2010-03-30 - This Thing of Ours

LONDON

EARTH-1

NOW

"I'm still so... /overwhelmed/," C.C. confesses, carrying one dainty shopping bag in addition to her chosen burden of Cheese-kun. The rest of the day's excursion can be ably hauled by one Laura Rolla, and who's C.C. to deprive her of that? The green-haired witch is wearing her white buckles-and-belts outfit with the flared everything, but over it, she has on a very touristy 'I <3 LONDON' t-shirt emblazoned with a little UK flag pattern on the heart. "/This/ is Britannia? Why, the Britannia I know hasn't been like this in... why... /ages/."

C.C. glances back at Laura. "Have you ever seen anything like it? It's as if the whole city just... /purged/ itself overnight." Of course, C.C. says this right as she walks under a giant poster of Patrick Colasour proclaiming 'A-LAWS -- WATCHING OUT FOR /YOU/' and providing hotline numbers for reporting various suspicious behaviors. "I-- oh! Oh! Laura!"

C.C. runs out into the road, heedless of the fact that there are cars coming and that she nearly causes a gnarly pile-up as they swerve to avoid her. She runs clear across to the other side, where her target awaits: a pub that looks like the least reputable place of business this side of Bask Om's House of Chicken and Waffles. It purports to be an 'authentic Irish pub.' This is offset by the dark-complexioned men in sunglasses smoking cigarettes outside of it, and the fact that the bar is named 'O'MAFIA'S.'

"Oh, we must go in, Laura! We must!"

Laura is stronger than she looks. Still, she cannot personally bend space to her will yet. It took two bags in each hands, two looped around her wrists by their straps, and two underneath her arms before C.C. had to start carrying something and then suddenly shopping was over. Laura, at least, has avoided wearing the touristy stuff and has to make due with C.C.'s school uniform since they came straight from Secret Base #0. The skirt is still freaking her out a little bit.

"I've never been to Brittannia!" the White Doll's pilot says, starting to run out of breath. "I never crossed the ocean. I guess I saw it a few times from the Moon, but I never really thought about it. Is it really that different?"

Ms. Rolla grew up in a society where the closest thing to organized crime was an ancient and prideful military family, and then moved to a society where the closest thing to organized crime were some charming kids who stole apple pies from windowsills and then probably died when the Moonrace invaded. O'MAFIA seems like an exotic name and, hell, Mr. Lineford and the late Mr. Heim and pretty much every man of leisure in Inglessa smoked. Laura automatically assumes he's rich.

"I don't know, C.C., that place looks kind of high class. Can we afford it?"

C.C. turns and looks over her shoulder, giving Laura this amused expression as if she'd just told a funny but wholly inappropriate joke. "Oh, /Laura/," C.C. says, and then, without another word, wanders right in.

When the two women (well, one and a half) walk in, the entire place grinds to a halt. Various well-dressed men stop in their card games and casual conversations and stare. None of them look very happy or welcoming, as if it was a convention of character actors who all specialized in 'thugs.' C.C. is blissfully unaware. She points Laura toward a small, isolated table off to one side, then cheerfully flounces to the bar. The smell of cigarette smoke is overpowering -- it hangs over the room like smog.

"Excuse me, bartender, my dear friend and I were hoping to have two pints of... mmm, ohh, hmmm, /that/ one--" Neo Peroni, chosen at random "--brought to our table."

The bartender stares at C.C. like she's retarded.

C.C. frowns for a moment. "...ah. I see." Reaching into one of the many pockets somehow hidden in her strange suit, C.C. pulls out a fat money clip and counts off more than could ever really be necessary for two beers. "Here. And something for yourself. I know how you guys do business in places like this." C.C. winks.

The bartender's mind is changed by the money thrown at him, and it seems like the rest of the room accepts the display of capitalism as 'good enough.' They go back to their business, while C.C. skips back over, clutching Cheese-kun and her tiny bag. "Oh, what a charming little place. Anyway -- yes, oh, /yes/, Britannia is /nothing/ like this place. It's much... stiffer, and greyer, and so much less /fun/."

Laura's expression becomes alarmed when they enter O'MAFIA. She stalls at the door until a cheerful nudge from C.C. sends her stumbling toward her chosen table. With all the weight she's carrying, Laura barely navigates the oddly spaced tables without slamming into one of the angry looking made men dotting her path. She collapses against the edge of the booth, gratefully letting the assorted bags drop from her arms.

The pilot groans, rubbing her shoulders while she scoots into her seat, feeling a little more secure once partially hidden. While C.C. is fooling around at the bar, however, Laura gets a good look at the interior. All older men, all of them wary of their presence, lots of smoke in the air... her hands clamp over her mouth until her friend gets back.

"C.C.! I think we're in a gentleman's club!" Of course she means 'a place of leisure for wealthy businessmen' which she never would have been invited to even if she was rich on account of her completely unleisurely age of 16. "Maybe we should leave!"

-- Twenty minutes ago! --

Five men sit in a room, all clad in the garb of Queen Dianna's Royal Guardsmen, which is to say 'awkward leafy-sleeved, poofy-shouldered black tunics, white baggy-cut pants, and shin-high black boots. Some men have opted into berets, which really doesn't help much of anything. Despite this, none of them can quite match the 'intensity' of the fifth - white-haired and perpetually frowning Harold Gilfeathwy Ord.

His frown has deepened ever since Laura Rolla met 'C.C.', and his men know it.

"A report, please! 'Laura Rolla' Surveillance Log." As usual, Ord is all-business, but his men love him for this. Meetings are short, and favorites are never played. All four of them scatter a variety of sepia-toned pictures onto the table between them. They begin speaking simultaneously, but eventually find a pattern.

"Thursday, 2146 hours. Laura Rolla spends an estimated 2 hours on the telephone with 'Miss C.C'. Conversation unknown." The picture is of Laura, in a slip, giggling and winding a telephone cord around her toes.

"Similarly, on Thursday at 2245 hours, Laura Rolla begins to watch Neo-Food Network and remain on the telephone with 'Miss C.C.'. Conversation unknown, believed to be benign." In this picture, a classic episode of 'Bobby Flay's Throwdown' is discernible through feedback lines - Laura is not, though the telephone cord reaches into a high-backed chair. This is obscured by a third picture.

"During Friday afternoon, Laura Rolla leaves base to run Sir Guin's daily errands. She quickly meets with 'C.C.' for coffee and biscuits - 'C.C.' gives her large bags with presents in them!" The girls smile - they're laughing, really - over mochas and biscotti, and Laura is holding up an elegant-looking ballgown with a very classic expression of 'delighted confusion' on her face. The soldier continues. "They spent the entire afternoon like this, and 'C.C.' distracted Laura sufficiently enough to significantly impede her ability to fetch Sir Guin's things!!" The picture atop this one is of C.C. dragging Laura (who is terrified) through ACTIVE, SPEEDING TRAFFIC without a care in the world - they are approaching Neo-Men's Wearhouse, who is having a sale on 3-piece suits. Despite her fears, Laura is pointing at a nearby clock and seems alarmed.

Throughout this entire affair, Harry Ord's face turns into a perfect stormcloud, if stormclouds could wear glasses like his.

Another picture is tossed onto the pile.

The Turn-A Gundam stands with its elbows 'chicken-winged', hands touching fingers before its 'sternum', palms flat. Laura and C.C. are having a picnic atop it, even though Laura is either falling asleep or crying on C.C.'s shoulder. "Sunday evening, 2039 hours. Laura Rolla and 'C.C.' have a picnic atop 'Mustache'. The conversation is serious, but this does not stop Laura Rolla from pointing to several locales on the Mustache's anatomy and explaining it to 'C.C.'"

Ord's reaction is terse, but immediate. "This settles it - where are they now?"

All men check their equipment. One raises his hand.

"Last seen at O'MAFIA, an ethnic bar and grill, sir."

"Dismissed - we are to set up a stakeout at O'MAFIA! This is of utmost importance to the Crown!"

C.C. sets Cheese-kun down on the seat next to her in the booth. All that can really be seem of the knit doll is his hat, the rest slumping below table level. Still, C.C. takes care to make sure he's facing the right direction, like he's part of the family. Then she, too, sits down, and wiggles excitedly.

"A /gentleman's/ club?" C.C. leans out of the booth and looks around. It catches a few eyes, but no one makes eye contact. C.C. shrugs, and slinks herself back into the space she shares with her BFF. "It seems more like a place for the local businessmen and riff-raff to me, dear. Which is exactly why I chose it! I mean, what /real/ local color can you find in a tourist trap?" Like, say, one of the many ones that C.C. has already dragged Laura through today. Laura at least got her picture taken with one of the Neo Tower of London Galbaldy Betas, with their silly helmets. "Just relax, Laura darling. No one minds us being here."

The bartender saunters over. Paid off or no, he definitely minds. "Your drinks," he grunts, setting down a pair of Neo Guinnesses. "Ladies." Then he swaggers off, muttering to himself.

"Ah!" C.C. says, picking up the glass and holding it up for a toast. "To, mmm, to... to finding out more about dear friends, and becoming dearer friends in the process." Which is probably a hint. C.C. is never very subtle about these things.

Laura squirms. It's way too hot in here. She starts to reach up to loosen her little tie, but then thinks better of it. The jacket is way too complicated to unbutton without standing up and fiddling with the double-breasted button set and belt for a few moments. She exhales and leans forward over the table, reaching out to grab one of C.C.'s hands in solidarity. That's completely normal in ye olde fancy dress land. Plus the guy sitting at the table across from them has a metal jaw and there's little steamwork gears puffing along and every once and awhile he wipes oil from his chin with a napkin. Oh nooooo.

"Oh, you ordered us drinks?" Laura regards the enormous glass with some suspicion. If there's two things C.C. likes it's pizza and cheese-kun. If there's three, it's ordering weird things that remind of her like drinking goat's blood in the mid eighth century.

Still, Laura can't refuse a toast. She raises hers as well, clinking it delicately against the green-haired witch's to prevent spilling any of it. "That's a good one!" Caught up in the camaraderie, C.C.'s platinum blonde counterpart takes a gulp and immediately gags. "Ughh! It's... stout!"

She works out the coughs for a moment. "Aghh, so, um, how did you meet Zero?" Wait, no, she's supposed to TELL C.C. things.

-- Ten minutes ago! --

A metal office chair lands (it was flying, see) behind O'MAFIA's. While the machine is callously left in a dumpster, Harry remembers to retrieve it when he has finished his work. Carrying a duffel, the man administers three crisp, back-handed knocks to O'MAFIA'S service-door, crosses his arms, and waits.

The door opens.

"The hell d'you think you are, eh?" Italian Mafioso Bartender sounds upset, but this is his job. "I am..." Ord is known far and wide for his ability to think under pressure. He sings in these moments. "... A foreign-exchange bartender." "A foreign exchange whassis? Hey, Lou, c'mere and get a load o- HMF!" In a burst of creativity, Harry Ord pistol-whips the bartender. Chin impacts door-frame, blood and a tooth go bouncing into the streets beyond.

-- NOW --

Italian Mafioso Bartender has been locked into O'MAFIA's bathroom, naked. His clothes have been haphazardly thrown around his unconscious form, tried on and given back.

Harry Ord slinks into the bar area, dressed as a member of a barber shop quartet. His moustache gleams a lush, greasy black in the dim lighting of the effete watering hole, but this does nothing to prevent its inhabitants from staring him down as though he -doesn't belong-. Cleverly, Ord places a recently-procured too-large fedora on his head. Belatedly, he has swapped out his sunglasses for a pair of sharp-looking narrow-framed glasses that still manage to hide his eyes thanks to an issue with perpetual glare.

A bartender approaches the newcomer. "Alright, what kinda game do you think this is?" A hairy, calloused hand touches to Harry's shoulder and squeezes forcefully enough to traumatize bone.

"I --" Ord is known far and wide for his ability to think under pressure. "I was sent here to keep an eye on you..." Briefly, Ord recalls his time spent watching Goodfellas in the SUMO on the way over. "...se guys."

"Ah, you're a fucker from Corporate? Fine, whatever - just don't get in our way, got it?"

While Ord is relieved, he knows he hasn't even begun to start his mission. Hopefully, Laura and C.C. do not see the comically pin-striped, silver-haired bartender with an anachromatic moustache staring them down.

C.C. takes a sip of her drink with Laura, and while she doesn't gag, she just seems disappointed in it, which is the worst thing you could ever do to a beer. "So it is," she murmurs, and pushes the glass over toward Cheese-kun, as if the doll would be interested.

She's about to say something to Laura when something catches her eye -- the glare on that man's glasses! It's so bright and distracting! "Hmph," C.C. says, holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the glint of light. How rude! Of course, from a distance, it probably looks like she's trying to conceal what she's saying.

"I'm sorry -- what was that? Zero?" C.C. frowns, vaguely. "Well. I got shot in the head for him, and he's spent the past while showing how profoundly ungrateful he is. I mean, there's more to the story, but those are the only really interesting parts. What about you, Laura? I'm sure you're /full/ of interesting stories. I mean..."

C.C. pauses for a moment. "Well, I don't mean to sound rude, dear," she starts, and then her voice grows quieter, an obvious sign of a conspiracy, "when did you realize you were... /Laura/, and not...?"

Laura lowers her glass. The fact that C.C. did it means it's okay for her to stop too! She similarly pushes it away, because Cheese-kun can't have just one. Harry is mercifully a quasi-ninja still because Laura has zero desire to look out into the bar where Oil Face Joe is having a jaw malfunction.

"Ah, you were shot?" Laura says, gasping. She is obviously impressed at this no matter how hard C.C. wants to downplay her own life. "What did Zero do? I mean--"

The pilot leans in closer, stopped by the great importance with which she is being approached. Laura frowns slightly, wondering if it's okay to talk about official Earth Militia business and the White Doll in a place like this. She is already preparing her excuse when "What? Oh, Miss C.C., no, it's not like that!" Laura waves her hand, laughing with nervousness. "It's, well, um." She leans in to whisper again because this is not the place to be discussing confusing gender boundaries.

"When the attacks started, Dianna Counter thought that the pilot of the White Doll was named Laura. Also, this way, no one would suspect Miss Kihel and the Heim family of maybe knowing the location of it. I also," Laura continues sheepishly, "didn't want them to know I was using the White Doll against them, since I was technically a spy. I thought I could still talk to them and maybe convince them to be more peaceful."

"When we came over, Sir Lineford said it would be easier to hide my identity this way." She waits a beat. "Also, Queen Dianna and Miss Kihel like the dresses."

Laura waves a palm in front of her face. "Ah, I thought you were going to ask me something dangerous."

Harry finds his targets quickly enough, considering the bar's other clientele. Dresses and a giant doll are easily seen when everybody else has stepped out of a disgustingly noir gangster flick - Ord is not aware that 'barbershop quartet member' is equally discernible.

Nor will he be, considering the way his attention spikes when C.C. leans in with that kind of a conspirational manner. Harry finds his hands on the bar - he's unconcerned about the slick, watery mess nestling between his fingers - and tries, practically -strains- to hear what is being said, but it's ultimately a rather worthless effort. Cheese-kun is too talented a distractor and sound-proofer.

He maintains this position for the entire minute the ladies are talking, and is interrupted, once again, by a hairy, broad hand on his shoulder.

"Yo," speaks the familiar voice.

"Ah! - Yes?" Harry's alarm is quickly downplayed. A rag is thrust into his hands.

"Stop standin' around like some kinda special kid. You guys from Corporate like stickin' your hands in all that watered down shit?"

"A-hm. Exactly so."

The man leaves -- Harry sets to wiping down the bar, working his way ever-closer to Laura and C.C.'s table. His manner is haphazard, and unlike every other bartender there (they have 'experience'), he makes the mistake of making eye contact with a customer. In this case, it's yet another guy with a fedora and three-piece suit. Harry is beginning to feel like this is exactly the kind of place Guin Lineford would frequent.

The mystery deepens.

"Yo, bartender. Get me the special."

The mafioso-type indicates a variety of bottles behind Harry - his lips curl into a beguiling, confusing smile. "Double the Disaronno, 'course."

"Oh," C.C. says, sounding genuinely surprised by Laura's explanation. Well, she thinks. What a weird bunch of people her poor Laura's had to take up with. And all this time, C.C. thought...

...well, not that it matters to an ages-old witch either way.

"How interesting," C.C. says, in a way that teeters between being patronizing and actually interested. "And... Laura, dear, I know you're quite interested in Zero. It's something about the mask, I think. It gives him this sense of faux danger and sexual perversion that people find exciting and attractive. Which is really all he has to go on, because underneath he looks like, if I may be blunt, a little twerp. And mask on or off, he behaves like one, too. I would focus your attentions elsewhere -- besides, didn't you already say you had a boyfriend? Is it this... Guin you mentioned just now?"

C.C. glances back over at the bar, but doesn't really pay it much mind. She's just a little disconsolate that Neo Guinness turned out to neo suck.

"I just want to know more about him, because he's always going around ordering people around! A lot of the Earth Militia don't like him, and I thought maybe if they could understand--"

Laura looks completely confused. She works this through her head like a puzzle. "Boyfriend? Ehh? Sir Guin is a politician and military leader. I think he's engaged to that woman from Luzianna, Lily Borjarno. They're always together."

Before the pilot can continue, she catches sight of a familiar face. Those stripes! Those glasses! Laura unthinkingly says: "What's Captain Harry doing here?"

"Captain?!" one of the nearby mafiosos shouts. He rises, stuffing his hand into his jacket. About twenty other voices shout "CAPTAIN?!" in near-unison, and then there's the lovely sound of dozens of beam weapons building charge.

Laura's face freezes. She looks over to C.C.

The silver-haired gentleman pouring another gentleman a generous dose of Disaronno (and nearly fainting) stands stock-still. The beam weapons are processed first - you can tell by the way his hand moves for his left side - but Laura's exclamation has the man's hands moving back to his side. There's a long, awkward moment, here, wherein Harry becomes vividly aware of the stock beverages behind the bar and is obviously stalling for time, but eventually, the man glances towards the bar's service door. A flash of light catches his eye, and he turns. Slowly. "Yes," he states, voice drawling, cautious. "I am the Captain..." With near-perfect synchronicity, three similarly dressed men waltz into the bar area, moustaches and pinstriped-suits denoting their purpose. Considering the entire affair is preposterous, it's relatively simple for Ord to step -out- of the bar area and to the front of this line - the men approach Laura and C.C.'s table, whereupon the latter three drop to kneeling positions and Harry speaks at length. "The Captain of the Genoa Gentleman's Barbershop Quartet! We are here to present to you a song, compliments of Sir Guin Lineford! Please accept our generosities!" Harry manages to shoot C.C. a menacing glare even as his subordinates rise to their feet - all of these men have a military bearing, and it is at least a bit obvious. What follows, and will persist for the next round, is a surprisingly skillful rendition: Of THIS:

6EU-wlXCTDw

C.C. can only sit and stare in absolute horror. She looks over at Laura, eyes wide, then back at the singing men. Her cheeks actually flush a bit. She's /surprised/.

The only other time Laura has seen a surprised C.C. was when C.C. realized she was sitting in the Turn A, and look how that one turned out. This one -- not quite as bad, but close.

Because when Harry and his crew finish their song, C.C. stands. Maybe to applaud?

No, to slap Harry Ord roundly across the mouth.

"I've never been so embarassed in -- /hundreds/ of years, at least," C.C. sputters angrily, snatching Cheese-kun off of the seat. "Come along, Laura, we're leaving."

During the tense moments that follow, Laura stares wide-eyed at Harry, C.C. looks murderous, and the rest of the bar... stare wide-eyed and look murderous. The pilot puts her hands over her mouth when Harry gets a dainty little whap on the face with C.C.'s tiny hand. What shame!

"Agh, wait, all these bags!" Laura shuffles out of the booth, tripping over the bags but catching herself on the edge of the table. She somehow manages to gather up all of them in her arms and then goes teetering past Harry, to whom she hisses: "If you need me, just call!"

Laura bursts out of the doorway, limping down the sidewalk with her loads of 'whatever C.C. thought looked cute and/or expensive.' "I don't know what Captain Harry wanted! Maybe it was something important. I really don't like singing, either."

SOME TIME AGO

Laura and C.C. put a mechanical dragon to sleep with the purity of their singing voices and a lovely rendition of 'Young Americans.'

NOW

Laura shakes her head.

It's either very good craftsmanship or incredible luck that keeps Harry's moustache from flying off - he's already in an incredibly inconvenient situation, and further duplicity would really just be the last nail in the coffin. Regardless, he's totally smacked, and furthermore he's totally biting his lip in an attempt to quell the steadily-rising rage.

One of the Royal Guard behind him go wide-eyed, simultaneously betraying their training and shock. "Sh- she could see through your disguise, Sir?" It's one of those stage-whispers that reaches exactly the wrong amount of ears.

"Ah," mutters Ord, rubbing his jaw while the women leave. "I believe we can call this mission a success." His whisper is much better, which is good, because if it was overheard the situation would rapidly falter from 'bad' to 'worse'.

Harry and his crew get to their feet, and manage to convince the men in the barroom that it would be a stupid idea to pursue whatever violent ideas bouncing around in their heads. Perhaps it's the way Ord is giving them an expression that suggests he's perfectly willing to take out his frustrations and indignities on them. Maybe it's the simple fact that the expression is being given above one of the most cartoonish moustaches ever to grace O'MAFIA's hallowed halls.

The poorly-disguised guards leave in one of the most awkward -moments- ever to grace O'MAFIA'S hallowed halls.

"Mert," mutters one Guardsman. "You were off in the third phrase, and I think you need to try not to overwhelm the tenor with your vibrato.

He is punched in the side.

C.C. has her tiny bag and her Cheese-kun and, when the other bags are collected, her Laura. She walks for the door in a mild huff, and her agitation is clear from the way that she squeezes the knit blob-doll to her body like a security blanket. "You /know/ that man?" she sniffs at Laura, as dismissively as if Laura had said it about a hobo on the street.

"Well, how dreadful for you, my dear."

C.C.'s mood seems to have darkened, or at least had a rain cloud stuck over it. She'll probably cheer up once she's able to lazily lay around on a couch for a while, or eat fast food pizza, or call Zero a little bitch to his face in front of Kallen, or something. But for now, her sightseeing trip is ruined, her shopping trip terminated, and her attitude toward her good friend rather tepid.

C.C. doesn't say anything further on the walk back to the train.