Scene #9391: Toeing the Factory Line

Owner	Pose
Foundation Scions	Within the sterile linoleum and chrome of Laplace Scientific Computing's headquarters offices, multiversal Elites have once more been petitioned for aid in professionally vague language and stiff urgency. For a change, however, the party waiting for the rendezvous, briefing papers in hand, is, unfortunately, none other than Mesmer Jr., her far more eager associate tagging behind. In the stead of a greeting, and while an excited Matilda still waves down the newcomers right in the Laplace hallway, Mesmer starts up her spiel. "Are you all listening? Good, I won't be repeating myself. One of the LSCC's directives, ever since they managed to get that portal up and running, has been impact assessment- to translate, they want to find spontaneous warpgates. As you might have guessed, a change in Era," And the Storm, of course, "Makes that frustratingly difficult, despite the resources allocated to the project. But you're lucky. The hard work might have already been done for you- the Foundation's Arcanum Containment Department found something interesting, which means we all, have been given no choice but to go and see for ourselves." "A new-construction factory reported an arcane disruption, assumed it the work of a hysterical malcontent. The police assumed the same, and arcanist matters are for the St. Pavlov Foundation to handle. HQ dispatched specialists, the specialists are in turn dispatching us- you get the picture." A pause, and then, actual explanation, blisteringly bored-sounding, "Completed cars vanishing right off of an assembly line, alien shimmers in the air. Exciting, isn't it?" The short pause afterwards is enough for Matilda to jump in with her own piece of briefing-advice, going to much as to even step in front of her associate. "As an also-responsible party for the assignment today, I must explain some important guidelines! The current era beyond these gates is the year nineteen twenty-eight, and we will be visiting the city of 'Chicago, USA'. Please remember, that not only is the Storm a topic to avoid disclosing to the general public, for the panic it could well cause, so is the existence of worlds beyond this one. So, erm, I must ask you each and all to-" "To not be reckless maniacs." "Eh-? Mesmer?!? That was not at all what I was going to say-" "It wasn't, so I had to. I won't hold it against you, but this is an important task." Matilda, hands still on her hips from striking a Stance for addressing the gathered Elites, wrinkles her nose up slightly at the undercut, and tries to mouth a little apology at the others. "It's not just that. The employees of the Chicago branch, the offices of the Foundation we'll be sent through, can't know either. For the same reasons, of course. Panic, hysteria, chaos. So,-" Mesmer coughs, dry, into a fist- and instead of immediately continuing her thought, grabs an alcohol wipe from a pocket, to meticulously scrub her hands with as she talks. "Mind what you say, and who you say it to." Notably, despite both of their cautionings, neither Mesmer nor Matilda have taken great measures to dress differently for the new era- Mesmer, usually by far the more outlandish of the two, has donned a Laplace-standard labcoat, with white and chrome in strange hemispheric patterns, but Matilda still wears her SPDM Monitor Assistant garb, and despite its formality, it's quite unacceptably tomboyish for the times. The French must bring their girls up different.
Foundation Scions	. . . The process to actually arrive to the mission site is complicated- badges and forms, pre-prepared, are handed out to the Elites- fake passes and IDs that the Chicago-side will recognize, of access levels to not be questioned; as well as real passes for the interim, to keep while being shepherded around by Mesmer and Matilda, and to use for one's eventual return to Headquarters. Without current awareness of the world's possible natural warpgates, fast, long-distance travel, from the HQ in England, to Chicago, can only be facilitated by complex teleportation processes. Teams of arcanist employees, preestablished ritual chambers, and a half dozen layers of bureaucratic pass-checks on either side, are required- but it beats an era-appropriate plane ride, in time and comfort. At the other end, one exits into familiar white-and-grey checkering, bleak marble, and intentional sterility- but the architecture and the tone of the employees is the only similarity to be found. From the grand lobby, and out to the streets of downtown 1928 Chicago, an endless crowd of busy men and women flows, with places to be, trudging quietly alongside one another, remarking on the newspaper, holding tight to briefcases, and sweltering in the summer humidity. Against bitumenous asphalt and brickwork, motor-busses and the put-put-putter of automobiles echo, rattling trains on ironwork trestles forms a decoherent base note to a city sky of smog and tobacco. Money flows as fast as the filthy water in the canals, coming in en masse like the ore barges off of the Great Lakes. Drivers, from the Chicago Branch, ferry the Elites in long-hooded cars, out from the city center, past tenements, and across short, busy bridges to the gates of today's place of interest- Ford Motor Company's newest factory, the Upper Forks complex. Idle chit-chat from the drivers, and a few newspaper headlines should one have stopped to pick one up for a few cents, are full of talk about it- the largest factory, period, ever to have been built, just beating out their own previous factory in River Rouge. Their stock value is skyrocketting, their job postings are ever-more filled, as more and more Model A's roll off the assembly line here, every single day- or they would, if not for the current issue. Refineries, ore docks, coke furnaces, and metalshops fill in the cluttered footprint of an absolutely sprawling industrial tumor, spine-like smokestacks choking out the sky and shift-whistles blaring alongside the calls of nesting birds. The grand hall of a factory floor, central to the storage lots and, in theory, the busiest single spot of the entire vertical production process, is warded off by strings and cordons of both police tape and white-grey-checker banners of the Foundation. It's by there that the Foundation cars let the team out- and they don't linger, with the distant-staring crowds of workers taking lunch breaks and the general awareness that this is a disaster site of some variety, both serving as good motive to return. Before Mesmer can re-herd the group, an eerily skinny man, in a nice collared shirt, soft cap, and actively burning through a pack of lucky strike cigarettes, waves the group down- Mesmer sighs, and lets him close the gap. "Hey- you're finally here? Bunch of broads and- yeah, okay. Listen- you've got to tell the freaks that've been hovering around here, that I need this fixed. Fifteen hours yeah? You know how much even one hour of my boys not being able to push a damn thing out of these doors costs the company? Hell, one of them's still in the damn mess, if he's even still alive, so what am I gonna tell his- oh, Lord protect us, here she comes-"
Foundation Scions	The foreman- at least, it's an easy assumption to make, given his lack of introduction, turns and grimaces, as the ACD contact jogs on over from beyond the mostly-shuttered factory hall's doors. With a bright expression visible on only half of a face, silver fingers splayed out in a big, cheerful wave, an overall-clad woman, with a a film camera for a head, stops right beside the foreman. "The cavalry's here! Hiya, strangers! Smile, you're on camera- hah, came up with that one today!" She taps the side of her head. The foreman grimaces, sticking his burning cigarette back between his lips to grumble out, "Third time she's said it. The union, or the communists, or someone throws a wrench into the production like and this is who came to fix it. Please, have some real heads on your shoulders." "Ah-! Haha, mister! That's a good one, too! Mind if I write it down to remember it? Hey, I'd be glad to shake everyone's hands, but... mine are metal, can't have you squeezing something that's all cold and uncomfortable! Aha..." "A task that's meant to be subtle, and they sent an Awakened?" Mesmer mutters, sour, under her breath. Out on the gravel expanse, the overhead sun is sweltering. "Loggerhead, Arcanum Containment Department? I've heard of you. Show us in. We should get to work. Matilda, could you keep the foreman outside?" "It's a pleasure to meet- ah? Keep him, outside? Certainly! My expertise would most greatly be of use to this task, but- I can, quite handedly, ensure this..." Despite her words, Matilda looks sharply taken aback. The smoking foreman doesn't look pleased, either. "What? No, come on, you too? This heartless metal menace hasn't let me check in on anything inside all day! I've got a guy who up and disappeared, in whatever's happening inside. You can't keep me from-" Matilda, arms wide-stretched, stands between the man and the entryway he's angling towards. "Nuh-uh! We'll- I'm certain everything will work itself out, Mister foreman!" Seizing the moment, Mesmer and Loggerhead both set off to the factory floor, ushering the others in behind them.
Tamiel Luxis	Tamiel endures--and endures is indeed the word for it--the torrent of bitter scorn from Mesmer with a frown. Her shadow, behind her, crosses its arms, but her own hands remain firmly at her sides. She's dressed a little more in the style of the times, now--her halo is hidden beneath a little newsboy cap, and her wings behind a leather jacket, where she struggles to hide her discomfort, with the unintentionally rebellious decision of a pair of long pants to go with it all. "Yes ma'am." She said, sourly, happier by the second that she was associated with Vertin first and the Foundation second. This is her first venture into an America, and she has plenty of time to marvel, on the way--but it's somewhat undercut by the discomfort of squeezing her wings into her jacket. A few times, she catches it starting to push up--and she--or her shadow--has to reach up and pull it back into place. She wasn't an arcanist, but, in this world, anyone who looked at her wings or halo would probably think she was. She fiddled idly with the keychain at her belt, uneasy with the thought, as she watched the smoke belching upward from the factories. It made her feel very small. Tamiel was grateful someone else was engaging with the foremen--she was busy holding her hat down on top of her head, trying to prevent her halo from popping up. She Fled with mesmer and Loggerhead into the factory...Unaware that a bit of her wing had slipped out until she'd already taken three strides. She grabbed hold of it, flushed, as they approached. "Miss...?" She addressed the woman with a camera for a head, but didn't quite know how to address her. "Um, you've been here, right? What's it look like...?" Now that one of the shards of her wings had escaped its leather prison, she held out the iridescent shard in front of her as they scurried into the factory floor, like a dowsing rod, feeling for any currents of magic through it, in case this was, in fact, arcane.
Angela	It might be a surprise that Angela is still sending aid to Laplace, but nevertheless--agents of the Library do arrive to answer Laplace's call. Specifically Random and Justin Rook. And that means Malkuth is here overseeing them. This means that there are two Library agents who fought on Angela's side of the war, and one that was the most adamantly against her. By this point, Malkuth seems to not be radiating open resentment at her former coworkers but she's still feeling a bit ''snippy'' about it. The agents are accustomed to this kind of coarse direction both from Sephirah and from Angela herself and, lets face it, from pretty much most of the work they had in the City before then so they don't really mind it. "Yeah some of our early work was hunting Warpgates too." Justin says, neglecting to mention that they weren't looking for local warpgates. He takes it as typical intel gathering for a newly unified world. "Could be a warpgate, could be something worse." Random adds. Justin Rook and Random are armed. Justin seems to be wearing the hot pink armor of the Army in Black, with his rifle at his back. Random continues to be wielding the Children of the Galaxy EGO, which is hidden in her Librarian uniform. Malkuth didn't bring her EGO gear because it is a little too attention grabbing for this sort of job. That's why Random and Justin are here. "in other words, no talking. Just do your job and be quiet. If you have a question you can whisper to me or to the Foundation representatives." Malkuth says. They sign all the forms they are given properly and neatly, though Random and Malkuth are more fastidiuous about it whereas Random just gets them done quickly. They ride along, occassionally conversing with one another. Malkuth is frowning (except at Lilian and Rita if they're around) but otherwise remain generally professional the trip over. Justin pats his jacket pocket and frowns upon realizing he didn't bring his own smokes. He doesn't answer but. Loggerhead. Justin Rook's mouth hangs open for a moment in surprise. And then clamps his mouth shut as he smothers his shock before it can get out of bed. Malkuth's initial instinct is to hate the cameraheaded woman, but her expression softens some when she mentions taking notes down. That's someone who is doing their best, in Malkuth's eyes. "If you want we can compare notes later." Malkuth tells her. "So we can compare notes later." Indeed, she has been writing in notepad the whole time. "Pleasure to meet you Loggerhead." Generally, former Lobotomy Corp agents and Sephirah and the like don't really have much hopes for the subtlety of the Elites. But they are going to act as if everyone is professional until something egregious happens.
Rufus Shinra	> "The current era beyond these gates is the year nineteen twenty-eight, and we will be visiting the city of 'Chicago, USA'." "Oh man! I knew there were some sort of time shenanigans, but I didn't think we'd be visiting ancient cultures," says Rufus, with one hundred percent sincerity in his excitement. "I've read up on ancient 'Americanan' culture, actually. It's been on my bucket list to check out." "Right, let's see, there's... the Chicago Molasses Incident, the Blair Mountain Bombing just outside the city limits, and... the Women's Sufferage(sic) Movement is in full swing, it's hard to believe that just a few years from 1928 they'll be getting the vote. And we've gotta pick up some Chicago style pizza, you know it's authentic if you can fold it in half." "And don't worry, I've got an outfit already picked out that should blend right in." One express courier delivery later... "Yeah, see, I'll blend right on in, see," says Rufus, adjusting his gatsby and dusting off his pinstripe suit. "And if they asks too much questions, we can just shall we say provide them with a new pair of shoes. A lead pair of shoes." And then into 1928 proper... "Yeah! Yeah, this is great! It's all... kitschy-retro." Rufus whips out a camera and takes a picture of several automobiles and buildings as the group passes them. He's smart enough to have not brought a cell phone - but the camera he's packing is still a modern digital point-and-shoot. "Oh, and that smell in the air," he says in full tourist mode. "Probably you all don't know this - that's coal! It's the stuff they used to burn to create electricity. Incredibly unhealthy." He takes a photo of a smog cloud, a factory, and a dead rat in the gutter. Then they reach their contact. Rufus gets back into character. "Ah! Yeah. The communists. Those red freaks, with their free healthcare and their standard basic income. It makes you sick, it does." He nods sympathetically. "And don't even get me started on the union, see. If it were up to me, all those union freaks would be sleeping off a cement salad." Then he takes a picture of the foreman. He's not subtle about it either, he just sort of holds up his camera and clicks it once they're done talking. Someone with a camera for a head! That's... nice? She's honestly the least interesting thing here to Rufus, given that they're surrounded by authentic 19th century Americana. "Nice to meet ya, dame." And then on inward. "So- we're looking for a warpgate that's stealing cars? One that popped up right at the end of the assembly line? Fudgetaboutit."
James Bond	Bond arrives in his usual fashion, albeit dressed somewhat differently than before. Smoothing the lapels of his navy tweed check coat, he sits down for the briefing and checks his watch. It's a wrist watch in an art deco style, with a polished brass frame boasting bold, angular lines. The face appears to be polished marble with the numbers in Roman numerals. >To not be reckless maniacs. "I'll manage, somehow. You two will be changing into something more period accurate, then?" He can't resist the urge to needle about that, if she's going to impugn his professionalism. Matilda is just unfortunate collateral damage. >Mind what you say, and who you say it to. "That's the idea." Bond is used to complex, when it comes to missions. He's even made a few advance arrangements of his own with the Paladins to ensure that his usual preferred means of transportation will be available, if needed. Naturally, it's period appropriate and will pass any scrutiny as far as license, tags and registration, such as they were in 1928's America. The silver Rolls Royce parked on the curb just outside the Foundation waits for Bond patiently. "No, thank you," he says to an approaching driver pulling up. "I'll just follow you. Trust me, it's better that I do. I'm a horrible backseat driver."Noise filtering microphones hidden on the car pick up ambient chatter, and a small radio hidden in the center column of the steering wheel plays it back for him. >can't have you squeezing something that's all cold and uncomfortable!" I suppose we'll have to warm you up a little, " says Bond. >I've got a guy who up and disappeared, in whatever's happening inside. "Don't worry your head about it, old boy. We're professionals, but we do need our privacy. Here, " he says, reaching into his pocket and procuring his wallet. Bond pulls out an amount that wouldn't be unheard of for a gentleman of old-money leisure to give to a friend for a bet--for a working stiff, it's quite a lot. "For your trouble." As Bond heads in, he adjusts his tie. A microcamera hidden in the tie begins recording.
Lilian Rook	'Are you all listening?' "Unfortunately." 'Eh-? Mesmer?!? That was not at all what I was going to say-' 'It wasn't, so I had to. I won't hold it against you, but this is an important task.' "Please try to act professional." That's about the tone of Lilian's interactions with Mesmer Junior yesterday. Any more looks like she's been successfully baited by her provocation (she has), and any lss looks like she's meekly accepting it because this a job (she isn't). Of cours she listens to the briefing; nobody could accuse her of slacking when it comes to pre-mission intelligence, but her track record is being tried by having to hear it from someone so sarcastic and performatively bored. Lilian considers, for a short while, bringing up that this is the lamest briefing she's ever gotten, and that all the officers she'd worked with before hadn't taken this wildly unprofessional tone, contemplates how that might fluster Matilda, and then decides that it'd be putting her foot slightly too hard on the gas right now, conveying whininess more than being objectively superior to Mesmer in every way. These are normal things to think about. "Still . . . the United States?" Lilian says, sighing and shaking her head Britishly. "I suppose Americans never change, regardless of the time and world." she says, on her way out, about two steps of explanation short of making sense. . . . . . . . . Sonetto would be proud at how ostensibly uncomfortable Lilian is about going through paperwork for fake passes; though it's only because she already goes through so much for her real identification, and she's used to it working everywhere. She bravely soldiers on because under no circumstances is she getting on a plane in 1928, and tacitly acknowledges it even around the teleport staff. She may perhaps be halfway to laying out Foundation staff for getting too nosy by the time she's done on the other side, but even if she were flying first class with only the other Elites, that'd still be a compelling argument. Unfortunately, her research regarding the time period hadn't properly informed her of how filthy it is. Or rather, Lilian's baseline is living most of her life in a world where people couldn't burn gasoline even if they wanted to. She complains bitterly about the rancid air (even when it's really not that bad at all) and theorizes how easily it might stain her clothes (which are not nearly so carefully considered as her usual anyways, as the style of the era disagrees with her). Really, even if it's ideal for the sun and sweat while still being modest and unremarkable, it's entirely her own fault for putting on a loose-knit wool cardigan in the first place, much less an expensive one, and much less cream over white, even if it was to vaguely imply affiliation by using ~slutty~ normal little black ribbons and hemming. The dress underneath is just barely passable, even if she had to use ornamental shapewear instead of cinching it with a sash like would be normal, but she still insisted on the softer fabric that'd feel nicer and never let a mudstain out. And though she has no complaints with a pair of street-worthy slip-on heels, even her compromise skirt length forces her to keep her sidearm in a purse (crossbody still, because an arm bag was too much to ask). At the very least she had the good sense to tie her hair up, which dials her just below the threshold of walking around like she thinks she's from an anime. Unfortunately, the first thing she does upon seeing the Ford factory is to tilt her head, snap her fingers a few times trying to remember something, and then say, "Ah, just like in 'Brave New World'. He should be practically a godhead to the Americans around this time, shouldn't he?"
Lilian Rook	'Hey- you're finally here? Bunch of broads and- yeah, okay.' Lilian looks mildly stunned, which is good for seeming very professional and above-all-this in front of a mere foreman. Mostly she's just processing the fact that being a recipient of open passive misogyny has suddenly reminded her of how eerily long it's been lately. It's almost a relief. Like the other shoe finally dropped and it was just this fucking guy. 'You know how much even one hour of my boys not being able to push a damn thing out of these doors costs the company?' "Let's not go comparing how much our time is worth, shall we?" Lilian replies, like a rich person. "There's an arcane disturbance disrupting the duties of loyal everyday workers. That's reason enough for any honourable man or woman to want to see it dealt with as soon as possible." She is sweetly insinuating that her hour makes more money, by the way. 'Smile, you're on camera- hah, came up with that one today!' Lilian smiles effortlessly. §Wow what a freak. And how did you only just think that? You replaced half your head with a camera. Are lobotomies even invented yet?§ "Charmed all the same." she says to Loggerhead, on the subject of shaking hands. Squeezing metal in her hands ranks up there as one of Lilian's all-time top activities, but those are probably all oily and sooty. 'Matilda, could you keep the foreman outside?' Lilian sighs. She isn't hiding the fact that she was really hoping Matilda would come in and Mesmer would slack off by keeping the foreman out of it. "No trouble with men indeed . . ." she repeats, bitterly and quietly. "Considering how severe the situation is, I'd prefer that you didn't risk disappearing yourself, sir." she says to the foreman on her way past. "Lucky strikes? Really?"
Rita Ma	"Are you all listening?" Well, now Rita's listening slightly less. She sniffs a tiny bit, eyes wandering off to the side. Even the Watch's most presentable, professional, level-headed representative (or so Lilian thinks, and thus she's internalized) can allow herself a teeny bit of brattiness. ... tries to mouth a little apology at the others. She does give Matilda a sympathetic little smile though, whether or not Matilda will want sympathy from her. The airplane ride is benign enough. Rita sits away from Random and Rook, but still tries to give Malkuth a friendly little wave: "I'm really glad to see you're getting out too, Ms. Malkuth. It was... good working with you, back then." . . . Oh, thank goodness. A lady with a camera for a head. Finally, someone acting normal. Rita does her very best to stiffly smile and not look over at the foreman during 'union or the communists' and instead steps in to shake Loggerhead's hand: "It's okay if it's cold! It's still nice to meet you. I'm Rita." Uh, that is what her ID card said, right? It is now. "Ah! Yeah. The communists. Those red freaks..." Now she can't stop herself from staring. Rita looks down at her own outfit- her usual cut, but a professional white/tan/black to better fit the Foundation's stylings- and then back over at Rufus's pinstripe suit. "Why are you talking like that, Mr. Rufus?" she pronounces skeptically. "Nobody else is. And it's a little creepy." Entering the factory floor, Rita takes a little sniff of the air to see if she can scent blood- or maybe a foreign breeze from the other side of a warpgae. The oil and paint will probably make her regret it, though. Yuck.
Lilian Rook	Once they're through the doors, Lilian actually asks Rufus, after all this time, "So why is it 'hard to believe' we'll get to vote, hm?" She smiles with a little bit of an edge. "No wrong answers." Sadly, as far as she can tell, he does fit in; he just also looks like a dork, objectively. 'Probably you all don't know this - that's coal!' "Really?" She didn't. Lilian wrinkles her nose in disgust. 'For your trouble.' "Well aren't you a gentleman?" she says to Bond, dropping some of her unassuming formality so she can be properly cheeky. "And the car? Did you really have to? Or are there pop-up machine guns under the headlamps? Caltrops that fly out the back bumper?" Justin patting himself down for smokes, for once, makes Rufus not even close to the male in the room earning the most aggro from her. Lacing her fingers together behind her back, Lilian sways herself closer to Angela's group, says "Hello Malkuth." brightly enough, and then cozying up to Justin, says "If it weren't for the laws of this place I'd have slaughtered you where you stand." before wandering off separately again. 'Why are you talking like that, Mr. Rufus?' "Nouveau riche." Lilian answers Rita, finally letting her metaphorical hair down nearly all the way. She scans as much of the factory floor as she can, popping her fingers while she performs the first level sweep of trying to pinpoint any magical energy that would escape the notice of an ordinary human. She doesn't intend to go future-ing unless that comes up blank.
James Bond	>Did you really have to? "Yes " >Are there machine guns that pop out of the headlights? Caltrops out the back? Bond gives Lilian a smug smile which all but says 'do you have to ask?' "There were a few optional extras available on the '26 Ghost, and the coachmaker was very accommodating." His little joke out of the way, he clarifies: "I thought it might be useful to have something with passenger space in case there's something other, or more than, a gate involved. We've been taken by surprise before." He means like with Regulus and her escape methods.
Angela	Malkuth smiles at Rita. "LOVELY to see you, Rita. If there's anything I can do for ''you'', well, I certainly owe you more than one! You've been so true to us back when we were LobCorp. It was wonderful having a pair of 'true'' friends around." She gives Lilian a friendly wave as well. "And you too, Dame Commander! Please consider me at your disposal here. And I'll make sure these two stay on a short leash." Justin looks over to Lilian, eyes widening considerably, considering who is saying it. He breathes in, then exhales, and he says, "See you're still upset. I'll stay out of--" Malkuth clears her throat, interrupting him. "Mission chatter only please~" Justin grimaces. Random doesn't seem to really be getting the same kind of ire--probably because of course they followed Justin. That's how they've always been.
Foundation Scions	Matilda hadn't quite expected Rita Ma to be one of the Elites to heed the call- when she spots her turn the corner from the warpgate chamber. The little jump is easier to hide than the fact she takes a half-step behind Mesmer- and stares at Rita's approach just a bit too long. "Oh. Ms. Ma... You- I see! Welcome, again..! Or, welcome, for the first time, as you technically were not supposed to have been here before, so...." Matilda's nervous smile can't just be from awkwardness. She has, quite clearly, studied what the Foundation knows about her- and she is, equally clearly, quite scared. 'Yeah some of our early work was hunting Warpgates too.' "Oh. So I ought to call you an expert, then?" Girl come on. "We're hoping to make the running theory certain. Are you volunteering to test it?" 'I'll manage, somehow. You two will be changing into something more period accurate, then?' "Hmm. There's a reputation of eccentricity to uphold, amongst arcanist organizations. But you're right. Matilda, don't you think that's a little much?" "Hein? You said this would be sufficient, as it's a formal Foundation assignment- ahh, what to do.." 'I've read up on ancient 'Americanan' culture, actually.' Mesmer grimaces like she's been hit in the stomach. Matilda quietly giggles, though- "Three quarters of a decade, only! In fact, ah, mon grand-père, he lived from even before here, to almost..." She trails off- the gap in speech makes it audible that Mesmer is, under her breath, begging for Rufus to shut up. 'in other words, no talking. Just do your job and be quiet.' +1 Reputation Point with Mesmer Jr. 'Please try to act professional.' -1 Reputation Point with Mesmer Jr. Mesmer doesn't squint her eyes to stare Lilian's way- but she tangibly wants to, or to crack a pencil she's holding, if she had one. "Hm." . . . >Rufus pulls out a camera Rufus feels a cold glare before Mesmer even speaks up- "Back in the pocket, or so help me-" Her tone is taut and whispered, such that it's uncertain if she's genuinely personally upset or purely angry about a breach in protocol. "Don't cause a scene bringing something like that out, and don't make me cause a scene. And I will, right here on these steps-" She pulls back, heels clacking on the marble stairs down from the Foundation branch to the street. 'I'll just follow you. Trust me, it's better that I do. I'm a horrible backseat driver.' The Foundation driver happily acquiesces, but Bond's car attracts a different point of attention- Matilda Bouanich, eagerly ooh-ing and ah-ing at the fancier ride. "How expedient of you to arrange something like that so quickly-!" She won't up and ask, but the type of hovering Matilda is doing around Bond is, clearly, the 'can I ride with you in your fancy car?' sort. . . . 'Let's not go comparing how much our time is worth, shall we?' "Aw, come on, be serious. Eyes of the world on us here, a model of things going forwards, and it's been sabotaged? 'Course it's about the money. I don't need to be talked at like this." He scratches the side of his head, dragging deep at his cigarette. "Sooner the better. Sooner the better." Bond's pass-over of cash surprises the foreman, but it, does, seem to pacify him a bit- the strange words Rufus starts spouting, on the other hand? They earn him a confused, baffled, and vaguely-interested stare, while Matilda still wards him off of following.
Foundation Scions	Loggerhead is surprised anyone actually bothers to shake her hand- Bond and Rita find that she isn't exaggerating at all, unflexing metal with utterly no internal heat, that hasn't been sitting out in the sun, that's what she has for hands- "Hah, wow, you guysss, I said it's fine! I- hang on, I'll pull my sleeves over them, so it isn't- aha..." Bashful camera robot! 'It's still nice to meet you. I'm Rita.' "Rita! I'm Latham- eh, but you can just call me Loggerhead, that's my name too, or so I guess! I'll make real sure to remember yours!" Something about the way she says she'll remember, makes it seem like she won't. 'If you want we can compare notes later,' 'So we can compare notes later.' "Ohhhhh, I'd just love to! Yes! About what?" 'Um, you've been here, right? What's it look like...?' "It looks like nothing! I can show you, if you pull the tape off the back of my head and reel it back a bit- hang on, don't do that right now! That could be messy!" 'Lucky strikes? Really?' "An economical choice. But..." Mesmer exhales. "A bad one. I regret inhaling around him." Past the factory doors is quite the alien sight. The final assembly floor of a plant like this ought to be abuzz with workers riveting down engine blocks and fastening pre-painted body panels onto rolling chassis, sending car after car finished out through the doorway, but instead, everything is frozen still. Tools half-neatly arranged, with nothing at all left in a rush, but machine parts abound, and the husks of barely-incomplete cars form orderly queues along tracks in the floor. Near the center, they abruptly stop. Sunlight streams in from windows high-above, filtered through heavy aerial dust, but it catches odd in a rough column around the same place where the cars disappear. Around it, with a decent precautionary margin, it seems Loggerhead has been hard at work- demarcated borders with ribbon flags and chalk, as well as a few outlines of in-progress ritualwork around even that. Nothing confirming what the anomaly is- but the C in ACD stands for 'containment'. They're work-in-progress enough to still exude traces of active magic, and it's easy to guess their purpose is, probably, to ensure this doesn't 'spread', or if it does, have some manner of warning. "I kept tossing in nuts and bolts, isn't it really neat how perfect a circle it is? It's really like some sort of fancy special effects, a mirror screen you toss things at and they dissapear, but..." Not at all like that, really? Rita, however, gets quite a bit of information- oil, coalsmoke, tobacco, engine grease, and diesel, all absolutely fill the air- but so does something sharper, ozone and geosmin petrichor. Outside, it doesn't seem to have rained that recently- and it absolutely hasn't inside. There is a scent of blood- but it isn't from the factory floor, instead, it clings to Mesmer Jr- not an unusual scent for her. It's not fresh, but with a parallel reek of antiseptic sanitizers, it could be her or just a facet of her medical duties. "So, tell me, if it's one of those Laplace doohickies, the stuff that's gone through, can it come back?" Loggerhead cranes her head to the side. "I don't think I've seen how they're supposed to work! Or if I have... it'd take a while to check!" She gives a happy-go-lucky thumbs up. "They can. Hopefully. Or maybe it's all destroyed. Who wants to find out?"
Rufus Shinra	> "Back in the pocket, or so help me-" The camera goes back into the pocket. "Ugh, fine, fine, but we're stopping for postcards or something on the way back." > "Why are you talking like that, Mr. Rufus?Nobody else is. And it's a little creepy." Rufus deflates a little bit. "It's- it's called dressing the part," he says. "I mean here we are in the golden age, right? And it's like I'm the only one excited to be here? There's so much to love here, you know?" > "So why is it 'hard to believe' we'll get to vote, hm?" "I mean..." This feels like some sort of trap, but Rufus can't figure out what the trap is. "... Back before washing machines and such are invented, women wouldn't have time? You'd be so busy with the housework, and kids, and making dinner," he says. "Having to go vote would be just even more workload on top of all of that." Just in case it is a trap: "I think women are fully capable of being able to vote, for the record." There we go! Rufus has a very progressive view. He waits patiently for people to praise him for having such forward-thinking opinions. > "Nouveau riche." Rufus has gotten plenty of flack from plenty of people, most of it rightly deserved. This time, though, he looks as though Lilian has just slapped him right across the face without provocation. "Excuse me, miss old money. Fucking priveleged..." he mutters. "Probably had six personal chefs growing up, while the rest of us had to scrape by with just one..." On to the factory proper! And... the 'warpgate'. Rufus lingers towards the back of the group, examining it from afar. "Huh." "... Well," he says, glancing up at the ceiling as he starts walking forward. "Well, we can-" Since he's obviously and clearly looking up at the ceiling, and not paying attention to the ground, he trips. What exactly he's tripped on isn't clear. "Whoa! Watch out! I'm falling!" He stumbles, ending up stumbling directly into James Bond, and in his panic he gives James a big, entirely accidental push, towards the anomaly. And then he does actually fall - entirely coincidentally landing in a way that lets him watch what happens if James ends up going through.
James Bond	Yes, Matilda, you can ride with Bond. He doesn't say as much out loud, but the look he gives her is probably one she's used to getting. I can show you, if you pull the tape off the back of my head and reel it back a bit- "Maybe later." The quiet of the factory line has Bond frowning in thought. He takes an impromptu, one-person tour around the final assembly floor, allowing the camera in his tie to pick up a complete picture of the room. He stops at the ring of sunlight. I kept tossing in nuts and bolts, isn't it really neat how perfect a circle it is? "That was good work," he says. "Thorough. No wonder they sent you." They can. Hopefully. Or maybe it's all destroyed. Who wants to find out? "No need to send someone through. Just a moment." It's a simple matter to activate the exploration mode on the camera in his tie; the blue fabric isn't an inescapable prison for something that small. He lifts his wristwatch and takes a look at the face. A gentle press of his thumb against the square frame activates the watch's interface. "I'd guess that a monumental pileup and sheer confusion are all that's keeping them from coming back. Still, it never hurts to be--" A decidedly un-gentle collision of Rufus into his back sends him stumbling forward into the gate.
Tamiel Luxis	Tamiel's shard pulls toward the ritualwork, and she pauses, examines it. Her knowledge of it wasn't exact--but she recognizes enough to know that it wouldn't have caused this. She breathes, pulling her jacket off. Her wings spring free, and she nearly shudders with relief. The shards twitch and stretch through the air. She steps by Rita, "If he's still alive, I can find him," she murmured, a shy comfort. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. There's a desperation, here. A sifting for a safe tomorrow, a the overpowering desperation of a tomorrow that won't be heard. It was always nerve-wracking, to sift through prayers, to brush some aside, looking for another...But today, she was looking for someone specific. Perhaps someone trapped...Or lost...Or imperiled... If you're still here... Tamiel beckoned, ...tell me what you need... "Whoa! Watch out! I'm falling!" Tamiel's eyes slipped open, a little disorientated from milling through prayers, and her eyes grow suddenly wide as she watches Bond stumble forward. "No...!" Her halo abruptly asserts itself, sending her little newsboy cap comically up into the air. She feels shock, and then, she's moving, leaping to try to pull Bond out of the way-- --But she's too slow. He's through, and she's, evidently, following.
Lilian Rook	Lilian wants to look sympathetic to Rita. She tries to give her a look that conveys her earnest condolences that Matilda, who was fine with her before, is suddenly acting like she's a dangerous predator. She even thinks of various reassurances to say to Matilda, before realizing they aren't at all reassuring. But in the end, the implied shrug she motions at Rita with means only 'you knew this would happen eventually', and 'at least her reaction is sensible'; but her eyes quietly say 'better you than me'. 'Excuse me, miss old money. Fucking priveleged...' "Begging your pardon, Rita. He is, indeed, 'creepy'." Lilian drily remarks before she can get anywhere emotionally complicated with that. "And deal with it, Shinra. It isn't the amount of money, but how you represent to the rest of the world that you have it. We look down on people like you because you act exactly like this; desperately wanting to live up the life, but also still be one of the 'little people' who can shake a fist up at on high, only managing to act like you don't know how to be normal or classy." She shakes her head. "It's just embarrassing. Pick a lane." Yay! She didn't get weird about the concept of relative privilege! Immaculate kayfabe maintained! It's even as if she quietly agrees she had a better upbringing than him! She's back, baby! 'Course it's about the money. I don't need to be talked at like this.' If James Bond hadn't already done it, Lilian would have flipped through a stack of bills and said "Then I'll pay you this to stop talking at all." 'I'll make real sure to remember yours!' At least Loggerhead turned out to be kind of a cutie? And is apparently 'an Awakened' like Flamel, and not a lobotomized movie cyborg. Which is better. Lilian can't help the tilt of her head at the two names, though. "Like the turtle?" she says, politely clueless. "May I ask what your employment here is?" 'hang on, don't do that right now! That could be messy!' Lilian opens her mouth and holds a hasty rejection to the idea, hangs silent as the expected feeling of bizarre disgust fails to materialize, and then the word 'messy' makes her shut her mouth, and her pause turns into a frown of concern. 'A bad one. I regret inhaling around him.' Lilian's tone is a little weary, perhaps even put-upon, that she has to say, "If you're going to smoke, then budget for it properly or don't start at all." 'I kept tossing in nuts and bolts, isn't it really neat how perfect a circle it is?' "What? And you didn't even try tying a string to one or something?" Lilian blurts out, only a moment later realizing that she sounds like she thinks Loggerhead must be fairly stupid. "Ah, going by the way you described it, I was surprised." she says, stopping to dust imaginary particles off her skirt. 'So, tell me, if it's one of those Laplace doohickies, the stuff that's gone through, can it come back?' "We don't know for certain that what's on the other side can't come back already." says Lilian, shrugging off the cardigan and folding it up under arm to put in her bag. "If someone there couldn't, it could be for any number of utterly mudane reasons. For instance, if it leads somewhere, and that place is above a body of water, someone swimming naturally wouldn't be able to clamber back through." Tucking away the loose knit into her bag, Lilian is deprived of the illusion of real sleeves, clearly wearing a slightly anachronistic halter neck to her dress despite the Britishly fashionable lace-up black overwaist. "In other words, there's no need to start imagining up fantastical mysteries regarding a phenomena that could still be mathematically simple, and resolved with merely--" 'Still, it never hurts to be--' "For fuck's sake! Can't you keep it together for ten minutes?! You absolute reprobate!"
Lilian Rook	Of course Lilian heard Rufus telegraph his fall-over, but she hadn't expected anything to happen. It's only Bond cutting himself off that tells her anything's wrong at all, and then she turns around so fast that her heel squeaks on a certainly not waxed factory floor. The frustration that bubbles up to the surface is so obviously something very old and oft-managed that anyone could tell she's shouting at not just Rufus, but the spectre of every Elite that's ever been like him. "Come on!" she fumes, storming over just to grab him off the floor by the back of his collar, saying "Since it's come to this already!" and then hurling him like luggage through the gate to 'help' him. "Latham." Lilian snaps, suddenly all business. Everything from her tone to her stare to her body language shifts like a gear switch when she looks back over her shoulder, pulling the black chain from around her neck and looping it thrice around her hand with a well-practiced flick. "Stay near Mesmer Junior. If you feel that you're in danger, stay within thirty meters of me instead." Mere seconds after the fall, she looks to the others, and says "Let's move it people! Nothing out of the ordinary! Keep your eyes open!" and leaps after Bond.
Rita Ma	'you knew this would happen eventually' 'at least her reaction is sensible' 'better you than me' Rita's sad little nod to Lilian is sensible, too. She did know it'd happen. That's the reaction she almost craves; or at least, it's the antidote to her constant overdose of polite tolerance. She didn't pursue Matilda for a reason. ---- "Miss Latham! You're with the Foundation too, Miss Mesmer said? And you're an Awakened, like...?" 'Like Mr. Apple', she almost says, but someone from this world would surely be familiar with the concept. Instead: "I really like your outfit! With the little coat and all. It... reminds me of a friend." "There's so much to love here, you know?" Rita droopily relents. Rufus is kind of doing his best, right? And she's being mean to him, for no super good reason (besides finding him annoying) (and fighting him to the death a few months ago), just like on Apple Tree. "Sorry, Mr. Rufus. You're right. It is a little fun, isn't it? There's just a lot on my mind," she smiles politely. But then... "I think women are fully capable of being able to vote, for the record." Oh no. Rita's eyes widen. She glances at the foreman and the other present locals, then sort of huddles up with Lilian and Rufus, looking obviously concerned like she's going to give him a Friendly Sensitivity Lesson. Instead, what tumbles out of her mouth is: "What do you mean, women couldn't vote? That's weird?" "If he's still alive, I can find him..." "I don't think he's dead at least, Ms. Tamiel," Rita advises, stepping onto the factory floor with the containment diagrams. (If he is, it must be a very clean disintegration.) "I can smell rain on the other side, so I think it's a two-way gate. But then why isn't he coming back? Is it just two-way for air...?" Malkuth's effusiveness, even if it's to snub someone else, makes Rita perk up sunnily as she starts to crouch by the diagrams. "Of course, Ms. Malkuth! I think I'm doing fine for now, but... you, too. I hope the Library's being kind to you? I know it can't really be easy, working with... you know... everyone, again. But I'm here in your corn--" Just before Rita can do any funny investigations of her own, James gets bumped through in front of her. Oh. Uh. I really hope this doesn't disintegrate people. Just to be sure, Rita unravels a cloaked tentacle from her sleeve- it's as if part of herjacket just disintegrates- and sweeps it through the cylinder, ensuring that living flesh isn't harmed by the transition, and that one can notionally return. That confirmed, and with a hasty little glance to Lilian, she pounces through too.
Angela	Malkuth kind of gets the vibe that Mesmer is a few bad weeks from taking over Laplace's systems and making it everybody else's problems. And so, obviously, she immediately feels immense sympathy for her. She doesn't know much about Laplace but she knows what kind of places that big experimental research facilities are. And the sort of people who work there. Some people don't take good enough care of their own lives and end up killing themselves for, worst of all, no scientific gain! ''Ohhhhh, I'd love to! Yes! About what?'' "Ah." Malkuth says, wondering if there's a misunderstanding. "About the--" She was about to say mission, caught off guard about the question, before realizing that Loggerhead must be carefully avoiding saying things that might set off alarm bells. "Day." She ultimately says. "When working it's good to make sure everyone's on the same page." ''I regret inhaling around him.'' Malkuth looks at Justin Rook. He continues to be a stoic guy, but his shoulders slouch ever so slightly. Out of all the Sephirah, he still respects her the most, so this is a unique torment for him, however earned. ''Who wants to find out?'' "Justin." Malkuth says. "Take a look. We can restore you so the risk should be relatively minimal." And without complaint, Justin immediately just walks on through the anomoly without a moment's hesitation. But then he sees James tumbling in and he swears and rushes to try and catch him by his incredible suit only to end up just running all thew ay through because he doesn't make it before Bond passes through or before Lilian does either. Malkuth of course doesn't run through that'd be crazy. She holds Random back from running on through themself. "It's--fine Rita, I'm treated fine. But we should probably wait--" ''She pounces through too.'' "...Why...."
Foundation Scions	>Factory Floor 'Like the turtle?' The woman tilts the aperature of her camera-face upwards, and taps her own chin. "Hmmm. I don't know? I think I'd remember if a turtle was my namesake. I can check later! Or just go through some documentaries... I'm 'Loggerhead' because I'm a loggerhead! A..." Then, holding a hand up to the side of her mouth to half-whisper, "It's kind of a rude thing to call someone, but it's a little endearing for it to be a nickname, I think! That's why all my buddies do it. Aha.." Quietly, Mesmer Jr., not even one of Latham's coworkers, pinches the bridge of her nose. It's that, or stare absolute daggers at Rita for the smell comments. 'May I ask what your employment here is?' "Oh! Yep, yep! St. Pavlov Foundation Arcanum Containment Department, I'm the lucky gal on-call for today! I think I was on-call yesterday, too? Hang on, I wrote it down-" Her Foundation pin is holding a long, folded-up note list to her chest, which she unclips to look through. "Yep! Today, yesterday, the day before... wait, I think I've got it right, what's the date? Oh- but, doing stuff like this, that's what they call me in for! Securing, analyzing, and cataloguing all sorts of strange anomalies... you should see how big the archives are back at headquarters! Oh, wow, but nothing beats getting out and about into the thick of things, too, so... two things can be good!" 'And you're an Awakened, like...?' Latham taps the camera part of her head. "I sure am! Did the camera give it away? I'm glad you like my outfit, I..." She pauses. "I think I've had it forever? Or I made it myself, or I bought it somewhere..? Ohhh, I bet it's in one of my tapes..." 'Thorough. No wonder they sent you.' 'What? And you didn't even try tying a string to one or something?' Conflicting praise and scolding! Latham looks a wee bit dazed, swaying side to side like her head is just too heavy. "I've been busy," She says, trying to answer both sides in one phrase. The clearest prayer Tamiel can find, coming from the other side of the warpgate, is, concisely, "God, please, please get me the hell out of here," confirming both that the worker is alive, and that he went through the warpgate. Yay! Once on the other side, it'd be a useful line to find him. 'Stay near Mesmer Junior.' "Okey-dokey!" "Excuse me? I didn't agree to-" Latham scoots next to Mesmer, accidentally shoulder-checking her- Mesmer flinches, and looks like she's about to snarl- and her expression flattens again. Babysitting it is.
Foundation Scions	>Through the Warpgate It is, in fact, a natural warpgate- Rufus's act quite quickly dispels the illusion that it could be some instant-death disappearing zone, by the fact that neither James Bond nor James Bond's camera instantly die. Rita's tendril winds up unharmed as well- it isn't one-way by its nature, even if nothing yet has come through. More of what lies beyond is revealed, as one by one, the whole party comes through- Rain pelts down hard and heavy from a clouded-grey sky, but despite a clear twilight hour, the world on the other side is bright. The long-distance reflection of light pollution, and the short-distance glow of buildings wrapped in neon and holoprojections dispel any notion that this could be their Earth, if it even is one, as the hallmarks of a far more futuristic city than even 1999 could offer abound. The actual site of the circular warpgate area, is roughly ten feet off the dug-out ground of some abandoned construction site. This drop would be far more of a problem, were it not for a crumpling pile of Ford Model A cars starting to fill it in like haphazard physics assets in a 3d game engine. It's fenced off, the dirt ground is terribly muddy, and while sprawling skyscrapers fill the horizon until they dissapear into the clouds, the area is shockingly quiet- strip mall franchises, distribution warehouses, you name it, and the backalleys of a glittering gem of greed most certainly has it. Tamiel can immediately pinpoint where the worker went- blurrier now, amidst the looming metropolis, but unique in tone- a 1928 man has been plunked down into Cyber-Neo-Somewhere, and without intervention he will never forget this. He's hunched up against the chainlink gate, unsure why he can read the warning text on its posted signs, and has been quietly waiting for the rain to stop. Those who bother to check the visible billboards will note some of the brands aren't unfamiliar to staples in warp-hubs and clearly long-integrated worlds, and the currency symbols at the pay-day loans are those of commonwealth credits instead of something local. Mesmer, falling down onto the roof of a car, stumbles and curses- but when Latham falls down beside her, the car dents. Her metal frame isn't tin-foil, clearly. "Stupid- you could have killed me, watch out!" "Huh? Oh! Didn't see you there, aha..." "So. We didn't die. Where's the target? I want to get out of here, and out of this rain-" Mid-sentance, Mesmer Jr. is stunlocked by the fear someone will joke that this counts as a shower. "And back to somewhere sensible. We'll have to let the foreman know this anomaly, won't, go away. I'm not excited for that, but I'm less excited for- this. Please tell me the moron who went through just fell somewhere, and is unconscious..." As Tamiel already knows- he isn't.
James Bond	"--safe." The word is uttered with a particular resignation, a desire to finish the sentence only to make whatever cosmic observer happens to be observing aware of the irony. If there had been a river of lava or a sixty foot drop or something like that, he could very well have died. So, perhaps the irony isn't overwhelming, but it's enough. "That would be the pileup, then," Bond says as the others come through, motioning towards it with a thumb as he grows steadily more wet. He'd brought an umbrella. It's in the Rolls. There'd been enough time for him to get a grapnel from his watch around a bare I-beam and clamber out of the pit of Model As, avoiding a stumble like the one Mesmer made. Bond does bother to check the billboards, before following Tamiel. He asides to Mesmer, along the way: "We'll also want to have someone by to clean up on this end. Anyone who wanders out this way is bound to wonder how it came to be filled with old relics in near-pristine condition. There's no way to destroy one, but people have had some success with things like irises, doors, gatehouses, and so on." "I recognize a lot of the signs out there," he says, "So this place has been Unified for some time. It wouldn't be much trouble to find the company that owns this place and buy the plot." Which is exactly what he makes movements to do, through surreptitious glances at the digital facade on his watch.
Lilian Rook	'It's kind of a rude thing to call someone, but it's a little endearing for it to be a nickname, I think! That's why all my buddies do it. Aha..' Lilian presses her lips together, and tries not to let her expression waver. 'I've been busy' "It's fine. You're doing your best." Lilian says, moments before it all goes down. "I apologize for pushing, when you're obviously overloaded." she says, eyes drifting down to the huge set of clip notes. Of course she's already thinking about it; why she keeps mentioning 'tapes' and how she'd just said as much that they store memories of what she's seen. Does the Foundation keep demanding them from her? That's kind of fucked up if they don't let her keep enough to remember her own schedule. Or is it something weirder? Or perhaps Mesmer is right and she's just kind of a scatterbrained goober they have out here because she's expendable. 'Excuse me? I didn't agree to-' Lilian doesn't even bother answering. The elevated urgency of the situation reduces how much she cares about her catfight with Mesmer to just about zero for now. . . . . . . . . "Oh fuck me." Lilian, wearing a white summer dress, and carrying zero umbrellas, reacts to the feeling of rain about as patiently as she can. Holding her arm over her head as reflex, only succeeding in keeping her face somewhat dry, she quickly assesses the total lack of building that she's under, and-- -----[stop]----- Lilian lowers her arm, grimaces at the feeling of raindrops soaking into her sleeve, like she'd just spilled a glass of cold water on her desk and put her arm down on it, and stares off into the distance. Without the constant, rapid motion of an untrackable number of raindrops, it's difficult for her eyes to actually look past it all and focus on the outlines of buildings. With so many frozen at once, no matter which way she turns her head, it's like looking at the world through a tube of rippled privacy glass. Walking literally anywhere would soak her to the bone even worse than she already is. "And fuck my life." Lilian moans. "Why did I write down teleportation again? This always happens. And worse--" she starts to gesture, voice rising emphatically in the clammy, suffocatingly cold silence, then stops herself just before she gets herself any wetter. "--at this rate my bra's going to show in seconds! I swear to--" Suddenly bringing up one arm to bite her thumbnail, Lilian stares wide-eyed out of the corner of her vision, and says, "I might have to stab Shinra's eyes out. Would he notice? He'd know it was me, wouldn't he? I mean, I've already dont it before. Haven't I? I don't think I just imagined it . . ." Lilian works herself back to uncertainty trying to recall LobCorp, then shakes her head, wincing at extra stagnant raindrops splashed near her eyes. "No no no no. I'll just--" She looks at Tamiel. "Easy, but Rita would raise a fuss." then Rufus, "Wouldn't be caught dead." and then finally Loggerhead. "Sorry, Latham. I promise I won't take advantage of this again." she-- -----[start]----- --sighs, ducking close to the cover of a dumped car whilst holding Loggerhead's outer jacket over her head, raising her voice to be heard. "Apologies, Miss Latham, but do you mind if I hang on to this?" she says, wiggling the coat a little. "I noticed you dropped it, and, well--" She doesn't really have to finish her sentence. Even Loggerhead has eyes, in simile. 'And back to somewhere sensible. We'll have to let the foreman know this anomaly, won't, go away.' "That's hardly our problem now is it?! Have the bastards seal it in concrete, build something inconspicuous around it, and then move the f--bloody production line! Easy as that!" she says.
Tamiel Luxis	When Tamiel flies through, there's a moment of weightlessness--but she's too well-adapted to the air to feel the lurch. Mindlessly, her wings spread, as though there is no rational reason that the floating shards should catch the air or buoy her, her fall is steadied, slowed. She darks down to bond, and then to the others as they filter through, to make double-sure that the fall on some pile of cars wouldn't hurt-- --She winced as Loggerhead came crashing down into a car. "Are you okay? Any injuries...?" She fussed, but Mesmer was well enough to whine, and Loggerhead seemed ambivalent, and that reassured her enough to move on. "Well... You're not going to like this." Tamiel's glance toward Mesmer was not particularly sympathetic, before she turned her focus to the missing worker. She bent her knees and leapt, propelled through the air, making sure to let herself hang as long as she could as a signpost. She lands, softly, on the ground, hands held up, palms outstretched, as if to say, I'm no threat, I'm here to help. "I'm sure it's been awful, sir." she commiserates, wings pulling inward. "We're here to help you get home to Chicago." She avoids approaching just yet, until she puts him at ease. "What's your name? Are you hurt?"
Rufus Shinra	> "We look down on people like you because you act exactly like this; desperately wanting to live up the life, but also still be one of the 'little people' who can shake a fist up at on high, only managing to act like you don't know how to be normal or classy." And this hits Rufus a bit too squarely. "Okay. First of all, fuck you." He doesn't have a second point. > "What do you mean, women couldn't vote? That's weird?" Rufus is entirely bracing for the Friendly Sensitivity Lesson as Rita moves in. When he doesn't get it, this throws him off guard. "Uh-" He should probably bank some points here, he figures. It's a balancing act of a game. If he earns points, he can spend them later, and there's far too many more opportunities to spend points than there are to earn them. Rufus rolls on his Resistance Lore skill. "Yeah, it was like, you had to be a man, and white, and own land, and sometimes other things, in order to vote in a lot of places. If you tried to vote regardless, you got arrested. It was pretty messed up? And people had to go to a lot of effort in order to change it." "Everyone should get the vote." Yes. Then: "They should get the vote, even if voting doesn't actually matter all that much, elected positions are nothing more than figureheads, and the real power is all controlled by the corporations." He recites this conspiracy theory with the absolute certainty of someone who knows it's true because he's in on it. Back in the present, Rufus finds himself getting picked up (like a suitcase!) and hurled through the portal. Out of all the possible consequences for his actions, this was one he didn't foresee! He stands up, dusts himself off, locates his gatsby, dusts it off as well, and then puts it back on. "Sorry about that James. I'm glad you're alright," he says. Tamiel doesn't get an apology. > "That's hardly our problem now is it?! Have the bastards seal it in concrete, build something inconspicuous around it, and then move the f--bloody production line! Easy as that!" "It's a lot more satisfying to shake your fist in the other direction," he notes to Lilian. He is, perhaps fortunately, not aware of her predicament.
Lilian Rook	'It's a lot more satisfying to shake your fist in the other direction' "Rufus Shinra." Lilian says, uncommonly using someone's full name, in the way that she prefers the last one but needs a second one for emphasis. "You're a betting man, aren't you? A real casino afficionado. In your opinion, what are the odds that, were I to raise a vote here as to whether we bury you here and all swear that you never came through the other side, it might pass?" You see, it's all a very upper class social heuristic for a lot of careful and delicate explanation about the proper place and time for relitigating arguments about certain things. Don't worry. Or forget it. You wouldn't understand unless you're rich. "Where did that Luxis bird fuck off to?" she exasperates next, before getting the radio call that she's retrieving the unlucky Chicago worker; at which point Lilian decides that's such a milk run that she wouldn't debase herself trying to beat her to it even if it weren't raining. 'It wouldn't be much trouble to find the company that owns this place and buy the plot' "Easily approved by HQ." Lilian grumbles. "But only useful if the factory swears to secrecy on their side too. We're going to need a cover story. Something that blames someone unpopular but ultimately irrelevant." After a second, she says, non-sequitur. "I'd have caught you if it were a cliff, by the way."
Rufus Shinra	> "In your opinion, what are the odds that, were I to raise a vote here as to whether we bury you here and all swear that you never came through the other side, it might pass?" Rufus's mouth says: "Point," and then doesn't say anything more than that. Rufus's brain goes over the list of who's here, how much social capital he's earned and spent, how much control he thinks Angela has over her Librarians (and how much she'd care about him and her yet-outstanding favor), how much sway Lilian has, and how much people actually would go through with it instead of just joking about it, and comes up with a moneyline: +450 (or 1:4.5) These are very good odds in his favor. But merely 'very good', with the probability notably not being zero. He doesn't say anything more on the topic.
Rita Ma	Rita lands in a three-point crouch, as her usual. The first thing she registers is-- "Mr. Bond!! ... Oh, you're alright. Thank goodness..." It seems like the 'river of lava' eventuality was on her mind too. The second thing she notices is the rain. Her heart jumps up into her throat, for just a second. Rain. Here. But it's not that rain, and it's not that 'here'. It drizzles only downward, flowing off her as if her hair and skin and clothes were latex. Giving a send-off nod to Tamiel, Rita scurry-clambers over to where Loggerhead's fallen- "Ms. Latham! Um, and Ms. Mesmer; you're both alright?"- and tries to offer the former a hand up. She's one of the few present who could. It's around then that she sees Loggerhead's jacket vanish. Lilian gets a blankly startled glance- is it a bit rude that Rita looks to her first, whenever something like this happens?- and then a scampering hop over. "Oh, no! Ms. Rook! Here..." She rummages in her messenger bag (was she carrying that a moment ago?) and pulls out an umbrella(??) and a folded big insulated coat(???), both of which shed the rain just like everything else about her does. "Here. This'll be better, right? I had it for myself just in case, but..." Liar liar. It's tentaclewear. even if voting doesn't actually matter all that much, elected positions are nothing more than figureheads, and the real power is all controlled by the corporations. While plying Lilian with her suspect goods, Rita digests what Rufus had said a minute ago, and finally looks back to him with a decisive nod. "... it just doesn't make sense," she eventually works her way around to saying. "Either you let everyone vote because you care about the people's will, or you let everyone vote because it's meaningless and just serves to make them feel better. Either way, cutting people out is stupid, right?" Rita Points +1. But also minus some amount, for being mean to her billionaire bestie.
Foundation Scions	'What's your name?' "N-novak, it's Novak, en, oh, vee, ay, kay." The man says, teeth chattering. "W-where am I? You aren't here to carry my soul off, or something... are you?" Angel motifs and an absolute nightmare of unreal seeming occurrences? No wonder he's been praying. He's not hurt, but he seems quite cold, with chattering and visible tremors. He's been here a while, as has the rain. Luckily, in the midst of this, he won't protest at all to being picked up and brought anywhere better. 'Ms. Latham! Um, and Ms. Mesmer; you're both alright?' "Yes, I'm- it's just a little drop. Nothing serious. Nothing could've gone wrong. So there's no point in you worrying about it." Latham, meanwhile, lets out a little whine. "Aw, that's a new one! Jeez, I hope they won't make me pay for this, you'd think it's the cars hitting you that'd do damage... right?" She sounds uncertain by the end of her statement, but still lets Rita help her up- sans one jacket, however. 'I noticed you dropped it, and, well--' "Oh, I did? Huh! Imagine. Uhhhh, you, you keep it! You need it more, and I probably just found it around recently, anyways! I'm, waterproof. At least I think I am?" Latham gives Lilian a metallic thumbs up- and, even just as an extraneous precaution, turns her camera-face away. It'd be rude to record, and Latham can't not record. 'Anyone who wanders out this way is bound to wonder how it came to be filled with old relics in near-pristine condition.' "Right. Of course it'll be more work," But not for her! "Loggerhead? That's your department. Write it down so it actually gets done?" MEAN TO HER!! "I guess I'll be back here sometime, huh? That'll be fun! I wonder what's out past the fences- hey, I haven't been here before, right? Just checking?" "No." "Phew! Had me worried there, aha. Yeah. It'll be easy! We clean up big lots of cars all the time."
Foundation Scions	'That's hardly our problem now is it?' 'We're going to need a cover story' "Excuse me? It's been a problem the whole time. But, fine. I suppose it'll all work out. You won't be here to fight for the condemnment order to be listened to, nor establish the information security protocols." In all fairness, neither will Mesmer! "The cover story is obvious, at least. It's what everyone thinks- an arcanist saboteur, leaving behind a tricky, dangerous ritual that the experts can't remove. It surely happens often enough. Nobody will want to poke at it, and... well, it just makes sense." "At least I'm here to fix another issue- That issue being the stranded worker. "So you can thank me for upholding this part of it. You-" She should know Tamiel's name. "Bring him up here. This'll all be a nightmare for him, nothing more." Teeth tight, it's far harder to hear her mumble, "How lucky for him." When Tamiel lands nearby, Mesmer is already making an unsteady approach towards her and the man. "Hold him still, and-" Sterile, curt, "Close your eyes. You want to be asleep, so just let this happen." Without any techy gizmo, or even rolling up her coat's sleeves, Mesmer presses her fingers against the man's temples. Tamiel can sense that she's performing some sort of magic- but also, if fluctuations in electromagnetics are perceptible to anyone present, what she's doing is painfully complicated on those spectrums. It only takes a moment before he's asleep in Tamiel's arms, and thus, even more her business to cart off back through the warpgate. Throughout this- James Bond, in his real estate venture, most certainly does have an easy time finding the exact plot. Surprisingly cheap, yet still non-developed, the mysteries of why can only be traced back to nonsense market research ritualism and shareholderomancy. "... Oh. Bouanich is going to complain that it's all tied-up without her. Can one of you tell her what she did mattered?" Mesmer, sopping wet from the rain, like a pathetic, angry cat, starts to wring out the sleeves of her labcoat. Water carries makeup ever so slightly with it down her face. It's downright funny of her to ask for someone else to do that tiny task, and- "Otherwise she'll sulk." Ah. Of course she also has to extinguish the idea she'd ask something out of proper sympathetic care. Back on the other side of the warpgate, an eager Matilda, still warding off the foreman, notices the Elites (and Mesmer) return before they even get out of the factory- she only barely gets to peak in in interest, before the split-off of the remaining tasks begin. She looks only the most normal and correct amount of crestfallen to have missed whatever happened- but it's fine! Field Duty! Negotiations will continue, the drivers will return to shepherd people away, should they not choose to vanish through the warpgate, and then, the paperwork begins anew, with one more known way to and from this world- and, most notably, one far less under the Foundation's watchful eyes.
Lilian Rook	'Point' "Four or five, then." Lilian says, as if she's oh-so knowledgeable on all of Rufus' tics and habits and his terribly pedestrian and predictable emotions (she is cheating to make him feel more uncomfortable). 'Oh, no! Ms. Rook!' Lilian frowns at Rita. Not wide, because there isn't an emotion to call this. Not for long, because she's more used to not showing it at all. She says "Thank you." when taking the umbrella, but can't help but look a little bit gutpunched when turning up the jacket, and returning Loggerheard's. 'voting doesn't actually matter all that much, elected positions are nothing more than figureheads, and the real power is all controlled by the corporations.' "Everyone knows that already." Lilian drones back at nearly the same time Rita speaks up. "But if you let them all vote easily and fairly, then they might start noticing it. Treating as if it's something valuable sets them up for the oldest trick in the book." she says, pulling on her top until it largely doesn't stick to her skin, and then beginning the drying process she'd used on Sonetto's hair; to mediocre effect, given the ambient humidity, deepening her discontent. "Ask people a stupid fucking question that they shouldn't even entertain, and let them tear each other to ribbons arguing about it. If you can do that well enough, then they'll spend the next three hundred years fighting over whether they should vote, rather than if it even does anything." 'Oh, I did? Huh! Imagine. Uhhhh, you, you keep it!' "Well, I appreciate it, but I insist." Lilian says, handing back the thing she'd briefly stolen as if she nobly rescued it from blowing away. "Thou shalt not deny thy brothers and sisters what they hath earned." Yeah. That's totally it. It's an issue of the code. 'Excuse me? It's been a problem the whole time. But, fine. I suppose it'll all work out.' "Good attitude." Lilian says, as though she were praising an exuberant junior, and thus implicitly smug. "I'm certain the Soviets won't mind." 'It's what everyone thinks- an arcanist saboteur' Lilian pauses, and the half-smirk slowly falls off her face. "I thought the Foundation was supposed to be representing the interests of arcanists?" she says, looking back. "Blaming them for anything that inconveniences the almighty Ford doesn't seem to support that interest." It's the second time she's seen Mesmer work. The first time was enough to have her selling secrets to TTT for hers. The second makes her skin crawl. Of course, she'd already had the same idea herself; she and Rita had even agreed on doing the same to Hikaru's own father if it came down to that or him ratting to the government, but somethng about this leaves her with goosebumps and a just barely revolted stare. When she thinks Mesmer isn't paying attention, she repeats "Just let this happen?" under her breath. '... Oh. Bouanich is going to complain that it's all tied-up without her. Can one of you tell her what she did mattered?' "Bouanich could have handled this entire incident herself." Lilian sighs. "Eagerly and with aplomb. The fact that it turned out this way is an embarrassment." She winds herself up into one of her not-uncommon overworked bureaucrat tone. "I suppose I'll have to compose a vetted list for the Foundation's assessment of Elites who can be trusted to stay on their own two feet before they process any more applications for contracted fieldwork." "Fine. I'll do it."
Tamiel Luxis	"You're very much alive, Mr. Novak." She kept her voice cheerful. "And I mean to help keep you that way. I'm Tamiel, and I'll be helping you back home." She takes hold of him, hefting him up--but she doesn't fly him back. A poor man from a newly integrated world, with no idea what the rest of the multiverse meant, left alone in the rain in a foreign world? He didn't need to be flown. "The way you traveled here actually goes both ways." She explained, to fill the silence, and maybe reassure. "And it's safe to travel back through. Won't that be nice? To go home. Get warm and dry..." Tamiel fills the short trip with more talking like this, until she comes back into view of the pile of cars. "He's going to be okay," She announced. "Just cold, wet and lost." A light under her fingernails glowed, pulsing through Novak with a gentle warmth, to chase away the spectre of hypothermia. "But, we should get him home..." It's what everyone thinks- an arcanist... "Arcanists sure do make a convenient scapegoat..." Tamiel's expression remained still and neutral. Her shadow turned away, bristling. For Vertin. She reminded herself. She trails off as Mesmer approached, in half a mind to try to protect the worker from her. But, ultimately, she yielded to her approach, and all that seemed to happen was to put him to sleep. ...Memory manipulation? Tamiel guessed. She frowned, wondering what exactly they gained from shutting off their world from the multiverse. This had nothing to do with the Storm at all, did it...? What else did they keep under cover, to keep the peace? But she kept her worries to herself. For now. "Alright, Novak..." He couldn't hear her, but it felt wrong to not say it. "Let's get you home..."