2021/All Aboard Alpha Flight Station

All Aboard Alpha Flight Station
Date of Scene:	15 April 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Voodoo, Abigail Brand

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Voodoo has posed:
Be at the address in question at the time in question, with her phone in hand, and dial in to the number in question at the right time? OK, fine. Voodoo can do all of that, and does. But the whole 'splitting all your atoms and reassembling you' thing? Gah! It never felt like this when Void did it!

Nevertheless, the purple-clad armed and masked heroine is now aboard Alpha Flight Station, which is now a functional part of SWORD. And Priss still thinks that is both awesome and hilarious. The names people give things! "Someone want to point me in the direction of Director Brand?" she queries, and then follows the pointing fingers and tries to ignore the stares.

Why is it everyone seems so afraid at the mention of Abby? Just because she's the one who has to sign for them to get their paychecks? Seriously?

Abigail Brand has posed:
    Abby's office is down... well, one of the many identical hallways. Her office is actually fairly impressive, serving as sort of an all in one apartment/office, complete with a weight bench off to one side. Presumably so Abby doesn't intimidate the troops while working out.

She's settled at her desk, brow furrowed, head down, two stacks of paper, one on either side of her desk, being pulled from the larger pile, looked over, signed, and then slid onto the smaller pile. Judging by the inequality between them, she has a long day of the part of her job she -doesn't- enjoy in store.

Brand glances up as her door opens, for a moment her face is that cold, implacable stare she always has... but then her lips curve in a little smile and she calls out. "Well! Hello, stranger. Dropping by to check out the amenities?"

Voodoo has posed:
Priss can feel the annoyance and exhaustion running through Abby's mind, and she saunters into the room as soon as she is noticed just to keep those eyes on her, off the paper stacks, for rejuvenation purposes.

No other reasons. Seriously. It's the truth!

OK, OK. Whatever.

"Hello, 'Director'." Voodoo offers, until the door hisses shut behind her. Then she rolls her shoulders. "Abby, I have two questions: First: why are you doing all of that //on actual paper//? And second, why aren't you getting one of the drones to do most of it? I can feel your misery from here."

That said, Voodoo strolls across the room, comes up behind the green-haired woman, and lays her hands on her neck and shoulders. Ever had an empath's massage? There are few things better in this world or the next. And Priss is very, very good at it.

"Actually, I came up here because I got a message saying there were a few more things to sign, and that you might have a mission for me."

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby's more than happy to stop paying attention to the paperwork... and not just because it's Priss she gets to look at and pay attention to instead. But certainly partly because of that.

Abby nods her head and sighs out, pulling her glasses off after the door closes... can't let the troops see those eyes, a touch tired, giving a playful little roll. "Well, you know how government bureaucracy is. When they want a paper trail, they want a -paper- trail. And, well, some of it is stuff only I can approve, and... I -might- have avoided it for... awhile." She clears her throat softly, and then she's letting out a groan, her shoulders tensing like steel at the first touches, before she sinks back into her seat.

"Hff... oh, right... yeah, benefits papers to sign... and, mhg... well, I don't have a mission right now that I can send you on, we've had reports of suspicious activity in and around Gotham to check out. I mean, what's alien terrorists smuggling weapons in a city where everyone -else- smuggles weapons? They could walk around without disguises and someone'd figure there's just a new costumed nut around." She sighs out and groans again, continuing to sink backwards. "Oh, and there's that space ship heading our way. So... you might want to enjoy the free time before we're fighting to save Earth from weird... space Starfish that shoot lasers."

Voodoo has posed:
Priscilla continues the massage with expert attention, perfect pressure, and impossible accuracy, as if she's aiming for goey puddle of Abby instead. "Well, I'll sign whatever they need." she offers, honestly; whatever will get the government paychecks started, and means she doesn't have to keep stripping, that's fine with her. Not that she minds stripping, but she decided on this course change, and now it's time to see it through.

"Wait. Space starfish that shoot lasers? Where do I sign up for that crazy talk? And what's this about a giant space ship headed this way?" Hey, Priss isn't exactly getting regularly invited to briefings. Not yet. So she's out of the loop, and obviously trying to get herself inside said loop if she can.

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby could get used to this. She feels tension just melting away, taking little sighs and groans with it as she murmurs out almost dazedly. "Oh... hang on... the papers are here..." She gestures vaguely, arms moving with noticeable slowness as she rummages on her desk until she plucks out one of the slim folders, just a few pieces of paper in it. She holds it up towards Priss with a low sigh.

"They're parasites of some sort... and once you sign these papers you are -totally- signed up for all the crazy. And you'll totally get a free ride on a space ship out to fend this thing off... I -think- we'll have some costumed backup at least, so it'll be fun. You ever want Captain Marvel's autograph? Because you can probably sweet talk her." She can't help but tilt her head back, and flash a crooked, upside down grin. "I mean, even if me and her have friction time to time."

Voodoo has posed:
"You know, Abby, you should just tell her how you feel." Priss offers, softly. No scolding, just some warmly understanding advice from the empath. Who keeps up the massage, working down Abigail's spine now. "That'd go a long way to reducing tensions; at least then you'd both know where you stand."

Oh, snap!

"You do realize //I// am part of the costumed backup, right?" the purple-eyed woman offers, as she leans down and places a kiss on the middle of Abigail's forehead. "I wouldn't mind meeting the lady. From what I hear, she's pretty impressive. And she's a lot more open about it than you are." Because in Priscilla's view of things, Abby could be just as much of a Big Damn Hero, if she'd stop playing Secret Agent Girl.

"Just lay them out there. I'll sign them in a bit." Priss is in no hurry. Nope.

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby huffs out and murmurs, "Hey! It's not like... a -feeling- thing, we're just... you know, both hot headed and independant. And like -all- costumed women, okay, maybe I've had some idle thoughts." She grumbles a little more, even as she's leaning forward, hands cupping under her chin as she squirms in her chair, working her hips forward until Priss can work that magic along her entire back down to her hips.

Yep, totally just like... fiery rivalry. That's the tension. For sure.

Brand lets out a little laugh and purrs, "Oh sure, you're part of the costumed backup, but like... you're on my team! I can't boss around Black Canary and Green Arrow like I can you." She frowns thoughtfully... somehow she doesn't see bossing around working so well on Priss. She reaches over and lays the papers out on one of the blank spaces of desk. "Wait, open about huh?" She sounds dumbfounded... maybe her mind was wandering in a different direction than Priss's, "I mean, okay she's got that haircut and all, but like..."

Yep, Abby definitely didn't go down the 'More open about being a big damn hero' path.

Voodoo has posed:
"Empath, remember?" Priss murmurs as Abby tries to protest about those feelings she's totally not having. Nope. Not at all.

"Well, that is true. You could boss me around more than them. Especially if you wanted me to just kark off and quit." Priscilla teases, rubbing sensually up along Abby's sides before she starts working down her spine again. "It's oK. I get what you mean."

Priscilla lets out a soft peal of amused laughter as Abby completely misinterprets that statement. The dancer has no idea what team Carol Danvers bats for, but she finds Abby's thoughts about it terribly amusing. "You do know short hair is not a reliable indicator of sexual identity, right?" she queries, tenderly. Hello. Priss and Sarah have to be two of the longest-haired women for whom their hair is not their superpower. And Abigail herself is not butch-cut either.

"So, where do I need to be to help out with these ... parasite starfish things?" she inquires.

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby laughs out softly and murmurs, "Oh, I see... -empath-... so you knew exactly how distracting you were being when we met! Crafty. Good. I like crafty."

Not that Abby's... saying she likes... whoops, yep, there's a flare up of tension again.

Brand siiiiighs out and reaches up to lightly tickle along Priss's jaw for just a moment. "Okay okay. I won't boss you around. I mean, I'm -still- going to make you sign the forms, but that's not being bossy." She sighs and lifts one eyebrow, "Hey, I know full well that hair is not a reliably indicator! I'm just... okay, not sure what I'm trying to say." She uffs oout a breath and then just sinks forward again. More back rub, that's surely the answer.

"Oh, that's easy enough. I'll get you one of our communicators. It's like Star Trek, we can beam you up when we have a plan in place, and you can hop a ride on the ship we take out. I'm assuming the heavier hitters are going to want to stop it in space, because four of those things were havoc in a corn field... or wheat field? Eh. It was some kind of field. Deadpool was there, so it's... all kind of one long migraine?"

Voodoo has posed:
"Of course I knew how distracting I was being. That was kinda the point: to keep the cops from arresting me, or labelling me a threat." Priss admits. Yep, crafty. Not brilliant, but crafty.

"Is there an app or something we can put on my phone? That'd be easier than having a whole other piece of hardware." Priss inquires, 'cause she can ask questions. She may not love the answers, but the questions are allowed.

"Never met Deadpool. I've heard he makes me look like rigid control and tight order, so I can see how he'd drive you nuts." And more massaging. "Not really sure how much use I'll be in deep space, but I'll give it a shot. Theoretically, if I take Daemonite form, I should be able to survive vacuum for a while." Yep. Shapeshifting too.

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby lets out a little wistful sigh and a laugh, "Aww, and here I thought it was special flattery all for me."

"Hm.... you know, there probably is? I mean, -mine- is basically a cell phone with just the extra features... I uh... just don't call other people a lot." She groans out softly and murmurs playfully, "Oh, he does. I mean, not that I think you need to be any more rigid or orderly. I enjoy flexibility, yes?" She shakes her head quickly, "Oh no, I'm not getting us involved in like... the -space- part. We'll let them disable the engines or whatever, and then we board the ship, smash the aliens, rescue any prisoners, take their stuff." She pauses for a long moment. "You know, when I put it that way, it kind of sounds like Earth mugs aliens who just fly by our solar system. Like we're space muggers."

Voodoo has posed:
"Oh, I have plenty of special flattery for you, Abby." Priscilla offers, as she leans down and kisses the back of Abigail's neck, continuing the massage.

"Honestly? It sounds like space piracy. But if that's what we need, that's good. That I can do without trying on space suits that might get in the way." Priss offers. "I prefer to //keep// my flexibility." Yep. Implications abound.

"Now. Did you remember to eat? 'Cause it feels to me as if you feel like you haven't eaten in like twelve hours. And that's not good." Because yes, Priss can be tenderly mothering, in sweet ways. Including Cinnabon.

Abigail Brand has posed:
That little brush of a kiss earns a noise somewhere between soft, surprised gasp, delighted sigh, and some other, deepr groan. Though the groan -might- just be from Abby continuing to enjoy the massage.

"Well, I promise I won't make you wear a big bulky space suit and talk like a pirate. Because I'm such a good boss and friend." She clears her throat softly and murmurs, "Oh, and I don't think -anyone- who knows you would ever suggest you lose even a bit of your flexibility."

Brand's lips screw up a little half pout, half scowl. "Well, I mean... I.. okay, it's not like I -forgot- to eat, I've just been putting it off until things were taken care of." Not that Brand is going to turn down an invitation to dinner, of course. Not at allll.

Voodoo has posed:
"Thank you." Priscilla offers, without further clarification, as her thumbs dig into a particularly resistant little knot around Abby's spine, a little twist and a push to cause that muscle to uncoil and go twitchy and limp.

"Alright. Now, you are going to stay here. Just like this. You're not going to move. You're not going to look at paperwork. No computers. No phones or communicators. And you're going to give me ten minutes to go get you some food. I'll be back. Just relax, and let yourself drift." The words are whispered, tenderly, into Abby's ear, so softly even mics in the room would probably miss anything more than the mere existence of the murmur.

That said, Priss gently caresses Abby's back and sides, and then slips away. Mask in place, she steps out of the room and closes the door, then moves quickly down the hall. She has apparently already figured out where the mess hall is, as she does indeed return in just over nine minutes, arms laden with a tray. She opens the door and comes back in, laying the tray on the desk as she settles down across from Abby, pulling her mask up and over her head once more, shaking out her raven mane.

On the tray is a salad with crumbled cheese and turkey, as well as a plate with a freshly made turkey, roast beef and swiss on rye. Also present: a large glass of water, a carafe of milk, and a carafe of hot tea. "Now, you eat. Doesn't matter what you pick. I'll look these over and get them signed."

Abigail Brand has posed:
Abby can't help but snicker out softly when Priss returns and... okay, -maybe- she'll admit she shouldn't have waited to eat for so long, given how she falls upon the sandwich like a ravenous lion on a gazelle.

She does her best to get across her appreciation via happy noises, eagerness, and an emphatic nodding about the paperwork. And after a good three ravenous bites, and a little lick of her lips, she manages to regain her composure. "Okay... you might have had a point about food."

Well, at least she can deadpan it with half-lidded eyes.

"So, welcome officially to your life of... government service? I mean, we're pretty easy-going with the schedules and all, so it's not like you're going to be up here staring at a computer screen eight hours a day."

Voodoo has posed:
"Good. I'd be awful at that." Priscilla admits. Sarah suspects Priss may be dyslexic. Priss just calls herself stupid. But one thing she does know: words, on a page or on a screen, are not her friends. They don't like her, she doesn't like them either.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Priss offers, and she finishes signing the papers, returning them to the folder. Did she read them? No. She cheated and read Abby's thoughts of what the papers are supposed to do and say. Good enough. "You just need to take better care of yourself, the same way you do the world, Abby."