eve2_icon.gif vincent_icon.gif

Scene Title Permission
Synopsis Eve asks for Vincent's help in a matter of global security by following him all the way back to his house in Missouri.
Date June 1, 2018

Lazzaro Residence - Kansas City, MO

Upon waking in the morning Eve Mas knew what she had to do. The Capital. Doe brown eyes recently gifted with the return of sight had fluttered open and the pale woman snapped upwards. "Beetles," she whispers softly touching her lips. There had been no dream, there had still.. Been no dreams. But that was something Eve was coming to terms with and for someone that had been relying on her gift for two decades she is not adjusting that well. At least she can't remember what it was like to not know the future, she found herself tripping up often. But not today.

A hasty written note, a couple bags packed and Eve and her staff are off to the.. Bus depot. Where she settles in for the bus. Upon arrival and claiming the backseat with a kooky stare at anyone who came close, the drive was uneventful if you count getting in a fight with multiple passengers because of her loud snoring. She had never slept so good in her life and she loved taking advantage. One encounter ended with the crazy seer blowing vaporized smoke into the old ladies face, "Park it Granny. Naps are for everyone." And so on, the hoots and hollers as she laughed to the romance novel she had brought along. The unasked for sing a longs that she led for half of the trip, throwing herself into the music with abandon.

It had been a long time since Eve had been able to leave like this.. Besides time travel. An adventure, a wandering. She only had one destination currently and as she sat curled up for the last hours of the trip, her head resting against the cold window, outside the signs of a New World still evident. Her hand moves loosely as she sketches with a thoughtful expression on her face, the symbol being what Chess had named it. The Gemini symbol.

When she got off the bus and almost falling for the two bags, her staff and left leg in the cast. There was an awkward silence and looks of horror as she dubbed each passenger a Knight of the Roundtable Pizza. A prestigious title. The cab hailed was driven by a war vet, Thank God. Eve smiles and converses with the man, offering to smoke him out. Telling him to look her up if he's ever in NYC. She has a bar that throws a wild party, you might even get drugs. Winston laughs at her antics and doesn't seemed phased by the particular woman but as he drops her off at the gate to the community that housed her current objective, she was stopped. By guards, she didn't have an appointment.

"No no, he knows me! I swear! I testified in the Trails! The blood of traitors flying in the air! Traitors! I was told I'm a patriot! Am I?!"

Well beyond the gates, past neatly trimmed hedges and a brick mailbox, the Secretary of Homeland Security is taking a phone call. Already, blue and red lights are glancing harsh off the windows of his home — security measures rolling into motion while information is still scarce.

The important thing is that he's to stay inside of his home.

Twenty minutes later, he's standing barefoot on his front walk before a captive seer and the two burly Secret Service agents who have her in cuffs between them. She's been thoroughly searched — questioned, fingerprinted and pricked. Handcuffed. Manhandled. Wanded. Shoved in the back of an unmarked sedan. Hauled back out. Searched again.

"It's Eve Mas, Sir!"

The younger of the two agents sounds like he might have been military in a past life. He's very enthusiastic.

"I know who she is," says Vincent.

He's shorter than her, dressed in a bathrobe that's warm and dark for the weather — tied loose over pants and a t-shirt. Black. Grey. It all matches. The house behind him is also grey. More of a bungalow, really. It has a garden, and hedges, and a loft, squat brick and stone over a porch the property listing would call 'quaint.' It looks nice. Most of the houses around here do.

"Ten words or less, convince me not to have you put up in a padded cell for the night."

"There's a war coming."

"Do you have any cinnamon rolls?"

She had happily given the security what they needed to know she wasn't a threat. Really! Eve? Never. Her brown eyes twinkling with mischief as she's hauled out of the sedan. "Don't bruise the merchandise! Gilly will not be a happy camper! Ow ow." She winces as she drags her foot along before steadying herself and walking at a gingerly pace. Before she came to stand before Vincent and utter those first words.

"I wish I was here just to get high." Just.

Her expression is a mystery because it's changing often. Brow furrowed, gaze up out the corner of her eyes up towards the sky, Eve is feeling things. Wincing at the memory of those dreams. "It's important Vinny," a pleading tone, "Feels like before." He knows when before is.

The two secret service agents idle in baffled silence, holding fast, their eyes on Vincent — who's gone a little stiff through the butt of his spine, jaw tight. I wish I was here just to get high. Like she's said something uncouth at the dinner table. This is the look of a man who can't even.

They all stand there like that, letting her answer settle in a wash of red and blue. Crickets chirp.

"Cut her loose," Vincent says, at length, paired fingers turned over at the agents in vague gesture. "Wait outside." And to Eve specifically, in the same set of orders: "Don't call me that." Seriously. His eyes are darker than the shadows thrown black up the sides of his house by police lights, black water warning.

He starts back up the walk, and expects her to follow.

“Done and done.” Hurriedly following after the man with a call over her shoulder, “Thanks for the ride buddy boys! Todoodles!” A wiggling of a pale hand before the woman who never seems to tan is trailing after “Vincent”, fine.

“Sorry to arrive unannounced! I couldn't have you saying no over the phone. In person is better. Gives you a chance to really look someone in the eye ya know. Hello hello.” Waving her arm in the air as she leans on one staff, the chill of the night striking her.

“How have you been?” It had been awhile, since the testimonials. That time was so busy. Some would say that it hasn't stopped since.

Todoodles and Vincent’s affect flattens all the further, steam ironed beneath the weight of all his will pressing down into patience as he leads the way. Up the stairs, across the porch, to the front door he has to unlock with a press of his hand flat to the panel beside it.

“A valid concern,” he tells the panel, and a series of leaden clicks and clacks play out from the far side.

The door is heavier than it looks — he has to push from the shoulder before he can hold it open for her to go in ahead of him. One last glance back at the units gathered round at the curb catches several stares following them in, not all of them immediately redirected. The two agents who had Eve by the elbows look especially worried.

How has he been?

“Busy.” He reassures lingering lookers on with a staying raise of his hand. It’s fine. He’s dealing with it. Bye.

Inside of the house, the color scheme is about what Eve ought to expect — ebony furnishings, dark wood floors and grey walls, decor bent to match personality by a professional (read: commissioned) hand. There’s no dust, but the interior hardly looks lived in, rooms populated by little-used furniture. Over a small fireplace in the living room, a tattered bullet-proof vest is mounted in a shadowbox like a jersey, the letters D O E and A in white stencil still stamped faint across the middle, barely legible.

A bass guitar occupies the couch — middle of the line, brown and white, jacked into an amp near the television. Which is off.

“Can I get you anything?” He crosses through for the kitchen. “A beer?”

“I love what you've done with the placeee. Maybe some of my art, give it a pop! You know all about the pops.” Eve’s enthusiasm at being invited into Vincent’s home is noted by the expression on her face, brown eyes twinkling in the light of the room.

There's a snort and shake of her head, “I thought you guys knew all the things, all the things that people didn't know.” From one hub of info no matter how metaphorical to another. Tapping her head, Eve tilts her head. “I had brain surgery. It was leaking! No booze for me, I can..” there's a look in her eye. “Toke.” But how could she have gotten it in? “Shall we?” A soft whisper to the man.

The oracle’s brow furrows as her staff makes an audible click noise, making her way into the kitchen. “I went blind, but I've just got my sight back! This is all connected I promise.” Even the weed.

“Sure.” Maybe some of her art. Maybe he knows all about the pops.

Hesitation catches wary at that sparkle in a slowed step before he carries on into the kitchen, forcing himself to let her out of his sight for that long. It’s fine. He invited her in. Now he has to deal with the consequences.

“We’re government agents, not — leprechauns.” Is it leprechauns that like riddles?

He already has the refrigerator open and a bottle of corona in hand when she trails in after him. It’s a lot for him to take in.

“Okay.” The tapping, the tilting, the look in her eye. And the whisper. Vincent centers himself with a slow breath; the fridge hangs open behind his shoulder, wasting electricity. “First of all,” first of all, “I hadn’t heard, and I’m glad to see that you’re doing well.” Inasmuch as this qualifies — her stalking him across state lines and all the way into his private residence with marijuana. “Second — no.” It sounds very final when he says it the way he does, flat as a dropped board as he lets the refrigerator fall shut behind him. “Thank you.”

No. He snaps the cap off his bottle.

“If you’re going to do it, open a window.” There’s one over the sink. The glass is thick. He isn’t looking at it because he’s looking at nothing, staring into the middle distance, reviewing every decision he’s ever made that might have led him here. Down this one path.

“Why thank you! I thought it was gone forever.” She really did. And Eve's expression says so but when he refuses to hit some marijuana with her she hangs her head and nods. “Ok,” a sad child who will partake still. Eve pulls herself over to the counter and opens the window with a grunt before reaching in her bra. “You know they search everywhere but they ain't touching these babies no no,” a roguish laugh as she produces a lighter and goes to light the joint. It smells like… AK-47. Yum.

Taking a moment to gather her thoughts the oracle waves a hand, “Look I know people hate to see me. Usually it's bad news. Doom and gloom. Fire and brimstone.” Pulling smoke from the joint before she smiles, it billows from her mouth before she blows the stream out the window. “I know I'm cray cray but a lot has happened.”

The dreams. Adam. Golden eyes. The dark haired woman shudders.

“Do you know the name Adam Monroe?”

Vincent starts to reply to her on the subject of boob concealment and thinks better of it. He drinks instead, dark eyes fixed distant across the kitchen. It’s brightly lit, black granite countertops and brushed steel. The range is inductive. High tech.

With the window open, they can hear radio chatter drifting in from the street, carried on the same wind that draws smoke out into the night.

“I know the feeling.”

Together they’re bad news incarnate — his brow arched back at Eve. There’s more grey in his beard than there was whenever they last spoke, stress silvering in at his chops. The hour or the setting or his resignation for her presence here (or some combination of all three) has worn some of the poise out of his posture. He’s sloped lax through his shoulders, standing barefoot next to his refrigerator with a beer in his hand while Eve Mas gets blazed in his kitchen.

“And the name.”

The kookier half of bad news tilts her head. That doesn’t tell her much about what he knows, but she did come to him. Ashing outside of the window, she turns a brown eye on the man. Curiously, no longer the gray that he was use to.

“I died during that raid in Cambridge. I couldn’t just tell you something like that!” a beat. During the Albany Trials.

“I had just gotten out and away from the ROBOBEAR too!!”

A long sigh of smoke out the window again as she thinks back to that time. “Adam Monroe brought me back to life. Slipped in the triage, sneaky bastard. Pumped me full of his blood and then off I went on my merry way!” Eve pauses, this would be news to Vincent. News to pretty much anyone that wasn’t Gilly.. Or the select trusted friends she had shared this with. “I know it must sound BANANAS! But I tell no lie, so I follow after the guy for six years. Here, there, everywhere. He left me half a bottle of sake in Australia not too many years ago… cheap ass.” The seer grumbles and then realizes that she’s getting off topic. “Ah ah, but then he just pops up.. here. The U S of A my man and let me tell you. Boy does he have plans for how this good nation should look.” A whistle follows afterwards, “The echoes, dreams. They showed me. Glittering, bloody puzzle pieces. I’ve been working them out. All here.” tapping her temple. “He’s not alone.” A trickle of fear in that voice that carries over to Vincent.

“Later.. On it.”

The dark haired woman bites her lip and she has that look. Here is some bad news friend. Leaning out of the window to blow more smoke after taking a long pull that she allows herself to hold. “He’s not keen on people of a certain.. Genetic structure. How could it be their faults? That they were not blessed with gifts fit for Gods? He’s a lunatic. I love them.” A sad expression on her face, “Your daughter isn’t safe.. No one like her is. He wants to end them all. I don’t.. I don’t know how yet but he’s been gathering.. everywhere.” Spinning her finger in a circle to indicate the globe.

“I’d say this is a matter of the greatest importance! War, mayhem! Chaos the whole nine. There are even Four Horsemen!”

He’s quiet while he listens to her, leaned very slightly back, as if the added perspective will allow him to better track the pinball ring and snap of her thoughts from bullet to bullet.

“You’re telling me Adam Munroe is gathering like-minded evolved forces with the intent of starting a war against non-expressives, and he’s somewhere in America.”

Clarification by way of paraphrasing — a question without any mark to give it a lilt. Lazzaro is level as ever, despite a dangerous narrowing of his regard at her invocation of Tasha’s name. It’s barely there, his eyes obsidian flints under a push at his brow — a trace of bitch did you just in the beat that follows after it, let lie for the moment.

“…And he saved your life six years ago.”

Eve is far from the first person he’s heard of returning from the dead, whether it be by the hand of a regenerator, a healer, a time traveler, or a method as of yet unidentified. She has a history of getting herself into situations and coming out in pieces. The staff. The eye color. The recent hospital stay.

“Do you have names?”

“Yes exactly! But he also chopped my head off back in Feudal Japan.” That push of an eyebrow is met with a sheepish look bitch I had too, in reply but it's ever so subtle. Eve's fingers drum on the windowsill watching a bird in the distance, “I went back in time. We met. He must have been high on bloodlust cuz he went right for decapitation. And then it came, put me back together again, brand new. But it’s not as nice as I thought..” there it is again that edge of nerves in her tone. “You see how he and I have a strange relationship.” A beat.

“Names? I wish I knew the Horsemen’s. Not yet.” Another quick change of subject when it comes to it. Whatever it is. “But I was given a name by a.. associate. Praxis Heavy. That's where I'm starting. A company he's lurking with.” Which comes to one of other reasons she's here. Permission.

“Adam is an extremely old Big baby. He likes to cut things and see red, he doesn't mind killing.. well anyone,” waving smoke out of her face, her brown eyes focus on a tree out there. “I wanted you to know. I’m not letting him do this.”

… “I also wanted to ask if you could help.”

Uh… “I have a group of friends. All with a certain skill set. We’re gonna hit him.. right where it hurts.” gesturing to her metaphorical scrotum. “I know my visions aren't considered concrete evidence until people are dying and it's almost too late,” a slight narrowing of her eyes for the doubters out there. “But I wanna get ahead of this one, he might already.. it might be too late to truly reverse whatever he is doing but.” Eve looks confused as she shakes her head from side to side. “I've tried to avoid this but..”

“He's not alone.. there's an energy. An entity.. it's hard to explain. I thought it was our Mother. The first of us with gifts, she-it has so many..” a flash of a woman’s face with gold eyes hovers in her mind’s eye and she flinches. “When I went looking for insight on Adam and that thing. It met me in my dreams. Ripped my mind from my body, swirled me around like a vanilla smoothie and slammed me back into the blender again.” A nervous laugh, it was not a funny time. “Went blind.. lost my gift..”

In other words it's a little personal now.

…”I promise no monuments will be harmed.”


Vincent is looking at her like she’s just announced her intention to run in the next presidential election, war-hardened skepticism setting rigid in the bones of his face.

“I really wish you’d caught me at the office,” he says, at length. At the office, where he’d have an entire staff to assimilate this shit and make sense of it. All he has here is this beer, which he drinks from without looking away from her. Christ.

With some reluctance, he turns fully away from her to shuffle a notepad and pen out of a seldom-opened drawer. He flops the former over onto the kitchen island, and fishes his glasses out of his robe. Up onto his nose, his hand roughed tired under the frame and around his jaw. Like he has anything better to be doing.

Sleeping, maybe.

Praxis Heavy, he writes. Monroe.

“Is it a thing or a she.”

Nothing yet on the subject of help, or getting ahead of things, or monuments.

“You’re so sharp though! Your house is perfecttttt.” in reply to him wanting to be in the office, of course. She wants to peek at what he’s writing but instead smoking on her joint while he gets himself together is fine. Leaning over on the staff for support she blows more smoke out the window, ah damn. It’s almost out. Eve frowns as she takes one of her last pulls from it, “It’s an it. An idea. It can possess you though, take your big brain over and make you her butler boy.” A deep nod as if to say YEP.

“I think it’s older than Adam.. even the dinosaurs.” She has no evidence for that but it would be wicked cool if it was. Tapping the toe of her foot, she obviously doesn’t sit still well. Weed or not. The oracle smiles softly but with pain, “It’s large.. It’s way too much for just me to be handling it. My home slice back in the Safe Zone said she defeated it before forever ago but she’s pretty set on keeping this on the downlow so I’ll bring her in to meet you sometime. NO CELLPHONES!” A bang of her hand on the countertop. A demand, on Kam Nisatta’s behalf of course. “I spoke with the lovely Hana about Looking Glass, she didn’t have as much as I wanted.” Another frown. “Maybe she doesn’t trust me but then I guess I shouldn’t trust her! Do you?” Maybe she’s crowdsourcing how she should feel about her old comrade and technopath. There’s a glimmer of mischief in Eve’s eyes though, a jest.. Huh.

“I had a great idea! Oh oh! If you’re worried about me slipping on down the old PARIAH route again. Although I would never think of being that dangerous again, gosh. You could send an agent from one of your many shadowy type places that still are run today!” A grin before she blinks, “Oh oh the time fairy. Rasheed, Mustang! He’s sweet, I wish I wasn’t blind when I met him. He sounds.. Dreamy.” Anime eyes.

Eve thinks this is going so great, she’s saying things that aren’t confusing (or is she) and she’s catching up with an old buddy! Sighing in satisfaction, the dark haired woman flicks the bud of the joint out of the window with a snort. She hasn’t gotten to the other parts of her plan. Yet.

“What makes you think it’s older than the dinosaurs?”

This is the sort of clarifying question you have to ask when Eve is your source — a ticked pair of pen strokes mark quotes in around the words make you her butler boy. He hadn’t even paused before he wrote it out, unphased by her choice of words, past an unappreciative glance over his glasses after the closing quotations.

He continues to write until the BANG of her hand on the countertop, his pen clapped abruptly down under the flat of his palm. A smudge of vapor lifts off his shoulder, and he straightens up opposite her, eyes hard under fluorescent lights, glare drilling into her across the island.

Naturally, she uses her very next breath to dig at him about Hana.

Exasperation shadows in under the temperamental hood at his brow, taking some of the edge off. There’s an air of why would she even ask, unspoken question he already knows the answer to. He’s gone stiff at his jawline, resentment bristled in shades of silver and grey, boot black in the hard line of his stare.

But Eve has already moved on. He picks up his beer.

“So I should just take you at your word that you won’t wreak international havoc if I give you my blessing to launch an assault based on intelligence I haven’t verified.”

“It's a feeling. It feels prehistoric. Not very forward thinking.” That's shade at It. “It also ripped my mind from my body that's some Dark Ages shit.” The seer sounds sure.

The vapor wafting off his shoulder gets a look of appreciation from the woman. She always loved a good display of an ability. His posture and stare damn right sexy to Eve. “Don't look at me like that! It was a joke, you know me and Major go way back. Cadillacs even, I wonder if I’ve driven one to one of our meetings..” an answer for another day.

“Well you can certainly use your government witchy woo woo to clarify things I have seen! I love a good debunking!” And she does mean that as well. Rather her vision not come true then it would, on the side of the evil shit she's encountered all these years. Her expression troubled as she looks Vincent in the eyes, “Level Five, the break out in 2009,” well she and her friends caused that one. “The death of Cameron Spalding, drained of life by Kazimir Volken..” bitterness in her tone, she would always miss Cameron. “Antarctica. Boy was I mad I missed that one, but my dream helped Peter come up with a plan. Oh oh the bridge Narrows. Before it went boom. Told some folk about that.”

An eyebrow raises, “The fall of the island. And the Ferrymen. My sketches were thrown into the fire by a fool.” All times her visions weren’t thoroughly looked at or dreams that did manifest into reality. Or times that people didn't heed her words. “I've gotten tired of watching people’s faces as I speak. Rolling their beady little eyes. Then rushing to my brain when they’ve hit a crossroads.”

“I just sit.” Not entirely true.. “Waiting,” Sometimes. “Hoping. Praying. Meditating. Getting high. I'm lost often up in my brain I know.” Eve has reconciled with this by now. “I am tired of waiting for others to hear me. Sometimes you have to press on whether people want you to or not. Whether they believe you or not. Why would I lie? Why would I want these things..” Eve bites her lower lip. “I would rather be wrong but I beg you, my smokey, vaporey awesome friend.” She looks desperate now, “Help me.

Cadillacs what? He doesn’t try to hide his confusion, brow furrowed in blunt inquiry before he tips his beer back. It’s becoming a game. Drink when something doesn’t make sense.

He’s given up on note taking for the moment, faced instead with Eve’s resume in long form dialogue, attention intent. Not all of these are incidents he was aware she was involved in, all variously terrible. All variously explosive, in their own ways. Some literally.

Shoulders squared off, beer beading condensation at a steady drip, he lets her make her case without interruption. Without blinking much, either, eye contact held steady — cloying black as a tar pit, and just as difficult to escape, once you’ve waded in. It’s not especially pleasant to experience.

“If I didn’t intend to listen,” he says, point blank, “you would be in a holding cell.”

His beer is wet; he sets it back down, snaps and folds a paper towel off a roll nearby to push across the counter, and then up under the butt of the bottle.

“How mentally stable would you say that you are. Right now.”

“Good point!” Nodding enthusiastically now at the high up government official. “But why would you ever submit those poor guards to such a fate!” A snort and Eve wipes a strand of hair out of her eyes. Watching him place paper towel beneath the beer. She's almost wanting a tequila but.. her meds since her surgery.

That question.

“As stable as you could be.” Seeing what she sees, going through what she has. Eve’s expression is hard to read. Meds, keeping her in line, the straightjackets.. institutions.. the Institute. All of those thoughts make her shudder. Not great memories.

“Maybe I have my.. eccentric moments.” An admission of guilt, of guilt she doesn't totally feel. Not at her core. “I've fought myself for a very long time.” She leaves that there.

“Your train of thought is erratic, your behavior is impulsive. You put yourself in danger by coming here alone — separated from your friends, trusting in my good nature.” Which any Richard Ray would tell her is folly. Vincent will paint a picture, if she won’t, upright against the counter behind his beer, neutral in his regard.

“…And leveraging my daughter in the same stroke.”

Lest either of them forget. He certainly hasn’t.

“I have ethical concerns about launching you out of a cannon at Adam Monroe.” Honesty is delivered like a terminal diagnosis — grim and direct. “What is it exactly that you hoped I would provide? Munitions? Transport?”

“And my behavior has saved more than its killed.” She doesn't speak of the deaths. They are, what they are. His daughter is leverage and Eve likes politics. Except she's not very great at actual politics but she does understand people's need to protect their own. “You know,” the dark haired woman’s face changes to a flat expression. The switch.. is jarring to witness. Abrupt.

“Good nature? No no fear, worry. For following in the footsteps of the last head honchos. Disappearing folks, running experiments. All that nasty business that people use to blow buildings up for.” Eve’s history as an original member of PARIAH is widely known. “You and your bosses are different. Want to be, yes?”

Her movements slow as she trails a finger along the countertop, pondering. “Transport…” She knows how to get weapons and things that go boom. More weapons and tech always helps but she's a woman whose learned how to make due with what she's given. “Advice.”

“…I am trying.” Referring to his earlier bullet points. “You always seemed to have your screws nice and tight.”

“We’re not getting into a numbers game.” Lives saved vs lives lost. It’s not a war yet. Not a math problem. Yet. Vincent hefts his beer, paper towel and all, and near drains it. His decision to press glass to his scarred temple afterwards is an unconscious one.

Eve switches to her serious face just as he looks back at her, bottle planted back down soft. He does have his screws on tight.

“Somebody has to.”

In this whole wide world. Reconstruction is a beating without a half dozen major threats looming overhead. Reminded of the responsibility something as simple as sanity entails, these days, Vincent closes his eyes against the trace of her finger, steeling himself.

“I know you are,” he says, truthful, eye contact sought back out upon his return to the present. “And I will follow the leads you’ve provided me.” But. “But I can’t, in good conscience, send you out into the world to engage with a threat like Monroe.” There’s no room for argument; his diction is screwed down tight as the rest of him. It feels very final.

“Eve: my advice to you is to study the art of discretion. And to keep yourself safe.”

She had been holding a breath while he spoke. She didn't need to have her ability to know this conversation was coming to a close. Finality. The way Eve lets out that breath gives the same effect of a balloon losing air. Completely deflated.

That's a second time someone has warned her to keep herself safe. She didn't want to be safe. she pushed and fought against that. Eve didn't want that. She didn't want that. She- maybe.. needed it. Grandma Helga always said, ignore a warning three times and don't be surprised when you're struck by lightning. The seer has a perplexed look on her face.

Swallowing and pushing off the counter, the dark haired woman can tell in his face. Done. For now is her thought by for today. It's enough. “..thank you for seeing me.” He did after all have a choice in allowing her to his head. “Could I meet Flotus one day?” Tone still stiff but her eyes twinkle.

Her Majesty.. the question is sudden. That's not new for Eve rapidly changing the subject. Her heart thumps faster though in her chest as she dares to ask. “I think she's quite lovely.”


That was suspiciously easy.

Eve’s acquiescence, and also his own.

“I’ll pull some strings.”

What’s the point of knowing Carol Praeger if you can’t inflict Eve Mas upon her out of nowhere, provided she agrees to a few security stipulations. Like a cavity search.

They can talk about that later. In the here and now, Vincent polishes off his beer and drops the bottle into a bin.

“Do you need a ride back to the station?”


Eve wants to scream but instead she just grins a happy grin. Well that's nice to hear. It was easy with Eve, getting her to give in but was anything ever that simple with Eve? She's practicing the words of wisdom from Huruma and Vincent already. “I will not let you down!”

Pulling her hair out of her face she looks Vincent up and down before nodding slowly, her expression softening now. She's calmed down, it might be the weed. “That would be.. very nice. Thanks.” Polite. Maybe she really is resigned to sit for now. And while her mind wanders to the things that she's wants to do. She feels like.. well mostly right now..

“I have to pee.”

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