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Post by Bixir on Jun 4, 2024 3:11:51 GMT
Word traveled fast. Too fast.
This incident was like many that assailed the White House - it had happened overnight, was over in a matter of minutes, and, if the prayers of the Director were answered, would be swept under the rug within the next forty-eight hours. Much to the chagrin of the staff on hand, the Director seldom got what they wanted, least of all when it came to matters like this. It was bad enough that she had actually decided to show up. The Rose Garden was swarming with people. For once, there was more security than paparazzi, some of whom were even legitimate journalists. The golden eye representing the Protectorate could be seen at nearly every corner, either on the side of a government vehicle or on the security personnel who had been summoned to the White House. Other branches of the military were present too, though as was the case for these sorts of gatherings, the various agencies blended together into one melting pot of bureaucracy and constipated testosterone. The President had been attacked in the White House. None of his security detail had survived. And most conveniently, the security footage had either been tampered with or damaged beyond repair. And the President hadn't breathed a word of the assailant (who escaped without succeeding in their mission?) nor their description to anyone. The only evidence that had been found at the scene were one: the bodies, and two: the property damage, which seemed rather mild, all things considered. The press secretary fielded the constant barrage of questions like one spoke to children, and so far, the media frenzy seemed content with the treatment. There was a cadence to these things, especially when they were as chaotic as this. Meanwhile, away from the ostensible reason for this gathering, a surly man in his five-star uniform waited for the right people to arrive. Much to their outrage, the Director of the Protectorate and her right-hand man were neither of those people. For reasons that eluded everyone but the President himself (and perhaps even him...), he had explicitly requested the assistance of extralegal entities. In other words, vigilantes. He looked... up, at Alexandria, who was wearing the armor that had withstood a direct orbital bombardment from Kree warships at the Battle of New York. The general scowled. She didn't cut it? |
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Post by BijuuGuy on Jul 5, 2024 22:40:57 GMT
 Alexandria's arrival was greeted with an expected barrage of shutter noises and flashes. She descended upon the Rose Garden like a grand figure. In many ways, that's what she was, despite the controversy. A superhero of her caliber, of earthly origins, and thoroughly patriotic, Alexandria was bound to draw eyes. Yet even still, her position within the Protectorate and the public's general misunderstanding of the types of capes that were around raised more questions than answers. The United States' political landscape had transformed to something unforeseen after the dawn of heroes, particularly when they began involving themselves in government matters. In those circles, Alexandria was one of the most well-known figures. Despite possessing almost identical powers to someone like Superman, despite sharing the ultimate goal, she was still treated as something else. Something perhaps more tangible than the ideal the Justice League presented.
The Protectorate was a wildly different beast, indeed. But they, and especially her, handled the situations deemed more "grounded," despite being in the front lines of almost every major crisis. The public's view seemed to matter most, there was no escaping it.
But those thoughts were secondary to the almighty Alexandria, whose current mission was to show that the President had powerful allies. Not to mention her necessary expertise in investigating events of this nature.
As soon as she landed near the general, a brief flash of light materialized her second-in-command. Cecil Steadman's face was the same as always. A mixture of professionalism and mild annoyance. Other than that, the man was nigh unreadable. It was clear that he cared none for the media present, intent on trying to solve this mystery. The administration was in luck, having two such minds at their disposal.
Wasting no time, Alexandria's helmeted gaze went towards the general. The President himself was nowhere to be seen yet. A smart choice, albeit one that had a brief lifespan. Her following statements were direct, preceded by an extended arm, offering a handshake.
"Maybe now you'll consider an additional security detail for the President. Sir."
Alexandria stressing that specific word was telling. Of course she meant superhumans. Protectorate heroes, to be more specific. But she was sure the general knew all that already. It was a topic that had been brought up and shot down too many times. It wasn't meant to offend, even though she said it with that seeming intention. Aiming to get away from the nosy press, Alexandria continued with the pertinent demand.
"We need to speak to him. In the Oval."
Her tone rarely indicated the possibility of negotiation. This was no exception. Her proposed dialogue with the general was a formality. Especially when her presence was specifically requested. The press weren't her concern at the moment. She heard a few of their questions and felt satisfied enough with the Press Secretary's responses. Fittingly non-specific and reassuring at the same time. Alexandria's hidden stare didn't leave the general once. He would either lead her and Cecil into the Oval or they'd go themselves. |
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Post by DornKoon on Jul 8, 2024 10:43:46 GMT
The representative from Darkwatch's arrival was much less accompanied by flashing cameras and came from a more unexpected location. A flash of light came from underneath one of the office doors; the general would know that the door led to a small storage closet. This happened before the General had time to answer Alexandria's demand.
Voices came soon after...
"Dad. When you said you wanted to meet up, I had thought we would go for coffee or something."
"I'm sorry, pumpkin, but Stephen insisted I bring someone along, and there are few I trust more than you."
"Had I known we would visit the White House, I would have worn something nicer."
The door opened, and out from inside stepped a woman. From appearance alone, she was beautiful, with blond curly hair and bright blue eyes, but she looked nothing special in the same vein as other magic users would, except that she just walked out from inside an empty closet. She wore a blue wrap dress with simple pearl earrings and a matching necklace. In her arms was a black cat wearing a bowtie and matching vest. The woman stopped once she noticed the other people present inside the office, giving them a polite smile.
"Oh, excuse us, we're here for a meeting?" Her words were both a question and a statement simultaneously. "We're from..." She paused, and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks after a few seconds. "Oh, I don't remember the name, how embarrassing..."
"Darkwatch, sweetie," said the cat, taking a moment to inspect the office and its occupants.
"Oh yes, thanks, Dad."
Taking a few steps closer, the cat jumped from the woman's arms and landed on the desk. It stretched before sitting down and looking between the General and Alexandria.
"Name's Salem Saberhagen, liaison from Darkwatch, a specialist in curses, hexes and general magic... and this beautiful lady is my daughter Annabelle. Dreadful business, this here murder attempt." Salem held out a paw towards the General. Salem could be serious... sometimes... and it would be wrong if he made a poor impression in front of Annabelle. She was his little pumpkin muffin, even if she was both grown and married. "Hope we're not late? I was summoned from some important feline business..." He did not mention that the "business" was to get through an extra large helping of fried tuna and scrimp cocktails while binge-watching Game of Thrones; it did not seem like anything they needed to know.
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Post by Firelizard on Aug 11, 2024 16:06:25 GMT
A typhoon of flashing lights followed in Alexandria’s wake. Their target was a man in an immaculately put together suit. One made not of iron or steel but the strongest material known to man, Italian wool that cost more than most cars. Norman Osborn flashed a tight, if concerned smile and gave a brief raised hand in recognition of the beat reporters lopping up chunks of potential press material like sharks in a swimming pool made of chum. The mask was a good one. On the outside, a concerned citizen fearful for his country’s future in the wake of an attack upon one of the greatest presidential figures in modern American history. Fearful and resolute at the same time, ready to protect not just a leader, but a close personal friend. “Tim, Jannet, Janus, Hughie, good to see you all again.”Norman shook hands and made nice with the presidential aides and staff as a woman ahead of his entourage spoke to her…cat? He had seen stranger things over the years, and it was stranger still that something that would have been a golden ticket to Arkham Asylum was now commonplace even in the greatest halls of power in all the world. The sight of the Protectorate’s very own director and right hand man produced an internal sneer of disgust. Mentally addled freaks and dangerous vigilantes, the lot of them. The Oscorp CEO put the sight out of his mind and redoubled his efforts, glad handing with the riff raff who served one of his greatest investments. He wouldn’t have paid them a single iota of thought or brain cell outside these walls. And yet even servants to a king had a power all their own inside the castle's ramparts. “General, I wish I was here under better circumstances. I think you may finally have a good enough reason to crack into that bourbon I sent your way after the Bermuda trials.”Osborn extended a firm handshake in the five star officer’s general direction. Convening with underpaid and overworked generals and admirals was his specialty. A little too dull for his tastes, but they made great employees once they realized they could make more money defending stockholder interests rather than the nation’s borders. As long as you paid them the modicum of respect they thought they had earned, even from a man the likes of Norman’s greatness. The same went for presidents and congressmen. Donating a few million in couch cushion change to their campaigns and standing up for a few anthems? It was an investment that always paid off. Norman pushed thoughts of the benefits of this attack out of his head for a moment, remembering that the recently threatened President was supposed to be a dear, dear friend of his. He nodded in the direction of the Oval Office before returning to meet the general’s gaze. “How’s Hank holding up in there?” |
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Post by Bixir on Aug 11, 2024 18:43:52 GMT
To say that these things were a circus was a trite cliche at best. General Eiling had been through the circuit for longer than many of these heroes had been wearing capes, but even he had to admit some surprise at who had decided to grace his presence today. The director of the Protectorate and her weaselly stooge was one thing. The man had been hoping that he wouldn't have to lay his eyes on Norman Osborn until the next election cycle. Some things never changed... except yes, they did. How did a little girl and her cat get past security?! Eiling would have shown his fury if he wasn't busy showing his outright confusion. Darkwatch? Wasn't that... ah, hell. General Eiling rubbed his face, doing nothing to hide his contempt for the gathered parties. Where should he start? He opted for none of them, at first. Osborn sure as hell wasn't getting that handshake. For all he knew the man was gathering tissue samples. Eiling folded his arms in a huff. "You know as well as I do that the President insisted on..." He paused mid-sentence to pick up on a ringing in his ear. He nods... and grimaces. "Fine. Come with me, all of you." He pointedly stared at the girl and her cat. "Don't push it, furball."The general quickly waves them into the building's halls. The hordes tried to follow them inside, but a timely contingent of PRT agents moved in to keep them at bay. The trip to the Oval Office goes quickly, and without fanfare. Compared to the Rose Garden, there was far less going on within the walls of the highest office in the land - that could be seen, anyway. The last thing Eiling needed was for Norman to see how the sauce was made anymore than he had already laid his eyes on. When they reach those doors, Eiling stops before a towering man whose skin looked to be made of gleaming metal. He offered Eiling a salute, and a discerning stare to the rest of them, before opening the door for them to pass through. Compared to what the security footage had captured the night prior, you wouldn't have thought anything would have happened at all. The room was back to its pristine condition, from the furniture to the glass window behind the presidential desk. In the stead of the usual Secret Service agents were six vaguely humanoid robotic drones. They lacked any discernible features typical of Stark models - instead, they sported facsimile of the Protectorate symbol on their face plates, which glowed with a distinct green LED light. They did not respond to any of them as they entered. It didn't look like they were moving at all. The President himself was sitting at the desk, meeting them with a characteristic smile for an uncharacteristic situation. He raised his finger to count the heads. When he was finished, his smile faded a bit when he saw who had decided to answer his call. Which was to say, only a talking cat. Which he recognized? "Salem! How's Strange's litterbox? He taking care of you?" As ever, Henry Dyson spoke with a Nebraskan jaunt that was hard to misplace, if not for its jovial twang then for its nonplussed attitude. To wit, even an assassination attempt (somehow) hadn't dampened the man's spirits. General Eiling did all he could not to grimace. This was their commander-in-chief? Only after speaking with Salem did the President addressed the rest of them - with much less enthusiasm at that, coached in humdrum formality. His feelings towards suits had been made clear ever since that public debacle with Wilson Fisk. "And the rest of you, too." He nodded at General Eiling, not holding back his disappointment. "You couldn't have kept them waiting, eh?""M-Mister President, this is the-"Dyson snapped his fingers impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, my nanny and a pocketbook." His attention almost went down to the paper on his desk out of boredom. These bureaucrats had interrupted his crossword puzzle. "Let's hear it, then." |
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Post by BijuuGuy on Aug 12, 2024 17:38:31 GMT
Indeed, before the General could respond to anything Alexandria said, the circus started to assemble. The cat obviously stuck out like a sore thumb, leaving Alexandria internally more bewildered than anything. Cecil, however, had his own connections, whether Alexandria approved or not. More often than not though, they proved relatively useful. Regardless, the presence of the feline was odd to say the least. Let alone the fact that the President himself asked for this.
But the real unpleasantness arrived shortly after. A pretender whose only skill was flashing his wallet. And yet, there he was, in a position of relative power, trying to be chummy with... well everyone except for her, Cecil, and Salem. Norman Osborn possessed a twisted charm that rallied unexpectedly more people to his side than anyone would've really guessed. The PRT was not one of those entities. This was going to be a headache.
In the midst of the fake pleasantries and warring egos, the General finally had the chance to address them all and lead them to their desired destination. The presence of both PRT operatives and drones was more comforting than Alexandria thought, a necessary decision on her part, obviously. Particularly when this contingent of people would undoubtedly provide a tense situation all on their own. It was going to be difficult to keep the egos in check and not lose focus on what mattered. Both Alexandria and Cecil exchanged a knowing glance, their faces betraying nothing.
Alexandria sighed slightly when the President primarily addressed Salem. A damn cat had more familiarity and seeming leeway with the Leader of the Free World than those who served him under oath. When they were addressed indirectly, however, the PRT leaders gave him a respectful nod. To which he responded with somewhat expectant dismissal of her title, specifically. Most of her face still covered by her mask, she still frowned slightly. Not a day went by when she didn't curse Wilson Fisk under her breath for dealing such a blow to the PRT's efforts.
But ideological debacles could be solved later. She still had the authority here and was fully intent on exerting it.
"Taking into account the other arrivals, I believe it's best you recount the event in full, Mr. President."
She looked at him directly, speaking in the professional manner she was well-known for. At the end, she gestured at the other requested parties and before continuing, pointed at Cecil as well.
"Cecil will then present a suitable strategy to quell media speculation and this will all go away with minimal repercussions, sir."
He may not have wanted her there, but she knew that they were the best ones to handle these situations. She was going to make sure everyone knew it.
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Post by DornKoon on Aug 12, 2024 18:30:14 GMT
Salem glared at the general. He did not like being called a furball at the best of times, well, maybe from close friends trying to tease him, but not from someone he did not know. In all, he did not seem impressed by those present, regarding everyone with the trained detachment that could only come from spending decades as a cat.
"Don't take it to heart, Daddy," As if reading his mind, Annabelle spoke up, gently picking her father from the desk. "Perhaps he's allergic to cats? It is common among mortals."
Salem just muttered something under his breath that contained words such as "litterbox", "Strange," and "Shrimp cocktail." But, of course, Annabelle was right. Besides, they would all be surprised once they reached the Oval Office. He looked forward to seeing their faces, apart from those hidden by their tin cans.
"Hello, Hank." Salem replied with a jovial tone. "We get on as well as might be expected. I'll be well and truly happy once this cat business is over. I'm not sure who the punishment is for at this point: me or the doctor. Say, have you met my lovely daughter, Annabelle? She might not look it, but she's a very accomplished witch."
" Mr President," Annabelle said with courtesy, and she did blush slightly at her father's praise.
Salem momentarily glanced at Alexandria when the armoured hero spoke, but he quickly lost interest as his eyes began to scan the office. He was sniffing the air, and for a moment, his eyes narrowed as if he were looking at something behind Norman. Those who paid attention to the cat noticed that Salem... flinched, his pupils widened, and the hair on his neck rose.
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Post by Firelizard on Aug 13, 2024 2:48:33 GMT
Norman grinned down at his outstretched hand, flexing his fingers and then rubbing both hands together in one smooth motion. The friction and heat would deactivate and dissolve the thin layer of tissue collecting material on his right palm with none the wiser. He put on a dab of hand sanitizer for good measure, both ensuring the layer’s removal and hinting that even the prospect of shaking hands with the Caesar wannabe might have been too much. It was too bad, he’d have to find another way of getting the five star general’s DNA to the scientists at Oscorp’s Biological Division. You never knew when a genetically coded poison or pheromone could come in handy, after all.
“Lead the way, Eiling. Left, right, left, etcetera.”
As the world’s most unlikely marching band gathered into the Oval Office, Norman took a moment to scan his associates. The PRT was absolutely useless, and he took no small amount of pleasure in watching its caped director squirm. Confidence was her forte, and one needed it to face down the monsters and vigilantes her organization dealt with on a daily basis. And yet even a dullard could see that her and her balding lackey were near persona non grata in the White House. A genius like Norman saw that and more, all manner of potential schemes and openings to exploit this newfound weakness running through his head. The talking cat and the girl were another thing altogether. An unknown variable, something he hadn’t accounted for. Norman liked being prepared. Damnable magical beings right out of a fairytale book. Always throwing wrenches into plans and flaunting the very laws of science itself.
“Oh Mr. President, there’s that acerbic wit everyone always forgets about. You could've won Pennsylvania with jokes like that.”
On the inside, Norman seethed. He was a damn pocketbook to this lifeless hack? One foot across the grim reaper’s threshold and this politician thought he could fire shots across the USS Osborn’s bow. Leading one of the largest corporations in America and funding the R&D required to keep the country safe seemed to not matter to these public sector plebeians. Not to mention all the work Oscorp had done for the US government in the past? Ungrateful idiots, the lot of them! The businessman stuffed down his anger into an even deeper emotional hole, catching the glint of a similar effort by General Eiling as he watched the commander-in-chief. The man was a stone faced professional, but even Osborn could see that there was a hint of animosity between the two. Only a second term President would have dared to spit in the face of both the PRT and the military at the same time. Or a suicidal one.
Norman took a slight step back, letting the PRT bureaucrat take the brunt of the President’s displeasure. He took a moment to look around the room, his eyes settling on the lifeless robotic drones standing guard off to the side. They were more interesting to him than the senile assassination attempt survivor for just a moment. His mind ran back to the work the Steel Resolve Division was doing on his Iron Patriot system while he wasted his time here. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to turn that system into an automated one. Maybe something to consider in the future, another innovation that he could improve upon just like that damn Stark’s medieval suit of armor…
Oscorp’s CEO turned his attention back to the conversation at hand, forcing his eyes not to glaze over as Alexandria talked of a PR strategy. She and that bumbling, scarred mess of a right hand man were the worst public relations team he'd ever seen. Norman shifted his gaze and caught Salem’s feline body flinching as it laid eyes on him. He gave the talking cat a wink before turning his attention back to the President.
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Post by Bixir on Aug 25, 2024 22:37:33 GMT
The President leaned forward ever so slightly, marking his notice of Salem's daughter with a disarming Midwest smile and nod. "I'm charmed, Annabelle!" Then, the peanut gallery. He leaned back into his chair, interlacing his hands together, all formal-like. "Right. What happened last night. It was quiet, you know. The boys weren't bothering me none, and I was gettin' back to that Billy Alya Queen or whatever. You know women." He winked at Salem with no amount of shame.
"Then, out of the blue, this hokey guy in big metal armor comes outta nowhere! Like he wasn't there, and then... he was! It ain't like nothing I ever seen before. Next thing I know, he's making mincemeat out of my people. Your people, actually." He jabbed a finger at General Eiling, who remained silent behind his steely mug. "They didn't stand a chance. And neither did I! But, at the last moment..."
The Presi9dent slumped into his seat, equally confused and scared. The incident had clearly shaken him. The President slowly rubbed his temple. "He just... let me go, like it was alla big misunderstandin'. Then he's going on and on about snakes an' ladders and other hooey. Puppets? He talked real funny. Like some kinda knight in stupid armor. He dressed like it too..." He shook his head, looking to the audience (though mostly) Salem for any ideas.
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