Beretta's Story

It was doubtful that many people in Base Alpha-A had seen a baby deer, and even more doubtful that any had seen Erubescan-style baked goods. 

Nonetheless, there was no more accurate way to describe what Trainee Beretta looked like in heels and a ruffled skirt than to ask one to to imagine a fawn forced to walk while stuffed into a triple-layered wedding cake.

The trainee had been sporting the attire- a plain black pair of what Canvas had called “stilettos” and a white, heavy skirt with some kind of stiff mesh underneath it- for just under three days. Her ankles trembled when she moved, and her stride jerked to one side or another every few steps as her balance faltered in the stilt-like footwear.



And sleeping with ice packs on her ankles had done very little to ease the near consistent ache of it.



Beretta did her best not to look as awkward as she felt as she clicked down hall 82-F toward yet another training meeting with Supervisor Canvas, but she still managed to attract more than one sideways glance. She wasn't sure whether to be thankful or concerned that she had not started wearing the "corsets" yet, but rather tried to avoid thinking about that upcoming hell altogether. Learning to walk in such clothing was a necessary evil of her mission, and she had to keep focused on that.



She stopped outside the now familiar Meeting Room 388, scanned her wristband on the panel, and slipped inside as the door slid open.It closed behind her with such a quick motion that in nearly caught the hem of her skirt, obstructing the room from the view of any prying eyes.

The training space was more dimly lit than many others on base— an effort to simulate the kind of lighting that they would be working with in Erubesco. The floor was made up of a articifical wood, rather than concrete, that shone under the goldfish lights. There were a few tables of varied heights with white cloths draped over them, and distinct settings on each.

On a long, freestanding counter toward the middle of the room, 
several bottles had been lined up, containing liquids in strange colors that Beretta had never seen before.



The trainee cast a furtive glance around for her Supervisor or other teammates, but found herself to be the first one there. She checked the time on her wristband- Just a few moments early. The shoes had slowed her far less than anticipated.

Unable to hold her own curiosity, she trotted (as well as the shoes allowed) to the counter, and leaned in to read the curling scripts on their labels. “Pe-NOT noy-ray, Napa Valley,” she read aloud, brow furrowing at the strange words before continuing down the line, “Shimmering Mos- Moscato?” She stared intently at this bottle, noting that there was some form of settled metallic liquid at its bottom. 



Beretta continued down the line like this, careful to view without touching, taking in the colors and glitz on each bottle with something between intrigue and disgust: 

They were clearly some form of imported Erubescan finery, but her interest to know exactly what they were for would have to wait for the Supervisor to be sated. 


"Pinot noir. It's a sort of grape, and is also referred to wines derived from the grape."

A slender, gloved hand slid silently from the handle of the door as someone came to stand in the training room, dwarfed by the rather more physically imposing trainee by a good few inches of height and more than a little muscle mass. That was by no means the most obvious feature agent Mimic had however. Much like Beretta's wobble-inducing heels, necessity had made it so Agent Mimic wore something that was not exactly standard dress code. Where a face should have been visible there was a blank, featureless mask covering the front half of the woman's head, composed of some smooth, white material, with round eye panels of fine black mesh. The result was not a glimpse of the wearer's own features.

For many it might be a little unsettling. The story behind it was maybe a little moreso, however that was very much between Mimic and the supervisors. As far as anyone else was concerned, she was a low-ranking espionage agent, her identity was classified and the reasons for such a thing were classified too...and it being Liberty that was enough for more or less anybody. If life in the faction taught you nothing else, it taught you when it was better for your own safety to mind your own business and not tumble down any rabbitholes that might come out in a re-education centre.

Mimic was Mimic, and Mimic was good at her job. That was all anybody needed to know.
And she was very good at her job. A flawless actress who'd gathered a lot of information on the enemy's activity in her active time. It was only natural that the assignment would involve her somewhere along the line, and the interviews with a detained Erubescan were helping her build up a whole new character for her repertoire. It would help things along to have a completely legitimate society member, with existing record and history. Would lend more credence to the others. If the training so far was any indication...the others would require that.

After momentary hesitation to decide if it was permitted, the masked participant stepped over to the bottles that were lined up, took hold of the one Beretta had just recently been reading, and gave it a firm shake, causing liquid and shimmery waves of some glittery substance to tumble around inside.

Mimic sighed.
"Glittering drink. Erubesco do make such useless things."

“Agent Mimic!” Beretta greeted, turning to face the woman with a wide smile. The corrected pronunciation was quick to darken her mood, however, and a double crease appeared on her forehead as she furrowed her brows.

“Pi…” Her head cocked to the side, like a dog unable to locate the source of a sound as the new word rolled about in her mind. She moved her lips without speaking, and crinkled her nose as she tried to shift the shape of her mouth to imitate the sound.

“…Pinot Nwah?” Her cheekbones scrunched, leaving her expression somewhere between bemusement and intrigue.

“Is not sounding how is spelled,” she remarked, and the friendly grin she had previously worn returned. “The Erubesco is very strange with their— Ooh!”

Beretta jumped back in case of danger, hand flying to the place on her waist where her holster usually rested as the other Agent began shaking the bottle. Was it some kind of fuel? Or was this a test? Or…

“Ooh!”

The trainee was drawn back in as quickly as she had been startled, placing her hands on the counter and bending down to sit on her haunches so that her face was at level with the bottle. Her lips parted slightly, betraying a moment of awe at the spectacle: Violet irises followed violet swirls in a moment of stunned silence, watching the viscous liquid dance about in glimmering ribbons. Something as ephemeral and ungraspable as the patterns that formed inside the wine bottle tugged at the edges of Beretta’s consciousness, refusing to reveal itself in any comprehensible manner.

“Zvyozdochka,” she muttered, losing the train of thought even as the word passed over her lips.

She straightened up from the table, her eyes dazed for a moment, looking at the wall as she tried to bring it back.

And then a quick blink as she flicked the errant thought away entirely. “Is very pretty, though. But… is not bad for them? To drinking glitter?”

His outfit exemplified ridiculousness on such a grand scale that Mayday had nearly lost his composure to a wave of resignation that threatened to wash his eyes into the back of his skull. The mission, and its importance, were what kept him from expressing his frustration with his clothes, and by extension Erubescian culture. To express dissatisfaction would be an insult to the time and effort Liberty had taken to set up this undertaking. Something Mayday did and would not take for granted.

Ultimately, it had been his mirror that nearly did him in; when he saw the man reflected outward.

Pants, two toned, one side of lavender strippers, the other, a crimson red whose design was heavy, haphazard strokes.

The fabric clung to his legs, floating up slightly right before his ankles, exposing the skin from there down. His shirt was untucked, but designed to be so. His buttons lay open to the stomach, where a lavender waistcoat held its place. Over it all was a sleeveless coat, reaching down to his thighs.

"Look at me." Mayday's voice was filled with disgust.

"Look at me." The second voice, foreign to the first was a sultry tone, brimming with the self satisfied confidence he imagined Erubescians to have. Lastly, he placed a rather obnoxious hat on his head, complete with large rainbow feather. One side of the hat was tacked up, no doubt to add an element of roguishness to the piece.

Mayday, through training, had learned to be outwardly comfortable in such clothing; to swing his hips and blend in with the bloated upper class of the Kings men.

Inwardly?

Nothing could stop the hatred.

Tight lipped, with his nose pointed skyward, Mayday left his room, locking his cold eyes onto each and every person who crossed his path. Even the slightest smile would be subject to strict retribution, brought to you by the icy disgust of Mayday.

He crossed the hallways without snicker or incident. Which left him relatively clear minded for the task ahead.

He flashed his card, and the door opened minus the expected mechanical hum.

Now, he wasn't one for small talk, and outside of Liberty and work he had very little in common, as far as he was concerned, with anyone else in the room.

Looking at them both, he offered little more then a stiff pleasantry before he took his seat.

"Why. Is this here."

"We know these people are ridiculous, so why is it here."

Beretta pushed herself up from her unladylike squat as the door whooshed open, and she turned to face the new arrival.

She beamed with excitement and then tensed as if stung at the sight of Agent Mayday, before finally settling into a pseudo-relaxed posture that involved leaning against the counter behind her in a way she hoped read as “I am at ease,” rather than “I’m putting my hand on this surface at an impractical angle because I saw someone do it in the magazines I’m supposed to be studying, and I figured that was better than letting it show that I am still very unsure as to how I should behave in front of you despite compulsorily sharing your bed for the past week.”

“Hello, Agent Mayday. Sir,” she greeted, and then looked down. “Or, not sir. Rather.”

She gave a thin chuckle, trying to ignore the knot that hat twisted in her gut at the mistake.

“Um… It is from Canvas. To show us. There is Pin-knot No-ear. And glitter.”

She took a stumble-step to the side so that Mayday could better see the bottles and nearly twisted her ankle before catching herself.

“And… he is a little off-time. I am thinking.”

"Pinot noir, Beretta, dear. I am a little off time," Supervisor Canvas Fajaar admitted. The Supervisor usually had a pleasant demeanor, but he seemed extra cheerful today, his stride loose. He entered dressed to match the in-character Agents: A silver-gray tuxedo, black shirt, and a white tie that caught the low light in geometric bits of shine. "I nearly forgot a favorite." The Supervisor held up a smooth bottle of a pinkish, crystal liquid labeled 'Se Détendre,' and set it in a row of similar bottles bearing labels like 'La Félicité and 'L'aigreur.' It was already open.

"Did you know," said Canvas, half sitting against the table, "they've got emotional manipulators whose entire jobs are to add dashes of feelings into beverages with so much alcohol content, they could be adding dashes of hair bleach and you'd barely know the difference? Really, it's terrible. Ridiculous waste of resources. It's this sort of wasted talent that will lose them the war." The accusatory words didn't quite match his flippant tone, or the fact that he appeared to have had a taste of ridiculously wasted resources already. For educational purposes, of course.

"Have a drink." He paused. "That's today's lesson. All of you, have several." He made a sweeping gesture across the glittering array of multi-colored beverages. "If you can avoid it, don't get anywhere near inebriated on the job, of course, but it's nigh impossible to make it through a party without taking a sip or two, and we can't have you making faces and choking and such. In any case, you'd be wise to get familiar with your tolerance. I recommend you start at the table on the left and work your way to the right, because the best stuff is on the left, and I suspect you won't be noticing the taste by the time you get halfway. Try all of them. If you can." He smiled. "I'm not going to say this is strictly a competition, but I will say that I got a small head start to make it a fair one. Get on with it. Try to enjoy yourselves. It's easier than pretending.

Dark eyebrows drawing together, Canvas stood aside for a moment, casting critical looks over the trio, his eyes suddenly showing a clarity that his entrance hadn't let on. This team had not gelled yet. He had some major concerns about this mission. He looked at Mimic--still in her mask, not yet wearing the face of the Erubescan partner Canvas was trying not to imagine locked up somewhere in the base (pity, because he'd rather hoped he could get used to that on the drinking day). Beretta, still not steady on those heels. Finally he looked to Mayday (still-stiff-despite-sleeping-with-Beretta-for-days-Mayday) and, as if just noticing the Agent's colorful presence, Canvas broke his momentary seriousness and laughed aloud. "By the way, you look preposterous, Agent Mayday. You would stand right out. By which I mean you would fit right in. Lovely."