6260/Dancing with the Stars and Stripes.

From United Heroes MUSH
Jump to navigation Jump to search
Dancing with the Stars and Stripes.
Date of Scene: 23 January 2019
Location: Somewhere in New York
Synopsis: Doctors Without Borders organized a charity gala. Captain America is persuaded to attend.
Cast of Characters: Shadow, Captain America




Shadow has posed:
    Competition for the honor of holding a charity gala on New Year's Eve is always highly contentious, but there are always a few groups that feel their money is better spent organizing something on a less symbolic, but also less contested day, when fewer of the invitees are likely to be put into the awkward position of having to decline one or more.

    Doctors Without Borders originally had intended to put in a bid, but mayoral candidate Stan Hardy convinced them he'd be able to arrange a big surprise if they ceded the spot and scheduled for a few weeks later. On the plus side, that does mean that there hasn't been a run on the /good/ catering services, so even with a more modest budget they've been able to do very well.

    The DJ is playing some light mood music while the band sets up, and the guests are just starting to mingle, the wealthy and powerful trading smiles and small talk while Stan is getting smugger and smugger by the moment as people try to subtly grill him about the surprise he supposedly has in store...

Captain America has posed:
Thank god for Lyft and the proposed anonymity afforded by calling for one. In all honesty, the blond super-soldier would have been far more content pulling his motorcycle into the parking garage adjacent to the building and its ballroom, but he made a solemn promise to do his utmost best to ensure that his newly-minted tuxedo (courtesy of van Dyne fashions and a favor from the fashionista herself) remains intact and unsullied. As such, after thanking the driver and handing a substantial tip in return for waiting at least a day before the young lad texts all his friends about just who was in the vehicle this evening, Steve Rogers unfolds himself from the back seat. The cleaned and waxed Rolls-Royce on the Lyft Lux fleet drives off and a polite hotel security member escorts him up the short red carpet laid out. Bulbs flash and Steve manages to look at least comfortable by his mild smile -- ah, publicity -- ugh.

He makes small talk with the security escort in the elevator on the way up to the ballroom and once the doors open, he's waved out into the main lobby outside of the ballroom proper. He pauses to speak under his breath to the Holder of the Guest List and la-voila: one S. Rogers is checked off. Modern-cut with short tails and with black edging on the lapels, Janet swore up and down that the navy-blue hue would do him wonders in any lighting. He adjusts his cuffs briefly and takes a breath before stepping out into the pool of social sharks. Somewhere, there's one Stan Hardy expecting him to at least shake the man's hand and make some appreciative comments about what Hardy's been doing lately. As he walks, Steve scans the crowd with a calm attentiveness to his gaze.

Shadow has posed:
    Alas, any hope of making a quiet, subdued entrance is dashed when Mr. Hardy, who'd clearly been alerted of Steve's approach, turns to the entrance just when Steve enters.

    "Ladies and gentlemen... Captain America!" he announces, the effortlessly loud boisterous voice cutting through distant chatter with the ease of the experienced speech giver, and a moment later every eye in the room is on the mystery guest of honor.

    Astonished silence reigns for a few moments before people snap out of it, flocking towards Steve like a colony of seagulls in a certain animated movie about a fish. No one is obviously hurrying, of course, as that would be undignified, but there is a certain amount of jockeying for position to be the first - well, second, after Mr. Hardy, to shake a genuine war hero's hand...

Captain America has posed:
So much for anonymity! Steve's expression rotates through surprise, brief scrunching of eyebrows in irritation, and then smooths into a mask of rueful acceptance, complete with that mild smile that implies nothing more than professional interaction at best. He raises one hand in greeting towards Hardy and boy, the flashbacks he's having right of all those times trotted out on stage in tights before the chorus line -- eidetic memory has its pitfalls.

"Mr. Hardy. Thank you for the invitation," replies the Captain, loudly enough to be heard by the rapid influx of guests. He shakes the man's hand firmly, still wearing his severely polite smile. "I couldn't say no to a cause like this. Hopefully the city knows about what you've been doing both here and for the world beyond our borders." Say the right things, smile and wave, maybe he can get this all right and then disappear an hour early, pleading an important text from Tony.

Shadow has posed:
    Hardy looks like the proverbial cat that caught the canary, clearly already imagining what this'll do for his election chances, but he's savvy enough not to rub it in too hard by monopolizing Steve's attention and he saunters off after the first photo op.

    On the other hand Gabriel Lefevre, spokesman for Medicins Sans Frontieres and organizer of this event, is only barely recovering from the surprise and shakes Steve's hand enthusiastically. "Captain Rogers, you honor us with your presence. Mr. Hardy had assured us he'd persuaded a worthy guest of honor, but we never imagined... My apologies, I ramble. Please, be welcome to our humble soiree. Dinner will be served shortly, and a place has been arranged for you at the table of our most esteemed sponsors..."

Captain America has posed:
"Thank you, Mr. Lefevre." Steve smiles with a touch more honesty towards this man as he returns the handshake. "As I mentioned before, an honor to be here and to bring attention to your cause. Any chance I might know a few of the faces at the table?" A question of idle curiosity, he glances in the direction of the tables already set with gleaming flatware and ivory plates, water glasses and champagne flutes, and interspersed with seasonal floral displays. The overhead lighting gleams in cheerful gold down upon it all.

So far, the Captain recognizes a few faces in passing, like as not from previous public functions and other parties hosted by the Stark Foundation. He's attended a few of those through Tony's chivvying about responsiblity and keeping up a public face. He briefly nods and murmurs a greeting towards another guest brave enough to risk interrupting before turning his attention back to Lefevre.

Shadow has posed:
    "Of course, of course," Gabriel replies as the clear ring of a bell announces dinner will commence shortly, taking hold of Steve's shoulder and guiding him toward the table where various well-dressed men and women are rising to greet him. "Ladies, gentlemen, I'm sure our esteemed guest of honour needs no introduction. Captain Rogers, these are Sebastian Moreau, of Moreau and Partners, law firm to the mighty; aside from their always generous donations, their legal advice has been invaluable to us more than once..." A man in an expensively tailored tuxedo and possibly even more expensively groomed mustache offers his hand. "Captain Rogers, an honor to meet you."

    "... Katelyn Choy, our primary contact with Ace Pharmaceuticals, who enables us to obtain a significant amount of medicines at a very good price..." A blonde woman whose severe hairstyle can't quite disguise the first few wrinkles of age offers a thin-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Captain."

    "... Doctor Amelia Brown is here representing the American Center for Disease Control..." An older woman offers Steve a smile, one hand fidgeting with a few strands of graying brown hair that escaped a respectable bun. "Captain Rogers. An honor, and I'd like to thank you again for your statements regarding vaccination a few months ago..."

    "... Gerald Petrovitsky, our liason with the United Nations, who helps us smooth over ruffled feathers when our disregard for borders runs afoul of a nation's sense of sovereignity..."

    A thickset elderly man in a white suit leans one hand on a cane while shaking Steve's with the other.

    "... And Natasha Cranston of Cranston Multinational Shipping; for as long as MSF has existed, Cranston Multinational has carried whatever freight to wherever we need it carried, at cost..." Natasha offers Steve an almost amused-looking smile. "Captain Rogers. I'm afraid you've already cost me money; I let Stanley trick me into betting ten dollars that he wouldn't be able to surprise me." She grins a bit wider as she holds out her hand. "Still, I'd consider it worth it. It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers. My grandfather always spoke highly of you..."

Captain America has posed:
Each named guest is greeted in turn, with Steve inclining his head in a manner decidedly old-fashioned by way of respect -- each offered handshake is returned with just enough strength to intimate sincerity.

To the polished gentleman with his equally-polished 'stache: "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Moreau. I've heard of you through our own legal team, including Miss Jennifer Walters. Good things," he assures the man.

Towards Dr. Brown and her fixed coiffing: "I still stand by them, doctor. We live in a day and age where no one should fear the diseases of the past."

And now here is the granddaughter of a man he...doesn't know, upon consideration. Steve takes her hand and not only shakes it, but allows it to linger. His smile turns into something almost bemused. "I'd like to claim that I knew your grandfather well, but I don't believe I did. He was in the war then?" World War II, the one in question. "Sorry about the ten dollars," he adds with a little shrug beneath the lines of his tuxedo, now dropping her hand in order to take his seat. "That's, what...two cups of coffee depending on where you go."

Shadow has posed:
    "He served active duty in the first one, flying messages and the occasional dogfight," Natasha replies. "By the time the second came around he'd decided he could do more good making sure the soldiers on the ground were well supplied than flying a fighter plane. He liked to think he did his part." There's just a bit of wistful sadness in her smile as she speaks of him.

Captain America has posed:
Steve gives her a knowing smile, not necessarily sad by nature, but understanding in his way. "Every soldier needed supplies. It's no little feat to have aided the Allies to victory. People don't think about the necessity of boots as well as bullets," he explains as he reaches for his glass of water. A sip. "What was his name? I might remember him by it," the man asks, glancing over at Natasha again.

Shadow has posed:
    "Lamont Cranston," Natasha replies. "The family business was still called Cranston International Shipping, at the time. We did a lot of growing after the war; he liked to joke that it turned out that when you're rebuilding a continent you need even more goods shipped than when you're fighting over it."

    She smiles again, then returns to her chair as the waiters start emerging from the kitchen. As it happens, the guest of honor chair is between her and Dr. Brown...

Captain America has posed:
"Hmm." Steve frown at his glass of water as he thinks. Somewhere, far back in those dusty memories pertaining more to the supply chain rather than the next attack on HYDRA bases, there's a wee flicker of connection, rather like a star behind gauzy clouds.

"His name rings a bell, but I'm sorry. I don't think I ever met him in person." He gives Natasha an apologetic half-smile. "I bet he'd be proud that you've continued on the family success in the business." Steve is certain to give Dr. Brown another nod in passing, to ensure her that she won't be left out of conversation in case she wants to pipe up.

Shadow has posed:
    "I've only recently returned to take the reins," Natasha replies as she holds up her glass for the waiter pouring the wine. "I've had to do some housecleaning, but I'm happy to say I'm looking forward to the future again..."

Captain America has posed:
Steve nods, appearing interested despite himself. Small talk at functions was never his forte, but Natasha's comment has the hint of espionage to it -- unless he's grasping at nothing, which experience tells him is entirely possible. "To the company's future and your continued assistance in aid beyond our borders," offers the man, lifting his own glass of wine towards Natasha. The other guests lift their own in turn if they were listening to any part of the conversation.

The kitchen staff continue to filter out from behind the double doors, looking crisp and professional in their white-on-black attire. The sommelier moves on down the table and while he's pouring Mr. Moreau's glass, he looks up towards the double doors -- one nod. Another nod from another gentlemen who then disappears out of sight.

The band continues playing its soft music in the background, not loud enough to disrupt conversations about the two tables tucked against one side of the ballroom. Another platoon of waiters filter out bearing silver domes, one for each table. They require two people per platter, which indicates something fairly heavy beneath the lids. Mr. Petrovitsky seems pleased to see the arrival of their own platter. Once placed centrally on the table, the senior waiter pauses for appropriate building of anticipation.

Then, an echoing bump-bump-bump -- someone tapping the microphone set up on stage before the band. Heads turn even as the domes rise: on each tray, a mechanical contraption filled with wiring and glowing buttons and what appears to be a cylindrical glass vial of liquid either to spray or vaporize into the air. Steve stiffens in his chair, going nearly as still as a statue; his wine glass crackles but does not shatter from his brief clench of hand.

"May I have your attention, please." The speaker at the microphone is dressed head to toe in black. Matte where the clothing is not leather, her voice is raspy as if dealing with laryngitis and her face difficult to see beneath the shadows of a wide-brimmed hat akin to a fedora.

"... This is not entertaining," squeaks Miss Choy, her eyes gone wide and face pale.

Shadow has posed:
    There are some scattered screams and shouts, but perhaps fortunately no one appears to have been foolish enough to try to stand up and get away. There are a lot of pale and frightened faces around the dinner table, however -- although for some reason, Natasha seems more surprised than frightened. "... I'm pretty sure this wasn't on the intended menu, Gabriel..." She murmurs, the sheer deadpan incongruity pulling Gabriel out of his own shock, and he turns angrily.

    "What is the meaning of this?" he demands.

Captain America has posed:
The speaker at the microphone doesn't seem dismayed by the number of eyes on her now. The band behind her has fallen silent, the musicians all looking between themselves in shock. She lifts a black leather-gloved hand towards Lefevre as if to introduce him -- or rather, to cue one of the waiters to pull a Walther out from the pocket of his apron and press the barrel against the back of Gabriel's neck.

She rasps her reply. "A reallocation of funds. The pocketbooks in this room are plenty and their contents just as plentiful. No one will need to die if you'll simply place your wallets on the plates in front of you -- ladies, this includes you." The scanning of her gaze is palpable despite the heavy shadowing of the hat's brim and it marks each woman in the room in turn.

Steve slides a glance to Natasha, barely turning his head. He then considers the speaker. The woman in black adds, "On the silver platters are devices that will flood this entire room with a paralyzing agent. Either you hand over your wallet now or we will take them from your person, whether you like it or not. Oh, that reminds me." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small square gadget. A push of a button and a small electromagnetic surge blows out all cell phones on the floor. "No texting, please. Security won't be able to help you anyways." That's because all of security is either cuffed with guns held to them or unconscious somewhere in a janitor's closet.

Shadow has posed:
    There are more gasps as the gun is pulled, and even more when the demand - and threat - are made, but various people are already reaching for their wallets - but at least nobody is getting shot. Yet.

    "This is an outrage!" Stan Hardy suddenly shouts. "You can't seriously think you're going to get away with this!"

Captain America has posed:
"By the looks of things, I'm already well on my way," replies the mystery-robber blithely. Everyone at the table of honor has either placed their wallet on their plate or is in the process of doing so. The waiters are interspersed at regular distances and all appear to be weaponized as well...or are bluffing. No one else has yet pulled a gun but for the one still pressed against Gabriel's neck.

Steve slowly puts down his wine glass. A roll of his lips and his eyes dart left and right as he tucks his chin, trying to hide that he's attempting to come up with a plan on the fly. It seems most logical to disarm the gunman and then deal with the machinery on each platter -- damn, he wishes he had his shield. "... Tell everyone to get under the table," he murmurs to Natasha out of one side of his mouth. Then, in a stunning burst of serum-boosted speed, he's whipping out of his chair to make a grab for the gun. The waiter's wrist crackles under the sudden rough grip of Steve's hand and he drops the weapon with a shout of pain.

Up at the microphone, the robber is stunned herself in shock, but likely not for long.

Shadow has posed:
    Natasha's only reaction is a fractional widening of her eyes and an even more fractional nod, and maybe when he has more time he might spend some of it wondering how exactly a CEO develops the kind of situational awareness and uptake that he's more used to seeing in, say, Black Widow, but for the immediate future he's going to need to focus on not getting shot...

    From the corner of his eyes as he wrestles the gun away from the 'waiter' he can see Natasha dragging Dr. Brown underneath the table while Mr. Moreau's chair appears to have collapsed underneath him. "Get under here, stay down!" she shouts in an authoritative voice that brooks no contradiction.

    Meanwhile, the robbers covering the other tables are noticing something's just gone off script and Steve estimates he has maybe five or so seconds before bullets start coming his way...

Captain America has posed:
Five or so critical seconds. At least the tuxedo afforded him the anonymity that Hardy's initial shout did not -- and thank god for the wait-staff being in the kitchen when that occurred.

The Walther is kicked by Steve towards the table in case someone there knows how to use it. A wrench of the waiter's arm and the man is thrown in a swirling judo move to slam down on his back, the wind and senses knocked from him. Steve jumps up from his crouch and then lunges for the machine on the table. A grunt and he's wrenched the vial from the machine itself, heedless of the risk of it fracturing.

"Who didn't read the guest list?!" An enraged splutter from the robber at her microphone, now gripping its pole and bristling in...frankly, neurotic, off-kilter indignation. If there's a button for the machines, no one's pressed it yet.

There goes Steve in another blur -- and there goes the first seam on the tuxedo, popping at his shoulder. The white of his dress shirt shows as he makes to grab at the second vial and yank it from its moorings as well. "Flip the tables!" he shouts towards Natasha and the other guests. If anything, the tables might be bulwark against pulled guns. They are lined with metal underneath, at least.

Shadow has posed:
    Not everyone reacts as quickly to snapped orders as Natasha seems to have, but once the VIP guests' table crashes on its side various other groups get the idea.

    As he rushes the next group of gunmen - who are getting disturbingly close to drawing a bead on him, there is the sound of breaking glass and sloshing of liquid behind him, and Natasha's voice. "Captain Rogers - Catch!", and as he spares a moment to glance behind, miss Cranston is standing half-over the former waiter's body, which is now slumped on the ground wearing glass shards and what remains of the wine -- and in her hands she's holding the dinner tray, winding it up like a champion Frisbee player getting ready for that opening toss...

Captain America has posed:
Hopefully no one jostles him too hard: the two glass vials of golden liquid are hastily stuffed into his interior suit pocket as he turns on the fly towards his name. Across the space flies the dinner tray, a perfect anagram for the shield he's so familiar with -- and he leaps into the air to catch it, spinning as he goes, already clicking in a long-practiced mode of sparring.

The first few bullets make resounding sounds of impact on the tray as he lands in a crouch, but few suspected he would continue the charge towards them, guns notwithstanding. In a blur of silver deeply-dented tray and navy-blue, Steve lays into the small grouping of gunmen like a weasel in a chicken coop. Ah, tuxedo, we knew ye well. It suffers as he goes, seams ripping left and right. At once point, even a failed attempt to throw wine into his face merely splashes on his lapel and the white shirt beneath, staining them a mulberry hue.

Up on stage, the leader of the would-be robbery is still shrieking at the top of her asthmatic lungs into the microphone. Her dismay is crazed. The usual suspects would have fled by now! Her attention turns to Natasha in particular. "YOU BITCH!" she screams, mad enough now to toss aside the mic stand and nearly take out a petrified trombone player in the process.

Shadow has posed:
    It actually takes Steve a moment to recalibrate his expectations before he realizes that he's fighting second-rate human goons rather than augmented alien infantry or fanatically disciplined and well-trained HYDRA operatives. They have little to no coordination and a poor grasp of teamwork -- and it seems to him almost as if they're having trouble keeping focused on him. Their timing is just a crucial bit off, they tend to flinch or blink at exactly the wrong moment to dodge a strike or kick...

    It's always tricky to keep track of time in a fight, but by his estimation the last goon goes down for the count within fifty seconds of the original toss.

    Natasha looks clearly taken aback by the sudden attention on her and moves to duck back behind the overturned table, out of line of sight...

Captain America has posed:
The last man falls. Panting lightly, Steve turns to face the stage. It's suddenly very quiet save for a groan or two from the pile of bodies he's left lying dazed on the ballroom floor. No one's dead, but everyone's going to have a headache, a limp, or a hard time getting up once the authorities arrive. He begins walking towards the black-clad woman who has frozen in her stride across the empty stage at Natasha.

"You picked the wrong party," he states, his face set in that infamous bulldog glare. Habitually, he adjusts his hold on the dented serving platter.

The woman stares at him, her eyes wide and...crimson-red now beneath the brim of her hat. Then, suddenly, a maniacal titter. "Maybe this time, Captain, but I'll read the guest list more closely next time." And then, with a disorienting fluidity of her figure and the sense of a metaphysical 'pop', like ears reacting to air pressure, she's...gone. Completely gone. Steve pulls up short by the overturned table and stares.

"...I hate it when they pull that trick," he mutters. Then, he raises his voice. "Anyone with a concealed carry permit, grab a gun, cover the culprits. You," and he points at a wide-eyed true staff member over by the door to the ballroom, "Get to a landline and call the police." His attention shifts to the VIP table and he walks into view to ascertain how the other party is doing. "Everyone okay?" His eyes linger on Natasha in particular. She held her composure surprisingly well...

Shadow has posed:
    "It would appear so," comes the still well-composed response as Natasha stands back up, helping Doctor Brown back to her feet at the same time. "It seems that Captain America has once again saved the day."

    The relief that has been filtering through finally breaks at her announcement, and Steve finds himself the center of another round of - this time significantly more sincere - applause and cheers...

Captain America has posed:
There's a little tilt to his head as Steve considers the woman again. This is far more sang-froid than he sees on average, especially from the CEO of a shipping company. Then, he looks around and sighs sharply as the applause rises from folks both having made their way upright or still sitting on the ballroom floor. Another lift of his hand, old habits from the stage, and he frowns down at the dented platter...and then at himself.

Plucking at the wine-soaked tuxedo coat and then taking in the fact that he's nearly separated both sleeves from the shoulders as well as torn the backing seam between his shoulderblades, he lets out a quiet laugh. One knee is scuffed beyond saving, but thank goodness all the lines of the pants held.

"Just another day, I guess," he says, trying for humility. His grimace deepens. "And Janet's gonna kill me..."