Orders were orders. It was the mantra any good SUPER Agent or Soldier lived by and Sabine was no exception. Some were there against their will while others like her were devoted to the cause. It did not matter the reasons; if orders came from up above, following them was the best choice. The higher-ups had a plan and things ran smoothly when everyone fell in line with that plan.

Sabine was by no means a higher-up, but she did have tenure within the organization. She was one of the first agents in the program and had proven her loyalty hundreds of times throughout the years. It afforded her additional responsibilities when it came to training and delegation, as well as more classified missions.

And so, when Chrysanthemum Williams instructed her to gather up a small list of agents, keeping the meeting quiet from anyone else, she obeyed her orders. She was curious, of course, about the purpose of the meeting and why she was given no explanation beyond the list of names, but she knew better than to question the Head of Operations. All would be revealed in time, surely.

The meeting was taking place in a small room with a long meeting table. Ten agents were called, including Sabine. Five seats on each side and one seat at the end for Miss Williams; exactly what was needed, no more, no less.

Miss Williams had been explicitly clear that the meeting should not be communicated via email, radio, phone call, or any other communication device. Sabine had to go to each Agent being called upon and share the time and location of the meeting face-to-face. It made for a long day of tracking down her fellow agents, but they were finally gathered together and Sabine could take a seat. Of course, she selected the seat directly to Miss Williams’s right; it felt like she had earned that much, after all.

They still had ten minutes before Miss Williams would arrive and Agents would be shuffling in any moment. Sabine had a tablet out in front of her, but she was just tapping her stylus on the surface and humming. Someone who did not know her might think she was nervous, but really, she just felt antsy. Undisclosed meetings were not something unheard of in SUPER given the secretive nature of the organization, but Sabine could not shake the feeling that they were waiting for something big.

((If you have a SUPER Agent you would like formally sent over to the MROverse, even if they won't stick around by RIP's end, feel free to join in!))

Boots echoed down the hallway, as loud as a man the size of the one making them would be expected to make. It was well established that stealth was not this operative's forte, after all. Blue eyes as cold as metal were trained straight ahead as he walked. He wore a pair of loose, casual jeans and a tight, black tee shirt that showed off his rippling muscles. Even though this was a meeting, he still had a pistol and one knife on his belt. His hair was short, and his face was all business.

Some would know this man as Iota-8, others as Sinclaire, and those from his unit in MIST had taken to calling him the 8th Deadly Sin, because 'those who crossed him didn't tend to live long afterwards.' And if stealth wasn't Sinclaire's forte, then it was safe to say that being late wasn't either. He'd been given a date and time personally, which told him it was an important assignment. But the one thing he liked about SUPER was at least they gave briefings like this. When he was in the service, his briefings usually happened as he was getting ready to jump out of an aircraft into enemy territory.

He walked into the meeting room, taking a glance around to see only one other person had made it. Good. Though he liked being first, it really was no big deal that someone beat him to the punch. At least not when it came to trivial things like this. When he walked in, his step didn't lighten in the slightest as he walked over to the chair directly across from the person who'd already arrived, and sat down. He knew he was loud, but he didn't care.

In a sense, that was what SUPER paid him for.

Sabine was happy to disregard most of the agents or soldiers who shuffled into the room. Most people left her alone thanks to the “neutral” personality she usually kept at the base. Out in the world, Sabine was a mirror, reflecting the personalities of the people she met. Some of that slipped into her work at SUPER when she needed something, but to most, she was content to be seen as an impassive ice queen. It made the workday quiet, which was always nice.

Of course, sometimes ice cracked. The first person to arrive to the briefing was Iota-8. He was one of the Iotas she knew because his power was fascinating to her. She had no use for something flashy like pyromancy or laser eyes, but not feeling pain? It seemed almost mundane, but it was perfect for a soldier.

Several agents were wary of Iota-8, but she was sure that had less to do with his power and more to do with his disposition. The man was intimidating. He carried himself loud but spoke rarely. He was the kind of person whose aura suggested you steer clear. Some people found Sabine scary, but she was not a 6’3” mutant. Iota-8 was the whole package.

Sabine could have said nothing. Iota-8 was one of the people in SUPER who would not press her for a conversation like some of the more obnoxious agents. The soldier would sit there in silence with her. Perhaps that was why she did speak up. ”Iota-Eight.” Her greeting was brief, but she followed up by asking, ”Do you know much of why we were called in?” Sabine knew damn well why they had been called in, but it was interesting to see if rumors were swirling around the office.

Sinclaire sat in silence, his arms folded on the table in front of him as his eyes scanned the room, sizing up every agent that walked in and sat down, starting with the woman who'd been there when he walked in. She was smaller, and he hadn't really bothered to learn anyone's name; he normally saved the formality for when he was actually working with someone. Besides, he remembered faces a lot better than the name that went with them. Soon, the room was filled,; some faces he recognized, others he didn't. He couldn't remember personally working with any of them, but he'd seen them around.

And then, his silence was broken when he was called by code-name, snapping his concentration. He nodded in greeting, too proud to actually admit that names and code-names were lost on him for the most part. Her question, however, is what got his attention.

"I know it's something important. Other than that, I tend not to give place to rumors," he said simply. "I've heard it was a relocation assignment, but other than that, it tends to get crazy. I prefer to hear it from the source, anyway," the big man said with a shrug, his hands still resting on the table as he looked at the woman across from him.

For a secret government organization supposedly stocked with the best agents America had to offer, everyone sure had a habit of shuffling into meetings just under the wire. It was notable that, as they shuffled in, they did not start with the seats next to Sabine or Iota-8. Somehow she knew those would be the seats reserved for the most tardy members of the meeting.

She could not care less, preferring a buffer between her and people when posible. Sabine turned back to her conversation. Iota-8 was a rare example of a man who did not pay attention to gossip. He had the gist of it; they were being relocated. It was not surprising that the rumor had some accuracy; SUPER often worked to expand, and everyone was convinced one day they'd be reassigned to Miami or Los Angeles to deal with mutants in the sunshine. Really, how could she feel professional surrounded by frat boys.

All that ironically made her more interested in the perplexing man who broke then norm. "Where do you think, I-8? If you had the choice-- anywhere in the world, where would you choose to relocate?" Some of the other men at the table overheard her question and seemed to be listening in, confused about the conversation she was striking up with a cold killing machine.

Sometimes Sinclaire had to question his colleagues, if he was gracious enough to call them that. Coworkers wasn't an appropriate term, because he wasn't sure how much work many of them actually did. (Granted, he himself tended to get behind on paperwork, but he wasn't paid for his writing skills. The main part of his job, he got done. That was his job, after all.) This was an important meeting, and people were shuffling in at the last minute; not the least bit professional.

However, the woman across from him? She was someone he could almost care to talk to. And it was a good thing too, because talking is just what they were doing. Though neither of them seemed to be very big on conversation. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, it meant they'd get right to the point, and small-talk wasn't anywhere near the top of Sinclaire's priority list. In fact...it was more near the bottom.

"If I had the choice, I'd honestly like to stay around here," he said after a moment of thought. "I like traveling, and I'll go wherever I'm sent, because hell, that's what I'm paid for. But after being all up and down this mass of land...it'd be nice to keep shit from hitting the fan closer to home," he spoke thoughtfully, weighing each word.

"But again, where they tall me to go, I'll go. And I'll keep going until they give me the boot or put me in the ground."

Sabine liked to people watch, but almost just as fun, she loved watching people watching other people. The way someone watched a crowd said a lot about them. She fought the urge to grin when she watched Iota-Eight examine the coworkers shuffling into the room. None of them were late, sure, but most were making casual entrances. To some people, SUPER was a calling, but for others, it was like an office job with higher security clearance.

Looking at Iota-Eight, Sabine got the impression he did not respect most of their colleagues. That was fine by her; there were perhaps a handful of agents and soldiers she thought were worthy of respect. If asked, she could probably rank her department from least to most useful, and she could highlight where on the list one might find the divide between “good” agents and “passable” ones, and again from “passable” to “worthless.”

Sabine listened, a passive look on her face, as Iota-Eight explained how he would prefer to stay close to home, but he would go where he was commanded. He was a smart man, because he knew what he was—a tool for SUPER to apply to any need or problem they deemed necessary. It was not condescension; Sabine was the same. They had a purpose, and there was no reason to deny that.

Though Iota-Eight might be irked by the mission orders, if she understood what they were going to be. ”I get it. At the end of the day, if SUPER thinks I’m going to be more useful in New Zealand, I’ll nod my head and figure out how to hunt kiwis or whatever it is they do down there.”

Scrolling through her tablet, not looking up, she casually asked, ”How were you recruited into this program, anyway? Obviously a mutation like yours is unquestionably useful, but how did an Iota like you end up here?” Other agents seemed to quiet and get nervous, because most people did not ask mutants how they ended up in SUPER, especially when they feared said mutant. Sabine, however, had an advantage there; while she was well-aware of the dangers Iota-Eight could create, Sabine did not fear the man. She had not gained seniority with SUPER by tiptoeing around mutants, after all.

Sinclaire chuckled a little; Sabine was someone he could stand to be around for a little while. Their views were similar, and they both understood their place in the works, unlike most of the wastes-of-space in this room. However, she asked a rather personal question, and he had to ponder a moment. He didn't mind her knowing where he came from, but to the eavesdroppers in the room....well, quite frankly Iota-eight was none of their business.

"I joined the army fresh out of high school. Not long after basic training, higher ups got wind of my skill--and my ability, and I was recruited into an experimental Special Ops Task force known as MIST. After ten years in the military, SUPER decided to snatch me up, and I've been here about...eight years now." He spoke quietly, so that anyone that wasn't the target of his conversation would have to work for this information. Not that getting too close was advised. In fact that would likely be a dumb move.

"And I haven't looked back since."

There were plenty of human SUPER Agents. Humans had a clear motivation to police and contain potential mutant threats to humankind. Considering the small active population of Adapteds, there were a fair number of Adapted SUPER agents. Their powers made them well-suited to the kind of work required of them, and SUPER made a concerted effort to recruit them whenever possible.

It was always the mutant recruits Sabine found interesting. Plenty were not with the organization of their own volition. They were there under some threat of force, long-term conditioning that broke them, or flat-out memory altering. The agents and soldiers Sabine did find interesting were the ones who just chose to work for SUPER.

So when Iota-Eight answered, she smirked and she ignored the looks of shock and horror when she asked him, ”And why did you choose to stay? Does it bother you? Taking in your own kind?” To her knowledge, Sinclaire was not a mind-wipe case, so he made a conscious choice that many considered to be “betraying his own.” It was a delicate topic in most cases, and no one would dream of asking it of him typically, but Sabine was atypical and all too ready to nonchalantly ask difficult ethical questions.

He had to admit, her interest in him was rather intriguing. Most of his fellow soldiers and agents tended to keep their distance, but she was asking all the questions that no one else had the nerve to ask. So, he didn't mind answering them, but he did answer them in a hushed enough tone that anyone else would have to earn the answers themselves. No need in letting others benefit from her curiosity, after all.

And boy did she ask the bold questions. He thought about it for a moment, never once breaking eye contact. "Honestly? The people in this room are my kind now," he said bluntly, before elaborating. "After I graduated high school, I gave my life to the government. After ten years, SUPER took over the payments." His eyes sort of glanced to his shocked colleagues, though he still kept his voice rather low, just to keep them guessing.

"I can tell you first hand how dangerous mutants are. Someone needs to put a cap on that, make the world safe. Let's say I wasn't the patriotic soldier that I am today, and decided to choose a life of crime instead, and let's say you're the cop tasked to bring me in. I look normal, just in great shape. You'd never guess that I can't feel. What I do, is for the greater good. And if other mutants have to hate me so those who weren't blessed with my kind of gift don't have to live their lives in fear, then I'm okay with that."