We The People


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Also Featuring:

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Scene Title We The People
Synopsis At the FRONTLINE gala, everything goes perfectly fine, until Minea Dahl does the unexpected.
Date August 28, 2009

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

We The People…

Glasses clink and soft music plays thorugh cathedralesque halls. It is a sight befitting of a gala event of New York City's uppermost elite, a ball held in honor of the inaugriation of Frontline Unit-01. Within the vaulted ceilings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Great Hall, the grand architecture of the museum's entrance serves as an appropriately bombastic backdrop for this gathering of socialites, senators, military and government officials.

It is the preamble of the United States Constitution, a document forged as the backbone of a country in its weakest, fledgeling years.

A black-tie event, the floor of the Great Hall is filled with men in sharp black tuxedos with crisp white undershirts, women in evening gowns, cocktail dresses and classical attire glittering with enough diamonds to make their jewelry seem like a clear night's sky. Where once there was a grand but functional facade of the museum's entrance area, there is now the pristine appearance of an ice sculpture and fountain surrounded by the front security desk, which has had it's surface covered by sheer white cloths, punchbowls and tall stemmed glasses of champagne.

It is this foundation of Democracy that is crumbling away in an age founded around fear and paranoia; fear of each other, fear of something so simple as genes.

"…so there I am in my office, and I'm looking across my desk at the head of the UN Security Council, and he just— he loses it right there. His whole train of thought just goes flying out the window, we both started laughing after about three solid minutes of awkward silence. In all my years— unbelievable." The rather vocal texan with a head as bald as a baby's backside is General Sebastian Autumn, the military backer behind FRONTLINE. Standing nearest to the center of the hall, Autumn sips champagne like it's water, keeping the thinner and taller blonde woman on his arm at bay like an ower keeps a pit-bull on a leash.

The Nation is facing a threat, one that it may never recover from. But the threat is not from outside, it is from within. The threat is its own self-destructive fear of the unknown, fear of change, and fear of losing control on something once such an oiled machine.

The sharp-eyed blonde on Autumn's arm… "I think you're exaggerating just a little, but you did both laugh after sharing a drink. I swear, your office is more like a bar than a place of business sometimes." That's CIA Special Activites Agent Sarisha Kershner, and for all her seeming air-headed charm and that backless black dress, she's more than just a pretty face hanging off of the General. People with training — people with an eye for the intelligence community — they can see that she's keeping surveilance on the crowd, that she's on the clock tonight.

The last time America was so torn on its insides, so rotten at its guts, it rent the entire nation in twain and brought about the first Civil War.

Across the hall from the General and his watchdog, members of the illustrious FRONTLINE organization stand together somewhat awkwardly. The lanky man with the crew-cut who looks out of place in the tuxedo, that's USMC Second-Lieutenant Michael Spalding, FRONTLINE's golden boy and unit commander. The big guy with the lantern jaw and surfer tan, that's Army Corporal Tristian Bentley, and the dark haired woman giving him a crooked look, that's Frontline's communication specialist Juliette Wright. Only those three representing FRONTLINE now, the other members were smart enough to make quick; brief appearances before slipping out for the evening.

Is the threat of Civil War coming to this country again? Are we to be thrust into another conflict of us versus them? If you read the signs, if you look around just hard enough, and press your ear to the ground in just the right way…

You'd see we already are.

The blue clad, and sapphire-bejeweled, Adelaide had only arrived moments ago, already 30 minutes late to the party-darn trying to find a parking space. She quietly tucked that invite, her mother and father's post humously invited letter into her evening purse, and passed security. She began to mingle in the gala. Frontlines… a whole new world.

It would be rather hard to miss the tall black cowboy who graces the floor with a brunette on his arm. Len Denton is dressed in a black tux with a bow tie, black patent leather cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, black and looks brand new. He and his 'date' for the evening are here, but only one of them is on duty. They have spent a good portion of the evening walking around and mingling with the crowd, both on the lookout for anything remotely suspicious, but so far everything seems to be in order. He turns and whispers to the woman on his arm, with that infectious grin he has and motions towards one of the guests. His date for the evening and the one actually on duty for this event is Minea Dahl. Len's purposes here are entirely self serving and in no way related to anything going on with the Company. It appears that so far, whatever it is he is looking for.. it has not arrived just yet.

"Hello General," the voice is silky smooth, like the champagne in the glass she's holding so delicately between her hands. She approaches, every movement in her body detectable beneath that thin layer of perriwinkle silk. And pearls - just because it's not another day at the office does not mean that the day does not cause for pearls.

Tracy Strauss approaches the general with her usual sway, her usual tone, and her usual gleam. "I'm sorry," she says apologetically, glancing between some of those gathered. "I hope I'm not disturbing." But her tone is such that she's not terribly apologetic. It's just how people are.

"Ah, miss Strauss." The General flashes an uncharacteristically friendly smile, clearly the alcohol has sedated his usually bristly demeanor. "It's good to see you had the time to be Nathan's envoy out here in the front lines of champagne and polite conversation." The attack dog on Autumn's arm disengages from the general and sets her empty champagne glass down on the serving tray of one of the men passing by, leveling blue eyes on Tracy as she steps just a touch away from Autumn.

"Tracy, it's good to see you again." Sarisa's dark brows rise up as she brings up hand up to the side of her face, fingers brushing over an earring there as she surveys the President's aide. "Where's your charming friend? The ah— NYPD officer?" There's a touch of over-assertive venom in Sarisa's voice, but it's all a part of the high-society act that she's wearing like a second-skin for the evening.

The gown is Versace, a deep navy blue that almost borders on purple, bare over the left shoulder and covering the right - and thus, also Helena's tattoo. Tonight, Sophie Crane is wearing pear drop earrings and her long hair up in a twist, suffering her high heels with the resolute awareness that beauty is pain.

Helena - no, Sophie - has listened politely to the speech, clapped at the right moments, but stuck to non-alcoholic drinks. She didn't avoid the food, though. She may be trying to be a touchstone for the suffering Evolved masses, but when's the next time she'll be able to eat caviar again?

She keeps her mingling minimal, allowing herself to seem more attentive to the displays than to people, and when she dares to risk it, contemplates exit strategies. Of course, she's at a little advantage, but there are trained agents in the building. This could go very badly for her if she's not careful.

And of course, Helena - no, Sophie, dammit - cannot help but notice the man in the cowboy hat, and the woman on his arm. My. Don't they seem cozy. But Sophie's eyes glide right past the couple, as her inevitable focus is drawn to the marine in the tux, the brother of the man who looks rather a lot like the man who was like a beloved brother to her.

Surveying the ground floor from one of the balconies is a diminutive woman dressed in a black and gold embellished evening dress with a mermaid-style silhouette that contours to her slim shape from chest to knee, then flares out to the hem like the tail of a Siamese fighting fish. The dress' Asian-inspired floral pattern, done in silk fine as gossamer, is more reminiscent of the fish's scales and shimmers when she moves, though she is not moving now. Instead, she shifts her attention from the floor to her reflection in the glass of the champagne flute she holds in her left hand and studies the austere face staring back at her, its shape framed by dark curls that would look more appropriate on a silent movie starlet than Eileen Ruskin, former Vanguard operative and fugitive of the law.

There are a lot of people here tonight who shouldn't be, including the individual standing beside her. She tips a glance up at the man calling himself Craig Christman, chin inclined, and arches a fine black brow. "Ready?"

Dahl's in Dior. How a homeland agent affords Dior could be questionable. But she is, in Dior and a multitude of tattoo's are seen. Nothing vulgar or offensive. Vines here, humming bird there, a lotus in the upper center of her back. But yet, she makes it work, using them as her jewelry instead of actual diamonds or even pearls. Chandelier earrings sway this way and that as she walks around on Len's arm, chin up. Her targets have already been seen. Her reasons for being here, partially have been noted but not approached. Hello Kershner, hello general, so nice to see you from afar.

When len whispers into her ear, there's a grin and she unwinds her arm from his with a nod, a brush of carmine'd lips over his cheek and starts to head off on her own. The icy black clutch in her hands with it's silver chain tucked away. She too notices Michael and wends her way over to the trio of Frontline soldiers. "Gentlemen. Enjoying the party? Or is this too staid an event and you'd feel better if you were somewhere else with a little less pomp and circumstance?"

Moving to and frow in the crowd, Adelaide lets her eyes wander a bit- no one she recognizes. Men in tuxes, women in Dresses, and this place was almost like a wonderfully intoxicating, nauseating… dream… she'd come alone and it showed. Her head moving too and fro perhaps trying to hook, or but into someone unattached for the evening. The young Evolved woman took of her short evening gloves, and placed them in her purse- silly now she realized. Se smiled to herself, reaching for the black sapphire choker at her neck as in reassurance.

Tracy bows her head to the General, addressing him first naturally. "You know me, General. Always willing to do my duty." She tilts the glass toward him in a polite salute. "And may I say congratulations on your efforts thus far - they appear to be going well."

She sips her champagne then, turning her eyes to Sarisa, and glowing a bit more - an amused glow, but a glow none the less. "Ah yes, Mr. Varlane was unable to attend tonight, I am told. He'd had a very strong interest in the progression of FRONTLINE and I could not manage to say no to someone who had served his city so bravely and who had the scars to prove it - as you saw, no doubt." A polite chuckle goes up around Tracy as she enjoys another sip of bubbly.

Black suit, white shirt, black bowtie. It's a standard kind of uniform, tailored well around his shoulders, arms, waist, and so Craig Christman doesn't have any visible reason to be uncomfortable. And he isn't. Squared jawed and mingled honey blonde and brunette hair combed for the evening, he sets aside a still near full glass of champagne and only casts Eileen a pale eyed, slate blue look of affirmation.

His gaze crosses over towards where the distinctive Autumn and the blonde woman he doesn't recognise are standing, being greeted by the Presidential aide, before roaming over the crowd as if to try and pick out faces both familiar and not. "See you soon," he tells Eileen, before detaching, moving with a moderate, casual speed down the stairs, towards the ground level of milling people.

Nicolas arrives at the event all dressed up, or as dressed up as he'll get. He approaches the entrance, invitation in hand. His eyes scan over the area as he waits his turn to enter. As his turn arrives, he steps up to the guards and holds out his invitation. The guards look over his attire and exchange glances.

Nicolas gets an impatient look on his face as he looks at the two men. "Well? Let me in." He says sternly. One of the two men shakes his head at Nicolas and speaks. "Sir, I can't let you in dressed like that. You'll have to go home, change and come back." Nicolas puts on a look as if he was just told that his mother was just called a whore. They wouldn't be far off, but that's another story.

"Excuse me? I will not." Nicolas retaliates. "Do you know who I am? Do you know just who my father is?" He takes a step towards the two men. "If you do not let me in this instant, I will have to inform my father of just how you are treating me. With his connections, I can have you both pulling horse shit patrol at the parades for the rest of your lives. Now, let me in or you will see the ass end of horses for the rest of your careers." The two men try to calm Nicolas down before he causes a bigger scene. "Alright. Alright. Go in." The guard says to Nicolas, motioning for him to enter. "Thank you." Nicolas says as politely as he is able.

Nicolas enters the building and scans the room. He looks very, very, very out of place being the only one who is NOT wearing a real tuxedo or tie.

A few of the guests to the gala are also frequent visitors of the Orchid Lounge. Those guests know who Eve is as she leans against one of the columns in the hall. A glass of champagne that isn't really touched in her hands.

The musician is wearing a long dress that flows out about her, no straps. A silky, satin material and simple black, her heels click on the hard floor as she pushes herself away from the column and looks around the hall.

Hair done up, with some help from Gillian. Some pieces of her hair fall to frame her face, her light grey eyes sweeping around the place. She takes a deep breath. FRONTLINE has been an interesting topic to follow, but anyone that knew Eve would know why it is so interesting to her.

Eve plays with a nice gold necklace around her neck.

It's Michael who looks up to Minea with a frown once the soldiers' party is interrupted. It's clear the three have segregated themselves from much of the mingling like one clique of particularly outcast kids might hang out together at a school dance. Casting a side-long look to Tristian that says please don't get us kicked out, as if it were a very real possibility, Michael steps away from Juliette's side and offers a feigned smile towards Minea. "Good, ah, evening…"

No nametags, it's always hard when you're a known face and everyone else is faceless. "I haven't had the pleasure of making your aquaintence," Michael notes with a raise of his hand, brows going up as he holds his champagne glass away from himself, offering Minea something as personal as a handshake. "Obviously you, ah, know who I am." There's a grimace, one acknowledging her suggestion that he'd rather be somewhere else for the evening. It's telling.

Glancing over to Tracy from watching Minea like a hawk, General Autumn manages something of a doddering smile as he sucks back the last drops of champagne in his glass. "Things are going smoother than I expected, unless you count that friend of yours showing off his stomach to the President on live television — that was a bit of a speed bump. You know— " he snatches another glass from a server's tray coming past, "they're still playing that clip on the news? My daughter called me up to tell me it was on the Jon Stewart show and that he was making fun of my uh," he gestures with the glass to the top of his bald head, "well, you know."

One stuffed suit, coming up. Felix is more than fashionably late. He's also one of the few guys in the room whose tux is tailored to hide a shoulder holster. "I feel like a Bond villain's goon," he laments to Minea, once he's made his way up to her, nodding absentedly to t hose she's talking to.

Len has to bend down in order for Minea to kiss his cheek, and then she's off as he requested. She has business to attend to here, as does he. He turns his head as he hears Nicolas making an ass of himself at the entrance. He starts to walk over there, but when they let him in, he decides he's not needed. He does shake his head. He lets his eyes roam across those in the room and for the most part sticks to himself. He does notice one familiar face. Tracy Strauss. He remains where he is, where he can see those who come into the room.

Someone has been here for quite a while, though generally staying out of sight. His hair is gelled back, wearing his silver-frammed glasses instead of his contacts, and a white tux he used for his Lex Luthor cosplay at the Superman Returns opening. Magnes is trying his best to stay out of Tracy's way, though there appear to be a few other familiar faces. The one he chooses to approach… is Eileen, once the man leaves her. He holds a hand out for her's, smiling. "Your beauty holds the mystical splinder of a Kirby dot, miss. What do I call you?"

"Now there's a face I recognize without needing nametags," Michael says with a broad smile, nodding politely to Minea before shifting his focus over to Felix. "Agent Felix Ivanov," there's an appreciative smile spread across Michael's lips. It's surreal for Felix, to be standing here in front of a man who's face he wore for months under the surname Edward Dantes — it's like some sort of Vaudville act. "You know I can't say how many good things I heard about you, your name gets around, and I just wanted to commend you on what you did back in January; selfless acts of heroism like that saved a lot of lives."

Everyone knows Felix, of course. The man who single-handedly took down an entire terrorist organization. The story keeps getting bigger and more ridiculous every time it's retold; eventually he'll be running in shirtless with a machine gun in each hand and a cigar in his mouth wearing an American flag headband.
Eve pages: Hahah Eve should decide to save Micheal. Like, oh weren't you gonna show me something over there? XD

At Minea's approach, Tris is letting his elbow connect with Michael's arm in a gesture of go on, mingle and a glint of mischief in sea blue eyes, before he's tossing back another sip of champagne - the magical serum to make things that little bit more tolerable. "That's Michaelese for— something less like he has a stick up his ass," the younger Californian soldier states, with a wide smile. "Enjoying the party, ma'am?"

"Minea. Agent Minea Dahl. You are Michael Spalding. Soon to be golden boy of Frontline." She names off the other two but her attention is mostly on Spalding. " I have to say, I'm impressed. It'll take a strong man to be the face of something so controversial. You did well the other night when the question about your brother was asked. I think you'll do well with what you've been given" Her own hand slides into his, squeezing firmly. Enter Ivanov though and there's a wide smile. "Oh, I could tell you some stories about this certain gentleman. But then he could tell you stories about me. You need to ask him about purple spiders sometime" There's a smile for Tris, all toothy. "Indeed. As much as one can enjoy being surrounded by self important pompous rich people. Give me a beer and pretzels and a football game at a bar anytime"

Nicolas finishes up his survey of the room starts to wander the room, snatching up a glass of champagne from the polished silver tray of a passing waitress. He takes a sip as he looks over the faces of the people gathered. There are many people here that he's never seen before, some he recognizes from television and one he recognizes from just a few hours prior. He spots Adelaide and smirks as he starts towards the woman.

Oh, my- what the- Fel's expression is completely nonplussed as he turns to peer at Michael. "Edward!" He says, startled. "Jesus, man, how long's it been? I…uh. Man. Well, the stories you hear, that's a lot of exaggeration, really. Any good law enforcement op is pure team work, not a bunch of Rambo bullshit." HE gives Minea an appreciative grin. "Yeah, roger that." And then he's eyeing Michael again. This….how to explain this? Sonny knows this guy?

Sophie is trying not to lose her nerve. Had she really thought this through?

She uses a napkin to grip the glass of Sprite in her hand - let anyone else think it's vodka or a wine spritzer - which also conveniently keeps her fingerprints on the container minimal, searching, searching for an opportunity…

Studying Michael Spalding, she tries not to stare too obviously - maybe enough for him to get the feeling that there are eyes specifically on him - but then, there are a lot of eyes specifically on him, and no few of them are attractive women. It's not that she's trying to flirt exactly - just get him to think she might be someone worthy of having a conversation with. Or dance with. It's a ball, after all, and dancing might throw him off balance in more ways than one.

The night is young. Plenty of time for Sophie to find an opening.

Danko's here. He's been here, actually, but he's 5'7" and most of the women are in heels, so. He doesn't exactly stand out from afar. A touch of deathly pallor here, a breath of dust and ash in the flicker of his eyes across a familiar face in the spaces between socialites and Important People on the prowl. He's a more static fixture at the moment, a flute of champagne in his left hand while he confers comfortably with crew-cut security posted off to one side on the subject of guns, or. Things that explode. Common interests, you know. That sort've thing.

His tuxedo is black. So is the dress shirt cut crisp beneath straight shoulders and trim lapels, and the vest. And the tie, formal without warping itself into a bow. So far he's behaving himself. But so far he hasn't seen anyone he knows, and nobody he knows has seen him. Odds are there's a correlation there.

Eileen watches Craig's retreating back until he disappears, swallowed up by the crowd mingling at the bottom of the stairs. Confidence, like laughter, is infectious. Inhaling deeply through her nostrils, she breathes in the scent of her perfume — Turkish rose oil with a delicate touch of cedar to give it structure and depth — and returns her attention to the floor below. It doesn't take her very long to pick out Minea and Felix's faces amongst the sea of people, but this isn't a feat that can be attributed to skill or even luck. Their proximity to Spalding is what inevitably draws her attention, green eyes narrowing.

The sound of Magnes' voice causes her to turn, distracted, and place one cool hand in the palm of his. Felix and Minea can apparently wait. "Shoshanna," she says, offering him a tentative smile, "Shoshanna Wolfe." Ha, ha. "And you are?"
Tracy offers a polite chuckle to General Autumn's conversation. "But what is a press conference, really, without some average people voicing their opinions and questions? It does give a taste of middle America to those who spend the majority of their time up on the Hill or looking out of the west wing." She says, giving the whole thing a nice little PR workup. "Besides, I think most of the world is far more interested in the new cabinet position, wouldn't you agree?"

"Man. Can't argue with that," Tris says, raising up his champagne flute with a small gesture of disdain. "But hey, it's all for charity, right? I figure I might be hitting up something just like that once I've escaped this, anyway, maybe I'll wind up running into you, Agent Dahl." Sparkle sparkle, both in tooth and eye. Whatever seems to be transpiring between Michael and Felix only gets a glance from the blonde.

She turns picking a drinking from one of the choice trays… careful to check with a small sniff test-non alcholoic good. She takes a snip, Sprite zero- perfect. She drank slowly and carefully sort of letting her mind wander… though foot steps close to her made her turn and look at Nicolas. "Ahh.. hi… ummm…" she adjuststed her red frames a moment and smiled. "You're from the meetin earlier."

Okay, well Tracy Strauss he expected, but Magnes Varlane? Len just shakes his head. That kid is everything all of a sudden. He puts some distance between he and the kid before he spots Sophie. Something about the way she's standing and looking at the General causes him some concern. However, that concern is short lived when coming through the crowd of taller folks, Emile Danko catches his eye. A small shiver runs up the Cowboy's spine as he watches the man, his attention now completely focused. Of course, Len isn't going to completely stare at the man, but he makes sure that he can see him at all times.

With a soft chuckle and a smile playing on his lips, he nods. "Yeah. I didn't think that I'd run into you here." He says to her before he sips from his glass. "I must say that it is a pleasant surprise to see you here. I thought I would have no one here I know. I'm glad that's not the case."

"Officer Varlane, I just happen to have an invitation after Miss Strauss uninvited me. Would you mind if I escorted you? I simply arrived out of curiousity." Magnes is trying to speak as if he belongs here. At times it might sound a bit forced, but at least it's not a complete butchery. He's read enough comics and watched enough TV to know! "Are you some sort of socialite, or perhaps a model here with a politician?"

Standing on the balcony, Douglas reaches out and sets the flute of champagne onto the tray of the man walking by. Depositing the glass, he allows the man to walk by. Placing his hands back on the railing he glances down at the milling masses. His eyes are focused on one man. Emile Danko. Papa! His eyes wander the crowd for anyone who might be watching Danko a little too closely. Another server walks by, Douglas reaches up and takes another glass of champagne.

Walking along the balcony, his eyes stay focused on the going ons below. A small smirk winds up, his free hand brushing along the railing. His eyes flicker over to the side. Another server. Douglas lifts the full glass of champagne and places it on that tray. It's a fun game.

"Truth be told, the General bit my ear off because I wasn't really supposed to answer questions related to Cameron. But, you know— they said my response scored highly in— polls? I'm," he flashes a grimacing smile, "It's not really my thing, this whole politics nonsense. I just want to get to my job of protecting people and making sure this city stays safe. I think that, ultimately, is where my head's got to be at, you know?"

But on hearing Felix, Michael's face pales, one brow raised, head tilted to the side as he stares at Felix blankly. "Uh— I— think you have me confused with someone else." He glances to Minea, then back to Felix, as if wondering if perhaps Ivanov suffered some head trauma that wasn't publicized — oh if only it were that easy. "Michael Spalding," a hand is offered out to Felix, "Frontline Unit One Command."

Shaking his head at Tracy, Autumn can't help but smile a bit awkwardly. "The world's talking about Frontline this and Frontline that, and of course you're looking to the next big thing aren't you?" He seems appreciative, despite everything, about Tracy' aggressive nature. Sarisa, having played her bit role of attack dog, moves back towards where the glasses of champagne are resting on the circular table around the fountain and ice sculpture, her eyes focused on Michael's reflection in her glass over her shoulder. Hawkish is a way to describe her attention to the surroundings, but why she hasn't made Emile Danko seems suspect, he is the short straw in a long stack, as it were.

She nodded. For a brief moment Adelaide felt relaxed. "You're right, I guess we're in the same kind of boat?" she asks. She extends her hand."Want to hangout.. I feel sort of of out of place being… 20-something in a 30+ crowd it seems." she looks around. "Ok not that its bad, but its sort of weird.." she smiles.

It's a meandering course of travel, but eventually, Craig is insinuating himself over towards where Tracy and Autumn are standing, just as Sarisa is moving away. He has a weak smile, as if maybe he doesn't do it much, but earnest eyes as he steps towards the conversation, a apologetic glance cast towards Tracy before his focus turns to Autumn.

"General Autumn?" He extends a hand, fingers bare of wedding rings and rough with labour. "My name is Officer Craig Christman, NYPD. I wanted to meet the man who's been such an asset to getting FRONTLINE off the ground."

"Are you asking me to run away with you when you're allowed off your leash soldier?" The corner of Minea's mouth turns up in a smirk. "I think I can arrange that. Fat cat Billiards? I'll kick that uniformed ass to hell and back, deal?" Her hand offered up to the Frontline soldier. "Winner buys the drinks for the rest of the night?"

'Sophie' isn't seen staring at one of the men she's gathered with, a little focused on the group she's with though soon enough she's going to head upstairs. The better to watch the room and the people within it. "You did fabulous. Sorry I asked the question but, I was assisting a reporter and it was one of the ones I was supposed to ask. It'll prepare you for the inevitable ones that will come in the future Mr. Spalding. I'll not monopolize your time, and throw you back to the sharks that are bound to wash up and take a bite. But you" A gentle finger lifted in Tris's direction. "Don't forget. Or I'll be a very disappointed homeland agent" And with a chaste kiss to Felix's cheek, Minea's departing, heading for the stairs to the upper levels.

Felix has suffered many, many head traumas and none of them were publicized. Mostly. It's a wonder he can even remember English, really. He takes the offered hand, grips it firmly, though it's far from a pissing contest. "Yeah, no doubt," he says, genially, still looking at Michael with something akin to fascination. "Sorry. You look -just- like this cop I used to know. Edward something. It'll be nice to have you guys around. We've been harassing DC for help for ages now."

Tracy tilts her glass toward Autumn with a nod of her head. "Maybe that's simply because I trust in the work we've all done toward FRONTLINE. We all know the program is in very capable hands. Besides, I'm in a Communcications director at heart - and there will be a lot of communicating with a lot of people over a new cabinet position." She takes a half shuffle back, more of a tilt really, to encorporate Craig Christman into the group. Her smile brightens even more, and she looks to General Autumn and the woman on his arm. "This one I have nothing to do with," she admits in a high-society play tone, which causes another small chuckle from the group around her.

Nicolas smiles and nods. "Yeah, sounds like a plan." He says as he offers Adelaide a crooked arm. "I suppose I should let you know that my name isn't Jason. It's Nicolas." He says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Would you like to wander around, get a drink or maybe dance?" he asks her after a moment.

"My mother is from New York, originally," Eileen — Shoshanna — explains, allowing Magnes to lead her. That must be a yes as far as his offer to escort her is concerned. "She moved to London before I was born, but our family divides its time between both cities as much as we can. I haven't visited the States since I was fifteen or sixteen, so you'll forgive me if I'm not as sensitive to the political climate as I should be. Are you enjoying your evening?"

Tris's night has suddenly gotten awesome. Trying to angle it so that he has Michael in his periphery, and that the Californian's half-attempt at a bet as to where he could score tonight could be validated, Tris takes Minea's hand in a brisk clasp. "Deal. You don't even know what you're getting into," he says, jovially. "But it's totally done. You can call me Tris, by the way."

In one of the balcony areas, with a glass of champagne in her hand, Cat lets her eyes wander over everything in sight, and everyone for that matter. People and their escorts are committed to her vast memory along with the varied exhibits. She moves from place to place with a casual air, not lingering in any one spot very long. It's a tiresome sort of event for her, the kind of social affair Mother trained her to function in so many years before and which she chafed at the very idea of. But at this particular time she's grateful to Mother for having done so, because as much as she hates the environment it does present such a useful reconnaissance opportunity. Sophie Crane is sighted, her location noted in the moment it takes to do so. Lieutenant Spalding and the others, Minea, Len Dalton, General Autumn and Miss Strauss, the unrecognized Sarisa… And Danko. Of course he's here, just as he was present when the Suresh Center opened. She keeps moving, clad in an expensive purple dress of a conservative kind and very little jewelry.

Adelaide thinks. She holds up her cup. " I have the drink thing covered." she begins. "But Nic," she says with a friendly smile. "Wandering would be nice. And Nicolas is a nice name, and my name is Adelaide… as I said earlier." she takes another sips before brushing a few strands of hair back behind an ear. "I take it your now spooked huh?" she rolls her eyes. "And I try and do something good and it backfires… that's twice."

"You have a very exotic history. This is my first time being at anything like this, at least that I can remember. Come on, you can meet my friend Tracy." Magnes, figuring Tracy will be more impressed if he has a beautiful girl on his arm, raises a hand. "Miss Strauss!" he calls from across the room.

Nicolas laughs softly and shakes his head. "Well, that rules out the drink and nods. "Then wandering it is." He says as he slowly starts to wander the room with Adelaide. "Naw, I'm not spooked. I've seen worse." He says with a smirk. "But you can't blame yourself for what happened. You didn't know what he had stored away. I thought I was going to go insane when I started hearing the things that I do."

When you've been up to sorts of things Danko's been up to through the course of his lifetime, you don't survive to your fifties by not paying attention. Something he says offhand makes the security guy turn an interesting shade of pinkish red around the ears, but there's a prickle around the back of his neck and he's already searching for the source.

Doesn't take him long, mainly 'cos the guy scoping him out all subtle-like is in a cowboy hat and that kind of thing tends to catch the eye in a room full of formal dresses and tuxedos. There's an upturn at the corner of his mouth when he sets to staring back — and he's definitely staring, chilly eyes locked in across the passage of slender necks and elegant up-dos. Makes Douglas's job a little easier up on high.

The tiny bubbles in Champagne are certainly getting to Autumn's head as he's blindsided by Craig's arrival, jumping a bit and then breaking out into an awkward laugh as he leans forward and slaps a hand on Craig's bicep. "Oh good lord son, you almost scared this old man right out of his skin. "The Texan accent gets stronger the more he's had to drink, eyes flitting over to Tracy with a good-natured smile as his hand disengages from Craig's arm and head shakes slowly. "It's a pleasure to meet you Officer," Autumn takes the offered hand in a firm handshake, "It's always great to meet one of New York City's finest."

Hearing Autumn mention someone else's name, Sarisa looks up from getting her champagne and starts to make her way over, a thin smile insincerely painted on her lips. When she sees Tracy moving away, the blonde raises her brows in a feigned yes, shoo expression all a part of her act. She saunters up behind Autumn, the sheer black fabric of her dress making her look like some inky silhouette over his shoulder.

"So, are you looking forward to working with Frontline? I've heard the force is pretty divided, what with SCOUT being on the chopping block about this." Alcohol and Autumn means blabbing things that he really shouldn't, and when Sarisa grabs the general's shoulder and squeezes softly, she sidles herself between the bald old man and Craig's taller form.

"Sweetie," she offers to Sebastian, "Why don't you go see how Michael's doing?" Both her dark brows go up, nodding to where Michael is pinned down by a Federal Agent with a memory problem. "I'm— " as if she just noticed Craig, Sariss lifts her dark eyes up to him. "Hello there," she reaches out with a delicate hand, "Sarisa Kirshner, I think the pleasure's all mine."

Autumn shuffles away with a raised brow, watching Sarisa more closely as he departs from her watchful presence and starts corssing the Great Hall. Michael, over with Felix, grins broadly and looks to relax as he flashes a look between Minea and Tris, one brow raised in that I owe you thirty bucks way. But when he focuses back on Felix, it's all business. "Hopefully i'll get a chance to work with you, Ivanov. If everything I'm hearing is going to go thorugh the pipes, the FBI and Frontline might have a joint operation sometime this fall, and I'm sure they'll want to put you on the beaches of that seige." The tone is joking, but he could have used better words.

Adelaide shrugs. "I don't know. a part of me, wants to do something to change… that… to help people psychologically, or psycho-analyitically with what I can do, in a way I think being able to perhaps change them… though that's another worry in itself… might be useful."

Okay, so Sophie isn't very good at this. But if she's tenative, perhaps she simply comes off as a shy but curious college student. Screwing her courage to the sticking place, Sophie begins to walk toward the assembled group, until her attention turns to the cry out for Tracy's attention. Oh, Magnes. It gives Helena an opportunity to amble closer to the group, putting her somewhat casually facing away from Spaulding at an angle to his shoulder and back. "Hello," she says to him amiably, and otherwise seems to be regarding the view of twirling dancing figures in Armani, Versace, Oscar de la Renta, and Vera Wang.

Tris is winked at by the tattoo'd Dior'd woman and she's around the colonnade and heading up the stairs. It's Magnes's voice that initially catches her attention, but it's the appearance of Eileen on his arm that Secures it. Not what she was looking for, paying attention to but fortuitous. Save that the poor guy is yelling towards , someone. Sounds like that Strauss woman. SO she maneuvers herself into Eileen's path, guarantee'd to run into her.

And when she does, out comes Minea's hand. "Oh! There you are! I was looking for you! I thought i'd never find you!" Spoken to Shoshannah. She doesn't mention the womans name because surely, she's not using Eileen here. "I need to use the powder room and I don't want to go alone! Come on!" There's an offer, verbal, to save her from Magnes and so that they can talk.

Nicolas nods as he slowly walks with Adelaide. "Well, if you want to help people, then something like that shouldn't stop you. Just keep working at it and it'll come with time. I know it took me a while to figure out how to use the things I hear for my own vices. While I try not to sway too far from the gray zone, it does tend to happen. There will always be setbacks. It's just a part of learning."

Yeah. "We've been under siege here for a long time," Felix says, bluntly. "As for SCOUT….enh. They'll rearrange it, give it some new acronym, but there'll still be cops and Feds dealing with the Evolved." He waves a languid hand, turns it into a deft snag of a flute of champagne, from when he takes a tentative sip. "You know how it is, sir. They change the words, but the tune remains the same."

Tracy hears the voice, and it's by the grace of God Autumn left. His girl-toy? Tracy doesn't much care for her opinion either way, but she does keep appearances up. "Excuse me," she murmers, turning and hauling ass - without looking like it - toward Magnes' location. He stands out in that god awful abomination of a suit. "Mr. Varlane!" She says politely, reaching for his arm. "Come with me." Her voice is laced with such urgency that….well.

Catching Danko's gaze, Len just gives him a grin. One of his Texas good natured ones, teeth and all. If he wanted the former marine to know he was watching him, then by God, he should know now. Len doesn't approach. He does take a look around to see if anyone else is keeping tabs on Danko and there are a few candidates that fit that description. Whether they are serious about keeping their eye on him or not, remains to be seen. Len turns back towards Danko and dips his head, the brim of his hat coming down over his face just for a moment before he brings his head back up. His not-so-subtle greeting from afar.

Adelaide nods. "So.. what about you? You work I take it? What do you? Do you have someone special or are you a loner?" she pauses. "Oh that came out wrong… sorry." she bit her lip. "I mean meetin twice in one day, two seperate events and social circles.. now I am curious about you…"

Craig trades a glance towards Tracy, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes - of course, an upstanding citizen such as he, witnessed that particular press conference. Speaking of which, he glances towards where Magnes is calling out for the woman, an arch look written on Craig's features, before he's turning back to Autumn being shooed away by Sarisa. His smile flickers, a doggish look tracking the stocky general's departure with a look of impatience.

But it's gone in the next moment as he turns towards Sarisa, offering her a polite smile as his hand goes to clasp around her's. "Ms. Kershner," Craig says, with a nod, his tone pleasant. "Officer Christman, it's nice to meet you. You're a friend of General Autumn?"

Tris grins back towards Minea, before he's polishing off his current glass of champagne. He lets the glass cutlery then hover up into the air, telekinetically descending with a little bit of a tremor onto the tray of an unsuspecting server, to the amusement of those close by, a small chuckle filtering through the immediate gathering. Then, he's off to go annoy Juliette.

"Hey, Tracy, wha— " Magnes is taken by the arm, looking around as if expecting someone to save him, but Minea, Deckard's Harpy, has already taken Eileen. "Hey, it's alright, I'm not lifting my shirt or anything, and I'm on my best behavior. I was gonna introduce you to someone, but I think she's going to the bathroom to powder her nose or whatever girls do in the bathroom."

"Your Miss Strauss is quite a catch," Eileen remarked to Magnes as he shouted down at the blonde. With the ambient noise as loud as it is, it's likely that his greeting went missed by most of the men and women in attendence, and perhaps that's a good thing. He won't be the first person to call across the venue to a friend, and he probably won't be the last. Unfortunately, Eileen never gets the opportunity to elaborate on her comment. Minea in all her tattooed glory is inserting herself into their path and Tracy is prying Magnes from her arm.

Incidentally, it isn't Magnes who she needs saving from. "Can't it wait?" she asks Minea in a tight voice. "There was such a line last I checked…"

Observance upon observance as she wanders along. Magnes with the woman calling herself Shoshanna, Magnes calling out to Tracy, Minea coming along and seeking to lead Shoshanna away to the ladies' room. Cat fits in well here, using all of her society background to fit in seamlessly. She keeps moving at that casual pace, groaning inwardly at Magnes. Did we not just the day before discuss the concept of subtlety? But that's set aside, she resolves to keep an eye out for Shoshanna and visit the ladies' herself if they don't reappear in a few minutes.

Tracy doesn't pause in her stride as she goes to lead Magnes away from people, out on the balcony, behind a pillar. Anything for some privacy while she hisses into his ear. "You're not lifting your shirt, but you're here and shouting across the room. Shouting, Magnes. Did your parents ever explain to you what an indoor voice was or did they let you run wild? Were you raised by wolves? That would make sense too." She's angry, but she's still got a very friendly smile, and her voice is a low murmer for his ears only.

Nicolas shrugs slightly. "There's not a whole lot to me, really. I am a security consultant for the corporations that want to test their network and internet security. I guess you can say I'm a loner, but I do have some friends, though I don't know if they're still around anymore. I haven't run into any of 'em, but I do like to make new friends and there is no one special at the moment."

"I need to pee like a racehorse" Minea inserts that urgency into her voice that states no, no it can't wait. Her arm winds in the other womans, having to stoop a fraction to give her the faux cheek kissing. It's a cover though, for her to whisper into the woman's ears. Then she straightens, a gesture off to a hallway and bathrooms inevitably to be down there "Quick like a bunny, I swear we'll be back right quicK!"

Six more glasses have been taken off trays and placed onto different trays. Douglas for a while has gotten very distracted his little game of glass switching. But eventually he remembers, oh yeah, Danko. Glancing back over the balcony, his gaze traces Danko's focus to Len. Watching the giant man in cowboy boots, Douglas idly picks up another glass. Sidestepsidestep. He raises the glass to his lips as if finally going to take a drink, then his nose catches a whiff of the alcohol. Oh that's gross.

The glass is subsequently dropped.

Quickly dissolving back into the masses, away from the crunching of glass and splattering of champagne. Milling into the rest of the suits, Douglas reaches out and straightens his bowtie. Bringing his hand up he scritchscritches at his chin. He doesn't mind watching other people for lengths of time, after all… Len isn't that hard to find.

For just a moment Sarisa's eyes go distant as she clasps Craig's hand, her neck musacles tense, nostrils flare, and while years of training in the CIA have honed her exterior afects to minimal degrees, there is one thing that the man known as Sylar can always sense in someone — fear. She's a little too slow on returning a response to his introduction, her fingers squeezing a little too tight around his palm. When Sarisa disengages, Craig can see sweat beading on her forehead.

"I— " but then something else starts to emerge, something in Sarisa's expression that belies whatever fear she did have, it changes, and it's an expression Craig has only seen in a mirror when given to a particular brand of self-satisfaction — amusement. It's the kind of amusement a housecat gets from tormenting a mouse, or finding a particularly tangled ball of yarn to unravel around itself. That almost predatory expression she takes comes with a raise of her brows. "Officer Christman," she says almost breathlessly, "it's an absolute pleasure to finally make your aquaintence…" her lips creep up into a larger smile, stepping a touch closer. "I've heard good things about you."

Across the way, where Michael and Felix converse, there's a nod of recognition from Michael. "The NYPD's been in way worse situations, I think some restructuring will be great for them. I really can't wait to work with some of the officers I've heard about, there's this— " his brows furrow together, "I can't remember her name, some detectives on SCOUT though, they sound like class acts." It's in the middle of this that one particularly bald and inebriated military commander waddles his way over with a broad smile and a slightly red face.

"Agent Felix Ivanov" is the boisterous cry from General Autumn as he sidles up to the federal agent. "Quantico's Don Quixote," he adds with a good-natured jab of his elbow against Felix's ribs. "Now I see Mister Bentley and Spalding here with you, I'm starting to get worried one've you's gonna start a fire." Autumn cracks a smile and laughs, shaking his head. "It's a lot've trouble in one corner. No wonder the ladies took their leave early, huh?"

Eileen has two options in front of her. She can either continue to resist Minea and risk making a scene, or she can submit to the older woman and allow herself to be dragged into seclusion. Whatever is breathed into her ear as the lips are moving against her cheek makes the decision for her, and a moment later she's following Minea down the stairs, headed in the general direction of the closest ladies' room, one hand clutching her champagne flute, the other grasping at her dress to avoid stepping on it or catching the hem on her heel.

Large man in cowboy hat giving him the old nod and smile. Danko has to think about this for a few seconds, calculation turning over behind the lifeless flat of his gaze while he mulls it over. His friend the security guard has taken to leaning away at an angle that's starting to defy gravity, which makes disengaging easy in the form of an up-and-down glance and a vague pat on the shoulder when Emile finally moves to step around him. It'll be ok, bb.

His progress for Len is direct in the way most things about him are. Being the short straw in a long stack as it were, it doesn't take him long at all to cut through the crowd, all shadow and ink and hollows through the cadaverous set of his skull on his neck. He's still not quite smiling, brows canted and champagne swapped neatly from right hand to left so that the former is free to be offered, should a friendly shake be in order. Even if he does just stand there in the place of say, introducing himself, or anything else remotely socially appropriate.

"Sorry, I wasn't thinking, and my parents were very strict, I try to be a bit more free of all that now… I won't yell or anything again, sorry." Magnes stares at her smile, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. "It's weird how you're doing that…"

Nicolas smiles and chuckles. "I like to listen a lot. I'm not really one to ask questions, but I can make an exception." He takes a drink from his champagne and thinks for a moment. "What sparked you to create the group?" He asks, looking up at her.

"They are the finest cops in the world," Fel says, entirely serious. "Honestly, it was a demotion when I headed off to Quantico." Fuck you, Mr. Director Chase. And the Bucar you rode in on. And then he's getting jabbed…..and honestly, it's really weird. Because Autumn reminds him of his own grandfather, the Soviet general. Same drunken amiability…and perhaps because of this resemblance, he warms to him. "More apt a description than you know, General," he says, lifting his flute of champagne in salute.

"It's called practice," she breathes through that smile of hers as they walk. "I don't know how you got in here. I don't want to know. Don't drop my name, don't mention me. I'm still trying to ice over the damage you did at the Press Confereence." And she'd almost iced over it too. "Please, Magnes. I know you don't care, but this is my career. I've worked very hard to get here, and your idiocy will not ruin this." She starts to detatch herself from him.

And arm in arm, go Minea and Eileen, gowns swishing against each other as the different heighted women make in that time honored female tradition… The female herd to the bathroom. Whereupon, when they enter, the steel grey clad woman is checking all the stalls and satisfied at the status of empty, is locking the door behind them once Eileen is in.

"Ruskin" Minea's lips moue. "Interesting to see you here, unexpected. I've been trying to get a hold of you, either you're ignoring me, or i've pissed off some people and they're not passing on messages"

Craig's vague study of Sarisa's features turns sharper as those reactions parade in front of him, his brow tense and furrowed as he feels her hand tighten in his, become slow to withdraw, sweat droplets like tiny crystals on her brow. If that and then her change in attitude is to be of any indication, Craig arrives at an inevitable conclusion.

She knows.

Or. He thinks she might, but how. All the same, he quirks a half-smile at her, one that doesn't reach glassily pale eyes. "And yet I've heard nothing about you - that doesn't hardly seem fair, does it?" he says, back stiff. The hand that had clasped around her hand slips into the pocket of his jacket, but doesn't yet do anything to the cellphone hidden within. "What have you heard about me, Ms. Kershner?"

"I do care, don't say things like that." Magnes crosses his arms, but otherwise lets Tracy walk away, heading down from the balcony to potentially find more familiar faces.

Tracy is perfectly happy to head away from Magnes, but her smile never faultered. She walks smoothly down the steps like a debutante on her 18th birthday, and spies Autumn, Spalding and Felix huddled together. She picks up a new flute of champagne after finishing her old one, and decides to head in that direction.

Finally, in an attempt to get away from a slightly inebriated and goofy drunk, Michael notices the small voice from the petitte girl standing nearby was directed at him. His eyes grow wide in an embarrassed way as he jerks his head to look over his shoulder and see if Tris is smirking, if this is some sort've trick that he put the girl up to. Seeing Tris distracted by someone else's backside, Michael glances back towards Sophie and eases away from Felix and Autumn with a raise of his brows in some sort've I'll be over here expression.

"I— I'm sorry were you," he points back and forth between Felix and Autumn, then looks back to Sophie. "I hardly heard you over all of the, ah, conversation." His drink is still half empty, he's hardly touched it. "You— I'm sorry I'm being really rude, I'm not used to this sort've thing." Offering out a hand towards Sophie, Michael offers a smile that is a mirror image to Cameron's. "Michael Spalding, Fronline Unit One Command. But— " his head tips to the side in a puppy-doggish sort've way, "you probably already knew that."

Across the Great Hall, Sarisa sidles up closer towards Craig, sipping at her full glass of sparkling champagne as her eyes sweep the floor, but her words stay directed to Craig. "Your track record," she says breathily, "your ah— work ethic?" Icy blue eyes level up to Craig. "You're a fascinating study, the people you work with" she says with some level of certainty, "are fortunate to have you on their side. I'm… sorry if I seem a bit star struck. It's not every day I run into someone who's as… efficient as you are."

Taking one small step away from Craig to give him some semblance of private space, Sarisa takes another sip from her glass. "What brings you all the way out here, mister Christman," if they can both wear masks as they are, they can act out the play, "this doesn't seem like it would be your crowd?"

"I figured I owed it as a favour to Agent Ivanov to keep him on his toes," says Eileen, turning away from Minea and toward the mirror, her heels clicking against the pristine linoleum floor. They can speak as candidly as they like in an unoccupied bathroom, but it's only a matter of time until someone notices the door is locked and decides this is suspicious enough to inform security. She unhooks the clasp holding her purse shut and reaches inside, retrieving a slender stick of tinted lipgloss with two equally slender fingers. "What do you want?"

As Danko approaches, Len is all smiles. C'mon, who couldn't return a smile to someone so charming? The man's stature may be small, but his reputation and his record paints him to be more of a giant than any one else could possibly imagine. Len does not take him lightly. His hand is pulled from his pocket as he extends it towards the man who could very well become his adversary. "Mr. Danko." He nods politely. "Or, should I still address you as Sergeant Danko?" Just a touch, a note, to let him know that he's been doing a little digging. Above all else, Len wants him to know that he's interested.

"You know, Ivanov, your name came up on a short-list of Frontline candidates." Autumn says with a hushed voice, grinning all the while. "Before we trimmed it down, your name was on there. I think it was right after you got that medal pinned on your forehead like a bulls-eye, everyone wanted to have the human hurricane working on their side, you know what I mean?"

Taking a sip from his glass of champagne, Autumn rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "You know, we're still looking to fill the Logistics position, we're running on four out of five cylinders. I might be able to pull some strings for you, given your service record, if you're interested." And who says coming to political functions doesn't have its merits.

Tracy reaches the group rather easily, tapping General Autumn on the shoulder before stepping into the little circle of conversation these parties usually form rather naturally. "Now I feel left out," she says, her voice hardly pouty, but her tone changing just marginally as only the upper crust could recognize. "After all, when you see a group of powerful men in the corner of a society function - you know the world is changing. And looking around this group, there are a few world-changing individuals." She bobs her head toward Felix. "Tracy Strauss, Agent Ivanov, a pleasure." To Spalding? "I don't believe we've met officially."

A homeland badge will smooth over any ruffles, like the one parked in her clutch. "Leave kitty alone from here on in, as in don't beat the ever loving christ out of him, you and your little group and i'll give you everything I've dug up on one Agent daiyu who really isn't an agent. Including his tie to one General Autumn outside these doors as well as one Sarisha Kirshner" She too pulls out her lip glass, keeping her voice pitched low anyways. Who know what might loiter outside the doors. "Because, from what I found, I think I know why their after you" She whips out her own lip glass to touch up her wide lips. "Kitty doesn't know any of this, by the way. Feng's a little too deep for his need to know" There's a glance to Eileen. "I'll even toss in some phone numbers of said people"

Smile! Sophie offers Michael a broad grin, and accepts his hand. "It's alright, Lieutenant. I'm Sophie Crane. Student, Columbia University, double major broadcasting, poli sci, and yes, I'm aware that's tantamount to madness. I was hoping - " she bites her lip, notes how many people want his attention, "I was hoping I might be able to take a few minutes of your time at some point in the evening. Maybe ask you a few questions?"

Helena's not without her charm, and she artfully widens her eyes just a little. C'mon Mikey, don't you want to help the cute co-ed in the fantastic dress? "By way of a dance? Over by the bar? I'm easy." A pause, and she blinks, as if mortified. "I mean, oh god - um, can I start over? Oh…please tell me this is how Diane Sawyer got her start, by making an idiot of herself."

Autumn. Autumn, Autumn. *clink* Something finally slots into place, like a pachinko ball slowly filtering down through the pins. Fel's eyes light, like Autumn just promised him an all expenses paid trip to Cancun. "Really, sir? I mean, I've never been military. Just a cop, you know. Not a real vigilante type, like that guy we've got around here hunting the Vanguard. I'd be afraid I'd not measure up."

Shoulders squared, Craig casts a look upwards the balcony he had come from, a searching gaze for those gathered there and recognising few, and certainly not who he's looking for. "Me?" His gaze drops back down towards Sarisa's face. "You're probably right - this isn't really my scene. But we're all looking for a place to fit in. I'm just interested in what FRONTLINE is going to mean for people like me, Ms. Kershner, if you get my meaning. I have to say…

"I have my doubts." He angles a glance towards the boisterous General Autumn cornering the FRONTLINE golden boy and— lookie there, Agent Ivanov. Craig's jaw ticks in a clench of tension, but his smile remains. "No disrespect to such great men," he says, swiveling a look back to Sarisa. "But some things are just inevitable. And now that they're getting rid of SCOUT, and all." He gives an easy shrug. "What can I say? I prefer my own methods. Efficient, just like you say."

Felix also, belatedly, turns to face Tracy, offering her a hand. "Felix Ivanov," he says, with reflexive geniality. Who knows, prick that he is, he may still make a political animal, some day. That'd be the irony, wouldn't it? The son of a KGB Agent the Director of the FBI. One can but dream.

"I try not to make promises I know I can't keep," Eileen tells Minea, watching her reflection in the mirror as she unscrews the lipgloss' sleek black cap and applies it by following the curve of her mouth. If touching up is the excuse Minea wants to use to facilitate this clandestine meeting, then she's going to maintain the facade to the best of her ability. "Ivanov has made it painfully clear that he isn't interested in giving me amnesty, so I'm afraid it isn't in my best interest to keep him intact. That said—" Click goes the cap, snapped swiftly back into place. The lipgloss itself is tucked into her purse. "As long as he doesn't try to harm me or mine, you have my word I won't raise a hand against him."

Whatever that's worth.

Magnes walks over to a table of food, starting to look things over curiously. "I wonder why they don't have anything with those toothpicks that have those frilly things on the end…" he muses to himself, spotting finger food, but, if he's in a high class party, what the hell? "How am I supposed to eat this stuff if I can't be rude and use my fingers?"

Danko clasps his hand firm around Len's broader mit, no more ruffled by name and rank than he is by the hat or the boots or the 2:1 mass ratio they're working here on either side of a shake that's more passingly polite than it is warm or friendly. "If you're looking to get my attention…you've got it," conveyed at a level mutter beneath the drone of converation all around, he polishes off the last of his champagne with the air of a man who isn't sure he has time to be bothered with this right now.

"Oh, I know Kitty and his tendency to be a dog with a bone. Where do you want to meet for me to pass over what I have. I don't know how much you already know, but I can tell you this. I believe there's two people downstairs, with direct ties to MR. Daiyu, and with an intention, and again, this is what I believe, to slap a collar round your necks and make you frontlines rehabilitated prize pedigree'd members. By sending a former vanguard member after you all" Minea stretches her lips, the vibrant coral hue going onto her lips easily then she too closes her's, drops it again into her clutch. "I promise, I won't even make a run at you and Mr. Hand Grenade" Their conversation still too low for any eavesdroppers.

Awkwardly scrubbing the back of his head with one hand in the way a dumbfounded mechanic might look at a car beyond his ability to repair, Michael's reaction to Sophie is about just that. "I— " he wrinkles his nose and squints his eyes as he offers her a sympathetic smile. "Let's call it you owing me one in case I put my foot in my mouth."

Then, there's a sharp-featured blonde making her way over to their gathering, and when Michael spots Tracy he gives Sophie a two-fingered wave of his hand, just give me a second, and looks over to her with a warm smile. "Miss Strauss," he offers a firm handshake, brows going up. "The General tells me quite a bit about you, but it's nice to finally meet face to face. I saw you at the press conference the other day, your — ah — date" he quirks one one brow, "was quite a character." Magnes has officially mortified Tracy with everyone in this building. "I hate to shake and run, but," he nods his head towards Sophie, "I promised the lady a drink." His eyes flick to Tris at that, as if it was some sort of challenge. The two really shouldn't be allowed to be in public together — it's like giving frat boys the keys to a shiny new car.

Slipping away from Tracy, Michael nods politely towards Sophie and motions her over to the bar made out of the security desk at the center of the Great Hall. "Come on, I'm already full up," he gestures with his half drained glass, "but I'll let you catch up." Catch up. He's been spending too much time with Tris.

Over on that side of the room, Autumn is brandishing his glass at Tracy like a king with a scepter in greeting. "Miss Strauss, mister Ivanov here is among the finest agents Quantico's put out into the field, he's a real gold-star hero, and it's good of you to actually get to meet him." There's a full on glow around Autumn now, he's reached the high point of drinking where everything is bubbly just like the glass. "I was just talking to him about how we still have an open Logistics position in Frontline."

But across the Hall, Sarisa and Craig continue their dance. "You'd be surprised, Mister Christman," the blonde states with a pointed pursing of her lips, "what kinds of people can find a place in this world." She starts making her way over to where the glasses of champagne are, picking one out in her free hand and then offering it out playfully towards the officer. "It takes all kinds, you know? I'm sure you — being a police officer — have had to let the small-fry crooks go as informants so you can get to the big fish, right?" Her brows go up slowly. "Well, I'm of the mind that sometimes it takes a shark to hunt a shark."

The hand is given a firm grip, but not harshly so as Len's large hand surrounds Danko's own. He nods. "Len Denton." He wants Danko to know his name. He doesn't use his Homeland Security rank when he introduces himself. His voice is has been kept at a minimum, the words he speaks meant only for the shorter man. This has nothing to do with any of that. "Just wanted to make your acquaintance. I've been watching your work as of late." Maybe not exactly like that, but Len has been paying attention. "Your direction has rather intrigued me. I'll be keeping a close eye on your next project." Subtle, or.. perhaps not so much, as Len loses his smile when he speaks the last.

Eileen seems to consider Minea's proposition in stony silence, her facial expression like chiseled stone, green eyes glacial and utterly cold. "If that's their intention," she says after a long, uncomfortable pause in which she stands unmoving, "then perhaps someone ought to tell them that Daiyu is disobeying orders. He's out to murder the lot of us, sure as a cat's got climbing gear." Her request to meet inspires a faint flicker of movement in the corner of the younger woman's mouth, not quite a frown, definitely not a smile. "Do you know the boat graveyard on Staten Island?"

SCORE. Sophie's doing little cheerleader flips in her head, and thank god her drink is finished, or else that whole 'get the lady a drink' thing would be entirely awkward. Once they get to the bar, she notes, "It would be aces for me to have something quotable on the record," as she said, she's a journalism major, so obviously the conclusion to be drawn is that she'd be writing for a campus paper. "But I'm aware that this is you being very nice to supportive citizen, which I appreciate." And thus infers she's willing to go off-record should he so deem it.

Sophie's eyes dart briefly back to the Power Clique, and if she catches the civil exchange between Danko and Len, she gives no sign. At the bar, she requests a spritzer - that should be weak enough without seeming like a teetotaller.

Tracy nods her head toward Felix. "Yes, I've heard a bit about you, Agent Ivanov, and it seems you have an irrefutable fan right here," she says, gesturing with her glass very gracefully and gently toward General Autumn. "And a very good man to have impressed too, if I do say so myself. General Autumn has been at the forfront of FRONTLINE ever since it's conception. I have to wonder your opinon on the matter, Agent Ivanov." She watches him curiously, sipping her glass.

Nicolas smiles and nods as he listens to her as the slowly and casually stroll through the museum. Though they pass various objects that others would normally admire, Nicolas just looks at Adelaide. "Well, that's good. At least you're doing it for yourself as well as others. Shows you have heart and your goals are a good thing to reach for."

"I'm aware of it. If you need to bring the hand grenade, feel free. This is me, with a little on the side project that I'm doing for a friend. I don't like what I dug up and as much as I should haul your asses in, right now is not the time. I'd rather deal with the black hole that is Daiyu first. Tomorrow night. Ten in the evening" A certain specific boat listed off. "I'll see you there. Bring whomever you like, i'll be alone" Which means, i'm showing a display of trust where I shouldn't - goes unsaid. With that, Minea's moving across the well appointed bathroom to undo the door before there's suspicion.

Fel makes the obligatory moue of modesty. His smile's a little forced. To Tracy, he nods, politely. "Opinion on what, Miss Strauss? The fact of the matter is, the NYPD, and really all the law enforcement in and around New York, is fighting a war of attrition. We're holding the fort, but we aren't advancing. I, for one, will be glad to have Washington get of its collective asses and send us some real help." He sighs, takes a swallow of the champagne. "I didn't deserve that medal, and I don't deserve that praise, sir," he declaims, quietly. "Be careful what offers you make me, or you may find you're buying a pig in a poke." Pun intended? "I understand you've already begun FRONTLINE ops here?" he says, turning back to Autumn, expresion open and cheerful again.

"I'm sure it does." Craig walks on over to belatedly follow Sarisa's lead towards the drinks, watching only her even as he takes the glass of sparkling alcohol, and then taking a generous sip. "And we all know how interested the government is when it comes to the food chain." Polite, socialite laughter goes here. "I've been feeling a little hunted lately myself, and that's exactly what I came to talk to General Autumn about - although my suspicions have long since been confirmed."

The next step he takes brings him closer, a meandering kind of movement, as if he could corner her in the middle of a ballroom. "But then I met you, and I'm glad to have done so, Sarisa Kershner." He raises his glass. "To FRONTLINE."

Adelaide makes a sound of disapproval. "REally and what of you Mr. Grey-man?" asking politly and pleasnantly. "And in truth, while I am doing that I kind of want to be able to be myself even with what I've got… I just wish I knew more…"

Tracy nods her head to Felix, very easily, lifting her glass. "Hear hear," she says, to Washington getting off it's collective asses and doing something. Hey, she's technically New York now! That and they just accomplished what the man wanted. Good time for a little toast of celebration, no? But then she sits back to listen.

Not far from the drinks himself, Magnes looks over at Sarisa and Craig, casually waving. "Excuse me." he says as he begins to walk over, nudging his head over at the food. "This might be a silly question, but we're not actually supposed to use our hands here, right?"

"Considerate of you to give me your name." The cant of Danko's brows is decidely careless. Skeptical, even, while he withdraws his hand and fidgets blandly at the crisp ring of his collar after an itch. Empty glass set off on a passing tray, he looks Len over like he might a car he's not all that interested in buying, settles back on his heels as if preparing to turn away and tips off a hazy salute. "Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Denton. If you and your hat would be so kind as to excuse me…"

Nicolas chuckles. "Me, I'm the exact opposite. I have no goals at the moment other than just getting back on my feet. I help those I can, which doesn't happen very often. I'm just pretty much enjoying life at the moment. And that's the story of Mr. Grey-man."

Eileen continues showing Minea her back, waiting until she's alone in the bathroom to let out the breath she'd been holding. She takes only a minute or two to ensure her composure is solid before emerging herself, cheeks noticably flushed with colour, though her hair and make-up remain as close to immaculate as she's capable of keeping them with only a square of tissue paper on hand to dab away sweat.

Adelaide nods. "Enjoying life is a good thing."

Over by the drinks, Michael sets his down and breathes out a heavy sigh, looking around to see if anyone is keeping a close watch on him. Confident that everyone who should be making sure he doesn't make an ass of himself is off busy someewhere else, Michael cracks a smile and rests his hands on his hips. "I'm not really supposed to make public statements, but— " he smiles faintly, "you seem like a nice kid." Reaching out for his drink again, Michael picks it up and eyes it experimentally. "So— alright, go ahead. Just one though, because any more and I'm liable to spill something I shouldn't."

"On the down low," Autumn says in a hushed Texan drawl. "There was actually one unit of Frontline before Michael's team," and this is the General spilling state secrets he really shouldn't be, "It was called Unit Zero, and it was headed by a Homeland Security agent named Richard Carmichael." Furrowing his brows, Autumn finishes his glass of champagne and motions with his hand obscurely. "Their only field assignment was working with their handler, Stephen Verse, to apprehend the serial killer Sylar once it was established he was on Staten Island." There's a narrowing of Autumn's eyes. "Regretably, they managed to apprehend Sylar, but the entirety of Unit Zero was killed to the last man when Sylar escaped his holding on the C-130 they were transporting him on. Plane went down, everyone except Verse perished in the crash… We're hoping Unit One doesn't have the same problems when we send them after him."

Felix remembers them. Remembers that attack. He remembers the soldiers in full body armor with helmets and green glowing goggles.

He was there.

"To FRONTLINE," Sarisa notes with an impish quality to her smile, taking back the sip as her blue eyes flick to Magnes with a flash of irritation tha might make him wonder if she and Tracy are related — thankfully they don't look identical — that's always confusing. "I'm… not your mother," Sarisa notes with a raise of one brow, waving to the food, "you can eat it with your feet for all I care." Her blue eyes drift back to Craig, one hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. "So… Craig," her head tilts to the side, "what're your thoughts about FRONTLINE? You know, they're very much looking forward to cooperating with the NYPD."

Nicolas smiles as he looks at her. "If you ever need to talk or want to practice what we were talking about in the group, give me a call. I can give you my number if you want."

There's a small smirk that crosses Len's face when Danko turns tail and walks off. He watches him for a while until he loses him in the crowd of tall people and begins to glance around at others at the party. There are a few that he recognizes. In fact, there's one he's met before, and as he starts to move towards the balcony when he feels the vibration of his phone. Considering his position, it's never wise to ignore a call so he slips the phone from his jacket and holds it up to his ear. After a few moments, he hangs up and glances around for Minea, but can't seem to find her in the crowd. He'll text her while he's on his way. He heads for the door, making a hasty exit.

Adelaide nods. She makes a moment and rumages through her bag and begins to hand him the paper. "Here please do. I think that'd be cool."

This is news to Tracy as well. A lot of news. "Richard Carmichael," she murmers softly to herself, knowing that name is very familiar but she can't exactly place where. But that's not the problem. Autumn's handler…looks like she's too busy flirting to do her job. With Magnes oh god. Ignoring that, Tracy reaches out and touches Autumn's arm. "But we've taken all of this into consideration. Unit One will be much more prepared, and, more importantly, it will have the support of the NYPD and federal agencies to get it's work done. Nothing is ever accomplished without cooperation." Please, General, move on quickly. "And the path ahead of them has already been looked at long and hard, hasn't it, General?" Talk about something you're supposed to talk about you lush!

"I remember, sir," Felix says, and every syllable is bitten off, crisply. "I was there. And respectfully, sir, the only way to be sure of dealing with Gabriel Gray is to nuke him from orbit. It may be blasphemous for someone who's devoted his entire career to bringing criminals to trial to say so, but there's no jail that will hold him, no courtroom he'll be in long enough to plead his case before a jury." He sets aside his flute on a passing waiter's tray, mostly untouched. "So, Daiyu isn't your man?" Ah, Felix. You will be wading up the beaches at mutant Normandy when FRONTLINE comes in, all because you can't leave well enough alone.

Perfectly imaculate, fresh lipstick, MInea eases her way out of the bathroom. Being a tall enough woman already, and with the aid of her she notes the retreating black cowboy hate. She also notes something else that gets a raise of brows, and hands tightening a fraction on the clutch.

Emile Danko.

Fuzzy Bald himself, daring to show up here. Casually, the Company agent starts to maneuver through the crowd, making sure to keep her direction ever varied, but also keeping track of where Mr. Humanis First goes.

Nicolas takes the pen and paper, writes down his name and number before he hands them back to her. "Feel free to call me anytime. Even if you just want to hang out." He says as he looks at her, looking her features over.

Tracy sees Felix tilting the conversation, and she's more than happy to tilt with it. "As much as it may seem that way, we will have to do our best to find a way to bring him to trial. He is still a citizen of this country and subject to it's laws and rights, like every other citizen. Justice wears her blindfold, after all, so that everyone can be brought before her fairly." Move. Away. From. Secret. Stuff!

Milling about amid the persons here gathered, not part of any conversation and seeming more interested in the exhibits than anyone or anything else, Cat sips from her champagne glass and nears the top of those stairs. Then she begins to drift down them and toward the ladies' room. The last of the liquid in the glass is imbibed and the vessel placed on the tray of a passing man along the way. When she reaches her destination she goes inside and stands before the mirror. Eyes settle briefly on Shoshanna but she doesn't say anything. If there's conversation it will be the other woman's option to commence it.

Craig turns a look to Magnes, too much recognition set into his older features than a stranger should have, but it's a subtle nuance, veiled by the study he has on the gravity manipulator as if he were a verrry interesting insect. Sarisa fielding the question, he allows an apologetic smile to trade with Magnes, more Craig than Gabriel, before he looks back towards her. "If they want to cooperate with the NYPD," he states, drolly, "then they're going to have to secure their faith. My faith. But perhaps this is a better topic left to another time, Sarisa."

Because if she can edge towards a first name basis, so can Craig. "But I'm glad to hear you're open to such conversation. I'll be in touch." And now, his thumb finds a number on the dialing pad of his pocketed cellphone, blinking out a wordless message across the building, as he takes a step back.

A nice kid. Normally Helena would bristle at that, but while Michael is feeling benevolent (and soon may not be, since she only gets one question), Sophie will take what she can get. "Alright," she says, pausing as if processing her mental rolodex of queries. Finally she seems to decide on one as she sips her spritzer. "Are you concerned about the alleged leadership of one of the fringe terrorist organizations invoking your brother's name as their inspiration? And I guess as a follow up, will FRONTLINE be making an active effort to pursue such organizations and cults of personality such as Helena Dean, Phoenix, and Humanis First?"

It's not an out of place question, if an uncomfortable one. She's a little more savvy than a cub reporter, but she's still clearly junior league.

Dapper and temporarily distracted by a buzz at his hip, Danko bumps a slender cell phone up out of his pocket and glances only passingly at the number listed across the cover. It's not an uncommon sight within the gala — perhaps tragically. People flipping open phones, takatakatakaing texts out between bouts of pretentious conversation and glasses of champagne. Speaking of which, old Fuzzy and Bald lifts a fresh round up from the table he's meandered to a halt against before tucking the phone away and straightening out his spine. Break over. Time to start trawling again, grey eyes slating cold after Felix's profile only to skirt away again when he gets a load of his current company.

The phone in Eileen's purse is vibrating. As she moves toward the bathroom door, she pauses, slips her hand inside and pulls it out just enough to glimpse at its screen, casing cupped in her small palm. Somewhere between the balcony and the ladies' room, she lost her champagne glass, and while she'd been about to fetch another, the message displayed indicates that this might not be the wisest idea. According to the sender, she has someplace else she needs to be.

Nicolas frowns slightly as Adelaide gives her departure. He offers her a wave before he watches her leave. He turns and looks around the room once more before he moves back into the main area, draining the last of his glass.

It's not usual for someone to get the drop on Felix Ivanov, to sneak up on him when he's uninjured and alert like a ghost in the night. There's a brush of a hand on Felix's shoulder as a consideravly tall and chiseled looking man wearing dark aviator sunglasses eases by him and approaches General Autumn. The face is one unfamiliar to Tracy, but the coil of white plastic on the back of his ear is indicative of someone in Intelligence, probably security for the event. He leans in and whispers something into the General's ear, and Autumn's eyes go wide, looking up to his own reflection in the tall man's glasses.

"When was he here? How— " When the General starts to look around for someone, the man in aviator sunglasses grabs his shoulder and points towards the exit Danko headed to, and Autumn nod shis head slowly and solemnly. "I'm sorry to cut out meeting short," he gives a side-long look at Felix, one with an inscrutable expression of wait what did he just say but lets it pass quickly. "Something's been brought to my attention and I need to handle it. I hope you all have a good night, and say — " he looks for michael, finding only Tris standing up against the wall, then glances over to where Michael stands by an unfamiliar brunete. "Give Lieutenant Spalding my regards."

With a pat on Autumn's back, Aviators leads him away from the gathering without so much as a word to anyone else. When Autumn is led away, Aviators pauses by the door he's issued out, looking up and around the balcony area, then catching Sarisa's attention. All he does is raise his brows and make a get on with it expression before following the ushered General out of the museum.

Unaware of Autumn's exit, Michael nearly chokes on his drink at that question, laughing as he wipes at his mouth awkwardly. "I guess you didn't pay close attention to the press conference the other day?" One brow raises slowly as Michael gives that subtle pointer. "Whatever FRONTLINE does won't be my decision. We get called to duty when federal and local law-enforcement calls us," he offers something of an apologetic smile. "Humanis First is a terrorist organization, and I'm sure eventually our assets might be called in to aid the NYPD or the FBI in handling them. But we're not— " he grimaces, "we're not the Justice League or something— we don't choose who we fight. We supplement and aid government agencies when they need tactical backup,"

Skirting around the Phoenix issue, Michael returns to it with a purse of his lips. "Phoenix, and— I don't really follow this all too closely," he lies to her face, "but as far as I know they don't typically do anything that will require FRONTLINE's military assets. They're vocal political activists, but they aren't blowing up schools or bombing cop cars." Rolling one shoulder, Michael tips his head to the side. "But I'm not in charge of our logistics, so in truth— I really don't know what we'll be called on to do, only that we'll do whatever we're asked to to the best of our ability, and with the safety of the public in mind." Someone groomed that answer into him.

From afar, Sarisa watches as Craig disengages from the conversation, her eyes going nowhere near the phone, but rather to the man in aviator sunglasses who ushers Autumn away. Narrowing her pale eyes, she looks up to Craig with a smile and appends, "I look forward to it." Slipping past him, she pauses, and reaches down to take his phone in her hand. There's a raise of her brows, sliding it out and canceling out of the text window after her delivers his message. She smiles, coyly, and starts to type in a number to his phone directory, then slides the phone back with a call me look before moving towards where the General was escorted out, like a good attack dog does.

Magnes may be starting to realize why Tracy didn't wanna bring him; these people are brutal! He doesn't bother responding to the woman, instead making his way across the hall, trying to find someone to cling on to in this sea of snobiness.
Tracy bows her head to Felix after Autumn has gone. "If you'll excuse me," She murmers. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope I'll have the opportunity for it again soon. Feel free to give my office a call if you need anything." Like advice in a very deep political sea. With another bow, she seems to be ready to head out - moving in teh same direction of Autumn, of course. Just to get a glance at who he had to run off and see. Innocent!

Felix's lip lifts in a momentarily vulpine snarl. Goddamnit. Since when did he turn into Fox Mulder, wrapped in a million tangled webs of conspiracy and collusion. Fel takes a deep breath, looks around, and heads for the door. Not pursuing Autumn, just suddenly entirely out of patience for the whole political pavane.

His hads drum on the railing idly. Watching the cowboy make his departure then Danko return to his trolling duties, his tongue lashes out and touches along his lips. Douglas steps back from the railing as a new person is detected. Walking along the balcony, the man makes a beeline to intersect one particular individual.

"Allo, there!" Douglas is british today. His accent indicates so. "Pleased to meet you, sir." A broad smile is offered to Magnes J. Varlane, his hand popping out in greeting.

Sophie laughs herself, assuring, "No, no, I watched. But I guess I was hoping for something a bit less…coached? Particularly where Miss Dean is concerned. I mean, she has to hit close to home - Phoenix's media use is sort of a paper in progress project for me. If you were in a room with her…" she shrugs, studies him curiously.

She stands before the mirror examining her appearance, glancing at Shoshanna as she seems distracted, but remains silent as nothing is said. If anyone were to walk in, no one would believe they've ever met. Cat waits a few moments more before deciding all is either well or she's not going to be clued in and makes her way to the door intending to exit the ladies' room.

The smile Craig gives Sarisa is one that would imply that certainly wasn't a clandestine kind of meeting at all, and in fact maybe he would have a friend on the force who owes him thirty bucks too. The smile is gone, though, in the next second, and he pockets his cellphone, setting aside his unfinished glass of champagne as he moves back through the hallway. He glances towards where Autumn is being led away, Sarisa joining them, analytical in all its briefness before he's steering a look towards Felix, who gets a flash of a smirk.

Then, Craig is headed for a designated spot within the hall, as casual as you please, looking for his black and gold clad companion to join him with darting, sharp glances.

"Oh, hey, what's up?" Magnes asks as he takes Douglas' hand, offering a friendly smile right back. "This place is awkward, I should have listened to Tracy and stayed away."

Left, right, pick up a glass, feign sipping at it - wet her lips enough to have the smell of alcohol on them, but not injest it. Greet someone and comment about a lovely dress. The tattoo'd woman is making her way to Danko, arranging herself in such a fashion that the hand that slips into the modified pocket of her dress, the one that's not really a pocket but a slit that gives her access to the holster that is strapped to her thigh.

You really didn't expect her to come without at least one weapon did you? Dior is so good for that sort of thing.

But when she's close enough, she doesn't bring out the gun, instead it's the scent of her perfume, and the pressof her body, quickly, so quickly against him, but then away. a casual bump which is very believable in this atmosphere. "Oh! I'm sorry. Please, please forgive me." The hand with her clutch coming up to his shoulder. "Silly me, these heels" Brown eyes batted at Danko as if she might have had a drink too many.

"I don't think I'm at liberty to discuss what I'd do if I was in a room alone with her," Michael notes before the half second it takes for him to realize how that sounded. Grimacing and laughing in one choked exhalation, he motions to Sophie with his drink and cracks a smile. "Alright, alright," foot squarely inserted into mouth, "now we're even." But as he more seriously considers the question again, there's a tell of conflict in the way his brows furrow and the way his lips press together. Strangely, despite looking much like Cameron, his facial tells and expressions are so similar to Peter's, even the odd cast of his mouth when he talks.

"I really can't say, it wouldn't be professional of me. I can't mix my personal feelings for what my brother was doing and the people he associates with into anything quotable." There's a shake of Michael's head as he backs away with a hesitantly offered smile. "I— " only now does Michael notice Autumn and Sarisa are both gone, and security in the building are checking their ear pieces. Squinting, his dark eyes level of Sophie with clouded uncertainty. "I think I should see what's going on… but— you've givenme things to think about. If I ever get to meet Helena Dean," he offers with a tilt of his head, "maybe I'd have an answer for that question."

The phone drops back into the bottom of Eileen's purse, and when she looks up, prepared to finally leave, she finds herself confronted with the familiar figure of Catherine Chesterfield. "I'm sorry," she says, and there's something about her tone that's genuinely apologetic but only a little bit humble. "I didn't see you standing there. How long have you and Sophie been lurking about?"

Sophie lets out a little laugh, noting, "I think if I were her, I'd be a little afraid of you." She lets that thought hang in the air, as she lifts her drink. "Thank you." she says, "For the drink and the quote." She gives him the means to excuse himself if he's so inclined. Her subconscious acknowledgement of his similarities to Peter are making her uncomfortable.

"I've been about for a while, Shoshanna," Cat replies in a calm voice. "Quite the interesting gathering here. I spotted Sophie a while back, she was being charmed by that handsome Marine lieutenant, the one the press says is the commander of the Frontline unit here in New York. And there was a very tall dark man in a cowboy hat, and a short bald fellow with sunken eyes. He looks really spooky. Stay away from that one." To anyone who might walk in on them it should sound very innocuous, just two women discussing the quality of men at this event. That's her intent, at least.

Woah, there. Danko reaches automatically to steady Minea at the hip when she's all up in his stuff out've nowhere, champagne wielding hand backed up out of the way in the nick of time to avoid having it slosh on either of them. Decent reflexes, for an old guy, even if he is looking at her like he might a retarded baboon eating its own shit fresh out of the red rubbery lump of its asshole from beneath the knit of his brows.

"S'fine," gravelled out without feeling, he shakes his head in what might pass for polite dismissal in the course of stepping away from her before she — decides to get grabby. Or worse. Check please.

"Michael Spalding, I think." The handsome marine lieutenant, that is. Not the short bald fellow with the sunken eyes. "I've just had the most interesting chat with Minea Dahl," Eileen says, "but my escort for the evening is asking after me. I'd love to sit down with you and talk about it, if I could stop by your place sometime soon?"

"I'll… keep that in mind," Michael notes with a crooked smile, looking down to the floor and then up to Sophie. "Thanks for the company, Sophie. I appreciate it. Now— " he nods his head back to where Tristian is standing, texting someone on his phone in the middle of this event, "I have to go fold someone in half." There's a crack of a smile, polite but feigned, as Michael starts to make his way towards where Trisitian is loitering around. Someone just ushered Autumn out and his attack dog followed, something's not quite going as scheduled, but the party's still on, smiles are still wide, and just maybe this night can end without bloodshed, gunshots and someone's runny mascara smeared down tear-streaked cheeks. It would be a wonderful change of pace for this city.

Minea's hand tightens on his shoulder as he shakes his head and makes that move to walk away. "Don't go! Wait.. your Anderson Cooper aren't you! Oh my god! I love you on 360!" The tranq gun slid out quick as her training has ever allowed her to do while she chatters at him and attempts to fire off two shots to Danko's leg, still maintaining that 'drunken' look on her face. Sure, she's likely going to have about half dozen, if not full dozen guns trained on her, but then again, she's got the badge in the clutch, and this, this is a very dangerous man and she's not going to let him skip away.
Wouldn't it just? About that. About that.

No dice.

Because that's when Felix Ivanov, already on edge from oh-so-gracefully being brushed off, spots one Emile Danko. And immediately bristles all over.

"That's him," Cat replies with the kind of expression one might show if she has interest in the man for herself and a muted jealousy for the woman who got there first. "And of course, Shoshanna. I'd love to have you over. Just call and tell me when you're on the way." She turns back to the mirror then, adding "Have fun with your escort, by all means."

"Who's Tracy!?" Douglas' british person is certainly over-excited a bright smile peeled from end to end of his lips. Shaking Magnes' hand he goes to release. "And what's your name, my good man?!" A server passes by, and Douglas takes a glass of champagne off. Only to replace it on a different tray moments later.

"Magnes J. Varlane, and Tracy's Tracy Strauss." Magnes looks around, not spotting her, but he shakes his head and turns his attention back to Douglas. "She works for the President and that thing I did on TV embarassed her. She didn't want me to come, but, I thought I could handle it. Guess not, I'll listen from now on."

"Of course. Thank you for your time, Lieutenant." Sophie's content to watch Michael Spaulding walk away from her, until the kerfluffle around Danko comes to her attention. She doesn't head over, though - she just picks up her spritzer and begins to wander in the casual way of a rick kid dilettante who's enjoying the free booze and those succuluent little scallops wrapped in bacon on toothpicks.

The fact that her direction is vaguely putting her in Cat and Shoshana's path is entirely coincidental.

Eileen's laughter is hoarse and grating. Tired. Even her foundation, flattering though it is, can't quite hide the circles under her eyes or the exhaustion that has spread across her features and settled into its creases. "I think we're headed homeward," she says on her way out into the hall, and she does not even recognize Sophie as she passes her, though she offers the other brunette a smile just the same. "If my head doesn't hit a pillow soon, my body's going to hit the floor. I've had enough fun for one evening."

Lines of old muscle etch out like live wires under the lightning zag of veins standing out in Danko's neck when Minea's grip tightens and his skull snaps back 'round square to face her. Manners and class vaporize in light of prolonged undesired contact, forcing him to hold his ground. He's already lifting his hand again with clear intent to wrest her off when there's a stab deep into the stiff lock of his thigh bracing against her, but that's about as far as he gets.

There's enough time for him to look puzzled in the skewed knit of his brows and the vacant slack of his mouth when he glances down after the source in time to see the second dart enter. Enough time to look sideways in search of Douglas while faces smudge into tracks of light over dark and even that much distinction is quick to fade. The hand he was lifting to stave Minea off clutches instinctively at her arm — fails to find a grip. His left leg buckles and down he goes in a heep at her heels. Whump.

And there's Fel, standing over Danko after one of those little film-skip moments he has - there one minute, gone the next. His gaze meets Minea's in mute understanding, and he gives her a subtle thumb's up, other hand already slipping into his tuxedo jacket to seek out his wallet and badge.

And minea's keeping both hands within visual range of any security that might come, after all she is bearing a weapon. Non lethal that it may be. "Kitty, show your badge. Get mine out of my clutch" The one she's holding in the non tranq gun. "We need to get him out of here, and fast before too much of a fuss is made"

She cannot believe her luck. The hunter, her ass. How the hell did he fall for the drunk woman in Dior? Minea's a little in shock. The second thought running through her head. "Denton's gonna kill me"

As dearly as Sophie would love to see Danko going down, even if it's under the Jimmy Choo of someone she trusts about as far as she can throw, her work is done, and it's getting to be that time. Her pace toward the exit is slow and unhurried however, and she allows herself to move with the flow of the crowd, keeping herself in Cat's eyeline until Sophie thinks Cat senses her intention is clear.

And she really does kind of want to see Emile Danko go down by way of Jimmy Choo strap heel.

"Oooh!"Douglas exclaims happily. "Nice to meet you Magnes J. Varlane! My name's Terry! Terry Cocchensaucker!" That large grin is practically plastered on his face. His eyes widen momentarily as they retract from over Magnes' shoulder from Danko. Uh oh. And with that, operation screwupeverything is initiated:

"Sorry ol' boy!"

With that Douglas' hands fly out to deliver a powerful shove to Magnes' shoulders whilst he screams. "Bomb! This guy has a bomb and a gun! Help!" With that, he's retreating into the masses.

There's a sigh, one that comes from behind a flickering screen that is met with a roll of eyes and a look across a darkened van towards a curly'haired man seated opposite with a pair of headphones on. Brows furrow, head tilts to the side, and the look of what now is clearly painted across his face. Leaning back in his chair with a creak, a half-eaten tub of banana strawberry fudge ripple perched on his stomach, William Dean rolls one shoulder and flicks a finger into the air. "Play the kazoos, we're goin' in."

That, of course, maybe was a signal. It's hard for the Irishman seated in the back of the converted (half converted) ice cream truck to make out, but when Bill Dean raises his brows and makes a get on with it face, the Irishman chimes in over his communications headset.

«Agent in th' field compromised. Goin' hot.»

Across the street from the Metropolitan Art museum, the back doors of a white box truck swing open as eight men in layered body armor and digital camouflage uniforms roll out of the back of the vehicle, most carrying assault rifles, but two — two are carrying every guerrilla fighter's favorite weapon, and when that shoulder-mounted barrel is laid up on shoulders, when the backsplash area is clear, the security staff watching the front doors of the museum have only moments to react as they hear the whistling shriek and stream of smoke from something they never thought they would see in downtown New York City.

Rocket Propelled Grenades.

Inside of the Met, there is a thunderous explosion and the sound of shattering stone. Two RPGs are launches at the front of the building, blowing in the doors and sending razor-sharp shards of glass flying in every direction. Not a moment after the RPG attack on the front of the building, but six masked men in military-grade uniforms come charging in thorugh the front doors, the pattering pop-pop-pop of small arms fire sending bullets blindly into the crowd through the smoke. For his misfortune, one manages to clip officer Craig Christman in the shoulder, spinning him around and off of his feet as the bullet tears through his shoulder and drops him to the marble floor.

The ice sculpture is shattered, ice showering in every direction as socialites and guests of honor scatter away from the rapid fire of the .556 ammo of an M-16. Then, moving in a tightly coordinated half-circle, two of the men drop to knees and switch on the large device beneath the barrel, followed by a foomp as spinning canisters of tear-gas go flying into the ball exhibit hall, spinning wildly on the floor as noxious and gagging smoke fills the air.

Another hail of gunfire comes as the men move in, moving down security forces not prepared to fight a small army in the middle of the city. Another popping snap of gunfire, and rounds are aimed in the direction of Emile Danko — but not in the way that one might expect, the bullets whiz past Felix Ivanov's shoulder, sending him into a hyper-speed hiss of motion that blurs and bends as he weaves around the path of incoming gunfire.

Another foomp and this time one of the tear-gas grenades hits Minea square in the back, sending her tumbling over and past Danko, just as the revving of an engine is heard. Wheels spin, tired crung up stairs and a bumper is lost somewhere in the interim, but when the tinkling notes of an ice cream truck's carousel tunes playing it's a small world after all comes crashing through the remains of the front door, skidding over the marble flooring and fishtailing to a stop, it's all Michael Spalding and Tiristian Bently can do to not fall into action mode.

"Fuck!" Michael hisses out, grabbing Tris and pulling him down as he draws Bentley away from the smoke, "Where's Wright?" Michael hisses out, charging across the floor with his fingers wound in Tristian's collar, heading towards one of the downed security guards thorugh the cover of smoke — because he doesn't need his gun any longer.

Somewhere, someone's mascara is running.

"Cock and what?" is all Magnes has a chance to ask before he's suddenly shoved, instinctively catching himself in a slight hover, thus getting more attention than he really needs, possibly feeding into Douglas' plan a bit more. He's not sure what's going on, at all, just appearing utterly confused when Douglas runs off. "Hey, I don't have a bomb! I'm a cop!" He reaches into his coat, pulling out his badge and holding it up. "Go get that guy, he just made a false bomb threat!" Er, he thinks.

And then, hell suddenly breaks loose!

He dives down when guns start firing, sliding his badge back into his jacket so he can start trying to get people the hell out of the way, doing his best to lead people toward exits. That's about all he can do, being responsible for once and not bringing a concealed weapon.

"Good night," Cat offers to Shoshanna as she too steps out into the hall and spots Sophie Crane coming their way. She gets the message, seeing her headed for the exit, but then her eyes are distracted by the sight of Danko at the feet of Minea and Felix backing her up. Another offhand comment is made to Shoshanna, quietly. "Would you look at that? It seems a piece of riff-raff got in, couldn't hold his liquor, and passed out at that woman's fee…" And now all hell is breaking loose. Explosions, tear gas, men with weapons moving in. She reaches out to grab Shoshanna and pull her to safety if she can, while at the same time looking to see if Sophie is still nearby and undamaged. It won't be good for her cover, potentially, but now would be a very good time to make it very windy and blow all that tear gas in the HF attacker's faces to help make sure Danko still gets captured or dies. Preferably dies.

English is nowhere near as good to swear in as his native tongue. Which is why the partygoers are treated to a stream of Russian obscenity. Fel ducks, weaves with the grace of a bullfighter….if only it could be seen by the normal human eye. Left for the delectation of the security staff who will review the tapes later. Ah, well. He's got his Sig in hand, and his first response is to do his best to put bullets into the tires and the cab of that icecream truck. Take that, Mr. Softee.

With the cry of 'bomb' Sophie is already turning to look, with the sudden entry, she's already diving for a table. Glass shatters above her, but for the moment she has some cover as she gives the table a shove and leans against its underside, now a protective shield.

And yes, Cat, even as she crouches herself into as tight a ball as possible, she's summoning a swirl of wind to try and push the smoke back where it came from, trying to hold her breath for as long as possible and trying to stay under the smoke.

Sophie kinda wishes she'd listened that day Leo was going on about enduring tear gas.

Oh god in heaven. Sabra is going to kill her. She should have known that the bastard would have a contingency plan. There's a distinct lack of break, and the edges of her vision are tinged in black with the impact of tear gas to back. Dior is going to get bloody, and salt water is about to drip down the womans face. But it's training, both military and her company training that have the brunette scrabbling across the floor, eyes narrowed and not needing to worry about breath held - The fucking canister did a good job of her involuntarily doing that - as she tries to clamp a hand on Danko's waist and belt, and more importantly, pull herself on top of him and anchor herself there so she can bury her face in his chest. Protect herself from further tear gas. God. They were going to vilify her. Smooth move exlax.

The milling masses have now become the panicked masses. For a moment Douglas takes the screaming, running, and people throwing over tables as his own doing. The bomb bluff worked surprisingly well! Then his eyes catch what is actually happening, and his lips pull down in disappointment. Oh. So maybe it wasn't him that caused the mayhem but he probably helped. Not only are they being attacked by a small army but guess what else, some crazy cop might have a bomb. Think about that.

All this is thought about while Douglas sprints incredibly fast through the crowd. People are shouldered to the side, darted around, and one server is even served with a sucker punch before the Marine steals the man's serving tray. Rushing forward, and into a leap, Douglas brings the tray down powerfully towards Minea's poor little head.

"You arright there gov'nor?!" Apparently he's still british.

"I spoke too soon, didn't I?" Eileen asks Cat breathlessly. Already, she's twisting herself free of the socialite's grasp, but rather than move toward one of the brightly-illuminated EXIT signs glowing hazily through the smoke, she's plunging into the crowd. It's a terrible place for someone with asthma to be. It's also where she presumes Craig is, and when it comes down to it, she's willing to take her chances if it means getting them both out of here alive. Glass and ice crunch under her heels as she shoulders her way past panicking gala-goers, thankful that the only jewelry she's wearing are the rings on her fingers and the necklace around the column of her throat.

Bullets ricochet off stone and plaster, spraying the crowd with debris. Somewhere in the chaos, Eileen loses a shoe and that's just fine. The other is abandoned intentionally when she realizes that it's easier to maneuver around bodies when her heels aren't elevated off the ground.

If Magnes' shout went mostly unheard when he called out to Tracy earlier in the evening, then Eileen's will almost certainly be drowned out now. That sure as hell doesn't stop her from trying.


Craig goes down. One of the many bystanders, the bullet pierces his shoulder and he hits marble before he can comprehend, an angry cry wrenching from his throat as he twists wildly on the ground to get his bearings, like a fish on a hook. One moment he'd been waiting, and the next…

In all the scattered crowd, no one is paying special attention to him as he grips his bleeding shoulder, legs beneath him like that of a newborn deer, clumsy and awkward, as he tries to get away. His jacket falls open to reveal a shock of bright red in the crisp former white of his shirt, looking worse, including his crash to the ground, than it potentially really is. Dust from the explosion coats him head to foot, barely recognisable as either Craig Christman or Gabriel Gray.

Clutching his shoulder, he starts to move, spying one of the figure figures moving into danger. Teeth flash brightly in a scowl as Craig spies Eileen, barely hearing her but seeing, and makes his loping away towards her.

Summarily yanked by Spalding, crystal clarity seems to penetrate through the fuzziness of Tris' own inebriation, sky blue eyes swiveling towards the source of the chaos, square jaw clenched in tension as he moves along side Michael, polished shoes skidding and squeaking on marble. "Wright's outside. Fuck me, this city is weird."

A gun is loosened from the belt of one of the downed security guards, glass in the hapless man's face and a spray of debris making his shirt bloody. Gripping the pistol tight, Tris, despite himself, seems attentive to Michael's lead.

Snuggling into Danko is a little like getting frisky with the ice statue that's now in a thousand glistening and increasingly dusty pieces scattered across the museum floor. Even unconscious and prone beneath the wrassle of Minea's efforts, there's no give in his chest and the cinch of his belt is precise. He's iron and bone and hate, hollow, dry and cool to the touch. Also, very much unawares of the fact that the world is going to hell around him. What a terrible time for a nap.

Bullets are flying in every direction, gunshots, screaming, and when Felix unloads a Sig Sauer into the tires of the ice cream truck they — don't deflate. Instead, the headlights kick on and the vehicle's tires sqeal loudly on the marble as it makes a beeline towards him. There's an immediate reflexive reaction of speed as Felix dives out of the way, blurring past the truck as he rolls past Felix and towards where Danko lays sedated.

Two more Humanis First guerilla fighters, having re-loaded their RPGs come sliding in through the front doors, masked like the others were. They take aim up to the balconies, and with a flash of phosphorous flame let loose with two streams of smoke and fire that impact with the interior of the structure, sending shards of rock and smoke raining down below as two RPGs detonate in a hail of shrapnel and concussive force on the balcony floors.

The six remaining men fan out, three on either side of the truck as more security forces come in thorugh the open doors, stopping in dumbstruck awe as they see an icecream truck wheeling around while people scream and duck for cover. More gunfire is fired off, suppressing, in the direction of anyone with their heads up, trying to keep people down even as the wind picks up and — in a confined space like this building — swirls the smoke around and makes it even harder to see, but at least thins out the concentration of tear gas to less suffocating levels.

Out of the back of a truck a gas-masked Irishman steps out with a Colt .45 in hand, leveling it up towards the femenine silhouette that is Minea, and just before he fires, there's douglas smashing her head in and saving him the waste of ammunition. With an appreciative nod, the Irishman watches as Minea crumples bodily into a heap next to Emile. "Get 'im." The masked Irishman croons, as one of the other masked terrorists storm over, grabbing Danko by the arms and drags his dead weight ot the back of the truck.

Across the Great Hall, amidst the smoke, flames and screams, Michael Spalding watches as Tristian takes the gun off of the body, "Cover me," is the only answer he gives before rushing at the armed terrorists with only a broken champagne glass and a tuxedo to protect him — Tris is never going to let him live this down.

Moving thorugh the smoke, eyes tearing up and nose running down across his upper lip, he swerves in to the side of one of the Humanis First agents and grabs him by his gas mask, lifting it up just enough to drive the jagged stem of his broken champagne glass into his throat and tear a deep, rough, jagged line across the front of his neck. While the Humanis First operative spasms wildly, blood pulsing out in a line of arterial spray, Michael ducks under the terrorist and grabs the M-16 off of him, swiveling around and dropping into a crouch, firing off a short burst into another adjacent man, sending him flying back into the van as the rounds rip thorugh his body armor. It's only then that Michael realizes these assault rifles are armed with teflon coated armor-piercing rounds.

Eyes going wide, he turns too slow, watching as a man in the back of the truck levels a revolver and opens fire. The first round enters his chest and exits out somewhere by the back of his hip. Michael struggles backwards as blood sprays from the wound. The second shot strikes him in the shoulder, penetrating flesh but not punching through him.

But as Michael pushes himself up to his feet, leveling his assault rifle, there's a baleful look in his eyes as the next four shots from Bill's revolver flatted on his bare skin and reflect off of his body.

There's a loud spray of gunfire sending Bill flying into the back of the truck as he's hit in the thigh by one of the armor-piercing rounds. But before Michael can get off more shots, the other soldiers have a bead on him.

Gunfire pops out wildly, and from the smoking balconies, it looks like Michael Spalding should be dead six times over. Instead, the rapid machine gun fire simply diples and bounces off of him, his suit is shredded under the tremendous concentrated fire, but the man beneath it seems unharmed, save for his first two greivous wounds.

Pushed back by the gunfire, and the two men approaching from the door, Michael does his best to draw their attention away from the civilians, even as two of Bill's men manage to pry Minea's unconscious form off of Danko and throw the dead weight of the bald terrorist into the back of the truck. Two of them pile in, then teo more, and bullets are ricocheting off of the ice cream truck — it's armor plated.

Tristan was right, this city is weird.

The grayhounds at the track know the rabbit is plastic. No matter how many times they chase it, they never make it, do they? But they can't help themselves.

And nor, god help him, Saint Michael have mercy, can Felix Ivanov. Which is why is he just can't let Danko go. So Fel's hurling himself after, into the back of the truck. Wait, the Fed's in collusion with Humanis First? Or hoping to win something by sheer and brazen frontal assault. He lunges into the back, and having exhausted his clip, is laying around him with the butt of his pistol. Not without incident, indeed.

Clang clang clang went the trolley. bang bang bang went the guns. Clang clang clang went the tray to Minea's head and down like a rag doll she goes, cheek to the cool floor as Danko is yanked from her. Not that she notices because this Homeland agent is gone to where little unconscious agents go. Likely some imaginary shooting range where they have never ending bullets and really big guns and the bad guy never gets away. Her tranq gun lays somewhere near her, lost in the turmoil.

Magnes has no fucking idea what's going on, but when most of the civilians seem to be good on their own, him without a gun, he does his best to improvise and keep cover as he grabs those little pieces of rolled up toothpick bacon rolls from the table, tossing them in the general direction of anyone who looks dangerous with a big gun, with the weight of tiny compressed anvils.

He's trying not to speak, constantly moving and ducking behind tables and anything else he can find, so he doesn't become a sitting duck. After throwing the hand full of anvil bacon, he finds himself trying to actually look for any dropped guns, but in the absence of that, he's already eyeing another table of food from behind his tossed over table.

Please don't get shot, please don't get shot…

Her eyes are stinging from the tear gas, but Cat is still trying to track what goes on while remaining behind cover of an overturned table. Helena's wind helps some. The direction Eileen took off in is glanced at, but not for long. It doesn't make her happy to see the woman charge off unarmed into all this, but that's her choice. What angers Cat most is being in the middle of a battle with Humanis First and having no weapon to use. Again.

Her dad?

Yeah. Even despite the phone call, seeing it brings things into a whole new perspective. Sophie - Helena - had no idea her father even knew how to use a gun, much less wield it with such accuracy. Her breath catches when she sees him fall back, instinctive response warring with what she sees before her eyes. Thoughts whirl in her mind, but there's no means to call lightning or any garuntee she can strike true, and a thunderclap, even placed inside the truck itself, could have dangerous consequences for innocent by-standers. Helena's eyes trails up to the balcony and the men shining down red dots into the crowd.

Well. She can do something about that.

The wind picks up, changing direction. The pressure of the sweeping gusts increase, a hurricane level sweep moving in a curve around the upper level, with intent to send those marksmen either stumbling back into the walls, or - even better - over the balcony ledge.

The tray raises up over his head and comes swinging back down into Minea's head. And once more. Three is the lucky number, after all. The tray is then cast to the side as Douglas looks at the Irishman. Stepping to his side and past him, the marine lifts up one hand and gives a little patpat to the older man's cheek. His eyes are wide, watering, yet seem otherwise unaffected by the tear gas. A puff is let out into the polluted air as he turns his back to the rest of the gala. Stepping up by Danko's carriers, Douglas reaches, unfastens one's 9mm sidearm and takes it out for himself.

Pausing he turns a fraction to face the gala once again. A single shot is let out. "Get better food and this won't happen again!" He screams, once again turning back to join his unconscious commander tossed into the truck. But then there is a little russian man hopping in as well. Oh hello. Hopping in, Douglas tilts his head. A smile forming. "I'm going to burn your ears off." Douglas says, ever so sweetly.

The gun is raised up, and two shots are let off on Agent Ivanov.

Eileen's perfume is mingling with but is mostly smothered by the smell of dust and smoke in the air, compounded by the sickly sweet soaking of champagne that covers hair and clothes and dilutes the blood on the floor underfoot, making the tiles even more treacherous than they were before. She seizes Craig by his good arm with one hand and roughly angles his face toward hers with the other to ensure that his eyes are still bright and clear.

Tonight has been a disaster. The only thing she can find comfort in is that, for once, it wasn't their fault.

Nails sink into the fabric of Craig's shirt and bite at the skin beneath, Eileen's grip hard and unyielding, clamped down on his bicep like a steel trap edged with teeth. There's a vibrant spattering of blood across her left cheek that contrasts with the paleness of her skin and looks like it wouldn't be out of place elsewhere in the museum, framed behind glass. It isn't hers. "We've got to go."

"Spalding," Tris snarls, loosing bullets from the sidearm from where he's moved to duck behind a pillar of marble. This is so James Bond. Wait 'til he tells everyone! One clips by the van and goes whizzing out into the open street, but the next imbeds itself square into the masked forehead of a Humanis First operative, and a second slices into the torso of another, dropping them with militant effectiveness—

…and a little help. The Californian watches, for a moment, as Michael isn't ripped apart by the bullets being fired at him, huffing out a breath of silent exclamation, before he sends another shot off towards the truck, where it *pings!* off the armoring. Jesus. New Yorks like their freaking ice cream.

"Hey!" he mutters, when he sees Douglas clang the tray down on his future date's head, Minea collapsing. Fuckin'— get your own, dude. Tris scowls, and starts to move on over, back bowed and gun pointed. Seeing the man open fire, Tris promptly stops and lets off a shot of his own towards Douglas.

And meanwhile.

Eileen does not have to tell Craig twice. He grips onto her after giving her a curt look up and down to see if she suffered anything similar, but there'll be time for that latter. In all the dust and crowding and gunshots, the two promptly implode into depthless black smoke, lingering for a moment, before whipping at breakneck speed for the open street, melting into the shadows beyond.

Danko doesn't weigh much, sleek matte suit brushed light with dust and dark with the blood of people Not Him in the glimpse of him that's visible before he's heaved bodily into the back of an armored ice cream truck, already bruised and sore joints racking dimly off loose grenades and tins of delicious ice cream swirl on his way down onto the floor. If he was awake enough to be pissed, he probably would be. Also the floor is sticky. :(

Bodies have fallen left and right, now three Humanis First operatives lie in pools of their own blood on the ground, victims of FRONTLINE's knife-edge efficiency even when caught unawares and with only a fraction of their team. But when Felix Ivanov presents himself to the back of the ice cream truck in a frantic dive for Emile Danko, the amount of profanity being sussed out by the men inside is startling. With Felix being able to move at super speeds, he looks something like the tasmanian devil thrashing around inside of a box with all of the blur that his suit has become as he swings, punches, shoots and tries tooth and claw to get the ex-marine out of the vehicle.

But for all the blood sprayed in the back of the truck, it only really takes two lucky shots from Douglas to the middle of the human hurricane to put Felix Ivanov out of comission. The spray of blood when he moves at super speed is something like a lawn sprinkler gone awry. Red is pumped all over the insie of the ice cream truck, and with a swift boot to the mouth, one of the masked soldiers who's not dead from Felix's whirling rampage manages to subdue him down to the ground.

One of the RPG carrying operatives suddenly spins in a circle as his shoulder is blown out and dislocated from a bacon wrapped piece of chicken flung with the intense gravity of a smith's anvil. He's grabbed by his comrade, yanked into the back of the truck as the Irishman turns to Douglas. "Get th' fuck in th' truck!"

His voice is muffled by the gas mask as he turns, opening fire with his revolver towards Michael, bullets flattening against the indestructable man's skin with surprising resiliance. When the wind picks up and pushes things around, the ice cream truck moves and threatens to lift up off of its wheels before slamming down again — tires already spinning — as it goes to make an escape. The vehicle fishtails around, bullets from the security force that arrived on the balcony about to open fire, but thorugh the mistaken cloud of smoke and the adrenaline rush of battle, it's not Humanis First up there that Helena is scattering back into the stairwell — but the government security team for the Museum.

Hanging out of the back of the truck, the Irishman shouts for Douglas, one hand gripping the safety bar on the back of the door, the other with a hand out for the fellow operative, gloved fingers spread. "Get'cher ass in the //truck!" But Douglas has other problems — namely — Tristian Bentley.

He's like the Tasmanian devil in a tailored tuxedo, leaping around in the cramped back of the truck, cursing in Russian, and leaving the print of the gun's grip in various heads. A moving target. But he is not Neo, and he is not fast enough to dodge bullets. Damn that blood pressure. Now he's trying to escape, but he's doing it at normal human speed, realizing just what sort of situation adrenaline and a crazed desire for justice has gotten him into. He's going to bleed out and die to the tune of 'Turkey in the Straw'. He spits a tooth out, gone dizzy, vision blurred, and latches a hand onto the throat of the unconscious Emile Danko. Luckily for the terrorist, he has the raw strength of a kitten with rickets, at the moment.

Then, suddenly, enlightenment. Magnes has no idea why, but he seems to recall being bitten by a squirrel, and this could have been prevented with… a cloth net! "The table cloths!" He suddenly yanks the large cloth from the table behind him, roughly tossing it out with greatly enhanced weight, its directional pull shifted so it doesn't simply fall to the ground, and goes flying for the men who are apparently intending to retreat.

Cloth thrown, he's picking up every Swedish meatball, weenie on a stick, and stray can of caviar he can hurl with anvil-like force at every dangerous man he can find. "Getting hard to see, eyes are burning…"

Rushing behind the truck, legs pumping the speedy springy little marine right behind the ice cream truck before he is leaping and grabbing onto the Irishman's hand. Pulling himself forward, Douglas grips onto the safety bar letting out a soft chuckle as he looks down at the bleeding mostl incapacitated FBI agent. " —"

A bullet rings out against the top of the truck, blood spattering onto Douglas' jawline. Slowly looking over, he happens to notice a small section of tuxedo missing, and a shallow bullet graze across his shoulder. Baaawww. Turning Douglas leans on the bar and points his gun out at the man taking aim at him. Aiming, the marine holds the gun for a moment trained on Tris. Aiming… aiming…. and nothing.

Recoiling the gun, Douglas gives Tris a little wink from afar. Either he couldn't clear the shot, it was too far, or Douglas suddenly has a crush on Tris. But that is debatable because his attention is then on Felix. "I just got shot." He says in a conversational tone, stepping deeper into the truck as it rumbles along. "I'm upset." It comes out sweetly before Douglas brings his heel up and then sharply snaps it down onto Felix's testicles.

Helena thinks she's done some good with that one sweep, and hey, A for effort okayz? But the wind rocking the truck gets her attention, and it only takes a moment to get herself an idea.

The wind sweeps down from on high and blasts against the side of the truck, attempting to knock it on its side before its wheels can spin themselves away.

As is true for Douglas, the same is true for Tris, and he's not exactly familiar enough with the gun he's carrying to make a difference with his super ability. Which he knows, and it shows in his face in a scowl of frustration. Instead, he focuses on dropping down beside Agent Minea Dahl, eyes watering from the smoke that still lingers in the air. Not quite touching her yet, he aims his gun again towards the truck, just before a sudden wind storm seems to rock the world from beyond the imploded wall. Holy crap.

Tris pushes his arms beneath Minea's shoulders and her knees, hefting her up off the with a cascade of elegant evening dress as he pulls back. "Spalding!" he calls out into the chaos, even as he's moving to at least secure the concussed agent somewhere of reasonable safety.

Tangled legs of one last straggler are broken by a flying table cloth, and even as that Humanis First operative starts to push himself up from the ground, it's swedish meatballs that are b exploding against his skin like paintball rounds. Watching one of his boys subdued, the Irishman sidles past Douglas as the ice cream truck reaches the doors, training a shot and ka-blam goes the Irishman's revolver, placing a bullet squarely in his own operative's head, the frown not seen through the faceplate of his gas mask.

Taking aim with his assault rifle, Michael Spalding hesitates firing into the back of the truck, seeing that they've kidnapped agent Ivanov. He spits out a hiss and looks back to Tirstian, then collapsed onto his side, dropping the rifle from the blood loss from that first shot that tore through him. "Bentley!" Michael howls out, "You good?" He manages to get out over the pain shooting up his side, and that's right hwere Michael Spalding decides to lay down on his back, breathing labored exhalations as he stares up at the ceiling.

Stepping into the truck, the Irishman rests a hand on Douglas' shoulder as one of the other men pulls the armored back doors shut just in time for the vehicle to catch a downdraft and go careening into the blown open door frame sideways. Brick and mortar shatters and tires thunder down the steps as an entire plate of the armored siding of the truck comes rattling free.

In the back of the truck, Bill is hissing and spitting up a storm of profanity as he holds his leg, proceeding to pistol whip Ivanov for good measure, "God fuckin damnit that was a bad idea wa'n it?" Struggling to put pressure on the wound, the ice cream truck barrels down the stairs with a shower of sparks, skidding out into a fish-tailed movement to the street, then thunders away across the road, weaving through traffic before crashing over the dividing line and barreling through a park bench and off of a sidewalk down into Central Park. The vehicle weaves and dodges between trees, grass peeling up behind it as it makes a beeline thorugh the park for the one place it can hide — the ruins of Midtown.

Seeing the truck gone, Michael's arms fall flat at his side, heart pounding in his chest and ears ringing from the sounds of gunfire. Building security comes charging in, handguns drawn, and standing behind them with an inspecting stare, Michael barely makes out Sarisa Kershner's blonde hair as his vision gets blurry, and he passes out with a clunk of his head on the marble floor from blood loss.

Well, it's not so much insult added to injury as it is injury added to injury. But Fel's mercifully gone, already - the blood on the walls and on the floor around him is like the beginning of a Pollock painting. He's pale, white front of the tuxedo shirt already wholly crimson. Even odds he doesn't make it over the bridge….the blow doesn't even make him twitch. Nor does the beating that follows from Bill. The Sig's come loose from his hand, rattling around like a marble as the truck goes careering away.

Douglas' heel grinds back and forth before he steps back frowning deeply. "He's sleeping already." It's a whining sound. Looking over to Irishman, the smaller marine reaches out with his free hand. "Anyone got a knife? I want to show him what his balls look like." His finger twirls around in a loop to further gesticulate, "Out of sack."

But the truck suddenly grinding and shaking has Douglas forgetting his future plans in favor of throwing his hands out to stable himself from falling over. He bares his teeth at the back of the truck, looking pretty upset. "Why are they so mean?" He's almost pouting.

When the truck is gone, and the firing seems to be over, Magnes is scratching his head, looking for anyone he might recognize as he asks, "What's going on?"

Helena peeps her head up like a meerkat from a hole. Darting swiftly to Cat's location, she moves to crouch next to the other woman and whispers softly, "We've got to get out of here. I can make a fog, or maybe a thunderclap to turn people's heads…" But they've got to get out of there.

With the battle apparently over and security agents swarming in, Cat lifts her head further from behind her cover as the apparent Sophie Crane approaches and speaks. "Yes," she agrees in a whisper, eyes blazing with fury, "we do. And when we get outside, see which way that truck went and fry it. Fry it good." There might be thoughts of helping tend to the wounded with her knowledge of such things, but these are the Feds and they surely have their own teams on the way. "Twice now in the same fucking week I've been in a battle with those psychos and unarmed," the woman in the now torn purple dress mutters under her breath. She moves to depart with Helena.

Tris drops the sidearm with a clatter as security guards enter in, one of them kneeling down beside both he and Minea. "Yeah she got hit around the head," Tris is saying, before looking past the security guard towards where Michael lies crumpled on the ground.


Tris's shoulders slump beneath his tailored jacket, brow furrowed. "Man. Keep an eye on her, okay? Because I think I'm in." He claps his hand against the guard's shoulder, before the soldier is back on his feet, his tuxedo spattered with debris but somehow, not a trace of blood, and he moves at a brisk pace towards his fallen leader.

We the People of the United States…

The last hissing vestiges of smoke from the once spinning tear gas canisters come to a stop inside what was once the Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Now, with its front doors blown off the hinges, twisted metal from an armored truck lying in wreckage looks more like a third world warzone. Bodies of the wounded and the dead lie in darkening pools of blood on the marble floor, and even as the distant sound of police sirens and helicopters overhead threaten to give chase to the operatives of Humanis First, it is the looming threat of what was done here, so brazenly, today that will be remembered.

In Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice…

Police outside, who'd been assaulted by the RPG attacks and blown through by the armored truck come filtering in, blue-uniform NYPD officers with guns out, scanning the crowds, trying to make sure everyone is alright, but there's not enough of them to secure the building, not enough of them to discern between the people still running for cover, and the people fleeing from law enforcement.

To ensure domestic Tranquility

After a time, Paramedics arrive, helicopters are sent out to search for the armored truck with a kidnapped Federal agent inside. Police swarm the building, the remaining members of FRONTLINE are assembled, even as their unit leader is ushered away for Medical care in an ambulance. Chaos, blood, violence, all in the name of genetic purity.

To Provide for the common defence

But away from the chaos, away from the scene of the violent denoutment to a peaceful meeting, one man in a camel colored suit flips a cell phone closed, dark-lensed aviator sunglasses taking in the glow of New York City's skyline from a hotel room overlooking the museum. He turns, looking towards a figure hunched in the shadows, one slouched in a chair, half-lit by the city's glow on his face.

Promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…

"Did your impromptu test go well?" The darkly dressed Chinese man asks, resting his chin against closed fist, lounging in the chair as his eyes upturn to the man in aviator sunglasses. There's just a solemn, wordless nod from him as he flicks open his cell phone and presses a speed dial button, bringing the phone to his ear.

…do ordain and establish this Constitution…

"Mister President?" He asks in a husky tone of voice, reaching up to withdraw his glasses staring out at the smoke rising up from the museum, "I think you'll want to turn on your television."

…for the United States of America.

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