Cynthia Summers
Cynthia idly stirred her water with a straw. Cynthia didn't drink-bad for the voice. For this reason, she was pretty unfamiliar with bars. It had been a long, long time she she was performing for this small a venue, and the atmopshere in general made her uncomfortable. Loud, usually dark. Lots of people, none of whom were totally in control of their faculties. Not her preferred environment-she had SSR training, she could handle herself, but at the end of the day, there was only so much finesse and technique could do against drunk force and a painkilling buzz. She hummed to herself, unconsciously matching the rhythm of the bartender's heartbeat-he was stressed. This was a full crowd and he was not used to quite so many people. Cynthia couldn't have told you this with as much clarity and accuracy as a telepath could, but she was good at grasping the nuances, at looking at the broad strokes of colors and seeing the forest for the trees.
Around, the atmosphere sang to her with a strange blend of drunken energy and the woes of those drowning their sorrows. In the background, there was the low, steady rumble: it was the quiet before the storm, or the quiet buildup to the crescendo. Great forces would soon be thrown into the sandbox together, and this little pub was going to be the site. Curious. Cynthia was fairly certain she could pick up on the presence of any...like her...but one could never quite tell. Despite her work with the SSR and MI6, she was rather in the dark about this whole phenomena. What these mutations entailed, what others were capable of...this project would be interesting.
She sipped at the water-no ice. Waiting. Waiting. She ran through the normal routine of preparedness as she did so.
The pistol is strapped to my right thigh. The knife's on the left.
There are two exits I can see. There's also a window, but shattering glass is...ugh. So tiresome. Gives everyone a headache.
Bartender probably has a gun under the shelf. Nobody else looks armed. Nobody else Sounds violent. But the night is young...
Men, in Cynthia's experience, didn't tend to hold their liquor very well. Especially if one had the misfortune of running across a group of soldiers on leave-while she couldn't blame them for getting obliterated (especially the Brits-Cynthia could empathize very well with the Blitz, even if their burning buildings came at the hands of the Reich and not the Soviets...) at every opportunity, they were no less...irritating. She observed the bar from her corner seat, the rest of the booth open for whoever else might happen to join her.
The jukebox eased into the next song, and Cynthia vaguely identified the song and all its little intricacies within a second or two, returning to her analysis of the bar. Nobody had harassed her, which was pleasant-she'd done her hair up differently, and changed her posture. People came to have a drink, not to go scouting for celebrities-and Cynthia Summers, after all, was on hiatus, resting her voice following a surgery to her larynx.
Or so read the SSR-influenced tabloids. She kept a low profile and whispered while she talked-it was bothersome. How terrible it would be to be like this all the time...
She stirred her drink. Waiting. Waiting. Another sip.
Riley
Asphalt. Ugh.
Riley leaned against the back of the bar, a grimy mixture of old worn bricks and full-to-the-brim dumpsters. They had to pick this place for the rendezvous. Riley rubbed at his chin absentmindedly, attempting to find anything familiar in this godforsaken place. No stars in the night sky-was it ever clear weather here? He'd walked into the bar briefly and attracted some rather undue attention. His footsteps may have fallen silently but his presence wasn't quite as subtle-amongst the pale faces and blue eyes of the Europeans, he...stood out a bit. And while Riley wasn't particularly vested in the success of this mission, he didn't think it would add to the subtlety of the group if he drew the eyes of every one of the pub's patrons. So he let the Europeans get filthy drunk and waited inside.
A deep breath in. Hmm. He'd check back in a while, but didn't think everyone would be here quite yet. No use in rushing. There was all the time in the world. What was the point of this mission, anyways? From what he'd been told (and, somewhat irritatingly, the elders dispensed information on a need-to-know basis-Riley'd had perhaps two or three days to prepare for his venture across the sea. Flying in an airplane was...uncomfortable. Constrained.), they were scouring the world for individuals like himself.
They would fail in that regard. There were no individuals like Riley.
...or so the skinwalker told himself.
But beyond this. The common goal was to bring down the Nazi regime perhaps. He had heard rumors of what they were doing in Europe. A world embroiled in war. New forms of weaponry. He'd seen the Americans light up the wastes of the desert with artificial suns-what, then, did these Europeans possess that could counter that? It was interesting to him. This mission held no personal stake to him. He heard rumors of people being dragged to camps and being tattooed before death. This was troublesome. He empathized with this. And to a degree, a part of him wanted to bring his hand against those who overstepped their boundaries-these Nazis would have their lebensraum in hell. This was hypocrisy. The Americans or the Brits with their stupid accents or the Red Russians would simply fill the void. They would bury their flags where the Nazis planted theirs and the world would see the same conflict in a matter of years. He would fulfill his debts-his nation owed the Americans, according to the elders, and it was Riley's duty to make even that debt-but he wasn't optimistic about their chances.
But fine. Not his place to question. Just to follow orders.
Riley, unlike the anxious starlet sitting alone inside, was no stranger to waiting. He spent a lot of time alone, just watching, listening. He would wait as long as they needed for the others to arrive. Then he would go and do what this SSR told. And then he would go home and never see any of these wars or people again. There was not much more to it than that-no moral imperative or great crusade. Let the Americans believe they are saving the world and the Brits believe they are saving their nation and the Russians believe they are saving their brothers. Riley will settle for saving himself.
Hmm. A break in the clouds. The Blitz was long since over-or so Riley'd heard. He didn't really bother keeping up with the wars of the imperialists, they all ended the same way. Perhaps the Germans would decide to test their luck again tonight. Then there would be something exciting going on in the Isles for once.
Riley chuckled to himself-a rare sight, as he was generally what could be described as "moderately grouchy". Perhaps I am not as skilled at waiting as I thought.
Cynthia idly stirred her water with a straw. Cynthia didn't drink-bad for the voice. For this reason, she was pretty unfamiliar with bars. It had been a long, long time she she was performing for this small a venue, and the atmopshere in general made her uncomfortable. Loud, usually dark. Lots of people, none of whom were totally in control of their faculties. Not her preferred environment-she had SSR training, she could handle herself, but at the end of the day, there was only so much finesse and technique could do against drunk force and a painkilling buzz. She hummed to herself, unconsciously matching the rhythm of the bartender's heartbeat-he was stressed. This was a full crowd and he was not used to quite so many people. Cynthia couldn't have told you this with as much clarity and accuracy as a telepath could, but she was good at grasping the nuances, at looking at the broad strokes of colors and seeing the forest for the trees.
Around, the atmosphere sang to her with a strange blend of drunken energy and the woes of those drowning their sorrows. In the background, there was the low, steady rumble: it was the quiet before the storm, or the quiet buildup to the crescendo. Great forces would soon be thrown into the sandbox together, and this little pub was going to be the site. Curious. Cynthia was fairly certain she could pick up on the presence of any...like her...but one could never quite tell. Despite her work with the SSR and MI6, she was rather in the dark about this whole phenomena. What these mutations entailed, what others were capable of...this project would be interesting.
She sipped at the water-no ice. Waiting. Waiting. She ran through the normal routine of preparedness as she did so.
The pistol is strapped to my right thigh. The knife's on the left.
There are two exits I can see. There's also a window, but shattering glass is...ugh. So tiresome. Gives everyone a headache.
Bartender probably has a gun under the shelf. Nobody else looks armed. Nobody else Sounds violent. But the night is young...
Men, in Cynthia's experience, didn't tend to hold their liquor very well. Especially if one had the misfortune of running across a group of soldiers on leave-while she couldn't blame them for getting obliterated (especially the Brits-Cynthia could empathize very well with the Blitz, even if their burning buildings came at the hands of the Reich and not the Soviets...) at every opportunity, they were no less...irritating. She observed the bar from her corner seat, the rest of the booth open for whoever else might happen to join her.
The jukebox eased into the next song, and Cynthia vaguely identified the song and all its little intricacies within a second or two, returning to her analysis of the bar. Nobody had harassed her, which was pleasant-she'd done her hair up differently, and changed her posture. People came to have a drink, not to go scouting for celebrities-and Cynthia Summers, after all, was on hiatus, resting her voice following a surgery to her larynx.
Or so read the SSR-influenced tabloids. She kept a low profile and whispered while she talked-it was bothersome. How terrible it would be to be like this all the time...
She stirred her drink. Waiting. Waiting. Another sip.
Riley
Asphalt. Ugh.
Riley leaned against the back of the bar, a grimy mixture of old worn bricks and full-to-the-brim dumpsters. They had to pick this place for the rendezvous. Riley rubbed at his chin absentmindedly, attempting to find anything familiar in this godforsaken place. No stars in the night sky-was it ever clear weather here? He'd walked into the bar briefly and attracted some rather undue attention. His footsteps may have fallen silently but his presence wasn't quite as subtle-amongst the pale faces and blue eyes of the Europeans, he...stood out a bit. And while Riley wasn't particularly vested in the success of this mission, he didn't think it would add to the subtlety of the group if he drew the eyes of every one of the pub's patrons. So he let the Europeans get filthy drunk and waited inside.
A deep breath in. Hmm. He'd check back in a while, but didn't think everyone would be here quite yet. No use in rushing. There was all the time in the world. What was the point of this mission, anyways? From what he'd been told (and, somewhat irritatingly, the elders dispensed information on a need-to-know basis-Riley'd had perhaps two or three days to prepare for his venture across the sea. Flying in an airplane was...uncomfortable. Constrained.), they were scouring the world for individuals like himself.
They would fail in that regard. There were no individuals like Riley.
...or so the skinwalker told himself.
But beyond this. The common goal was to bring down the Nazi regime perhaps. He had heard rumors of what they were doing in Europe. A world embroiled in war. New forms of weaponry. He'd seen the Americans light up the wastes of the desert with artificial suns-what, then, did these Europeans possess that could counter that? It was interesting to him. This mission held no personal stake to him. He heard rumors of people being dragged to camps and being tattooed before death. This was troublesome. He empathized with this. And to a degree, a part of him wanted to bring his hand against those who overstepped their boundaries-these Nazis would have their lebensraum in hell. This was hypocrisy. The Americans or the Brits with their stupid accents or the Red Russians would simply fill the void. They would bury their flags where the Nazis planted theirs and the world would see the same conflict in a matter of years. He would fulfill his debts-his nation owed the Americans, according to the elders, and it was Riley's duty to make even that debt-but he wasn't optimistic about their chances.
But fine. Not his place to question. Just to follow orders.
Riley, unlike the anxious starlet sitting alone inside, was no stranger to waiting. He spent a lot of time alone, just watching, listening. He would wait as long as they needed for the others to arrive. Then he would go and do what this SSR told. And then he would go home and never see any of these wars or people again. There was not much more to it than that-no moral imperative or great crusade. Let the Americans believe they are saving the world and the Brits believe they are saving their nation and the Russians believe they are saving their brothers. Riley will settle for saving himself.
Hmm. A break in the clouds. The Blitz was long since over-or so Riley'd heard. He didn't really bother keeping up with the wars of the imperialists, they all ended the same way. Perhaps the Germans would decide to test their luck again tonight. Then there would be something exciting going on in the Isles for once.
Riley chuckled to himself-a rare sight, as he was generally what could be described as "moderately grouchy". Perhaps I am not as skilled at waiting as I thought.
