Mister Miracle" was going to do an escape act. And some footage shot of him out of costume had her sitting bolt-upright in her seat. Shortly before she accidentally tore the arm off the armchair. "SCOTT FREE!" she shouted to the television, then grilling it for more details. Were this a sitcom, the laugh track would be going wild as each question she asked was, through forces of intense coincidence, replied to immediately after her asking it. Times. Dates. Venues. It was time for Barda to find Scott. See that he was alright. Just see him. Again. Those unfamiliar feeling stir in her again. This time she had a name to attach, however. Her television education called it: The L Word. Strange term for these feelings. --- Come the date and Barda, in all her finery, arrives at the club. Having initially planned to continue her life as an average middle class human, the outfits she saw people wearing as they entered the club made her momentarily teleport on her full battle armour, then, deciding that was perhaps too ostentatious, her low-intensity battle outfit, seeing as it wasn't much less in coverage than what many of the women wore (though the women that wore them had very garish makeup on). So, in her battle bikni, Barda walks past the bouncer without bothering to acknowledge him and into the club. "WHERE IS SCOTT FREE!?" she calls out in a voice that can be heard over the hub-bub from her position next to the stage.
Scott Free	Scott Free is dangling from the ceiling. In a vat of water. Upside down. Scott struggles mightily against a complex knot of ropes, chains, and a jacket that have him trussed up like a ham. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen," the stage manager says over the microphone. "The legendary magician, Mr. Miracle, is going to perform the ultimate escape act-- Houdini's water closet!" he exclaims. "Observe the trick that ended the great Houdini. There is no secret mechanism, no trap-door. He need only escape his shackles, and the straigtjacket, and then undo the fiendishly clever lock that holds the door shut. Will he make it out in time, or--" Barda's booming voice echoes through the room and the whole place goes quiet at her sudden (imposing) presence. Scott blinks at the interruption and looks over. A subtle application of telekinesis keeps the water out of his eyes and it clears the view to the towering Fury of Apokalips. "Blobbroda?" The words leave his mouth in a string of oxygen bubbles, climbing to the top of the container.
Big Barda	"WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HIM YOU FIENDS!?" Barda shouts, incredibly even louder. As the bouncers start making circuitous lines through the club to her location, she changes her location in a single bound. "I will rescue you!" she says in a hushed voice. "Do not panic! These miscreants will rue the day!" And they likely will. Starting about now. When Barda lifts, then tilts the vat of water, letting the water thunder across the stage in a tidal wave that sweeps away the MC, the speakers, shorts out the stage lights, and douses everybody within about 3 metres of the edge of the stage. She then tosses the vat away to the back, tearing down the curtains and some of the lighting, bringing sandbags, spotlights, and heavy drapery down in a tangled heap. The fire that briefly started from the hot lamps breaking is mercifully doused by the remnants of water in the tank. "I will free you!" she says, then, as aero disks form beneath her feet and lift her to Scott's height. Ropes snap. Chains tear. The straitjacket separates into tatters.
Scott Free	The crowd is in a panicky stampede. A cascade of water, sparking electrical equipment, and shouts of outrage from the club management crew turns the environment dark and foreboding. Most people have the good sense to get clear of the commotion as a super-human woman smashes the evening's entertainment into scrap. "Barda-- Barda! No, it's-- I'm fine, don't--" Scott's objections sputter out as the prop equipment is torn to pieces by Barda's bare phalanges. Oh well. C'est la vie-- it's nothing that can't be replaced, after all, and the momentary sting of that loss drowns in the rush of elation at Barda's arrival. Scott's cape abruptly reverses direction to hang away from the flow of gravity as he rights himself, his own aero disc deploying under his boots. His mask is hastily removed, making a haystack mess of his brown hair. "Barda?" he queries with a whisper, eyes narrowing. Hands touch hers, then grips her arms. "How-- when-- what are you doing here?" he splutters. A rare loss for words!
Big Barda	"Yes, it is I, Scott!" Barda says, beaming idiotically as she stares at the face that fuelled her freedom and escape, gripping hands and arms in mirroring turn. "What are you doing in this place?" she asks. "And who captured you and trussed you like this!?" Danger rises in her voice as that final question is asked and her gaze sweeps over the audience. And where did that Mega Rod come from? "I will end the one who thought to get away with harming you!" she hisses, her professional eyes picking out the bouncers now ... well, approaching, but with considerably less zeal than before.
Scott Free	"Barda-- Barda! Barda!" Scott's voice rises in alarmed pitch as she threatens the bouncers. "Stop, just-- wait! I did this, I put myself here. Me!" He breaks his contact with her, maneuvering in front of the woman and touching fingertips emphatically to his chest. "It's an escape act. A, uh, show, a performance piece," he tells her. "Humans pay very well to be entertained." He looks down at the now-empty club. "Well, they pay all right," he concedes, "but a bunch of them get crabby if they think I did something superhuman. It's part of the, uh, er, the show," he says, and gestures lamely at the wrecked stage. "FREE!" the manager bellows. Scott winces. "IS THAT FREAK LADY WITH YOU? YOU ARE FIRED!" His face is mottled red with anger.
Big Barda	The bull elephant on steroids about to unleash unholy vengeance is mollified when Scott gets in front of her and starts hastily explaining. Her anger visibly deflates as his exposition carries on and the beginnings of embarrassment, even, begin to show. Then the manager comes in. Words like "freak lady" pass unnoted. Even "fired". But ... shouting? At HER Scott?! This will not stand. The bull elephant is transformed into a momma bear and the freak lady steps toward the manager, picking him up without even the slightest hint of effort until the man can see eye to eye with her. Deadly glare to eye, for better illustrative purposes. "NOBODY TALKS THIS WAY TO THE MAN I THE ELL WORD!" she shouts back in a voice that ... vibrates. Deep in the core of the man unfortunate enough to be facing it. "YOU WILL APOLOGIZE NOW OR I WILL BREAK ONE BONE AT A TIME UNTIL YOU CHOOSE TO!"
Scott Free	Scott covers his face with both hands and groans. So much for ever working THIS venue again. One of the bouncers comes off the wall and lunges at Barda. He's fairly large, packed with an overabundance of muscle that can only be due to mutation. Probably more than adequate for clearing out metahuman drunks without too much effort. He runs right into Scott's foot and trips violently with a fair amount of momentum, to go skidding across the ground. "Sorry," Scott says, and it sounds sincere. "Barda-- Barda, please, don't-- Barda, he can't -apologize- if you KEEP CHOKING HIM!" he growls through clenched teeth and a set jaw. "Put him down, and let's get the hell out of here!" One hand rests on her extended wrist and applies gentle downward pressure. Scott would have a better chance uprooting an old tree than moving Barda against her will. Instead the pressure is just a touch, and the real effort is the pleading in his eyes.
Big Barda	It's the eyes that do it, as Scott correctly guesses. The arm holding up the manager (who is turning interesting shades of purple and red and even a hint of orange) descends, bringing the manager back down to his feet before she lets go. The manager immediately crumples to the floor, desperately trying to relearn the art of oxygenation, flopping on the wet stage like a fish out of water. Ironic if you think about it. "Scott Free ... it is so ... nice to see you once more. I never imagined I would again, but you always lived in my memory." Genuine tears threaten to spill. "Knowing you were free and happy made Granny Goodness' punishments bearable." Impulsively she throws her arms around Scott, hugging him close to her as if not quite believing yet that it is he. "Let us go somewhere quiet so we can talk."
Scott Free	Breathe wheezes out of Scott's lungs at the hug. There are plenty of devious traps out there but Scott has yet to figure out the trick of slipping Barda's arms when she embraces him. A little awkwardly he pats her ribs with the limited motion of his forearms. One of the bouncers is staring at him, agog; Scott just shrugs helplessly and goes for a 'what can ya do about life' sort of grin. "Okay. Barda-- Okay, Barda, I need to breathe, put me down," he says, and taps her arms with his fingertips. Once he's righted he adjusts his costume where it had bunched up. "Right. Ah... well, we should... go," he says, eyes sliding around the damage they've done. "Before... ... yeah." Scott looks pointedly at Barda, nudging her with his fingertips, and then breaks for the alley door to make a fast exit with the towering goddess at his side! Shouts of outrage emerge but once the two refugees have open sky overhead, it's child's play to simply levitate out of sight to a conveniently unoccupied rooftop near by. Scott stretches his back with a groan of relief, surveying the area around them, then turns back to Barda. "Right. So, pressing question, I mean, lots going on, lots to to talk about, so, priorities--" He clasps his hands together, steeples them under his chin. His eyes narrow and he pivots his pointer fingers to aim at her sternum. "'The man I 'ell word'?" he inquires, with an impossibly deadpan sort of amusement.
Big Barda	"That is the right expression here," Barda says with the sort of confidence only someone who's been the right hand woman of rulers for over a century could show. "I learned it from watching the televideo entertainments." The actual question has escaped her or, more likely, is literally unthinkable because OBVIOUSLY she loves Scott Free, right? It's practically her birthright! "When I saw your face on the televideo entertainments I was flooded with overjoyed relief. You HAD escaped and are hale and ..." Her voice trails off. "How did you come to be here, Scott Free?" Barda sits on the rooftop, lounging back against the brick elevator cover. "I had expected you to flee to somewhere among the enemies of Darkseid, not here where he can still reach for you at need."
Scott Free	"Flee Darkseid?" Scott laughs a little humorlessly. He finds a spot to sit and settles in opposite Barda, resting his back against the heavy AC vent behind him. "I didn't have a lot of options," he points out. "Asgard?" he suggests. "Avalon? Take shelter with some of the godlings in their cramped little dimensions?" He shakes his head, looks out over the city, then back to Barda. "Even if I could hide, no one there could protect me. Not against Darkseid. The sole mortal man among the ... cosmic faeries of the Demiurge," he scoffs. "Humans, though-- this is hiding in plain sight," he points out. "I look like them. I sound and smell like them. Mother can keep my energetic signature scattered, enough that I'll blend in with all the people here." A hand produces a red ball, rolls it back and forth across his fingers with a deft ease. Over one hand it goes, an obvious slip into his opposite palm... but when he lifts his hand, his palm opens to reveal nothing in it. The original hand turns over to reveal the red ball perfectly camoflagued for light and texture against the backdrop of his glove. It's tossed to Barda. "Camoflague. Or obfuscation, if you like the five-dollar words," he says, and flashes another lopsided grin at her.
Big Barda	"I too chose to hide in plain sight," Barda agrees, nodding, after the delighted, almost childlike look on her face watching the act of prestidigitation. "I live among the humans like one of them. I have a job. A noble job. In construction. Where I lift heavy objects and save the construction company so much money they hide me from the illegal alien officials." The truth is in there somewhere, just badly interpreted. "But ..." And here it happens. An amazing transformation. Big Barda, once head of the Female Furies, implacable warrior who has dealt destruction for decades ... ... bundles up her knees, wrapping her arms around them ... ... and looks VULNERABLE! "... Ithinkbothofuswouldbesaferifwecouldwatchoutforeachothersothereisstrengthinnumbers." Which is, one must confess, one way to suggest cohabitation. Perhaps not the best way. But one way.
Scott Free	Scott just stares at Barda. He caught every mumbled word, of course. But it's shorting his system a bit to see her looking so... fragile. When they met, Barda was the sort of person who made the world conform to her perspectives about reality. "Construction." Scott baps a palm to his forehead. "Why didn't I think of that. I bet I can carry all kinds of stuff. And flying, I mean--" he looks proudly at the horizon, hands grasping and clenching the air with an evocative motion. "There's no top shelf safe from me," he proclaims. A little coping mechanism. The humor. He looks at Barda's face, slightly concealed by her dark hair, to see if there are any cracks forming in her posture. There is a very small amount of sound and then Scott is next to Barda, sitting back on a foot tucked under his hip. "I think that's a good idea," he says, dropping the ambling, good-humored tone for a more sincere murmur. "We should stick together. If for no other reason than to have -someone- to talk to about how weird these humans are," he says, venturing another irrepressible grin. "I mean, food is great, the entertainment factor is great, but they still have wars over... lumps of *gold*. And race! Six billion humans, all arguing about which of them is the more evolved tribe of monkeys."
Big Barda	Well, that does bring a smile to Barda's face. It starts fragile, but quickly builds up strength. Not the part of the weirdness. Oddly it was the praise that brought the smile to her face. And the acceptance of her suggestion, so hastily and nervously delivered, that they 'team up'. "I have been practicing being as one of them, Scott Free," she says. "I have a small apartment--too small for two, but good practice size. I have been perfecting my 'cleaning', 'laundry', and 'cooking' skills." The way she speaks makes the quotation marks audible. "This is, according to the entertainment televisor the appropriate role for me in this society: I have a career and can clean my home at the same time. I am certain the guidance from it is good because the women in televisor who follow it are always happy and those who do not follow it are unhappy." She doesn't seem to be employing sarcasm, alarmingly. "I think the two of us, with the help of our Mother Boxes, can blend in and be indistinguishable from the humans, making Darkseid's hunt for me and the secrets I have difficult to impossible, and Granny Goodness' revenge on you impossible to deliver."
Scott Free	Scott's hands flex in the air as if demonstrating his total lack of objection to Barda's thoughts. "I have no idea what I -should- be doing," Scott admits. "But these humans can't seem to get enough of sleight-of-hand magic." He makes a pack of cards appear in his hands, bridges them expertly through the air, and makes them disappear again. "Even without Mother, it's child's play. But the card tricks are not as impressive as avoiding death," he admits. "I have to really /work/ at looking imperiled, you know? Otherwise the humans won't think I'm in real danger." He gets to his feet and offers Barda a hand up. "I am in no better position for a residence," he admits. "The humans call my apartment a 'shoebox', which I don't quite understand because it can hold other than shoes. It is much nicer than our abodes on Apokalips, but not by much. Still, I've been here for a few years now; perhaps it's time to embrace some of the finger aspects of living on Earth. Humans do enjoy their self-indulgences." Fingers squeeze around Barda's, and he smiles up at the towering warrior. "I'm glad you're here, Barda. And I'm glad you found me. Knowing I'm not alone... that will make our, uh, exile here, much easier to bear. We shall blend in then, me with my 'job' and you with your, uh, domestics. I have seen this sort of arrangement on Earthling television. It seems to be some idyllic standard for them. We should be able to fake it quite readily."
Big Barda	"Indeed we should." The three words are delivered as she would deliver agreement with a battle plan to Granny Goodness. The difference is the soft expression on her face and the light--adoring light--in her eyes. "I will perform the domestic part flawlessly and you can astonish the humans with your acts of bravery and ..." She pauses, brow knitting. "... Surely you do not intend on having them suspend you in water again? I don't want you endangering yourself, Scott Free!" Is street magic an option now...? "I do not want you to waste your life on entertaining lesser beings after what you and I escaped on Apokalips. Can't you just become..." Her television-mildly-addled mind grasps at straws. "...an accountant? That's a common occupation here, right? Or architect?"
Scott Free	Scott gives Barda a slightly befuddled look. "Barda... it's just /water/," he reassures her, and gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze close to his chest. "It's not like it's electrified or some kind of self-impelled nanocrystal glycol suspension. It's just... water. I don't think we even /can/ drown in that," he points out. That roguish smile returns, full of confidence and charm. "Besides, it has to look -good-," he tells her. "And there's no one who is better at escapes than me. You can't just do A to B, 'oh and now I'm free of the cuffs'. It *has* to look like there are real consequences, or no one will believe it." His eyes go distant with a sudden insight. "Oh, but that's an idea... maybe they lower me into a coalesced *gelatin*, that would be WAY harder to get out of!"
Big Barda	"Why must you entertain them with thoughts of death, Scott?" Barda asks, genuinely concerned (though the reassurance of the act's safety seems to mollify her somewhat). "Can we not live just as humans do? We can establish a household, I will cook and clean, you can go out each morning after a healthy and nutritious breakfast, give me a peck on the cheek and drive to your office job that you hate while you dream of a wild life, and come home to dinner parties, back yard barbeques and such. While I will join the PTA, do something called "yoga", and grab children off the street to take to something called "soccer". She pauses, wrinkling her brow. "Though there are some portrayals of entertainers. And people are always laughing while they're on so it must be a happy lifestyle too. Perhaps we can work entertainment into the life too. Can we own a 'radio station'?"
Scott Free	"Hey humans are weird," Scott protests. "You know their money isn't actually anything valuable? They don't use energy chits. They don't even use scarce metals anymore! I always heard you could impress them with some gold. I tried to transmute something and the man who bought it said it was 'fake'. All they want are these little pieces of cotton cloth with symbols printed on them. They go crazy for these things," he says, and hands Barda a stack of $20s. "And you can't even -eat- them. What's the point?" he demands of the world. "I offered to help correct some of their rudimentary ideas about physics and they laughed and told me to leave. If I pull the old Severed Head trick, they go insane. I'm pretty sure the lesser primates would probably pay me even better."
Big Barda	"I know about money here. They give me those weird papers...not that many!...when I go and lift things. And then some of them are very happy and praise me to their lesser gods while others get upset that I am "ruining it for them" and try to attack me. That last group learns quickly why it is a bad idea, however." Barda's grin would be chilling just for the good-naturedness of it considering what the lesson was likely like. "I used the papers to pay for an apartment. But they want the papers replenished monthly. It is a strange place."
Scott Free	Scott gives Barda's wrist a sympathetic squeeze. "Well I can't -fix- the stupid," he admits, "but I can at least make it a little more bearable. And we'll be able to blend in here a lot better than we did on Apokalips. Gr--" he looks around and shifts uncomfortably. "Granny is looking for Scott Free or Big Barda. She won't be expecting the two of us to be living together. I think the next step is to figure out where we're going to stay," he says. "It sounds like neither of us have spare room. We'll have to see if we can come up with some big money somehow. I hear the people in the cities always talking about moving to 'the suburbs'," he says, carefully. "I think they're a more affluent sort of housing district. It might help us blend in more."
Big Barda	"Yes! The suburbs! I have my apartment in a place called Happy Harbour, and I have made the pilgrimage to the Burbs to see the little boxes on the hillside. I think we could be model citizens in the Burbs near Happy Harbour. Join the neighbourhood watch. The PTA. Raise 2.15 children and 1.2 dogs. Be as average as possible and never be noticed!" She stops then, pausing. "But ... is it not ...?" Wrinkling her forehead as she tries to remember the deal. "We will need another feminine resident so that you can pretend to be 'gay'--I do not understand what this means--and thus be permitted to cohabit unmarried." She's watched a lot of TV it seems. "I think it is a wonderful plan!"
Scott Free	Scott hesitates, eyes lidding in confusion. His mouth works, opens, closes. Barda's enthusiasm is aggressive and infectious, and getting in the way of it is just an exercise in pain. So instead, Scott just closes his teeth and nods approvingly. "Well, you seem to have a better handle on this than I do," he admits. "I guess I need to spend more time absorbing Earth culture. I am clearly watching the wrong television shows." He looks at Barda and offers a handshake. "No, wait, I saw this on the television," he says. Scott backs up, looks around, and takes a knee. It's not exactly supplicative; if there was an audience, he's mugging for them. One hand holds one of Barda's; the other gestures broadly at the invisible audience occupying the cityscape. "Barda, will you do me the honor of joining me in the bonds of holy domestic partnership?"
Big Barda	Barda's eyes open wide in astonishment. Her cheeks ... actually ... flush. And not with the anger that he's seen burn in them so often. "Sc..." Her voice fails her as she watches Scott's clumsy imitation of television proposals. She tries again. "Scott..." Nope. Cat's got her tongue. She wets her lips nervously and coughs a little. "Scott Free are you ... saying ...?" Closer. Edging a bit closer to the target. She decides to stop starting and start moving forward, bulldogging her way through. "... that you wish to ... make me ... your ..." Closer and closer and closer, but that last word. It's evading her tongue. And that face is turning so red it's like a nuclear furnace about to discharge its waste into its disposable tenders. "... wife?" The word is finally forced from its holdings as a strangled whisper. "OH SCOTT YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES!" That's probably an affirmative.
Scott Free	Scott bounds to his feet with a smooth motion, fingers snapping with excitement and pointing at Barda. "Perfect! Yes, that was absolutely spot-on!" he cheers her. "The humans go crazy for that sort of thing. But I think we should save that for a last resort," he tells Barda, palms spreading. "Like you said, this place is complicated and the rules for cohabitation are... weird." His nose wrinkles in thought. "But if it works better for the cover, we'll have to go through the motions," he allows. "So, I'll be Scott Free, and you'll be ... Big Barda Free. No. -Barda Free-," he amends. "Then all we will need is a, uh... well the kids might be hard to sort, but we can get a dog," he offers. "Oh, and someone who might pass as a housekeeper? Or cook? Surely these humans have servants living among them. I haven't seen any Bugs since I've been here but it does seem like there are transactional arrangements for room and board," he observes. "Whatever-- we'll figure this out as we go. I'm going to start looking for Respectable Work," he says. "Something very incognito that will let me be a dutiful provider. I guess you, uh... ...hm." He squints at Barda. "I... suppose you'll need to practice the, uh cooking? And cleaning? If I've learned anything from the show about the boy Beaver, that seems to be the principal duties of the wife-type."
Big Barda	Barda beams with pride. "I have already practiced both and am quite accomplished at both!" she declares, positively bursting. Cleaning, of course, comes natural to anybody who's lived through Granny Goodness' tender mercies from childhood. But cooking?... "I had a guest over to eat 'ham sammiches' just a few days ago, in fact!" she continues, smiling fondly. "It was delicious and my friend thought it delicious as well! My first houseguest for a meal. I was so happy!" And with that, overcome by joy both of the proposal and of the memory, she stoops and bodily picks up Scott to hug him close. "You have made me the happiest woman in all of Apokalips and Dirt combined!"