[b][I]Morningstar[/I][/b]

“Great, so what you're telling me its just the garden variety scumbags outside, while the real party people are inside. The locked building. With no way of telling who's in there. Which I'm going into blind. Alone. . . Great.” Morningstar's reply was as dry as dust, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, but she spoke quietly and was infinitely careful as she entered, showing that she was still respectful of the danger inherent in the situation. 

The hallway had all the appeal of a run-down crack-den, looking like that'd managed to pull in Sid Vicious to serve as the interior designer. She spent several heartbeats in the dank corridor simply listening, seeing if she could pick out any suspect noises or tell-tale sounds in the half light. Then, with lack of a better option, she would work her way down the corridor slowly and methodically, stopping at each door. She would retrieve a length of what looked like thin, flexible black hose from her utility belt, as it was actually an inspection camera, known more colloquially as a snake scope. She would feed the camera head of the snake scope under the crack of the door frame, with the live feed displaying on her in-mask HUD. If she found anything she would stop and make a plan.

[I][u]Mr Joe Black[/I][/u]

Joe tramped up the VTOL boarding ramp behind Pariah, mumbling about how no one ever thanked him for his help, and how that instead of taking his advice and shooting Salvation they were instead taking him back to League Headquarters. Truthfully none of what he said really formed a sentence, it was more of an outpouring curse words, foul diatribes and racial slurs. As he sat in the jet he removed his whiskey flask and took a long swallow, glaring at anyone who gave him an admonishing look for his casual alcoholism. 

The VTOL swiftly covered the distance back to the Hall of Heroes, Joe shoving and pushing the other heroes out of his way to be the first off the plane. He scoffed at the idea of helping Pariah anymore today. No, it was just coming up to that time of day when Sky played all the Simpsons re-runs, and he reckoned he had just enough time to settle his ass into the couch before it all kicked off. On his way out he heard some chick ask were the infirmary was. She was asking the group at large, but Joe stopped and gave her a deep, meaningful look, not the sort of glance you spare someone in a crowd, but the kind of penetrating gaze you would use when you are really, really looking at someone. Slowly he peeled off his raybans, revealing his glazed dead eyes. 

"Hospital wing. . ." He infused the words with a great amount of solemnity, managing to flex his skull like face into something resembling concern. "I'm afraid to say you might be a bit late for that Rolling Girl. I've got a sense for the Supernatural, ever since I became mortally challenged, and I hate to tell you, but you got the touch of the Reaper to you. I'd say, professionally speaking, you got the best of eight hours left. I'm sorry." It was utter bullshit of course, but you had to make your own jollies in a place like this, and hazing the new kids never went out of fashion.