#cyberengle 1

[atomic-bell]

She'd started wandering the city with the intentional confidence of someone used to pretending to be a native in cities they've never been in before. She followed the flow of pedestrians, surprised at how familiar the architecture looked--albeit familiarly grecian.

She stuffed her hands in her pockets and popped up her fur collar against the chill. It wasn't as bad as she was used to, but there was no point getting a cold--or even just being uncomfortable--for pride's sake.

She paused at a corner, looking up at a street sign that read 'Star Trail', thinking for a moment, before letting her feed guide her toward the smell of food. She hadn't eaten since before the Havana mission, and whatever this bizarre mindscape was, it didn't seem eager to let her forget that fact. She passed a dizzying array of restaurants, and inhabitants that encouraged her belief that she was still hallucinating, when she paused, brow furrowing. That smell--That couldn't be--

Her pace doubled, and she found herself staring at the impossible. The sign said "Kukhnya Sibir." Siberian Kitchen.

The menus were in half a dozen languages, and as she picked up one in Yakut, she saw Kymis, Kyercheh, Fried Carp and Roe, Salamat with Lepyoshki, Oladyi, Stroganina--she blinked, wiping her eyes. Why would Adler conjure this?

Or was this her own mind's conjuration? Comfort for a dying woman? She paused, hesitating. Why would this comfort her? Her memories were of England. Brighton. What was Yakut to her, except a language she knew?

She didn't care. She grabbed a table. Investigation could wait.

By the time her food and drink arrived she was fully lost in the sauce--the disconnect between who she was supposed to think she was and the comforts of home forgotten in her culinary delight.

(starter for @cyberengle)

[codexvmbra]

... ..... .......

This patron doesn't just look like an owl, she's as silent as one, too, it seems. Maxwell's tempted to make a snide comment about how inappropriate her combat attire is for a refined establishment like this one, but... no. She's an attentive member of his audience regardless of how out of place she is, and he will play the gracious host. He can't have his short temper reflecting poorly on his new place of work, after all.

How truly mortifying it would be to get fired from a job so easy a well-dressed Pig could do it.

"Good day," he says pleasantly, offering a shallow bow. "I appear to have caught your eye." That, more than anything, cools his urge to address her with snark; Maxwell does so love to be admired.

His smile and soft, inviting gaze are both the carefully crafted facades of a performer-- enough to make any average customer feel truly, wonderfully seen.

Whether they do the same for Engle, only time will tell.

"If there's anything I can help you with today, don't hesitate to ask. It's what I'm here for."

This place, the Faucher Lace House & Boutique, seems to have gathered quite the flock. Even a newcomer like herself can't help but notice the crowd.

Fashion and espionage are really more in Guin's department, but if Engle wants answers about her missing team, she'd have to fill in for the rest of them.

Between her combat boots and her tactical gear, she's not exactly dressed for a shopping trip. One of the models, a tall man, takes notice of her, and Engle looks right back at him.

Her gaze is unrelenting, and she breathes almost as minimally as a mannequin.

The question remains: which one of them is going to break first?

@codexvmbra

[moraypower]

"I dunno 'bout your health, but all this sugar is great for mine. I've never gotta sleep again!"

Until the inevitable stomachache, of course. Or the tide of exhaustion caught up to her. Or both.

Frye had been at this for too long already, really, far too preoccupied with the tasty buzz of sugar on her tongue and hot pulse of eager adrenaline to notice the increasing sloppiness of every swing made. No squid was immune to the need for sleep, but tenacious Splatlandian pride combined with the audacious recklessness of her sweet-tooth were both clearly a mighty force to be reckoned with in that regard.

Watching the axe carve through it's target, she was quick to cast her own neon candy blade wide as the new trio appeared, grin breaking open into what was the start of an enthusiastic battle cry-- only for the sound to catch in her throat, swaying a bit too hard on her feet and weapon clattering from her grasp as one hand shot against the wall for balance against a sudden head rush. Whoops.

"It'd be best if this ended, for everyone's health... but I will help you defeat the beasts."

Engle swings her candy corn axe at an unsuspecting sugar goblin. Three more show up to take its place. This could go on for a while.

[atomic-bell]

She stared at her, still buffering. This didn't make a lot of sense. Any sense, actually. Why did this woman have an owl for a head? Or why did this owl have a woman for a body? What kind of body armour was that? How badly had Adler scrambled her, exactly?

Bell shook her head, screwing her eyes shut a moment, then exhaling, slowly. This was a particularly elaborate hallucination. Her mind was constructing it to protect her from whatever it was Adler wanted. Obviously. She'd close her eyes a moment, focus on something else--the Havana mission, maybe--and the Owl-woman would be gone.

When she opened her eyes, the woman was still there. She finished her bite, set down the fork, and slapped herself in the face.

Still there.

She took another deep breath, nodding. Okay. She was just fully insane. Got it. Might as well play along. Not like she had any other options.

However, when Bell opened her mouth to speak, she seemed to have managed to contort her boot into her mouth, because instead of anything remotely tactful, the only words she could say were "...you're an owl."

The way this woman was looking at her, it was like she's never seen an owl before. Or maybe she was an agent of H.A.W.K. who didn't expect to see a Cyber Owl here.

Of course, if she was an agent of H.A.W.K., then she'd probably flee instead of waving awkwardly at her. Either way, she has Engle's attention, and owls aren't birds that let their prey slip by.

After two slow blinks, she sits at the table, taking a seat directly across from the stranger.

She doesn't say a word. She simply tents her hands and waits to see if she'll crack under pressure.

[atomic-bell]

She looked down at the hand, then looked up at the Owl woman and finished the bite she'd frozen midway through, chewing and swallowing before answering.

"Call me B--" She flinched, vision flashing red. "--Bell." She grit her teeth, panting, "Sorry. I'm getting these... weird flashes, lately."

She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, then blinked again.

"I don't know what 'HAWK' is. So no. I'm just, ah." She shrugged, taking another bite, mostly to buy herself time to stop buffering, then continued, "I guess I'm not really anyone, given I have no idea where I am. And I'm pretty sure I hit my head or something, because I'm talking to a woman with a barn owl's head."

"Is this, you know, normal, here?"

[atomic-bell]

She blinked, opened her mouth, closed it, then blinked again.

"I don't know what 'HAWK' is. So no. I'm just, ah." She shrugged, taking another bite, mostly to buy herself time to stop buffering, then continued, "I guess I'm not really anyone, given I have no idea where I am. And I'm pretty sure I hit my head or something, because I'm talking to a woman with a barn owl's head."

"Is this, you know, normal, here?"

She stared at her, still buffering. This didn't make a lot of sense. Any sense, actually. Why did this woman have an owl for a head? Or why did this owl have a woman for a body? What kind of body armour was that? How badly had Adler scrambled her, exactly?

Bell shook her head, screwing her eyes shut a moment, then exhaling, slowly. This was a particularly elaborate hallucination. Her mind was constructing it to protect her from whatever it was Adler wanted. Obviously. She'd close her eyes a moment, focus on something else--the Havana mission, maybe--and the Owl-woman would be gone.

When she opened her eyes, the woman was still there. She finished her bite, set down the fork, and slapped herself in the face.

Still there.

She took another deep breath, nodding. Okay. She was just fully insane. Got it. Might as well play along. Not like she had any other options.

However, when Bell opened her mouth to speak, she seemed to have managed to contort her boot into her mouth, because instead of anything remotely tactful, the only words she could say were "...you're an owl."

[atomic-bell]

Midway through a bite of fried carp, she realised a woman with an owl head was staring at her.

She froze, staring back in a comedic snapshot of insanity. On one side, a brainwashed ex-KGB agent convinced she was hallucinating. On the other...a literal barn owl.

Bell kept staring at her for several uncomfortable seconds, her brain simply blank, like someone had thrown a flashbang into her prefrontal cortex. There wasn't a single thought in her head--she'd simply short-circuited. She didn't even seem to be blinking.

Finally, her brain stopped buffering, and she was struck with the insane thought that she was being rude. She set the fork down, cleared her throat, and waved, awkwardly.

"...hi."

She'd started wandering the city with the intentional confidence of someone used to pretending to be a native in cities they've never been in before. She followed the flow of pedestrians, surprised at how familiar the architecture looked--albeit familiarly grecian.

She stuffed her hands in her pockets and popped up her fur collar against the chill. It wasn't as bad as she was used to, but there was no point getting a cold--or even just being uncomfortable--for pride's sake.

She paused at a corner, looking up at a street sign that read 'Star Trail', thinking for a moment, before letting her feed guide her toward the smell of food. She hadn't eaten since before the Havana mission, and whatever this bizarre mindscape was, it didn't seem eager to let her forget that fact. She passed a dizzying array of restaurants, and inhabitants that encouraged her belief that she was still hallucinating, when she paused, brow furrowing. That smell--That couldn't be--

Her pace doubled, and she found herself staring at the impossible. The sign said "Kukhnya Sibir." Siberian Kitchen.

The menus were in half a dozen languages, and as she picked up one in Yakut, she saw Kymis, Kyercheh, Fried Carp and Roe, Salamat with Lepyoshki, Oladyi, Stroganina--she blinked, wiping her eyes. Why would Adler conjure this?

Or was this her own mind's conjuration? Comfort for a dying woman? She paused, hesitating. Why would this comfort her? Her memories were of England. Brighton. What was Yakut to her, except a language she knew?

She didn't care. She grabbed a table. Investigation could wait.

By the time her food and drink arrived she was fully lost in the sauce--the disconnect between who she was supposed to think she was and the comforts of home forgotten in her culinary delight.

(starter for @cyberengle)