mattmanganon
Joshua Tamashii
Alucroas
Spider Pickle
Shinny
savy
hanzo
Fetzen
Tim the YetiHuman, or so Zourn thought. As a wavy brunette, she was undeniably beautiful, her sharp, striking features, surely making her the apple of someone's eye. Yet, beneath, her spirit was tinged with an unsettling depth of familiarity with others. She wasn’t an empath, though some considered her so. Lacking empathy, anyone she truly understood, she controlled. The Ecrui probably couldn’t make the correlation based on her overexposed senses, but several individuals on Earth held traces of her weaved into their very being.
A stick of dark-plum lipstick parted from Margaret Iedereen's gently smacking lips, gracefully twirling into its rose gold container before dropping into her classic Sac Faubourg Birkin resting on the table above her pencil skirt. All eyes sat on this woman seemingly without care in the world practicing her office beauty routine to a sour-faced audience. In the wake of Allure City's mass erasure and replacement of Spain, and the lockdown on her precious city, Earthlings searched desperately for signs of stress in her. Any sprinkle of doubt in her timeless visage, any stutter of words in her convicting tone, even a drop of sweat. Examining her defined brows in a compact mirror in her left hand, she didn't crack. Despite the sheer totality of individuals clamoring for her downfall outside of Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy, business was business, and Allureans could always count on their not-so-honest, not-so-duly elected, silver-tongued leader to work in their best interests. Her plate was stacked rather high, and rather than play with her food, she got straight down to the meat and potatoes enacting her current agenda, ranging anywhere from imperative to petty.
Beginning with petty, with her usual resting bitch face, Margaret’s almond-shaped eyes leered through her gem-studded birdcage veil into the tongue-biting agents of the room. An awkward silence inflated the space, only disrupted by the lynch mob outside the embassy broadcasted via the lone television of the conference room. “WE KNOW SHE PLAYED A PART IN THIS! MARGARET IEDEREEN IS COMPLICIT WITH THE CAT MAN!” They protested her right to live, let alone allow her to take refuge on Earth.
Folding her arms, bust buckling ever so slightly out of her caramel blazer, Margaret addressed the room. "Earthlings may protest, snivel, and cry out over my arrival, casting me as both a pariah to their society and a symbol of their imagined oppression. I find it quite amusing. History suggests I cannot be both, though the former would streamline operations. Yet, I must admit, I find the latter sentiment rather endearing."
Already over it, a man, clearly lacking dozens of hours of sleep at this point, sitting opposite the oval oak cherrywood table from her, slid a heavy manila envelope halfway across the table. The tall silent figure accompanying Margaret approached from the corner of the room, fetching the documents. One side of his body and entire face was wrapped in an excessive amount of bandages, reminiscent of a mummy freshly unearthed. The rest of his get-up contrasted greatly. Wearing an intricately designed jacket with asymmetric cuts, straps criss-crossing his torso, and pants that seemed to defy conventional tailoring with their unorthodox shapes and patterns, his avant-garde attire dangled as he stretched his arm to Margaret.
“Thank you, Ra.”
Margaret smirked, her eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief. As she perused the document before her, a hint of satisfaction curled the corners of her elegant lips.
“I see you admirably acquiesced to most of my stipulations. The Catch-22?”
A stick of dark-plum lipstick parted from Margaret Iedereen's gently smacking lips, gracefully twirling into its rose gold container before dropping into her classic Sac Faubourg Birkin resting on the table above her pencil skirt. All eyes sat on this woman seemingly without care in the world practicing her office beauty routine to a sour-faced audience. In the wake of Allure City's mass erasure and replacement of Spain, and the lockdown on her precious city, Earthlings searched desperately for signs of stress in her. Any sprinkle of doubt in her timeless visage, any stutter of words in her convicting tone, even a drop of sweat. Examining her defined brows in a compact mirror in her left hand, she didn't crack. Despite the sheer totality of individuals clamoring for her downfall outside of Earth’s Extraterrestrial Embassy, business was business, and Allureans could always count on their not-so-honest, not-so-duly elected, silver-tongued leader to work in their best interests. Her plate was stacked rather high, and rather than play with her food, she got straight down to the meat and potatoes enacting her current agenda, ranging anywhere from imperative to petty.
Beginning with petty, with her usual resting bitch face, Margaret’s almond-shaped eyes leered through her gem-studded birdcage veil into the tongue-biting agents of the room. An awkward silence inflated the space, only disrupted by the lynch mob outside the embassy broadcasted via the lone television of the conference room. “WE KNOW SHE PLAYED A PART IN THIS! MARGARET IEDEREEN IS COMPLICIT WITH THE CAT MAN!” They protested her right to live, let alone allow her to take refuge on Earth.
Folding her arms, bust buckling ever so slightly out of her caramel blazer, Margaret addressed the room. "Earthlings may protest, snivel, and cry out over my arrival, casting me as both a pariah to their society and a symbol of their imagined oppression. I find it quite amusing. History suggests I cannot be both, though the former would streamline operations. Yet, I must admit, I find the latter sentiment rather endearing."
Already over it, a man, clearly lacking dozens of hours of sleep at this point, sitting opposite the oval oak cherrywood table from her, slid a heavy manila envelope halfway across the table. The tall silent figure accompanying Margaret approached from the corner of the room, fetching the documents. One side of his body and entire face was wrapped in an excessive amount of bandages, reminiscent of a mummy freshly unearthed. The rest of his get-up contrasted greatly. Wearing an intricately designed jacket with asymmetric cuts, straps criss-crossing his torso, and pants that seemed to defy conventional tailoring with their unorthodox shapes and patterns, his avant-garde attire dangled as he stretched his arm to Margaret.
“Thank you, Ra.”
Margaret smirked, her eyes twinkling with a touch of mischief. As she perused the document before her, a hint of satisfaction curled the corners of her elegant lips.
“I see you admirably acquiesced to most of my stipulations. The Catch-22?”
