Long Island, NY - Friday, 21 April 2017 - 1615 EST

Betty Beaver's truckstop sat on a far-flung reach of Long Island's southern peninsula between a series of seaside villages that hadn't managed to yet congeal and expand to fill the island completely. They were the kind of little towns that once you got out of range of the salt air of the sea blowing in and becoming muddled by the scent of exhaust and diesel, you wouldn't know it from Idaho. The trucks-only gas station that sat in front of a plain red and white building festooned with the icon of a grinning, chubby anthropomorphic beaver in stars-and-stripes patterened spandex shorts was, itself, a spiritual transplant from places like Boise and times closer to 1980 than 2015. Betty Beaver's had the sort of quiet, homey desperation you tend to find far from the manic pitch of the city. The people who come here have no sense of time; they're in no hurry. The come in, sip coffee for hours, eat steak and potatoes and leave. They don't take credit cards, and sit at the center of a cellular blackout point. A sign attached to the front door proudly displays a notice that there's a fifty cent "entry charge" appended to every bill, the clever end-run around New York state's anti-smoking laws.

The drive from Wardenclyffe to the truckstop was one good hour in a hard-top GTO, and Gerad took the opportunity to get a little fresh air and reacquaint himself with the music of Strapping Young Lad, a favorite of his from his days in the Gulf. He wended his way through the back streets of the island with mechanical precision and completely effortless ease, burning down the wet asphalt as the roaring cylinders of the iron beast beneath him beat out their song.

At quarter-after-four, he pulled up alongside a '99 Nissan Stanza in grey and rust, the only other car in the parking lot. Old copper bells hung by bits of string announced his arrival, provoking a tired-old woman sitting behind the counter reading a paper and smoking a menthol cigarette to perk her eyes up wearily, just before her grandmotherly face creased into an easy smile. "Boss", she said.

"June. How's business, gorgeous?"

The woman shrugged, her lip curling into a blithe smirk. "Meh. Same shit, diff'ren day."

Gerad nodded thoughtfully, taking a look around.
He stopped in this place about once a month, just to check up on it. On one of his rare crawls out of his lab somewhere in the neighborhood of five years back, he'd happened across this place and stopped in for a bite. The humble little stop was like getting back together with your high school girlfriend; everything was familiar about it, like he'd been here a hundred times. With its peeling formica countertops, chipped coffee mugs, mismatched condiment caddies, single-page menu that boasted not a single goddamn word in the way of explanation or apology for its hodge-podge of proteins and carbohydrates, Gerad found himself pleasantly reminded of a bygone era he thought he'd buried with his childhood. Gerad bought the place - and the thirty acres it sat on - the following week.
Since then, he'd turned Betty Beaver's into a safehouse of sorts, a place to conduct his business. He fired the cook, a local good ol' boy who spent more time cooking the books than cooking meals, and hired Ricardo, an old Cuban who came to this country forty years ago on a floating door and was sharper than any ten professors. June, the lovable old crone who kept the place in shape, stayed on. She didn't know why the new boss wanted the place or what he did in the basement room, but she knew that for being a hash slinger, fifty thou a year was enough to not worry about it. Despite falling into the red more weeks than not, Gerad had assured her the place would be in business indefinitely, and for that, he'd bought her unwavering loyalty. It didn't hurt one bit that he saw in her something goddamn sharp, in the worldwise, savvy way that only grandmothers and truck stop waitresses can be, and she took care of the place with the kind of attention and veracity that would have marked her as a CEO if her life had gone in a different direction.
"Tell Rico to get me a t-bone, two eggs, and a mound of corned beef hash, will you, June? I'm going to the basement for an hour or three." Gerad rapped his knuckles on the cash register, slipped a wadded fifty-spot into the old coffee can that a local kid had left behind to collect for Muscular Dystrophy, poured himself a tall mug of the oilslick coffee brewing on the back counter, and slinked towards the back room to unlock the basement door.

"Sure thing, Gerry. Somethin' up today?" Gerad was no slave to scheduling, for sure, but he'd last been in only a little over a week ago, and it was off that he'd be back so soon.

"Yeah", he responded from the back room, fitting key to lock and deactivating the security array that kept the basement safe from scrutiny. "I'll have a couplea strangers comin' inna few hours. If I'm not back out yet, make 'em at home, but not too at home, huh? They're guests of mine, but we're gonna be talkin' business today, and I don't have time to coddle anyone."

"You got it", she half-shouted back. "What table you want?"

"Three!" came the reply, and the door made an audible click as it closed.

Three was the corner booth, and June knew enough to keep the table on either side clear in case anybody else came in. "Order up!" she called out to the pudgy old gentleman taking a smoke just outside the open door that lead from the kitchen outside, and he nodded in affirmation, finishing his cigarette before waddling back inside.

Betty Beaver's Truck Stop, Long Island, NY - 18:45 - April 21, 2017

It was not, on the whole, the most auspicious place for a meeting of sufficient intellect to revolutionize the entire socio-political structure of the world. The truck stop nestled itself against the highway with the easy comfort of a long-term eyesore, the cheerfully obese beaver lit in neon waving to passing traffic like a billboard-sized “fuck you” to urban planners everywhere. It was, in short, exactly the kind of place Alexandra would have expected Machina to enjoy. It probably even shares his complete lack of respect for tidiness and hygiene. The thought curled her lip into a resigned quirk of distaste, but she dropped from the sky to the pavement behind the diner with a swift, precise grace in spite of her displeasure. A moment's scan of the area assured her she had arrived unseen, not that there seemed to be anyone nearby likely looking, and she took a moment to remove her VR sunglasses and slip them into a pocket of her long leather duster before walking around to the front door and letting herself in.

It was not, on a moment's reflection, quite as bad as she might have expected. Formica tablestops and laminated menus conspired with battered condiment caddies to give the place a faintly archaic air, as though it had been torn wholesale from the less reputable parts of the 1950's and unceremoniously dumped in the back corner of Long Island one step ahead of the building codes. A woman glanced up from the behind the long bar, offered Alexandra a grandmotherly smile. “Something I can get ya, honey?”

The weary cheerfulness of the greeting and her complete lack of surprise at Alexandra's appearance set a silent alarm bell ringing in the back of Alexandra's skull, and she took her time sliding around the edge of the bar; took in the backless stools, the duct tape patched vinyl-seat booths lining the room and the subtle hum of tiny electrical signatures scattered across every surface and hanging in the air like a fine-grain static on her enhanced senses, the more solid pulse of a familiar bioelectric signature toward the back. You always did like your nanites, Gerad, you and Rachel both... She offered the woman behind the counter a crisp, reserved smile, adjusting her skin-tight black gloves automatically. “Two short glasses, empty, and two glasses of water. I think you know which table.”

She turned, walked to the corner booth and leaned against it with a glance down at the magazine spread out in front of her host. "Nova Blue? I see your taste in reading material hasn't improved."

Gerad had returned from his cloister downstairs just in time to receive a modest plate of truckstop fare, toting the January issue of his favorite skin mag under his arm. Lighting another coffin nail, he thanked Rico for the plate and took a seat in the far corner of the appointed booth, shoving a mixture of meats into his mug while he absently flipped through the pages of his pornographic periodical.

By the time Alex had arrived, he'd completed his meal, the vague remnants littering the plate like a grease stain. Four cigarettes had burned down to nothing in the little glass tray. Gerad realized who'd arrived by the time she hit the pavement, the toes of her boots that cost more than most people made in a month elegantly tapping as she became grounded, but chose not to look up from his skin mag, finishing the article on the psychological dilemma of the death row inmate's last meal that he'd ghostwritten some years before and finally submitted.

"Nova Blue?", she crisply approached him, her voice less condemnatory than simply ribbing on his old vices. "I see your taste in reading material hasn't improved."

Gerad snorted, flipping the magazine shut and tossing it on the tabletop. "I woulda bought something classier, like HUSTLER, but this month had a couple shots of you sunbathing topless in Naples, and I had to satisfy my curiosity about what kind of dynamite you pack under those ridiculous 'I'm-a-professional-woman-who-conducts-serious-business-yet-still-abide-by-the-dictates-of-the-Prophet-Mohammed-blessed-be-his-name' suit-things you wear."

June brought two large glasses of water to the table along with a pair of shot glasses that were kept behind the bar chiefly for use by the staff, along with an unlabeled bottle of whisky that proudly bore a metal stamp on the cap that read '1971'. "C'n I get you anything, sweetheart?" she rather matter-of-factly addressed the smartly-dressed nova.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil:

Nova "Flicker" Madigan descended the open staircase into the vast living room of the Rio de Janeiro mansion she shared with her fiance Neil Preston and her live-in lover Meghan "Mithril" Cutter. Meghan, as usual, loafed on the sofa in front of the oversized wall-mounted video display. Meghan looked up at Nova's approach and paused her video game.

"We about ready?" Meghan asked. She was, again as usual, buck naked. She'd gone without clothes since shortly after she'd erupted. This was less scandalous than normal because of her appearance; she was made of a uniform grey-blue metal that softly shone with a matte finish, like anodized titanium. In addition, she was smooth like a store mannequin in the appropriate places, so her nudity, while startling, could hardly be called indecent. Nova fished around in the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and retrieved her mobile phone.

"One sec," she said, tapping a few buttons on the device. Nova retrieved a satellite map of Betty Beaver's truck stop and concentrated briefly, setting the location in her subconscious. "Okay," Nova told Meghan as she tucked the phone back into her pocket, "let's go."

Meghan switched off her game console and slid it under the coffee table.

"Are we going in just as we are?" she asked.

Nova shook her head.

"We're going in stealthily," Nova replied. "I don't think there's any danger, but I think Machina wants us to be subtle." Meghan crossed the room to meet Nova halfway and allowed her body to become malleable. With practiced ease she slid over Nova like a second skin, and after a moment her transformation was so complete that Nova appeared to be wearing a metallic blue-grey high-necked bodysuit under her blue jeans and hoodie.

"You're not wearing underwear," Meghan giggled from a nonspecific point on her body. "Kinky."

Nova chuckled without replying as she and her girlfriend became invisible together, and then teleported both of them to the truck stop's interior, arriving soundlessly just inside the doorway.

May as well announce my presence, Nova thought as she looked around the diner without moving. She released a small packet of quantum energy, as if she'd begun to gather her energy to teleport and then let it abruptly dissipate. The "ping" resonated from two other novas in the building. Like sonar, however, the ping worked both ways. She'd announced her arrival.

"Two novas," she whispered as softly as she could for Meghan's benefit.

(OOC note: this post occurs prior to Flicker's chronologically)

"No, thank you. I'll pour the whiskey that is quite against the dictates of the Prophet myself, if you don't mind." Alex seated herself gracefully, neatly pouring a shot for herself and one for Gerad, then fixed him with the slightest hint of a smirk. "I do hope you found those gratifying; I understand it was very expensive for Nova Blue to have them faked. I doubt they'll see much return on their investment."

"They were probably unimpressed with the genuine article", Gerad shrugged. "I mean, after paying some lackey photographer to spy on you like that, all that hazard pay they no doubt paid him, and he comes back with what looks like a couple of veiny sacks of haggis? Well, shit. That doesn't sell magazines, sister." Impudently, he smiled and lit up another cigarette as his old nemesis poured out the single-malt brew into the two small glasses, carefully noting that she opted to short him about a hundredth of a milliliter in comparison.

"We're not alone", his nostrils flared, like a dog catching a scent. "June", he turned to the woman who'd found her way back to the counter.

She turned back at him quizzically, scanning the horizon through the windows behind him.

"Two menus", he amended.

Her head cocked slightly, dangerously, her node humming with the resonating echo of quantum in the room. Her cool gray eyes locked on Gerad's something flickering there that didn't quite conceal itself swiftly enough to vanish completely. "Your other guests stopping in, I presume?" She sipped the whiskey carefully, precisely, full lips curving slightly with an expression that wasn't quite a smile. "As for the genuine article, I assure you that the slightness of my interest in your enjoyment or lack thereof of my figure challenges even my considerable talent for calculation."

"That's them in the corner," Nova whispered to Meghan as she walked their way, her footsteps making no sound. She took the measure of the two novas in the booth as best as she could, but what she could not see told her as much as what she could. Like most smart novas, almost everything she wanted to know was hidden from her view. That fact told her volumes, too, however. Braggarts wore their ability proudly, announcing to the world precisely what they could do. By extension, the braggart also revealed his weaknesses. These two were far cagier.

Nova stopped three paces from the booth and announced herself more conventionally, despite still being invisible.

"Machina and Wargear I presume? I'm Nova Madigan, and Mithril's also with me," she said simply and politely.

"Wargear or Alexandra will suffice, Nova. Your friend, by the way, has a very interesting molecular structure that I'll enjoy examining at some length. Please do sit down." She flicked her eyes across the table at Gerad and smiled with just the hint of perfect teeth showing between her lips. "Why don't you move over a bit, Machina, and let her have a seat?"

Gerad slugged back the shot in one gulp, one eye momentarily throttling the other for control as he looked at the spot the sound originated from. He squinted hard a moment, his eyes level, and roughly kneaded the skin of his forehead in mute consternation.

"Nova, jesus... Y'know, I'm glad you could make it, but why the kid?" He grunted in acquiescence, his features softening somehwat. "Fuck it. Have a seat. And no worries, we're alone, here. The pair who work here are cool." He gestured to the seat next to Alex, pouring himself out another shot. "Anyway, when Neil shows up, he can sit next to me. I owe the kid a handjob."

"So nice to know that your level of awareness about dignity in public spaces hasn't changed, Machina." The hint of arch sarcasm in Alexandra's voice could have sharpened titanium, and she slid herself further into the booth with a twitch of her waist so her back rested against the corner and there was enough space for Nova to seat herself.

Nova allowed herself to become visible as she took her seat next to Alexandra. As she did, her namesake aberration became evident: she ceaselessly flickered in and out of total invisibility in a random pattern, much the same way as an old fluorescent light bulb flickers on and off.

"You can analyze my molecules any time you want," Meghan replied to Alexandra, taken by her grey eyes. Meghan fondly remembered the last nova to analyze her molecules, Regina Newcastle, and how pleasurably that encounter had gone-- mostly, anyway.

"It's good to meet you," Nova said, looking in turn to Alexandra and then Gerad. "That handjob may have to wait, I'm afraid. Neil's delayed, and may not show up at all." Nova frowned briefly and knitted her Mithril-gloved fingers on the table in front of her in a neat stack.

"Consider me a poor substitute for Neil, minus the hand job I mean," Meghan suggested to Gerad. "You should already know that I'm a crazy idealist who believes that there's got to be a better way to run the world than this, and the only thing we're missing is the proper application of nova genius. Who do you think gave Procyon the idea for his 'Third Way,' anyway? He stole that from me."

As Flicker told him that Neil might not be in attendance, Gerad's features fell visibly, his jaw setting in a mute utterance that made the one word he thought perfectly clear; "Shit."

Gerad looked coolly across the table, rolling his eyes slightly as the Tin Girl took no time in hitting on Alexandra. Way to go, Neil. Leaving me to drown in sapphism while you're out prancing around warzones playing with mangled bodies. If my chances across the board weren't less than zero, I wouldn't accept an SUV full of Nobel's to trade places with you.
"Anyway", Gerad sighed, scrunching up his chin as the three women finished their introductions. "Nova, hey, glad to finally meet you." He paused, adding "Really", just to make sure she knew he was being sincere.

"You should already know that I'm a crazy idealist who believes that there's got to be a better way to run the world than this", Meghan cut in, "and the only thing we're missing is the proper application of nova genius. Who do you think gave Procyon the idea for his 'Third Way,' anyway? He stole that from me."

"Procyon's a fucking moron", Gerad concluded, grounding out his most recent cigarette. "All the supernatural charm in the world isn't going change peoples' basic nature. People", he expanded, "are a bunch of mewling, warlike little monkeys, and I'd say - conservatively - that we're a few hundred thousand years of very convenient evolution from changing that."

June interceded, bringing two more water glasses and two menus to the table, her otherwise placid calm visibly shaken by the two recent additions to the table, though she did a rather admirable job of not letting it show too much. One of the glasses and menus was completely unnecessary, though she hardly knew that. "Y'all just let me know if y'need something", she smiled a little anxiously before meeting Gerad's eyes, which silently told her she could excuse herself without giving affront.

"Anyway, that's basically what this is all about", Gerad continued. "No Star Chamber of novas can hotwire man's basic genetic predisposition to violence, but the right amount of smarts, properly applied to relevant fields of the baseline social, political, financial, and military institutions, could save an awful lot of blood, tears, money... Well, shit. Everything. The idea isn't to keep people from being fuckin' animals to each other, it's to pad the blow. Enough people with enough smarts studying enough of the data could do an awful lot in the way of making sure the damage done is comparatively little. Neil spends his time running around the world trying to plug the holes in the Titanic. Alex", he addressed her directly, "you're a tactical surgeon; for you, the end always justifies the means, as long as the end is the most tidy and precise one you can see. And me, I sit on my ass and get really angry. But between the four - five" he regarded Meghan, "of us, I think we could do a lot better than rearranging the furniture on the Hindenburgh."

Well that was... unexpected. The eager interest in Mithril's voice would have made her intentions obvious to someone with a fraction of Alexandra's brainpower, and she was momentarily grateful for her own preternatural calm before Gerad took the table and she stopped paying attention to anything else for the moment.

"Pad the blow." The cool, distant detachment of Alexandra's features faded slightly, the light-swift thoughts of the penetrating intellect behind her steel gray eyes snapping into place almost audibly as she leaned forward to look at Gerad with the half-drunk glass of whiskey in her hand obviously forgotten. "You're looking to do social and geopolitical surgery; prevention, situation management, playing the entire system like dominos. You read Vector Shock and you're trying to apply the same principle in the opposite direction." She cocked her head, paused for less time than it took Flicker to start to draw a breath. "Why us, and how?"

Gerad cocked his gaze at Alex, one eye squinting as the other bolted wide, his mouth grimacing almost audibly. His voice was so dry he was nearly spitting sand. "Yeah, you got it. Your little book was the revelation I'd been waiting for my entire fuckin' life." He scoffed, shaking his head slightly as he lit up again. "Zip up, Al, your ego's showing, and this ain't the time or place. If you came here to insult my intelligence by insinuating that both of us haven't already thought every thought the other has had already - every thought", he filed it down to a shiv point, "then fuck off. If you're bored with killing civvies and want to do something interesting, then stop stepping on my dick and let's move on.
"The reason", he continued, "is that the time wasn't right before now. You talk about this like dominoes, and maybe it is. But we're dominoes, too, and all the pieces had to be in place, first. Unless I missed my mark, you, Nova", he turned to Flicker, "you and Neil are under a lot of strain right now. It's running him ragged. He needs a change before he fucking annihilates himself. That kid gives too much of himself. Soon, there'll be nothing left. And you", he turned to Alex, "are bored. Don't deny it. You've been doing this shit for enough years now that it doesn't satisfy you anymore, admit it. If I'd brought this to you six years ago in Marrakesh, you'd have laughed in my face. The world and its vicissitudes didn't interest you enough that you'd bother with shit like this. But that's not the case anymore, is it?" He drew off his smoke again, throwing his arms over the back of the booth's bench chair, his eyes drifting to nowhere in particular. "And then there's me. Maybe I was just a spook too long, I don't know. I've been too angry for too long, and all I've been able to do is throw money at the world's problems. I'm tired of it. So I called in some favors and had a sit-down with the ex-cheese. It was a hard sell, but my hands are untied."

"What I am talking about, here, isn't so much surgery as preventative therapy. Beyond even what Argus does. Instead of being first response to the world's brutality, we follow the threads like the Moirae and intervene in the name of the mutual good and stark efficiency. I'm talking about booster shots for the virus of human conflict, vaccinating, if you want to think of it that way."

Meghan could manage nothing more than to listen and hope to keep up with the conversation. As much as she thrilled to learn that there were serious motherfuckers actually interested in using nova genius to change the world, she was also terrified to learn that there were serious motherfuckers interested in using nova genius to change the world right now.

Nova, for her own part, had not this far out of her depth since before she'd erupted. She stalled for time and tried to connect the dots as quickly as she could before Machina and Alexandra could resume talking and further muddy the waters with more knowledge and shared history which only the two of them possessed.

"I'm not one of Neil's appendages," Nova said, diverting the topic back a few seconds. "Neil's cracking under the strain, unquestionably, but I must echo Alexandra's question: why me?"

Meghan, still wrapped skin-tight around Nova, nudged her.

"And why Meghan, for that matter?" Nova appended.

Gerad snorted, sitting back up in his chair. "I didnt invite Meghan", he pointed out. "You brought her with you, as long as we're on the subject of appendages. I'm frankly a little fuckin' curious as to why she's here, myself. Maybe this idea appeals to her, maybe it doesn't." He turned his eyes to what passed as Meghan, the blue of his eyes meeting no particular spot on Flicker's clothing, and addressed her directly, "If you want to be a part of this, Megs, there's got to be some demonstrable talent you bring to the table. I'm open to suggestions, but I've got no interest in some vast and complicated affair. For the sake of efficiency and security - not to mention to avoid having everyone with a camera shoving it up our asses - I'm looking only for equals who can add something of gravitas to this little joint."

Taking another drag from his cigarette, he went on, "To answer your question, Nova; Alex is a strategist. As much as I find her views on global political conflict to be bordering on sociopathic, I begrudgingly admit that she knows politics and warfare like few others. So do I, of course, and I also have something of a talent for interpreting the intelligence community. The operative to Al's soldier, you could say. You," he gestured with the lit cherry of his cigarette, "are a financial genius. Like Lenin pointed out, you've always got to keep an eye on who benefits. And among the people I know, you're more uniquely attuned to the fluctuations of the world of finance than anyone. Someone's going to have to watch where the cash is going, and that's where you come in. Plus," he added, "I know I can trust you. You're not a shill or a power junkie or puppeteering, Machiavellian schemer. You and Neil actually give a shit about the world and the people in it. I need that." With a bitter expression, he picked up the remains of his shot glass and downed it, staring into it pensively before putting it down.

"Not to mention, Nova, that you add an impressive degree of mobility to his operation should he require it. He's not mentioning that because he doesn't want you to feel exploited, and of course he's right that your talents with money will be useful." Alexandra finished her drink and set it down precisely on the table with the faintest clink of glass on plastic. "The thing he's not mentioning about me is that I have high level military and political contacts the world over through my work with DeVries, and since he's been playing a ghost in the woodwork for the last decade or so he's short that kind of access outside the intelligence community. Specifically, a department of the intelligence community that's not going to be thrilled with what we're planning to do." Her eyes met Flicker's a moment, held, an ice-and-steel appraisal that send shivers down her spine.

"Speaking of what we're planning to do." A flick of Alexandra's gloved fingertips adjusted her long black hair back into place over her shoulders, her eyes settling on Gerad's unflinchingly. “The Moirae; classical. A nice allusion, very good. We don't change the paths, just smooth the transitions, minimize negative impacts and try to make sure all the wheels run smoothly? Or are we talking about playing God here and smiting the heathens while protecting the righteous, Gerad? Because last time I checked, you were trying very hard to stay out of that business.”

"Still am", Gerad grunted. "I've got no interest in running the world, just saving it from itself." He poured himself another shot, gesturing over for another two shot glasses, in case they be needed. "You could argue pretty convincingly that any sort of meddling in the world's affairs is doing just that, that nobody's got any right to try and 'fix' the world. But fuck it," he swigged back another shot, "We're novas, and not the only ones. Somebody's going to do it. If not individuals who actually have what they believe to be the common good of all sentient life at heart, it might be a group that has their own interests as priority. These groups already exist", he asserted rather thoughtfully, swishing his tongue over his teeth, "and we'd be opposed to their interests. But anyone who cares to look can see that this planet is on the fast-track to oblivion for any number of reasons, and I reckon somebody ought to step up to the plate to do something about that. Sure, maybe we ain't got the right. But a passenger on a runaway train has no business breaking in to the conducter's booth to hit the brakes, either."

Nova leaned forward in the creaky vinyl bench seat of their booth, locking eyes with Gerad.

"Meghan doesn't have to bring a damned thing to the party," she said with elaborate patience, "Being with me is enough." Nova leaned back and continued: "But since you ask, she's got a knack for getting under the skin of damned near every nova under the sun. You on the other hand have the manners of a goat, Machina. You've spent too much time away from people, and you've lost the knack."

"He never had it in the first place." Alexandra flicked her fingers, pulling the whiskey bottle across the table to her and refilling her glass with tidy precision. "You should have known him years ago; he could kill a room's worth of conversation with one of those scowls." She leaned back against the wall, eyes wandering over the metal coating covering nova with the unblinking fascination of a child in a toy shop. Now how on earth does she manage that level of molecular flexibility with a metal of that tensile strength? Low grade carbon-bonding wouldn't be nearly so elegant. Her smile was smooth and faintly distracted as she took another sip of her whiskey."I'm sure you can see to it that your obviously close friend keeps our information private, since you seem to keep her wrapped around considerably more than your little finger?"

"I don't think you need to worry about that," Nova said flatly.

Meghan slithered off of Nova's body and re-formed in her usual shape--a petite teenaged girl--wedged tightly in-between Nova and Alexandra. The booth suddenly became very crowded, and Meghan was acutely aware of Alexandra's warmth. She set that aside for a moment.

"Everyone's talking about me in the third person as if I'm not here," she said, "but I am here, and things that are heard cannot be un-heard." Meghan looked into Alexandra's hypnotic eyes, and she wondered briefly if she'd been more or less intimidated when she went toe to toe with Revenant.

At least she wasn't attracted to Revenant.

"Look, you have no idea the secrets I'm carrying around inside me," Meghan explained, "So you'll have to take my word for it. Believe me, though, they're big ones, the kind that get people killed. I can deal with it. K?"

Alexandra's unreadable gaze took Meghan in from joined feet to metal curve of hair, as though she was picking her apart a molecule at a time and liked what she saw; there were vast tides of thought moving behind those steel gray eyes, like looking into an ocean of ticking metal gears, and the concentrated attention of the mind that contained them would have sent cool shivers up her spine if she'd had one any longer. "I think I might be able to guess." Her lips curved into a smooth little smile that was as tempting as it was dangerous, and she reached out a gloved fingertip to shift Meghan in the seat so she could settle her back more firmly against the corner of the wall and look at the metal girl more fully. "I trust you'll be a good girl, Meghan?"

Meghan could not believe how turned-on she was. It was as if Nova, Wakinyan (during the week he spent female), Regina Newcastle, Knockout, Sylvan, and Timeslip had just been foreplay.

"I'll be better than good," she promised.

That elegant smile spread a fraction further before parting slightly to allow Alexandra to take another sip of her whiskey. "I know you will."

And this would be why I didn’t want the fucking kid here, Gerad mentally heaved. He didn’t know or care if any of the ladies in the room could hear his silent thoughts, but the arch of his eyebrows, the insistent, insect-like twitching of his left eye accompanying the facial tic that overcome him during moments of frustration wherein his normal reflex of hitting things and shouting profanity were for whatever reason stifled, said it loud enough. “Yeah, hey”, he cut in flatly, “thaaaat’s fascinating. Could you two maybe keep it in your fucking pants long enough to finish this conversation? Or do I need to tell the idealistic pacifist at the table about Riyadh, Alex?” His gaze shifted over to Wargear, daggers lighting a fire in his eyes. It was a taunt, but he wasn’t kidding, either.

“As I was saying, Nova”, he shifted his gaze and his posture to one more relaxed. Flicker had said something that was digging like a splinter under his skin, but he decided to let it go. No sense in not picking your battles, especially when you’re trying to prevail on someone’s desire to go into business – or enter a conspiracy – with you. “My concern ain’t in Meghan being here, it’s with the idea of including noncontributing members to the board. However”, he conceded, “you make a good point. We’re going to need a face, and it sure as shit won’t be me. You’re hampered by your namesake, and Alex”, he directed his gaze passingly to her direction, “you’ve got no stomach for pleasantries. You can smile through them – I can’t – but you know as well as I that dog don’t hunt.”

“You, Gerad, are the last person on this planet who is permitted to lecture me on 'keeping it in my pants'. As for our mutual pasts...” She trailed the phrase off, but the sweet chiding in Alexandra's voice was punctuated by a tight smile as sharp and merciless as a rapier's tip. “And as for your biting insight into our relative social abilities, I will cheerfully cede the conduct of negotiations to those both more capable and more interested. I'm sure Meagan would make an excellent choice.” With plenty of careful supervision slid silently over the table between them without the need for words or even a cue. “So you want to break into the metaphorical driver's cabin and start yanking switches, Gerad? Why don't you share a bit more detail with the class as to how you plan to pull this off.”

"This is the part I'm going to find fascinating," Nova said without irony.