Scene #8280: There Is Passion In Taking, Too

Owner	Pose
Petra Soroka	Petra gave Dimo a name. With some effort, a name can spin out into an entire story, combing through a million mentions and iterations collected piecemeal from the ghosts of impressions left on everything touched, sketching a picture around the question: Where can she find this Noah? Search for social media accounts that mention the two names together, or process a trillion photos for facial recognition. No matches within the expected age limit, surprisingly. Search high school graduation records instead; assume they were in the same year. Millions of Earths, billions of high schools, narrowed down to a dozen possibilities, graduate classes within the past two years. From there, which "Petra Soroka" is the correct one is a simple task, which "Noah" is harder. Look for shared classes as a starting point, find one that matches, find his defunct social media, scroll for pictures from that year, find exactly one with the pair together. "Noah" is taking a selfie, beaming and holding two ice cream cups, against a backdrop of an umbrella-shaded table beside a river. A younger Petra sits at the table, facing away from the camera, looking down at her phone, recognizable only by the top-down processing of her blonde hair. Search for the now-twenty-year-old Noah Martinez's professional account, where he lists the college he attends and the fraternity he belongs to. It takes an hour. The University of Texas at San Antonio, Earth-1682, is only a short trip away from a warpgate, and its fraternity district is easily accessible. The world is, by every measure, an irrelevant early 21st century Earth; the urban sprawl of the Multiverse, regardless of how relatively populated its cities may be. Streets teem with cars full of people who care deeply about businesses with bland names generated by committee, none of which you've ever heard of before. In the fraternity housing district of UTSA, the world seems to move with the languid pace of a stoned teenager. The frat houses lining the street all have respectable, polite facades, with grass lawns, proudly displayed Greek lettering, and an assortment of casual sports equipment and lawn furniture. The temperate weather means that a handful of boys roam outside, walking to campus or goofing off in their respective house's yard, many of whom shoot catcalls at Lilian as they see her, stopping when they see the eight foot tall robot woman next to her. One of them only catcalls louder at Dimo, which is at least a little impressive. The pair of Paladins eventually reach the building labeled with the Greek lettering Alpha Beta Omicron. The smell of weed emanating from this house radiates half a block away, and in front of the door, it's overpowering. According to Dimo's research, Petra's ex-boyfriend should be here.
Dimokratia	Dimo, of the Silver, had been given a gift spun of breath and haste to give her something so she would go away. It had not been the matter she had chosen to align, nor the result of any investigation on her own part. It was, instead, an answer without a question. A result. And so, three weeks ago, Dimo had begun a process with a simple update to Dame Commander Lilian Rook of the Paladins: > Lilian. I encountered the poor Petra girl. She was resistant to my chosen cliff. I have been given something else: A name. 'Noah'. I will investigate and see what fruits from the branch. It takes three weeks. Brute force can only get the investigation so far, but Dimo has a perfect picture of Petra, and the context of a place, a life, and a name. The Internet is truly a scary place - and it only takes one (ex-boy)friend tagging Petra Soroka in a disinterested yet unmistakeably signature look. Two ice cream cones, but only one person into it. Following the trail to Noah Martinez's socials led Dimo into the particularly thick cloud of (literal) smoke as opposed to the digitally intangible. The chat returns to life. > Lilian. Once again the positive energy of others aids in our alignments. How self-evident success is, will be. Would you join me in an expedition to a foreign and exotic land? The locals are dim yet sociable, and their culture rough and focused around ritual combat and intoxication. > It will be fun. We will have a chance to procure supplies before setting forth on our hunt. Meeting Lilian at the Warpgate, Dimo has readied herself appropriately. The eight foot tall feminine-presenting synthetic champion is wrapped in a clothing-ajacent soft armor layer of synthetic leather and cloth patterns that approximate riding leathers or a collared biking jacket and set of obscuring tights. At ankle, wrist, foot and hands are far heavier notes of mechanical detail - gauntlet-gloves and greave-boots. Up and down her legs and arms are subtle corkscrew panel-lines in silver, like the whole affair is a wrap. Studs that suggest a belt-line hang along the tall woman's waist, and shine with reflective chrome. As Lilian arrives, a matte silver falcon flies down out of the air, to land on Dimo's outstretched arm - the champion the picture of a perfect falconer (borrowed, in fact, from a master falconer!) - and accept the XL-sized UT San Antonio baseball merch cap in blue, orange, and white out of the beak, affixing the 'wargear' to her head. "We are hunting men. Come, Lilian, they are in their restive phase and we must acquire camouflage." And, with falcon transferring to shoulder, Dimo (of the Silver) strides purposefully towards the College at UTSA -- to buy more wargear. Leaving the gift store having dramatically apologized for having to engage in base capitalism to the poor working clerk (the second person to do it to the UTSA clerk that day), Dimo has added UTSA sweatpants and a large letterman-style jacket - the former doesn't fit but she doesn't care, and the latter fits perhaps a bit too well. Equipped, with Lilian 'playing along' or not, the pair hit: the fraternity district at UTSA. Immediately, the champion is taken by the Greek lettering. "Ah, I remember several of these heroes. I believe I have heard of Beta Upsilon Chi in my youth." Dimo smiles, warm and wistful, waving back at the catcall serenely as a statement of apparent truth. "How would you like to begin our hunt? A breach? Or a prowl? I am fully ready to do either, at your preference. I had hoped to talk during our hunt, so my preference is a prowl, but--" The champion smiles. "I can speak and breach at the same time."
Lilian Rook	Normally, Lilian would really not be particularly interested in Petra's former boyfriend(s). In fact, she sort of still doesn't believe she actually had one. She can only imagine that he'd be as boring and unpleasant as she is, or, if he dumped her, slightly less so. The fact that Dimo has somehow located him off of a first name is fairly impressive. Enough that she sneaks a peek of the photo. It pisses her off a lot, actually. And Petra had the fucking gall to say all of that shit. Even moreso that she had the stones to harass Tamamo. She knew what she was doing. So, whatever. It's not as if Lilian is doing anything wrong. Just kind of petty. And she's used to being really petty. The catcalls are unimpressive, and a little gross, but Lilian is used to being smoking hot. Even if she hadn't dressed down in expensive semi-sleeve and pleated skirt casual (she refuses to wear sweatpants, period, with concerning vehemence), she'd expect it from frat bros. She doesn't even particularly bother to direct her resting fuckoff stare at anyone. She wrinkles her nose at the frat house itself, staggernig back as if slamming into a solid wall, and so takes a moment to compose herself and ask Dimo "Do you really think this will amount to anything? I've already gotten the feeling he's a loser who'd barely remember her." She considers the question only briefly. "I'm never going to wash off the feeling of stalking a stoned loser. We're not doing anything aggressive or illegal. There's no threat here either. We may as well jus go in."
Dimokratia	"Much to the contrary, Lilian-" Dimo's humming voice lifts to a firm, sure chord. "It was the picture that led me here that is the reason. This Noah Martinez, in a captured moment, smiles and holds gifts, and reflects upon his chosen companion, and that companion... is not present in the same way." A moment passes, as Dimo recenters her gaze on the entry of the hall. Her ambient near-field of warmth is perhaps usual to Lilian who spends time close and personal to a being of solar heat, but dims, just a minute amount. A pinch of a frown tugs at Dimo's brow. An uncertainty. One that now she would correct, clearly: "It may be true that our... subject, Noah, means nothing to her. But the poor Petra girl remembered his name. Thought of him, when she did not have to, offered him as worth something." "This is what I have." The confusion lifts. The course, at least, is clear. "Whether or not he remembers her, his was the account the picture was on. The only one I could find. That moment was what Noah Martinez chose to display." "I wish to know why. Then we will have consumed the whole of the mystery, or we will cast light into this problem, and the illuminated part will have no power to hurt you." Dimo smiles, her vibrant heat returning to its normal level. "Join me at least until the end of this. It will reduce her power yet further compared to you. Don't you wish this?"
Lilian Rook	Lilian, briefly, agonizingly, considers the possibility of making this all very easy by explaining the vile blackhearted concept of Blanchardism to Dimo, and with great reluctance, she shows Petra a courtesy she doesn't get back, and shelves the idea. Instead, she offers, "I know that idiot well enough. She's desperately fixated on being as typical and unspecial as can be. Having a generic boyfriend is part of the profile, even if she isn't into him." She mutters the next part. "Or any boys, really." Lilian sighs, rubbing her upper arm, then pushing back a wrist to pop the joint, as if getting ready to do hard manual work. "I'd like to disarm the ticking bomb that is Petra Soroka, rather than detonating it by way of disposal, yes." she says. "Not that she deserves it." Taking a deep breath while the air is still more O2 than THC, Lilian enters the building.
Dimokratia	Dimo claps as she enters. "Good!" She buzz-laughs, cheered. "I had thought I should have brought Hernan to show her a pleasant physical time, but it's good to know she was..." More laughter, rich as she enters the Tunnels of THC through the front door behind Lilian, ducking in through the low frame and standing up past the entry. "... struck, by our encounter. It would be a shame to have cleared the forest for a dry run." She has her own passingly under-breath comment, rippling through the sinewave hum of her warm emotion. "Her soul deserves it. The girl? Mmm..." Purring. "Perhaps after alignment."
Lilian Rook	"She deserves to have her teeth knocked out." Lilian says more matter-of-factly than bitterly, patrolling the halls, following them to the designated door. "I'm well within my rights to send her home at this point. But, unfortunately for us both, just because nobody would blame me, doesn't mean that I should." She knocks on the door. "Not for my own sake, at least."
Petra Soroka	The earlier narration may have overestimated Dimo's internet savviness. Multiversals aren't an alarmingly uncommon sight in this heavily-integrated Earth, so Dimo's shopping spree through campus is treated with mild confusion, rather than fear. Surely she can't be a student here, right? A student's mother, maybe? More than a few passing students consider the latter option, for just a bit too long. The door is unlocked, of course. Every boy in this building forgets their keys at least one in three times they leave, so they made the prudent decision of never locking it at all. Inside is a wide-open common room, a set of stairs and doors on either side. Couches and loveseats are tucked into comfortable corners, endtables with beer cans and chips alongside them. Plastered across one wall is a low resolution poster of an angry young man with a shaved head and cat ears. Beneath it is a table with a jug of indeterminately brown liquid, a piece of paper labeled "JESSE JUICE" crudely taped to it. It's considerably less messy than it could be, and unbearably filthy to the two Paladins. Boys mill around the room, some situated at the dining table at the far end, a pair of them nestled into a couch facing a TV blaring some cop show. One of the couch-boys turns towards the open door, lazily draping himself over the couch back, the joint between his lips noticeably contributing to the haze in the room. "Oh, yo, cosplayers!" His voice is high and scratchy, combining with his youthful appearance to round him out as a: complete dweeb. The Hispanic boy next to him glances away from the show too, lifting his arm off of the other boy's shoulders. When he looks at the pair, he's immediately recognizable as the Noah Martinez that they were seeking, now with less unpleasant facial hair than in his highschool photo. "Dang, what's up?"
Dimokratia	"Oh, undoubtedly." Dimo agrees with gauntlet-fingers rolled at the base of her chin and mechanical 'thumb' lifting to stroke against her jaw in contemplation. Her eyes close, but she steps around obstructions in the foyer flawlessly. On her shoulder, the matte silver falcon gazes out with the same glowing-blue optics that Dimo herself carries, scanning across the room. > Juice status: Obviously Hazardous. > Security status: Unlocked doors? Lack of awareness? The stink of the socially maladapted? Hazardous. > Culture status: One look at the poster, obviously a searing Hazard. > Furniture status: . . . Negotiable, after decontamination. Several items could bear reasonable weight. Hazardous overall, due to several severe structural issues. > Denizen status: ... Dimo, opening her eyes, lifts to a smile she wears without showing her own teeth-analogues. "Greetings." She has eyes, momentarily, only for Noah Martinez - and for him, a synaptic crackle of palpable heat that sizzles like boiling cola against tender, abused nerves. "We are better than cos-players. Noah Martinez, you will answer our questions, won't you? Perhaps... outside, on the lawn, and not in here, in the..." Dimo doesn't move her gaze, but her shoulder bird pans over the room once more. "... active threat to all my senses at once!" She makes it sound sweet, charming, beloved. "I am impressed, at the quantity of offenses. You have done such a good job for young men."
Lilian Rook	"Don't compliment them." Lilian says, immediately, witheringly, as if even that were too much of a dignity. "They'll take you seriously and make it even worse." she sighs. Her eyes wander a little more around the room, a grimace slowly creeping to her lips. "Boys rooms . . ." she mutters, a little too loud, in evident disgust. Then, she clears her throat. "Martinez." she directs. "Dame Commander Lilian Rook, Paladins Chevalier." she adds, flipping the emblem and ID out of her little messenger bag at her hip. "This is Chevalier Dimo. She's my partner on this assignment." she gestures. Lilian's tone has slid cleanly into pleasantly professional; official, expecting to be obeyed, but bright and easygoing, by way of someone important who's just found out that things will be easier than she anticipated, and is feeling relaxed about it; the implication is not to test it. "Ah, not to worry though. To preemptively assuage any of your concerns, it isn't a serious matter. Your name came up when we were scraping files for information on a low level event. If you can answer a few questions for us, we'd greatly appreciate it." Lilian even smiles for him, though inwardly she can't think he deserves that much. Unfortunately for him, the lamplight of her attention is intense, now. A cold ray of brilliant, prickling emphasis that darkens the world around by contrast. He is on stage. This is his role. The script compels him, inexorably, to answer to the line. His friends are the audience and their eyes are suddenly full of anticipation, that he should walk up the set and play it out. There's simply no reason not to. This is how it's supposed to go.
Petra Soroka	Noah flinches, face tightening in what first seems to be instinctual pain in response to a new and intense stimulus, then unnerved confusion. Struggling a bit to push himself out of the soft cushions, the boy next to him reacts first, vaulting over the back of the couch with the performative agility of a twenty year old guy, stancing up between the Paladins and Noah. He crosses his arms, but any attempt to look cool is tempered by him being shorter than Lilian. "Yo. What's your deal? What do you want with Noah?" Noah, finally managing to stand up, a bit unsteady on both his feet and his speech, says, "Chill, Elliot." He takes a few steps closer, just close enough to be beside Elliot. On the far end of the room, one of the guys looks up from the tcg currently in progress on the table, and squints at the pair. "Dude. Isn't that fuckin', uh, that hot girl with the sword from TV? The, um, Dang Commander Lilian Rook?" He's immediately berated by all the other guys at the table. "Do you see a sword, you idiot?" "What the fuck would she be doing in our living room, man." "I mean, there's a giant robot next to her." "Yeah, man, cosplayers, duh." Lilian introduces herself midway through their bickering, but they continue arguing for multiple sentences before slowly gathering into a collective "Ooooooo," like a pack of drama wolves howling at the gossip moon. "How'd you fuck up so bad to get the cops over here, dude?" "Oh, shit, cops though." A couple of the guys at the dining table scurry towards the fridge and cupboards, attempting to surreptitiously relocate a considerable number of six-packs. Noah's wariness towards the pair softens, but Elliot looks downright scared, with the robot woman literally twice his height towering over him. Noah smiles back at Lilian, though, patting Elliot on the shoulder. "Yeah. Of course, um, missus Rook. You said you wanted to move outside?" He pushes open the door and walks along the patio of the house to a collection of lawn chairs. "So, what's this about?" After the two Paladins exit, Elliot slips out to follow, hovering by the door to listen in on the conversation.
Dimokratia	"Their souls, like hers, are worth saving. The alignments are simple, and easy. Do not worry, Lilian. They will ask for it, by the end. And we will complete giving it to them. Then we will have all answers we seek." The champion of the Silver answers quite simply, right in front of everyone, with her warm and pleasant aura of radiant heat. With all the same deliberate sweetness of her earlier compliments. To the eyes Dimo is a showpiece, a statue that walks and talks, an icon, a devotional towards a cybernetically divine ideal. She is very used to people looking, commenting, and forming positive opinions of her. Passively, she encourages it, one fist luridly balled in the orange of her overpriced college jacket. With it, she cuts an amused, welcoming figure in the fraternity house's living room besides the shorter, yet chillingly intentful Dame Commander Lilian Rook. In a wonderful twist entirely of her own design, Dimo of the Silver is the welcoming, attention-drawing, inviting one - and Lilian of the Sword (not Pictured) is the fierce threat to boyhood-baking-into-manhood apparent on the field. "You may stay warm, Eliot, within our shared light. Of couse, you may come with." The tall synthetic offers, still-welcoming, sweet in this place that offends her so with a glowing grace that reaches every part of her but her eyes. The falcon, on her shoulder, stares at the TCG boys as they begin to disperse their flagrantly ill-set culture back to a state of hasty alignment. Good. Dimo, of the Silver, encourages that too. She is well pleased to let them all scurry towards righteousness with presence alone. Dimo, in the miasmic smoke of the Tunnels of THC, beams as a beacon-fire for moths to flutter lovingly towards, and favors Eliot with one hand and Noah with the other. "Boys. Sweet boys. We are here to help. There is a girl, we need information on. Noah can give it to us. And then, we can give you something good." The path outside is faster and surer, and Dimo doesn't even fully pause to luxuriate in the performance of simple motion. She simply does it, with Lilian, back out to the grass grounds outside, where she turns and smiles down at the pair. "Noah." Dimo begins, reaching out a hand testingly to place, heavy yet harmless, on the boy's shoulder. "Before you answer, think. Give yourself... ten seconds, at least, to fully bring to the fore what you want to say. Truly give it your all, and this will be behind you on your way to better things." With her preface done, Dimo asks directly: "Do you remember Petra Soroka? She has entered a conflict with society."
Lilian Rook	Briefly, Lilian is very tempted to display a sword. She intuits that it would probably shut them up pretty fast, but intimidating the annoying jabbering out of them is very much contrary to her current tack of the good (self-proclaimed) cop. Metaphorically speaking. When they start actually using the word 'cop', Lilian's smile slides off of her face. "As I said, Mister Martinez hasn't done anything untoward. He has information relevant to an invent we are investigating." Lilian sighs, affectedly beleaguered. "And we're Chevaliers, not police officers. It doesn't have to do with a crime; it has to do with Elite business." She makes certain to try and look relieved when Noah just agrees to it. Though, once they're out on the patio, Lilian glances over her shoulder, rolls her eyes, and finds a trio of small, graven stones by memory, effortlessly flicking the cap on a marker-sized vial, swiping black ink of ground moss and mineral and venom on each, and dropping them as she goes, landing rounded bottom down, to leave a perfect triangle. Night, deep water, winter; runes of suppression where they conversation can be held stealthily. Even if Dimo had allowed him to follow, Lilian hadn't allowed him to invade. "It's as my partner says." Lilian finally says to Noah, mere seconds later. "Whilst it feels frankly depressing to have to question an aspiring young man about his highschool sweetheart, Petra Soroka-" She restrains about ninety percent of the involuntary disgust in the name. "-has been engaging in low level destabilizing and threatening activities within the Elite sphere. A third party-" The Watch. "-has gone through a great deal of effort to erase the particulars of her information, so, as it stands, you happen to be the best 'in' we have to understanding her reasons and her aims." "I'd like it if you could tell me everything you know about her record prior to meeting you. And if you can imagine, why she would take special grievance against . . ." Lilian makes a tense sound under her breath. She mentally consults Petra's flagrant shitlist. "Powered individuals. Particularly women, of distinction, and those part of organizations designed to facilitate personal growth and social harmony."
Dimokratia	"He is called to serve, and you are the caller, the chooser. Champion, hero, aligner." Dimo purrs, while Lilian goes about her magic suppression. "You have such a tension in your shoulders for this idle, light work. Tell me, Lilian, I am... so curious." Dimo gazes down at her fellow Chevalier, but not far, and smiles again, dark lips adjusting the small plates on her expressive shell-white face's panels. "You aren't threatened. We would not be stopped, this culture is weak and pre-formed, and they'd fall before either of us without a single exerted effort." She continues to speak openly, happily, about the truth of the weather or certain amusingly useful mathematical principles. Before Noah, as her synapse-attention continues to float Noah's every nerve in a warm honey glaze and fries the inside of his sinuses with the scent of sun-warm skin and cloth more thoroughly than any burned crystal-laden flower. "We are taking, now. Is there no pleasure in that? Finding what is wanted, out in the world, and seizing it? This change? Does it bring you nothing? I had hoped it would be..." A warm sigh. "Fun?" The barrier goes up, and so the champion of the Silver's speech is for Lilian and Noah only. The falcon on her shoulder, however, flies off to circle over Eliot and swoop in for a landing -- which also looks like an attack! -- to see if he will fall back or try to offer an arm to the great matte silver bird with sizzling blue eyes.
Petra Soroka	Not a single one of the boys remarks on Dimo's ominous comment. It's not directed at any of them, so it vanishes in their perception like background noise. Lilian's correction gets the same treatment; utter irrelevance. Once seated, Noah leans forwards and gives the two Paladins his full attention, expression now taking on the kind of worry that someone feels about a situation that isn't threatening them. "...Petra? Like, from high school?" Even with the explicit elaboration that, yes, that Petra, it still hits him out from out of left field. "In conflict with, society? With Elites? I mean," Noah glances away from the pair to look at Elliot with a complicated expression, "...I don't like the idea, but I'mn't having much trouble imagining that former one." As he relaxes, allowing the warm buzz of Dimo's presence to wash over him, his Texan accent gets more prominent. Elliot, meanwhile, stares in abruptly heightened worry as Lilian bars him from the conversation. He flinches at the falcon, blocking his face from above with his hands, expecting it to drive him back into the house. Unless it begins actually tearing into him, though, he stands firmly outside, fidgeting anxiously in place, peeking through the gaps in his finger shield. Multiple times, he starts forwards as if to barge into the conversation, but he freezes in place before advancing. Noah grips the arm of his chair and looks between Dimo and the falcon with wide eyes. "Hey, ma'am, he don't mean any harm. Actually, if it's about Petra," The idea that this is 'about Petra' still doesn't sit well with him, "Elliot went to our highschool, too. I don't know what led y'all to me, but...." Noah comes across as worried, but less about the Elites in front of him, and more about the boy currently cowering from a metal bird. "If ya don't mind, though. What actually has she been doing? Is it, anything real bad?"
Lilian Rook	Lilian doesn't argue the accusation of tension. Her shoulders square, her breath stops, muscles tense perceptibly, she counts to ten, and releases it all at once. "It's not just here." she says. "I haven't been threatened very often in a long time. I don't get . . . tense, about threats. Threats are something you assess and tackle." Her eyes swivel smoothly to Elliot, doing his little hovering dance of concern. "I'm sorry. It's hard to exult in this sort of thing. You're right, that it should be satisfying to pull the thread and see the knot unravel, step by step. Having a target and leverage is meant to be exciting. It wouldn't be the first time. It just reminds me of . . ." That scar, again. A light touch. Memories of Skye. Memories of Tartarus. Memories of Pluto. "A time when people needed to pry into my history, too. Even if this is completely different, it's still an uncomfortable association to have on my mind." She grimaces, faintly. "And I can't quite shake the dreaded suspicion that I already know half of the story." Breathing out her tension one more time, Lilian turns back to Noah, with "My apologies. Please continue." on her lips. "And your associate may enter as well." she says, gesturing towards Elliot to step across the triangle boundary. "That's a difficult question to answer, Mister Martinez, precisely because we're still trying to discern her aims." A moment passes, as if that's all she had to say. Then, "Soroka has thrown in with a dangerous crowd. Their company has ostensibly reignited and exaggerated some underlying grievance, trauma, or disorder in her that has compelled her to engage in activities that could rapidly become extraordinarily dangerous to her and those around her; and they are enabling it as well. Her actions have already come dangerously close to resulting in fatalities. Her obsessive pursuit of whatever greivance she has been acting on is liable to result in serious collateral harm to a large number of individuals attempting to befriend her, and guaranteed to result in her own destruction." "Seeing as she hasn't, and doesn't have the ability to, engage in any strictly actionable high-level offenses or disruptions in our line of work, it's not within the purview of the Paladins to simply interrupt her self-destructive spiral by force. We're hoping to arrive at an approach we can take in a gentler, off-the-clock capacity, before it becomes an issue."
Dimokratia	The metal bird is doing a lot of wing-wide flapping, and is puffed up very big, but when the cowering Eliot resolutely remains near the magic-shrouded bench and brings his arm up the talons come out, snikting wide to close wickedly--!!! Entirely safely around Eliot's arm, since he brought it up so oblidgingly. There are only two results, retreat or resolve, and with Eliot showing resolve, the perfect mechanical avian affects a landing whether the boy likes it or not. Attached, it opens its chrome beak silently, tilts its neck to adjust its ocular angle and affix the boys' eyes through the finger-shield. The harmless talon-tipped legs adjust to widen their stance on Eliot's hand, very carefully placed. Cool, trembling terror is just as stable a platform as a treebranch, and the silver falcon is much superior to a common biological avian in things such as warm restraint. Dimo, within the circle, paces behind Lilian, slow measured steps that are entirely performative movements. Even so, she performs now for Lilian, with the circle down. The Falcon doesn't move. The falcon now owns this arm of Eliot's. He can move it. The Falcon remains, perfect (and slightly judging). As she moves her body, the radiant heat she carries at her core changes in direction relative to Lilian, orbiting her closely. "It is why we are making a special effort, arne't we? We are here, with these instruments called to us, to prove and understand. I believe I know your mind, generous. It is difficult, but consider." Around the back, the tall synthetic drifts, hands confidently moving to the commander's shoulders, as she had found Noah's before. Supportive, she looms over Noah and adds her height to Lilian's clear point. She smiles down at the speaking man, to 'put him at ease', but her soothing warmth is besides Lilian even if her tense guard blocks the penetration of the satisfaction warming at her shoulders with the champion's touch. She speaks, but it is to Lilian. "I knew this situation is like yours, close to, a sort of... Echo. Close? Intimate, in some negative way." Purring-supportive, she pours her council over Lilian as a hot glaze of words while her synapse-crackling gaze melts Noah's frontal cortex for Lilian's shaping. "I would follow it to the end, because you are involved. The events you have gone through added to your divinity. You are more wonderfully complex, after. You understand, don't you?" "If you help her, she may become slightly more divine. Brought to a better state. Is that threatening to you? Do not let it be." Dimo is beatific-sweet. "We do this for all of them, of couse, but the growth is for us. Consume it, allow it to give you positive energy."
Petra Soroka	Elliot shrieks when the falcon lands on him, his voice cracking. He stands rigidly still, like someone in a movie trying to hide from a tyrannosaurus rex. When it doesn't seem to mean him any harm, he softens, holding his arm in the exact same position and angle to disrupt the bird as little as possible. He stares at it, trying to decipher whether this is an invitation to the table, before Lilian makes it clear. "Hear that, babe? We're associates, now." "No dude, I didn't hear anything, it was, like, silent." "Huh?" Noah pats on the chair next to him, inviting Elliot to sit down, and his warm expression fades into concern again. The warmth remains, thrumming beneath the surface, full of honesty, and openness. "She's in with some bad actors, then? Fatalities, huh..." Noah trails off, taking his allotted contemplation time, and Elliot jumps in, leaning forwards with something bordering on excitement. "Petra Soroka? That's who this is about? What, did the bitch finally mail someone a pipe bomb?" A sigh. "El..." "Look, man, she fuckin' screamed that we were all npcs and stormed out of the building, I'm surprised they didn't cancel school the next day." Noah shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the suggestion. "Now, they said she hasn't done nothing too dangerous, yet. But, this group, you think they'll push her to? Did she fall in with those, ah," Noah tilts his face upwards and scratches his chin, trying to recall the memory, and hesitating like he's saying something he shouldn't. But of course, he should say anything that comes to mind, he's in safe company. "Those mech folks? Those mercenaries?" Elliot, still holding his arm up and steady for the falcon, cackles. "Yo, what? She talked about wanting to join a PMC and you didn't say anything? Holy shit, dude." Looking increasingly guilty, Noah asks, "Is there... some reason y'all're worried about her, rather than whatever bad actors she's with?"
Lilian Rook	When Elliot seats himself, Lilian glances from one to the other without moving her head, gaze swivelling back and forth over the half-fist pressed to her cheek. A moment's thought passes. She thumbs her phone. "Want to see mine?" she replies, turning the screen to him, and one of her favourite photographs of Tamamo that's been there for months. The tiniest of smiles. The psychosocial subtext. 'We're not stupid here. We know why you'd cluster together.' The concern she wears clearly, at the remaining context, is misrepresented, in that it appears as concern for Petra's toxic diva behaviour, but synthesized from the real concern that she feels adjacent. "I'm afraid it's nothing so above-board as a PMC." Lilian says, softly and drily. "We're speaking of little better than organized criminals, at the moment. We've . . . I've, made efforts to extract her from it. To send her home. But she's rather committed to her one girl crusade." she says. "If I have to be honest, I think she barely needs any more pushing at this point. What they're going to do is to give her the platform on the Elite stage to make it a disaster. The rope to hang herself." Lilian falls uneasily silent in contemplation, for long seconds after Noah's question. "We're already handling the others. Soroka is still more or less a civilian at this stage, but she has come into possession of information and connections that will be disastrous to innocent people, and most of all herself, if mishandled, never mind intentionally abuse. I'm permitted to worry about her because she's the only one involved for whom it isn't too late to change things." The remainder is something she refuses to speak aloud in present company. Precisely because there's a tiny risk that they might know what it means better than Dimo. Mind to mind. The ticking ray of ionized un-light brushing the sun's incandescent corona as it passes. "I don't care whether she grows up or goes home; either is fine. The former might even make me a tiny bit pleased. The aspect to it that I'm leery of is something that the two of us understand, but which can't be explained to most people. The both of us have special ways of causing each other to hurt, regardless of strength and skill and cleverness. I don't need, and I've chosen not to use, mine. But Soroka is loading as many bullets as she can. I'm dreading it; I hate it; because I know in my heart of hearts that she's going to try and make it hurt as much as possible to save her. Not in a way that'll make me 'more'. Just in a way that's shit."
Dimokratia	"Let us be close associates. Your Petra Soroka has drawn you dangerously into the world of Elites, but do not fear, sweet boy, innocent child." Dimo's voice and attention works on the effervescent giving tones of the fraternity youth. It makes her so happy when he gives things to her, because dangerous things are happening, and he can help, just by talking. He is in no danger. He is safe. Dimo lifts a hand from Lilian's shoulder, and then the other, as she steps around the Dame Commander. "Lilian, let me show you. We will do every part of our mandate," As Paladins. "align this place, and gain ourselves a greater understanding of that poor, hurt girl. And we do not have to fear challenge. It means we have such opportunity to grow." Dimo steps around the pressing questions, and prowls towards the boys on the bench, within the protection runes of Lilian's magic. Eliot is resolute and accepting, and holds out his arm for the falcon. The falcon, as the pair of falcon and resolved-to-be-foolish boy sweep in when beckoned by a pat to the chair, tottering along awkwardly. It is made more awkward by the transition of the long, taloned-but-unpiercing totter-steps up the side of Eliot's arm, like a branch in three parts, up to his shoulder. The boy is cheerful, happy, giving without complaint, and now his arm was free to rest! Easy. Far lighter and easier, much simpler to accept. Warm, on the shoulder. Not dangerous at all. Strangely safe. Something to make room for and accept, even this close. Dimo steps around, settling to a kneel behind the two boys on the bench, then folding up and forward to settle her arms framingly across both of them around the shoulders, her upper torso, chest, and head above and behind them, loomingly-happy. Now, Dimo is tbe shell-white and carbon-black and spirit white, blue, and orange backstop to Lilian's questioning, explaining, formative understanding, her truth. Dimo looks to Lilian, and her mindvoice is humming-buzz, speech performed by the modulation of frequencies to tune in to the right wave, and then, when 'she' is found in the hive of white noise and sussurations, she is stellarly Herself, warm to withheld negative space: <"I care that she grows. Her soul has value. She holds divinity within her, and there is no point to allowing the disease a vote. You hold immense divinity in you, and this pain, this negative energy, pollutes you. Replace it, replace what is broken by consuming the new and learning, taking what is broken and repairing, replacing, reforming into a better shape."> A pause, as Dimo rolls with throaty, buzzing eager laughter, an slowly building excitement Lilian sees in the dance of the cybernetic woman's fingers against the two young men's collars with a little feather-tremble of anticipation. <"You expect the disease in her to wish you better. Do not. The disease seeks to harm. To fill you with negative energy. You will make you more. And I will gladly help. And so will these young men."> <"You should enjoy yourself more.">
Dimokratia	Dimo, draped across Eliot and Noah, begins the trembling nerve-melt brain-dripping hard sell on both boys. "Sweet boys, this girl, that you remember, that you care for, is in need of help. She's preparing to cause harm, to herself, and to others, and we're investigating her. We, as Paladins, will help her. And so can you." "Don't you wan't that?" Dimo smiles. "To help?" Her hands stroke. "It would be so easy." "You want to stay together, and grow together, and become wonderful too, don't you? It's okay, I understand. I already can hear it. You've been so honest, and helpful, that I really think you're going to be a great help." "Aren't you? Sweet - boys - ?" Say Yes.
Petra Soroka	The question in Elliot's mouth dissipates before he asks it. He studies the picture of Tamamo with a gentle smile blooming on his face, and Lilian almost feels that same humming connection that Dimo does, radiating off of him. He leans back, brushing against Noah's arm with his knuckle, comfortable with the falcon's place on his shoulder, now. Both of the pair lean into Dimo's arms, utterly unsurprised when she drapes them over their shoulders. Already warm, like worked clay. It's safe to talk here, among friends. "Now, I feel like I hafta defend her, after El said all've that. She ain't all that dangerous, she's a... angry girl, last I spoke t'her. But she ain't a criminal; she ain't evil." Relaxed as he is, Noah's accent is slowly turning into Texan sludge. "You don't have to defend her, dude. We're talking to c--Paladins, 'cause she's a terrorist. You were always like this. It's okay to not force yourself see the good in everyone, sometimes." "If we're talkin' motivation, it'd be unfair of me to piece out all the bad from the good, an' paint half a picture for them." The boys shiver at Dimo's touch. They grab each other's hands tightly, as if drifting down a current, trying to keep together. Noah blinks rapidly, slurred stammering being the only sound he's capable of making, before managing a "O-of course, ma'am. Dimo. We're happy to help, with your questions and all." "Erm. Right, motivations. I s'pose if she's still holding on t'any of those feelings from last time I saw her--" "The nepo baby school shooter threat." "Can't blame El for being uncharitable. We weren't talking so great at the time, and apologies that I'm remembering less than I'd like. But if I had to guess, she wanted more than what was laid out for her--" "Nepo baby and a selfish bitch." "And when she felt stuck in that, she tried t'hurt whoever was in reach." Noah puts his feet up on the table, pressing his back into Dimo's arm, drinking her warmth. "Y'don't think Erika and Mr. Erhart would have a better idea what she's up to, do you? Her mom and pop?"