Iron Station Savage Masks IC IV

[mmdeforrest]

November 1st
John
Emi smiles a bit as she finishes off her apple slice. "I'm not going to lie, John. You do talk a lot. Not that I mind. I do love hearing you speak," she says as her grin widens, though she is completely sincere.

She makes another small sandwich of meat and cheese before she starts to talk about her current project in her English class, choosing a simple easy topic that she can just talk about to relax.

As she talks, she seems to loosen up a little more, eating small bites of the food on the charcuterie board and drinking the wine John has provided.

Clea was, of course, quiet while he placed the picnic basket in the trunk. Emi had made sure his picnic basket was inconspicuous as he held her hand and walked her to class. He reminded himself that his primary goal had been to check in on her and that what appeared to be a partial success at cheering her up was a secondary goal—albeit a secondary goal that naturally followed and held great importance for him.

And the look of adoration and confidence she gave to him when he promised he would figure out a way to have everyone survive the encounter was a high that he was sure would last for days, he did note that the promise violated his father’s dictum of under promise and overdeliver.

He was happy to discover a quick peck on the cheek to say goodbye did not count as snogging her in public when he projected a request to be permitted to do so—although he had his suspicions about whether that counted as “in public”, given how unnoticed it seemed to pass.

By the time he got back outside, however, the raised eyebrows at him and his picnic basket had returned and followed him most of the way back to the car.

Even if he had attracted a lot of attention to and from the quad, Clea calling him out in public wasn’t something he thought she would do—even if it wasn’t a huge security breach. She would wait until they were in private—as was tradition in AEGIS.

“Soooo, how did it go with your particular Maiden Fair, my fearless would-be dragon slayer?”

“Quite well, I think,” John replied, embracing his role of straight man as his car began to back herself out of her parking space. “I’m just glad it did not involve my needing to reshape the partial bottle of wine into a glass due to a surprise visit by Mr. Shaw or any undercover work.”

“That depends,” Clea quipped. “Were you going for the besotted-to-the-point-of-not-thinking-about-how-much-attention-you-would-be-drawing-to-yourself-with-a-wicker-picnic-basket-while-you-go-a-wooing boyfriend? Because you really nailed that look if you did, even if it is an obscure type.”

“It pays to specialize,” John deadpanned. “I have an address for you to add to your database: Pinnacle 67.”

“Considering a pied-à-terre where the two of you can picnic in private?” Clea teased. “Let me just see what is available there.”

“Clea,” John began in a warning tone, “It’s not…”

“Oh. Him.”

“Clea…”

“Nothing to fear, John. I have it’s location locked in case I need to call in a missile strike.”

“Clea,” John observed patiently. “There are a lot of innocent people in that building.”

“Presumed innocent,” Clea corrected. “You are, however, correct. It would be an unacceptable level of collateral damage. I’ll see if I can mark it as a possible target location in the AEGIS Global Death Laser Network and specify his particular unit.”

“Clea, I think…wait. AEGIS has one of those?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that to one at your security clearance level, provisional,” she replied loftily.

John immediately frowned. “They don’t. Otherwise, you would not have requested surface to air missiles.”

“Well observed, Mark II,” Clea conceded. “And given our current situation, you have to concede those would be of use right now.”

John silently admitted that she had a point.

“Besides,” she pressed on, “a space-based death laser system could be easily foiled by a cloudy day or the kind of fog that Draconian can deploy. Surface to air missiles are much more certain in this circumstance.”

“Duly noted,” John conceded, “but the use of either on Grayson or Mastroianni would upset Emi.”

“It depends. You could use the laser to bleach patches on all of Mastroianni’s suits, making him look unfashionable and keeping him at home at a strategically important moment. A British cut, like you wear, is the superior look, anyway.”

“I find it implausible that even an organization like AEGIS would have thought to add a ‘disfigure suit’ setting to an orbital death laser.”

“Or one that could be mounted in an airplane, provisional?” Clea teased. ‘I can neither confirm nor deny the setting or the systems those settings would be a part of.”

“I would appreciate a basic background profile of the location, sent to my files,” John replied, trying to get his car’s AI back on track. “I’m interested in knowing why that location, of all the available locations in Iron Station, drew his eye. Is it just an upscale location or does it provide something like overwatch capability of East Side? That kind of thing.”

“Always thinking,” Clea commented appreciatively. “Little wonder you are Auntie Henrietta’s favorite.”

Emi had shifted her hips a little in a teasing manner, John recalled as he simultaneously smiled and blushed, before she leaned forward and kissed him again. “Thank you,” she had whispered to him. “I’m glad that brain of yours never stops.”

He hoped that quality would keep him Emi’s favorite as well.

Even if he did talk a lot.