Liberty Base Alpha A

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. 


Samon began to study Selim as he talked, his stance, the words he used, the tone of voice. Something was off about him, but Samon couldn't quite put it into words. Why were all of his alarm bells ringing at the presence of this man?

He was a bit relieved when the man left, allowing for Samon to get back to his training with Colt. His aura threw him and Samon didn't know why. It was the agonizing feeling of what he wanted to say being on the tip of his tongue. He knew what was up with Selim Sharp and yet he didn't. It was a frustrating feeling.

He heard Colt's training advice on shooting, and he listened, pushing all of that in the back of his mind. He could worry about that another time. Right now, Colt was giving some instruction. He felt the weight of the gun shift around in his hand as Colt rolled his wrist backwards to demonstrate what he wanted. The wrist still throbbed from when he'd shot before, but it was turning into a dull kind of pain.

He breathed slowly, in and out, focusing on the nothingness in front of him, concentrating on where he wanted the next shot to go. He kept the right wrist relaxed this time as per Colt's instruction. He looked through where he imagined the gun's sight would be. Colt would point out that he was looking a couple centimeters to the right. But his aim was still on target. He hadn't moved it from it's original position.

He inhaled, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.

The massive bang echoes through his ears once more, but the wrist didn't hurt nearly as bad from recoil as it did with the first shot. He knew the shot would land where Colt intended it to go. It just felt right.

"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."

"I'm afraid to tell you I do not do that, Heather." Alexander muttered, too tired to look unfazed by the remark. "I believe I've explained that before, though." He redirected his attention to the profiles Faye brought. Despite his lack of complete focus, he did his best to scan through the important details.

"Are you looking to acquire them?" Selene asked after reading them. "If we planned it out, I would say it would be very feasible to obtain them." She looked up as Mithera entered, and she smiled politely. "Good morning, Councilor Mithera." She replied, lightly nudging Alex's arm. "Like Heather said, we are discussing future matters for when we bring in the terrorists."

Alex looked up upon feeling Selene's nudge, but he had no interest in Mithera's "friendliness". "Yes, good morning, Mithera." He added. "I assume your morning has been well so far?"

Colt watched Samon prepare, keeping one hand hovering over the boy’s hands to check that his wrist would not fly up from the recoil too harshly.

The trainee’s inability to look straight down the weapon’s sight was immediately obvious, but Colt did not say anything on the matter. The boy was holding steady, and there was no need for a sight from a man who could not see.

At least, previous vision impaired trainees had not needed to use them.

The bang sounded, and the new motion of Samon’s wrist, as predicted, bumped Colt’s right hand as the weapon lurched back and up. Less predictably, a shell of hot brass flew out toward Colt’s face.

He dodged the shell without moving his gaze from Samon’s target.

“You are in orange,” he said, tone more approving than it had been during the rest of the lesson, “On silhouette, ornage is center mass. Is very good shot. Motion is better.”

He then plucked the gun from Samon’s hands, and lifted it up straight out of his grip. “Is a big kick for small weapon, but you are managing well, Trainee Cauldier.”

He tucked the revolver back into its home at his gun belt, and then reached to take hold of Samon’s wrist.

Despite the side of his hands, his touch was gentle as he gingerly cradled the boy’s injured limb. He carefully flexed the fingers, and rotated his hand with the same care one could expect from a practiced medic.

“Wrist is being the gunner’s most vital asset,” he said, releasing him. “You are to going home, and putting on ice. Ten minutes on, twenty off. Two anti-inflammatory tabs are to being sent to your home- You are taking them before bed, and before lesson tomorrow.”

He took a step back, posture back at attention.

“You are being dismissed, Trainee Cauldier. Reporting tomorrow for further instruction.”

“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.”