Owner	Pose
Michael Erickson	Food. More food.     Michael stands outside the door of the elegant Russian Tea Room, established in 1927 in downtown Manhattan; standing by the velvet ropes that lead into the restaurant, he's sent a car for Dottie at the Triskelion, and waits for Jessica to arrive as well by her normal means. On the other side of the rope, by the door, the doorman in red with his black fur cap is an interesting bracket for Michael, who, dressed in a black suit and heavy black topcoat and flat cap, looks, finally, as if he were at home. Volga Boatman in the background, that sort of thing.     Well. Someone's got to secure the reservations.
Jessica Drew	An anonymous Uber door opens to release Jessica into the wild. Breath frosting as she puts a high-heeled foot onto the pavement and unfolds from the car. Another figure in black, with a piquant dash of red cashmere around her neck, holding her shining dark hair in place as wind whips down the avenue. "There you are! What a great idea!" She joins him to slip an arm under his while looking up and down the street. With a laugh, "I'm splurging, be prepared. I have a thing for caviar but not necessarily Beluga."
Dottie Underwood	Dottie emerges from her car wrapped in a warming dark wool mid calf coat. What's underneath it remains to be see. She's not bundled against the chill, but she is dressed for the weather. She raises an eyebrow at her dining companions. Not a surprise, of course. But an intriguing twist in her tale. And she will eat well.
Michael Erickson	"Well, I thought a nice dinner was in order," he says to Jessica as she comes up to loop an arm around his arm. "All the work that's been done of late. Dottie should be here soon enough. I don't believe there's much traffic for a northern approach." Michael lets out a tongue of cold breath as he looks both ways down the street, looking briefly amongst the river of taxicabs and other cars flowing along.     "You know I saw that they've finally patched that leak in the Lincoln Tunnel we repaired," Michael says. "The Vision and myself. Shame, I was hoping to see him again, but I suppose he's just busy..." And there's Dottie, emerging from the car. Michael, of course, looks as though he should be walking across Siberia. "Ah! Dottie, a'aat mahr'ruul. Come, I have a table by the fire for us. You haven't eaten, I imagine."
Jessica Drew	"Have we been working so hard or are you doing more of that eating with the troops unify them?" She laughs again, saying, "Ignore me. A good dinner needs no excuse and Dottie intrigues me." Pulling away from him at the sight of Dottie, she waves at the woman. "He doesn't like the cold. We need to get him by the samovar, fast." She nods to the doorman as he holds the door open for her and walks into the restaurant's radiant warmth.
Dottie Underwood	Dottie cants her head. "I'm sure the restaurant is quite warm. I don't normally use a samovar for heating anything more than water." She turns to Michael, smirking. "We could order you a bath I suppose, but I doubt the other customers would appreciate the floor show. And I have not eaten in the last, oh let's say, hour. I suppose that counts?"
Michael Erickson	"You human girls," Michael mutters as Jessica goes in, and he gestures for Dottie to enter. "Always wanting to see me naked. I'll have you know I haven't had my shirt off in public since I did bodyguard duty at Studio 54." There's a story, no doubt.     The Tea Room is...well. Quintessential New York City, beautiful, elegant, firebirds on the walls and all that jazz. Taking off his hat and coat, he walks with the host ahead of his guests to a table by the hearth - a prime spot, and not two tables over is one celebrity or another. Michael pulls the chairs out for both women, waiting for them to sit in order before politely pushing it back in. Assuming, you know, they don't do it themselves.
Jessica Drew	Jessica rolls her eyes at Michael being naked in public. "We don't, or at least, I don't. I can't speak for Dottie. As he seats her, she asks smoothing her black dress under her, "Do they have luxury restaurants on your planet?"
Dottie Underwood	Dottie removes her coat to reveal a perfectly elegant vintage inspired black dress. With a red sash at her waist. She smiles faintly. She orders tea for the samovar -- Russian Country. And a Rasputin from the cocktail list. The rest can wait.
Michael Erickson	Michael is happy to have tea, and he nods as he finally takes his seat. "Oh, yes," he replies. "My father would take us into the nearby city - we lived near Atravaal, which is sort of a provincial capital. Perhaps more like Kiev than Moscow. There was a place here called the Jeweled Tree, which we would sometimes go to. Very elegant. Of course, I left home for the Imperial Academy when I was fifteen, so I never got to sample any of its drinks or the like."     He looks to Dottie's dress, quirking a brow. "You look nice," Michael observes. "Patriotic. Widow's colors, no?"
Jessica Drew	"It's good looking," she nods at Dottie."Not everyone can wear that and pull it off. I would like tea, too before I order us a round of vodka and one round of their caviar tasting menu. "I'm feeling extravagant tonight! Now, we will give you all the drinks that the Imperial Academy robbed you of Michael. Or did you catch up while in the ranks? I never had alcohol until I was 21 or so. Wasn't allowed it during training, they said it blurred your reflexes."
Dottie Underwood	Dottie smiles softly to herself. It interests her to see how training has evolved. Or perhaps it's a cultural difference. What widow would allow a little Russian water to impair her? "This is certainly more extravagant than anything I ever ate in Belarus," she notes.
Michael Erickson	"I am afraid that I am what you would have called a prime member of the bourgeoisie," Michael affirms to Dottie. "I belonged to a noble house, albeit a very small one. Military traditionalists. I am the last of the line now, as far as I am aware - but. I thought perhaps we should eat more together than a sandwich."     He squints at Jessica, then. "Intoxicants on this planet have little effect on me, alas. Though the wine is nice. Vodka, too."
Jessica Drew	"Some people call it poison, some call it the elixir of the Gods. I metabolize it too quickly to really get a buzz on now. Hang with Michael a bit, you might see the insides of more restaurants like this. Do they have the atmosphere right, Dottie?"
Dottie Underwood	"I was not raised in palaces," Dottie tells Jess. "A cinderblock compound would be more accurate to my recollection." She takes a sip of tea. "No doubt it will be much better than I remember."
Michael Erickson	"I did not share the same locale," Michael says, tucking a fist under his chin, "But the training we went through was brutal. Occasionally one of us died, though that was rare enough. A live shot hitting the wrong place when one of us looked up when we shouldn't, or cardiac arrest during harsh training, that sort of thing." He grunts. "Of course, nobility is always pampered. I was glad to get real training once I was put in the intelligence cadres."
Jessica Drew	Jessica watches Dottie from the corner of her eye during Michael's recital of his training. The training that she went through is the wonder of the espionage community. Rumors abound but here is someone who survived it to become as deadly as she is. "Intel takes only the best."
Dottie Underwood	"Deaths were *not* rare in the Red Room," Dottie says. "At least not in my day. Eventually the Department decided that those methods were...wasteful." She takes another sip of tea. "But at least we were made capable."
Michael Erickson	"Deaths were rare," Michael says, shrugging faintly. "Suffering, of course, was not. It's very hard to die of injury in the Empire unless you're being shot by weapons fire. Our physical stamina is such, too, that we can withstand a great deal more than a human might. I remember they would dose us with mycotoxin and leave us to sweat it out for a week straight, just to build our resistance." He grunts, going to pour tea into a small glass. "Of course, by human standards this is unconscionable. But..." He salutes Dottie with said glass. "It did make us capable."
Jessica Drew	"Training never ends nor do the deaths, we've all seen the memorial wall in the entry hall at work. We should have vodka if we are toasting to their memories." After a quick glance around them, she signals a waiter to the table. "A bottle of Beluga Gold, please." Some minutes pass while they wait for him to come to the table. He returns with a tray with three shot glasses that he puts before each of them. Then ceremoniously he picks up a small wooden mallet that he breaks the bottles red seal with before pouring for them. Jessica lifts her glass and waits for the others.
Dottie Underwood	"I did not say the deaths were accidental," Dottie purrs. "Nor were various forms of torture. One needs to be...prepared." And with the vodka her cocktail also arrives. She offers a toast to the table "To capability." And then she picks up her glass of vodka and looks at Jessica.
Michael Erickson	"Oh," Michael says, "Once one enters the Intelligence Cadres, you could well be murdered, aye." He watches as the waiter returns, unseals the bottle, then pours. Taking up his shot, he toasts in return. "Sho'lesh maal," he says. "May our talons remain keen." And once it's time, he does his shot. Clang.
Jessica Drew	"To the capable. We don't forget the ones who went before us!" She throws back the vodka. Eyes watering, she gasps, "Wow, that is peppery. I had heard that the real stuff could be..." The waiter steps back to fill their glasses again.
Dottie Underwood	"Zemlya pukhom," Dottie says very quietly. *Let the ground that holds their bones be soft.* She drinks quickly and solemnly, more ceremony that emotion. She keeps the glass close to her so that neither of her companions can clink her glass. Then she shoves the glass at the waiter. Ready for the next toast.
Michael Erickson	Oddly enough, Michael does not try to clink glasses, either. He prepares for another shot. "Orders," he commands the man, slipping into that odd, proto-Slavic accent that is the Shi'ar when not trying to speak perfect English. "Bring us pirozki. And caviar. Golden Osetra. I will have the stroganoff." A look to the other two, expectant as his glass is being filled.