4797/A Werewolf (Back) In Boston

A Werewolf (Back) In Boston
Date of Scene:	18 November 2016
Location:	Heaven or Hell Tower <HoH>
Synopsis:	The prodigal gun-toting priest comes home to the Heaven or Hell Tower in Boston.
Cast of Characters:	Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped), 253

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Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  It's a cold night in the city of Boston, hovering half a dozen degrees or so above the freezing threshold. Bits of sleet are intermingled with spatters of half-hearted rain; too cold in the clouds to come down as rain, but too warm down below to stay as sleet. The sun has long since set, and the temperature is well on its way to plunging. It won't freeze, not yet, but the air is damp enough to make it feel a little miserable.

  The office of Heaven or Hell is a sizable building, and it stands impervious to the elements. The big glass windows are shuttered for the night, and the lights are on, lending a warm and welcoming glow to the weary client.

  Or the weary, prodigal, slightly bloodied agent.

  Without any sort of fanfare at all, the door opens, and a tall and lanky figure drags itself through and kicks the door shut, to the sound of combat boots against a steel doorframe.

  Silence reigns, broken only by the wet spatter of water dripping onto the elegant, polished, and formerly clean marble floor. Now it's looking just a little muddy. Or is that blood? It's hard to say, without direct sunlight.

  Heinkel Wolfe scowls at the puddle her coat leaves on the floor as though it personally offends her. She's carrying a battered, unremarkable, and somewhat bloodstained briefcase in one arm, and rolling a wheeled suitcase in the other. She looks exhausted and held together by coffee, nicotene, and the band-aid over one bold cheekbone; the briefcase doesn't look like it's in much better shape.

  With a sigh and a scowl, Heinkel drags her burdens further in the doorway, slumping a little as she thumbs the latches on the briefcase, revealing a slightly water-damaged manila folder. Thumbing that open, she glances up to see if said boss is here or not, and then resumes thumbing through it as though searching for something specific.

  "Hey, boss!"

  Her voice is low, heavy, loud, gruff, and thoroughly androgynous; it could as easily be the voice of a slightly effeminate man, or a particularly masculine woman. Only God knows the truth. The only real clear tell from it is that she smokes enough that it would be suicidal in anybody else.

  The echoes die down.

  "Found something interesting I could use some help vit..."

  If she notices the puddle under her coat is turning a little red, or that it's starting to smell like blood, she doesn't show it. In fact, she's so engrossed in her reading, she doesn't even seem to notice if Psyber is already here -- or if he's on his way, or much of anything else, really.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    The owner of said office is seated at the front desk as the hour moves later and the closing threshhold approaches. He's wearing a casual outfit, t-shirt and slacks with sneakers, and is propped back in his seat with some papers in his lap. Those seem to be the bulk of what he's working on at the moment. He has a clear line of sight to the door once it's kicked open and quirks his brow a bit once the woman who did so walks in.

    He looks back down at his papers a few moments later, letting her finish stepping in as he scratches some marks on one of the sheets of paper and then puts all the papers into a folder, and then the folder into a drawer. He calmly sits up in his chair and rests his chin on his hands as she starts to take off her coat and get settled in.

    "You're lucky my lobby is marble flooring and not carpet. If you're going to get blood everywhere, at least grab a mop once you're dry," He chides her before adjusting in his seat and watching her drag herself inside. He half-lids those red eyes of his and sighs a bit as she looks at her book. Despite the chiding, he doesn't seem to be getting up to kick her out or anything.

    "Welcome back, though. It's been a while," He points out, continuing to rest his chin on his hands and watch her as she generates further puddles on the floor and reads the materials she brought with her, "So what do you need help with?"

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  Flip, flip. The papers make a dry sound, except where they look like they've gotten wet. A few of those pages actually look bloodstained, but maybe that's just mud. Yeah, right.

  Frowning, she looks up at about the same time Psyber deposits his paperwork into a drawer; though the optics she has on hide it, she blinks somewhat owlishly behind them. "Oh." 'Whoops,' her tone seems to say.

  ...Wait, blood? Heinkel looks over to note there's nothing wrong with both arms, and then down. She is in fact bleeding, and it is in fact seeped through one pant leg, over the edge of a boot, and pooling slowly by her feet.

  "Shit," she says, eloquently, shuffling a bit in place. The combat boot that isn't covered in blood squeaks a little against the clean, polished marble that is rapidly becoming not-clean. "Sorry. I'll get a mop. Later. Haf something interesting here you might vant to see first."

  The folio is waved in Psyber's face to a rustling of paper. There is, of course, no way for him to actually read what's in there with how quickly she's moving it; she finally tosses it to slide and come to rest in front of Psbyer.

  "Take a look at that. Finally got the report back from our contacts in Section III, John, and Father Anderson delivered a copy to me personally. This is from samples of the chips ve'fe been finding on the freaks all over Europe." Heinkel stabs a finger at the folio. "Those bastards haf access to some kind of manufactory, and ve haf an idea of vhere it is, now, thanks to samples from the chips."

  The priest folds her arms, scowling. "Somevon is creating cheap knockoff vampires, and they'fe got the brass balls to do it in Papal territory, on our vatch. These documents trace the manufactory and a lot of the money to South America."

  "Ve haf operatives down there, right now. Yumie's out there along with a few divisions from Section XIII. But I'm vondering if that's enough. I hafen't heard shit from anyvon down there, and Chief--" That would be Bishop Maxwell, the head of Section XIII, "--isn't telling me shit, either. Something about this is starting to smell rotten."

  Her arms fold. "If I can get a strike team together, vhat do you say to some good old fashioned violence? It's time to show those bastards, whoever they are, that you can't get avay vit murder, and you sure as hell can't get avay vit spitting on the Church." Her frown deepens. "I heard Hellsing's had their own problems, but the Protestants can handle their own territory; I'm not cleaning up /their/ messes unless I haf direct orders to." A much more well-behaved stance than Anderson's incessant desire to murder them all in the face. Yes. One can see why Heinkel is handling multiversal matters, and not Anderson. Or Yumie. Or Maxwell. Or just about anybody else from Iscariot ranks.

  Heinkel cocks her head, and though the optics hide where exactly she's looking, there's no mistaking that she's eyeing Psyber directly. "How does Bolivia sound this time of year, boss? The veather here's shit tonight anyvay."

  There's a long pause.

  "Uh, aside from that, I guess if you haf some bandages, that vould be pretty great right now."

  Heinkel pauses again, and then says, completely deadpan, "You should see the other guy." When she smiles, her teeth look a little pointy.

  Well, at least she hasn't lost her sense of gallows humour about just about everything.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber looks down at the portfolio as it is waved in front of his face. He blinks several times, following it with rapid flicks of his eyes. He seems patient with the werewolf in front of him, mostly because he's known her for years and she is a good friend. If he was going to object to the unique nature of Heinkel he would have done so long, long ago.

    Psyber rests his chin on one hand, freeing up the other to flip through the folder that she places down in front of him, "Interesting. Manufacturing chips that generatic Necrophasic-Hemodependence." Psyber rubs the underside of his chin and considers the file in front of himself, "The capability of doing so does bode ill implications for your world. That's pretty worrying." He says in consideration of it.

    Heinkel soon gets to the heart of the issue: She wants him to come along on a strike team to help out. He takes out his cell phone and looks at it for a few moments, "Hrm. I have classes to teach on Monday, so... If we were back by then, I could probably help you guys out with that."

    He seems to relent to that much availability. Heinkel, who has known him this long, is well aware that him sacrificing a full weekend to any task is almost unheard of, so it's a pretty major concession on his part.

    "I think I have..." He rummages around under his desk and pulls out a first aid kit, setting it down on the counter in front of him on top of her file, "Here you go. It's not much, but it'll do for a patchjob on a mutt. Otherwise, I'm sure I can get a veterinarian in here to take a look at you and give you a milkbone," He teases her.

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  "Actually, I vas thinking more that it vould be a huge fucking pain in the ass if they managed to blunder through the varpgates. Can you imagine the papervork I'd haf to deal vit if they managed to go vipe out a town on the other side? It vould be a nightmare for all of Iscariot, actually." Heinkel sighs, gesturing vaguely. "Ve're spread too thin already. It's vhy I keep getting called back every so often."

  Her head tilts, and she eyes the folder somewhat darkly, heaving a beleaguered sigh. "Fucking meddlers. Ve had enough to deal vit vitout that kind of nonsense in the mix. This is going to be a pain in the ass. I know how these things go."

  "Hunh." That Psyber's willing to sacrifice an entire weekend brings Heinkel to arch her brows until they disappear into her ragged bangs. "Vell, that vas unexpected. I appreciate it. I'll haf coordinates by tomorrow; between the two of us, and whoever else you vant to bring vit you, ve should be able to smash their manufactory. That's all I really vant to do, honestly. Ve can get evidence from vhat's left. And who's left, if any." She reaches up to tug at one glove, worrying the black leather off her hand and flexing pale, cold-stiff fingers; the other follows suit, and both are stuffed into her coat pocket.

  It's the same coat he gave her years ago, though it looks like it's seen better days, and it's clear where she's made hasty patch jobs to its seams in slightly different-coloured thread. "Thanks--"

  "Hit the lights, if you'd be so kind. Just the main von. I only need it off for a minute or so."

  Her mouth twists in a grimace, and she groans, in the manner of someone suffering an awful joke. "Ugh. Really, Psyber? Is that the best you can do, Boss? God, I'd rather haf you joking about stuffing me in a dress than /that/. Gross."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "I agree. Wargates along with any proliferating monster can be immensely prolematic," Psyber notes, looking down at the files in front of him again as he considers the point, "Containment is an issue, so is cross-speciation. If these chips can create vampires, it's possible they can hybridize with other forms and create new strains. I do believe it needs to be shut down regardless."

    He nods his head to her carefully, considering her offer, "Yeah. It shouldn't take too long for a simple slash and burn job." He takes a cigarette out of his jeans pocket and puts it in his mouth before lighting it. A few moments later he holds out a crumpled pack and a lighter towards Heinkel to let her take and light her own from it.

    When she asks that the lights go off, Psyber reaches under the desk and hits the switch there. The main overhead lighting flicks off in the lobby, leaving it only illuminated by a couple corner lamps and whatever light is coming in off the streets through the glass panes of the lobby building.

    "Hey now. If it's a good enough joke for Laine, it's damn sure a good enough joke for you. She's got you way beat on werewolf veterancy."

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  "Ugh. Cross-species. I hadn't even thought of that." Heinkel grimaces, pinching the bridge of her nose in one hand. The thought of those things spreading around and making trouble for the rest of the multiverse is bad enough; the thought that they might spread to something from which they'd be an even more efficient vector... no, that's not fun to think about.

  Just /imagine/ the paperwork.

  She grins that toothsome grin again once he mentions a slash and burn job. "Ja, something like hat. I figure if ve go in vitout any varning, they're not going to haf a chance to pack everything up and run. They can run like hell after ve get there, but it von't do them any good."

  Heinkel turn sher head far enough to suggest she's looking straight at the carton, before she plucks one and flicks the lighter, handing it back and taking a nice soothing puff. In fact, it apparently feels so good she indulges in another one, longer, before letting the cigarette dangle from her lower lip. "Danke."

  The corner lamps are eyed a moment after the overhead goes out; where anyone else would probably be suffering night blindness, Heinkel simply shrugs, whisks her glasses off her face, and drops them to clatter onto the desk.

  What's left is a pair of very obviously not human eyes. The colour of them is hard to see in the gloom, aside from 'very pale,' but the immediate difference is that the instant her head moves, they flare to life in the same way as a cat's eyes would, or, indeed, a wolf. Apparently she doesn't really /need/ daytime vision, or maybe it's an old problem from before she started growing fur and howling at the moon.

  Not that she howls uncontrollably at the moon. That's undignified. She's learned how to make it sound quite musical, thank you very much.

  "Danke." Unencumbered, she shrugs out of her coat, tosses it on the desk, rolls up one pant leg, and bends over to set to work. "Ja, maybe she's got senority, but that doesn't mean I can't haf some kind of dignity, you know." Heinkel pauses to scowl at him, illuminated milk-pale eyes and all, and it has no animosity whatsoever in it. With the way the outside light catches them, they might be blue. "I mean, I'm sure if they didn't know me so long, I'd get the same kind of thing from Father Anderson and Yumie. Instead, Father Anderson offered to be the first von to kill me if I ever lose control of it, and Yumie... vell, I'm not sure vhat Yumie thinks. Hard to know, sometimes. But she listens to me, and that's all that matters to me. If I say I'm still me, she believes it. So does Father Anderson."

  Cleaning and patching up, she ties it off with some medical tape, before shutting the first aid kit with a click and setting it aside, cramming her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose. "Okay, you can hit the lights again. Sorry. I haf extreme photosensitivity. I vas alvays a little light sensitive, but it vent crazy after... vell." Heinkel gestures at herself. "You know. I haf to haf these glasses on if there's any kind of significant light."

  "Say, I'm not sure." She rubs her jaw, thoughtful, ignoring the smear of blood left behind. "Haf I actually told you vhat I vas doing before Iscariot?"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber taps some ash from his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the front desk before watching her take off her glasses and lean back in his chair. As she starts to take off her jacket and get to work, he leans back a bit and pours some scotch into a glass for himself, sipping at it as he listens to her.

    "You have plenty of dignity. If you didn't, you wouldn't be able to take a joke about it," Psyber points out to her as he considers, exhaling a small cloud of smoke as she scowls at him and goes to work on her wounds, "Having a contingency if you ever lose control is one sort of dignity. But being able to make your condition enough of your life to joke about shows that you own it, not the other way around. Don't forget that." Psyber points out.

    He takes another slow drag before tapping his cigarette into the ashtray as she finishes up cleaning her wounds and puts her sunglasses back on. He didn't seem too bothered by the low light in the first place, but he does eventually bring the lights slowly back up to full brightness, "Nothing to apologize for. That's why I have the controls and stuff around this building."

    Finally, to her last question, he shakes his head several times, "You never told me that. I don't really pry for information about people. The past is less important than the present and the future." He waves the cigarette at her a couple times, "By all means, though, share if you'd like." He takes a sip of his drink.

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  The scotch is eyed for a second or two with a little bit of longing, but Heinkel isn't desperate enough to beg for it. Besides, it won't have much of an effect on her. She does make a wistful sound, though. "You know, I vas so desperate I tried drinking paint thinner the other day. I don't recommend it. Tastes like shit."

  It's hard to tell whether she's actually serious about that or not.

  "I vonder sometimes if I can, but I hafen't gone howling mad just yet." Heinkel shrugs. "Vorst of it is the blood. Not mine. Others. And not drinking it. Just... the carnage, I guess. I haf to clamp down if I'm around it." She wrinkles her nose. "Ja, I guess you're right."

  She shrugs. "Vasn't really hiding anything, honestly. I just don't talk about myself too much; not because it's any big secret. I figure most people aren't going to care. But coming here is like coming home, so... but, ja? Really, I didn't?" Leaning back against the desk, she reaches over to tap her cigarette into the ashtray. "Damn. It's been a vhile. I thought I had. Vell," she says with a grin, "I guess it's storytime."

  "I vasn't alvays vit the Catholic church. Actually, I vas never really religious in the first place, but I guess that much probably comes across. I grew up on the streets of eastern Europe, and I learned to steal to survive. Never knew my parents. No idea who they vere, or veren't. I looked out for myself, and I did a pretty damned decent job of it, too."

  She takes another long drag, exhaling a wreath of smoke. "Somehow I vound up in the criminal underbelly, sort of. I got known for getting things done. Eventually I got known for being a hit man. Or hit voman, as it vere, I guess. That antique piece of shit rifle I haf vas the tool of my trade. I made problems disappear. I vas pretty good at it, too."

  "I did it for a few years." Heinkel reaches down, pulling up the side of her shirt to bare stark ribs -- she really probably ought to eat more -- and a particularly nasty scar that screams 'bullet wound' on her side. "I got lucky. The bastard that did it to me couldn't aim for shit, but I vas still dying. I managed to drag my bleeding ass to a church in Brugge. The nuns there took care of me. Helped me heal. So I stayed vit them, and locked avay my rifle. Traded it for a spade. I vas groundskeeper there."

  She shrugs, letting her shirt fall back down. "I liked it. Gardening is relaxing, you know. But then Iscariot came calling, and I thought long and hard about Chief's offer. I turned him down, the first time. He sent Father Anderson aftervard, to try and convince me. I thought long and hard about it some more, and decided it vas a vay to give back, I guess. I told the nuns I vas transferring to Italy. They never knew vhere I vas going, because officially, Section XIII doesn't exist." She shows her teeth, flatly. "'Ve are Apostles, yet not Apostles. Ve do vhat has to be done, because no one else vill. Ve are heretics, yet not heretics. Vhen our vork is done, ve toss our thirty pieces of silfer, and ve hang ourselves on a rope of straw.' Maybe not literally, but that's the general gist of it."

  "Still think Chief's a crazy son of a bitch," she offers, "and all of them, but they looks after their own. They took care of me. Even after that mangy flea-bit mutt took a piece out of me." She hooks a finger into her collar, tugging it down to reveal a ragged scar down the side of her neck; halves forming a clear bite wound. "They still let me stay, even knowing vhat I could do. It's vhy I refuse to let that animal take over. I owe it to them. And I owe it to you, and Heaven or Hell, too."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    As she looks at the bottle longingly, Psyber presses a hand against it and slides it across the wood tabletop towards her after a few moments. It's definitely expensive scotch, as evidenced by the fact he's sipping it instead of just drinking it down wholesale. The half-angel sets down his glass on the table and listens to her.

    "I didn't think you were hiding your past, per se. I just didn't think it was any of my business to really pry. A lot of people around here avoid talking about their past. Haruno, Homura, Fortuna. Just to name a few. 'Don't ask' is generally the safest policy for someone in my field who wants to keep employees," He points out as he takes a slow drag from his cigarette and then crosses his arms a bit.

    "Mm. That does sound like a rough past," Psyber admits to her as he finishes listening to the entirety of the story, eventually concluding, "So you were an assassin, and then a nun, and then a combat nun." Psyber considers it all, thinking, "And yes, Father Anderson. I've only seen bits and pieces of the intel on him, but he does seem to be rather focused and skilled at his particular path of worship."

    "It's good to keep an eye on the things that keep your head in the game, I agree." Psyber says to her flatly, leaning back in his chair as he folds his hands over his chest and considers the entirety of the situation, "But more than them, or me, I think you owe it to yourself. Don't forget that the life you've led has given wisdom that could same day aid another. Depriving yourself of passing that on to someone in the future is as much a debt you owe to yourself as any other debt that keeps you human."

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  There's obvious longing in the way Heinkel looks at that bottle of scotch, so freely offered to her. In fact, she seems to sorely be considering it for a few very long moments. She picks it up with obvious care, turning it to study the label... and allows herself one small drink straight from the bottle, surprisingly dainty, before offering the bottle back. "Ah... danke. Ja, it's just as good as it smells to me, if you really haf to know."

  It smells pretty harsh, being alcohol, but she can still pick up on the subtleties. And the subtleties smell lovely to her senses.

  "Ja, I can understand vhy you vouldn't pry. I've never really cared, though, at least about my own. It's there. I mean, there aren't any dossiers anyvon can dig through," she adds, shrugging, "and I'm pretty sure even my Union records are blacked out, by request. At least, the part vhere I like to howl at the moon vonce in a vhile." Nobody's supposed to know, so it's easier not to make it 'public' record.

  She leans back. "Actually, I vasn't a nun, technically. I vasn't ordained. I vas just keeping the garden for them, in exchange for treatment and food. And the occasional glass of vine, if I asked really nicely. I used to sing Gregorian chant vit the brothers." Heinkel looks to the window. "They vere nice, all of them. I miss them, sometimes, but it's easier not to go back. I'd haf to answer all sorts of uncomfortable questions. Mostly older nuns, there, and they vere so good to me. They didn't ask any questions about vhere I came from."

  "Father Anderson? Heh. Heh, heh. You haf no idea. He's vhat I'd call a single-minded zealot, ja. But he's very good at vhat he does. And he does care, in his own vay. Runs an orphanage, vhen he's not being dragged off to stick freaks and ghouls full of bayonets. I really haf no idea how he carries so many of them around." She mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like 'bayonets for days,' but it isn't very clear. "Definitely skilled at vhat he does, though. Ve follow him for a reason."

  She leans her hip against the desk, folding her arms. "Ja? Maybe." She shrugs. "I never really thought much of myself. I mean, I don't hate myself or anything like that. I just don't really think about myself much. I do vhat I can for others, and that's enough for me, I guess." Heinkel folds her arms. "You're right, though. I never really thought about it that vay." One shoulder rises and falls. "I try not to think too much in general. Keeps me saner that vay, I think."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber nods his head and smiles as she offers him the scotch bottle back, setting it down on the table a moment later and putting the corked cap back into it, "Thanks. It's a 21 year single malt a client gave me as a Thanksgiving present," Psyber says honestly, putting it in a drawer a few moments later before crossing his arms.

    "Everyone's files have a little black in them, Heinkel. You should see the redactions on mine. I keep my own full name classified for security purposes, even," He points out to her as he taps his fingers against the top of the counter in thought.

    "Ah ha. So not a nun, just a regular gardener who mooched free food. Gotcha," He teases before smiling at her genuinely, "It's good that you found somewhere like that, though. It's those changes in perspective that can let you evalute your life in a way you can't when you're in the middle of living it. Always good to take in new settings to look at things."

    "Magic, probably," He responds in answer to the bayonets statement, "Otherwise, hard to say with stuff like that. As long as he's good at what he does and inspires loyalty, far be it from me to question or pass judgment on another religious man. Not really my job to do that, I think." He leans back a bit and watches Heinkel as she leans against the desk.

    "Stuff you don't think about is a good reason to talk to other people," Psyber points out, snuffing out his cigarette in the ash tray a moment later, "It's stuff I used to not think about myself, but all the changes over the past year have made me consider those kinds of things a bit more. Stuff like that happens to everyone sometimes, I imagine. THings make you stop and look at life."

Heinkel Wolfe (Dropped) has posed:
  "Oh, right, Thanksgiving. I forgot that's something you Americans do. Guess I should bring something to the table this year." Heinkel rubs at her jaw, though the gesture seems tired. "Something not alcoholic. I can cook, beliefe it or not. Sometimes."

  She grins again at his mention of blacked-out files. "I can only imagine vhat /yours/ must look like. Mine's just a little black." She holds up thumb and forefinger to illustrate. "Just one little detail, vhen it comes down to it. Vell. One big detail, I guess."

  "Ja, something like that. Hey, in my defense, I /vas/ good at gardening. I picked it up quickly. Guess their previous groundskeeper had died, so they veren't too picky about who they took on. And I had to make myself useful somehow. Besides," she adds, still grinning. "They had good food, you know. Ach, now those nuns could /cook/. I do miss that part. A culinary expert, I am not. And probably von't ever be. My idea of cooking is to put something frozen in an oven."

  "Magic? I doubt it. He's too devout for that kind of thing. Or maybe God's lending him a helping hand after all. Who's to say?" Heinkel shrugs. "I vouldn't pass judgement on him, either vay. I owe him too much. And despite his methods, he protects a lot of people, ja?"

  She stubs out her own cigarette, after exhaling the last of the smoke. "Hunh. Maybe. I didn't think so much about eating meat before the lycanthropy, but these days, I prefer not to. Keeps the rage avay, you know? Besides, carrots are a great snack." The priest pushes off from the desk, slinging her coat over her arm. "Vell, I'd better turn in. My room's still here, ja? I even promise I von't sleep on the couch."

  Shifting her load, she leans over the desk a little, as though eyeballing the scotch's label one more time. Then, leaning over a little further, quickly, she presses a kiss to the half-angel's cheek. "Thanks for everything, Psyber. I mean that. Coming back here is coming home, to me."

  "And considering vhat ungodly hour I'm coming back, I'd better get some sleep before it's off to South America." Straightening, she yawns, gathering up her slightly bloodstained coat and her slightly less bloodstained luggage. "See you tomorrow."

  "Don't stay up too late vit that scotch... even if it's the good stuff."

  Her footsteps echo across the lobby, before she pauses, turning. "Good to be back home." Heinkel allows herself a small, but genuine, smile. "Gute nacht."

  The footsteps continue back up, and Heinkel's voice floats back from the elevator.

  "But you're still not allowed to put me in a dress."