The music of the club was heavy on the bass. Beams of green and purple light cut across teh dance floor as people moved to the thump thump thump of the music. At the bar, Amelia sipped her drink and spoke to the target. She had been sent to tag them. Rumor said the mutant had a psychic mutation. They could sense about a second into the future, and react. A dangerous mutation with little to no drawback. When using the power, their eyes glowed orange, but aside from that, nothing. It wasn't a visible mutation. It wasn't active. It ran constantly in the background, a dull throb of possibility that made life difficult if one wasn't thoroughly lubricated. Always sensing the possible actions of the people around you, a moment before they take them. Reacting just a tiny bit too fast? The mutant lived in a drunken haze, as a coping mechanism. Hence why she had met him at the dance club, rather than say, the grocery store, or church.

He had been talking at her for a while, now. She had laughed and smiled at all the right moments, wearing that red dress men liked that showed just the right amount of leg. He had a high tolerance for alcohol, and it was making the mission unbearable. The mutant's name was Fred Aster, pronounced like the actor from old movies, but he did not look like Fred Astaire. At 6'3, with short dark hair, clean-shaven and average-looking, she wasn't interested in him at all. This was entirely business. But he didn't know that.

Amelia drank her Shirley Temple. He drank his bourbon. He talked about sports. She listened, silently hating his favorite team and his favorite players, because her team and her guys could wipe the floor with his ass. ... Thoroughly beat his team, in other words. But she hadn't said a word. Another sip, and hopefully... there. He looked drunk enough.

The chip gun was in her purse. If she could lead him on and lead him out, she could tag him and leave on vague pretenses of prettying herself up in the bathroom before they left.

"Hey," she smiled mischievously at him. "Want to get out of here?"

He grinned at her and fell right into her trap. They rose, and left the bar. He slapped down a few dollars, to settle their tabs. Then, they made their way towards one of the exits. He weaved around people, with just enough foresight to prevent himself from stumbling into them. She lead him on, holding his arm. He laughed and slurred. If they'd spent much more time at the bar, he'd have been cut off. What was his job again, that he could afford to live on liquor and bar food 5 days a week? Something to do with the stock market. Apparently when you can figure out how the market is going to change moments before it does, simply by looking at mass data, you can make a hefty figure.

When they were out of sight of most of the club, she stealthily tagged the mutant with her chip gun on the pretense of getting close to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then, she made her excuse so she could vamoose. But he didn't react how she'd expected. He got violent. And attacked. She narrowly avoided the drunken grab at her arm, and made a scene.

"Hey! Get off me!" Amelia shouted. She made to shove him away, but he evaded by the narrowest of margins. He caught her arm.

"I didn't shay you could go." He slurred.

Six to six is a hard day to work, but twelve hour shifts come with long weekends. That is unless you are on call, but tonight Rianne was not on call. Tonight Rianne could go out and blow off steam. Tonight Rianne would go dancing.

Normally she made her way to the few dance halls that populated the city, but she didn't feel like finding a partner or having every drunken wannabe cowboy ask her to dance. Only then to have her feet walked on. No, tonight she was going to a club and was going to dance to loud music, with bright lights, and just let her troubles go. Unwind for a little while.

Home from work she ditched her uniform, took a shower, and went to her closet. The dress she pulled out was bright red, form fitting, it belted at the waist, low cut in the back and front, and sleeves that came to point at the back of her hands with loos that slipped over a finger to hold it in place. Then a pair of strappy heels.

Dressed and makeup on she called for an Uber and strapped on her thigh holster for her SIG Sauer P239 and a pair of hinge cuffs. Not the most fun to wear all night, but hey better safe than sorry. Finally ready for the night she set out to catch her ride, grabbing a clutch with a short strap to hang from her shoulder on the way out. Inside the clutch she stored her phone, badge, and a credit card.

When the Uber arrived at the club she thanked the driver and stepped out. It had been a while since she had been out clubbing and she planned to make the most of it tonight. Or at least that had been the plan.

Rianne paid the cover charge as she made her way inside into the booming sound and flashing lights of club itself. She wanted to let the music wash over her but no sooner had she entered did she hear the voice of someone trying to get some creep off of her. She closed her eyes, took a quick breath in through the nose knowing her night was about to be ruined, and after opening her eyes again turned to where she heard the voice from. A man had a woman by the arm.

Male,6'3", mid twenties, short dark hair, clean shaven, no visible tattoos, average-looking. Female, 5'1", early twenties, neck length dark hair, no visible tattoos.

Male subject holding female by the arm. Clearly intoxicated. Female attempting to break free.

Rianne approached the pair quickly, the sound of her heels clicking away in anger drowned out by the bass. Approaching from his side, his head turned where he didn't see her approach, she heavily laid her hand on his arm. Her fingers gripping tightly to prevent the man escaping with a felon shuffle.

"Release her. Now!." Rianne commanded, enunciating to be clear over the music. She pulled her free arm back to strike if the man did not comply.

Suffice it to say, the man did not comply. His mutation was ticking away, and it wasn't the club lighting that made them glow orange. The woman had a hand on his arm, which he hadn't predicted. She had come in on his blind side, and there was no accounting for that. No eyes in the back of the head, and club music was loud enough any footsteps would have been drowned out.

He sneered at the blonde, bitter laugh tinging his voice. "The night just keeps getting better an betterer." That said, he made to tear his arm away, fully aware of the flicker of possibility of violence in the near future. If the woman followed up on that plot, he was ready to step back and avoid the strike. Then, oh then, he'd probably follow it up with a kick at her knees. Take her legs out from under her. In that dress, she wouldn't be too immobile, but it'd be far less mobile than if she had worn pants.

Amelia had a cover. She wasn't special. Just a pretty face. Bad situation like this, a pretty face wasn't going to tilt the odds in her favor. Reveal too much skill, and people would take note. Her cover could easily get destroyed. Still, she had no idea if the blonde woman had strength to handle the guy, or if she was going to get trashed. And she did not want someone getting hurt on account of her.

Amelia focused on pushing the guy away from her with one aspect of her power. This was the invisible one, the one that she'd only recently discovered. In her mind, she could see thin blue lines around her, stretching out from her chest to the various bits of clothing within her sight. If she pulled or pushed, her weight would fight someone else's weight, and the winner would act against the loser in the opposite direction from the initial act. Usually, it was used to pull things or people towards her, or push herself or them away. But she could abuse the reaction to the action, and gently push away from the man's jacket with her mind as she pulled her arm to get him to let go. It was a light pressure, one he couldn't see, and it pushed her away from the much heavier man, allowing her to jerk her arm free from his grip with the added strength in her retreat. Amelia stepped back away from the man and the blonde woman, rubbing where the grip had bruised her... and possibility changed.

Now, there were two people calculating ways to hurt the man. Orange eyes narrowed as he saw ghostly blue images within his mind, the specters of possibility. He hadn't released the woman, but she had broken free. Yet, he still wanted to get even with them for making him look like a fool to anyone who had been watching. Even if no one was. It was such a simple word. One whole syllable. Rhymed with witch. Still, uttering it at the two women was more than rewarding to him.

Someone needed to put him down.

She had already tagged him, so what happened next mattered not. For all she cared, he could spend some time in the cell before someone tried to figure out if they could recruit him or study him in a lab.

There was a vague metallic taste in her mouth. Eventually, she would get used to it. But at the moment, it wasn't something she enjoyed.

Predictably, the man did not release the woman. Why stop what you’re doing to one woman because another told you to? What could some woman at a club possibly do to the big strong man trying?

The answer is, everything.

Instead of releasing the woman he slurred drunkenly about how the night was getting better and attempted to free his arm. Rianne clamped down with her grip on his forearm. It must have been quite painful, the radius and ulna don’t like being squeezed like that. The woman then was able to wriggle away.

Rianne spared a glance to the woman to make sure she was okay before returning her gaze to the man. She opened her mouth to speak but her words died off as the man called both her and the other woman a fancy word for a breeding canine. She squeezed harder on the man’s arm, she squeezed as hard as she could without her power. She was still an Officer and must show restraint.

”My name is Officer Hunter with the NYPD Emergency Service Unit. You have one chance to make it out of here tonight without a new pair of bracelets. Apologize and leave.”

She hoped the man would comply, she didn’t want any paperwork on her night off. She had a feeling the man wouldn’t comply. She refused to release him until he apologized. If he resisted she was going to redecorate the man’s face and the closer he was the sooner she could get to work.

For a time, Amelia had considered joining the NYPD. It had been that, or what she had wound up chasing. The different path had led to her current job, and here they were. She took a moment to appreciate the road not taken, then let it go.

The woman was strong. Stronger than most women. Frankly, she was a little impressed. The question was, was HE impressed? Or was he just a mouth-breathing womanizing drunk? This detail could very well affect her report about that man, and help determine whether or not SUPER decided they could use him. His mutation seemed useful. It would be a shame to go another way.

Regardless of how it went, Amelia herself would have paperwork. The better it went, though, the better the outlook for the man.

Fred Aster stared at the woman who had his arm, then shot a nasty look at the cause of this whole mess. He was in a lot of pain. Maybe it was the pain that sluiced the garbage off his brain and allowed him to make a sensible decision. If he'd been overshadowed by his love of liquor, he might have fought further. But the squeezing of the arm and the lovely tremble of pain causing him to cringe in slightly upon himself decided things for him. He simply liked not being in pain too much to care about two women in nice dresses. The caveman brain chose survival over procreation. "Yeah. Okay." He let go. The sad thing was, he had a feeling his grip had been a whole lot weaker than HER's.

It took him a second, but he realized he hadn't fulfilled his end of the bargain. He rubbed his forehead, and mopped at the sweat that suddenly stood out. Thinking was hard. "I'm an ass. Sorry to trouble you two lovely ladies. I'll excuse myself." Hopefully, that would be enough for the woman. Once she let go, he'd leave.


Back at SUPER headquarters, they'd be tracking him. Amelia could note that the subject had displayed sense in the face of adversity, and made a logical and sound decision. He would need supervision until they could house-train him, but he had promise.

Sometimes miracles do happen. The man backed down. Though it took his booze filled mind to work through Rianne’s commands. First he let go, then after a moment apologized. Rianne held on the briefest moment longer meeting his eyes before she released him. She wanted him to remember this next time he tried to force himself on a girl in the club.

”If I have to lay hands on you again you’ll wake up the next morning cuffed to a hospital bed. Now scoot!”

Her night off saved by a moment of clear thinking. And more importantly a woman safer this evening.

When the man had left Rianne turned to the woman she’d helped. ”Howdy, I’m Rianne.” She began, ” Are you alright? I can still have someone roll him up if you like.”

Rianne worked the fingers on her hand, they were bone white from squeezing so hard for so long. If nothing else the man would have bruises for a while to remind him of tonight.

The situation had been resolved, and nobody had gotten injured. Her cover was maintained. That was good. Amelia almost smiled when the guy scooted off, but she kept it together. Her focus shifted to the woman, her "hero".

"Nice to meet you, Rianne." Amelia replied. Rhine like the river? That was an interesting name. "And thank you. I think I'm alright. Maybe a little bruised, but--" She glanced at her arm. There wasn't any bruising yet. "I'll be fine."

In situations like this, the only appropriate action was to thank your protector. And offer to buy them a drink. "I think I owe you a drink," Amelia smiled.

People don't always stick their necks out to help others. When they do, it's important to show the appreciation. Otherwise, they may get discouraged from doing it again, and deprive the world of another friendly face.

The woman claimed she was and would be fine. Rianne studied her for a moment to discern if she was just saying it or was being genuine. She decided it was genuine when the woman offered to buy Rianne a drink.

”That’s not necessary, but who am I to turn down free alcohol. I wonder if they have margaritas here?” She replied smiling slightly, more at the fact the woman was okay than anything. ” I didn’t catch your name.” Rianne said as she turned to move toward the bar, her eyes scanning over the crowd.

No one seemed to notice or care about what had just happened. Likely because it was all handled without anything to overt. Still it was something someone from security should have looked into if they saw it. Rianne put it off as expecting too much from what are essentially people paid to be large and scare drunk people from time to time.

"Amelia," she answered. "And yeah," Amelia glanced towards the bar. "I think they do have margaritas. I guess we can ask. That actually sounds good. After all of that, I think I could use one."

She shook her head. How best to spin what all that had been. Easiest way was a blind date gone awry. If the woman asked, that was the lie she would give.

Amelia lead the way around the dance floor to the bar, got the bartenders attention, and ordered up two margaritas. She held up two fingers, so it carried over the noise of the club. Then turned back to Rianne.

"Looks like we're in luck. And they're using the good tequila, too." She said.

Amelia was her name. Rianne stored that away with the rest of her description for the woman. Then Rianne realized the confrontation had set her back into cop mode and she had to mentally shift gears back into off duty mode. It was margarita o’clock.

"I think they do have margaritas. I guess we can ask. That actually sounds good. After all of that, I think I could use one."

And like that Rianne had a drinking buddy. Add to that not having to do paperwork and the night was looking significantly better than it had been just a minute ago. ”Frozen if they do that, no salt” It would never be too cold for a frozen margarita.

Rianne was led around the dance floor to the bar where Amelia placed the order. She then announced they were using the good tequila. ”I definitely picked the right night to come out than!” Rianne was a massive fan of margaritas, and when someone is reaching for the top shelf there is nothing better.

While not in cop mode, the cop voice still whispered in her head. Rianne had to ask, ”What happened between you two back there? Wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

Frozen, no salt. Easy enough. That made two.

The question, she already had an answer for. It was an easy one. Blind date. She would say. Someone a friend of a friend knew. Actually, no. That was what she'd been planning to say. But that felt too weird. If a friend knew that guy, they should have known he was a bit of an ass. What she decided on instead made a lot more sense. "Yeah," Amelia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Something like that. Dating app said we had things in common. Did not say he'd get drunk and paranoid, and try and drag me off the second I excused myself so I could go to the bathroom. Probably thought I'd sneak off. Would have been an excellent idea. But--" On cue, the bartender passed her drinks and she pressed down cash. "I'm really glad you were there to help a woman out."

Amelia passed the woman her drink, then took a drink of her own.

"That's a rarity, these days. People actually helping each other." Amelia's forehead crinkled the way she hated as she frowned at that. "It's nice to know there are still good people out there. Cheers." She raised a glass to that.

Date from an app gone bad. Rianne had seen it happen a few times, and seen a few really ugly outcomes. Sure it was the new way to date and in general was safe, but not knowing who you’re meeting, and not having that protection that a blind date affords of your friend having vetted, could be disastrous. The bartender cut Amelia off by producing the drinks. Amelia expressed gratitude and passed Rianne a margarita.

“It’s nice to know there are still good people out there. Cheers.”

”Cheers.” Rianne echoed before taking a sip. It wasn’t bad, they used really good tequila which made up for these yankees not being the best at making margaritas. ”Whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required.” Rianne wasn’t a super religious person, but that line from the Gospel of Luke had stuck with her. ”I can’t stand by and watch something awful happen to someone. And maybe by helping people I can inspire others to help more.” She drank some more of her margarita.

”The asshole ran off, tail between his legs. We’re at a club, lets enjoy it instead of talking about such bleak things.” She saw the worst in humanity so often at work, she wanted to forget it for a while.

The parable of the Talents. She was quoting scripture. It was a scripture Amelia knew secondhand, quoted by a character from a book, but she knew it, and acknowledged the sentiment with the slightest of nods.

Amelia took another sip of her margarita.

Rianne wanted to move on, so move on they did. "Agreed." Amelia drank reverently. "Not to quote any particular singer or song, but -- I just need to shake it off." Shake it off. She shook her head, then let her eyes drift to the dance floor.

The music playing definitely wasn't what she'd just kept herself from singing. The line was for the character she'd assumed, obviously. Because what self respecting secret agent listens to T Swizzle. This one. She imagined two big blue thumbs pointing at her chest.

"Maybe we can find some men to dance with." Or some women. She wouldn't judge. This was 2017. She sat on her bar stool and worked on her frozen margarita slowly. No need to freeze the brain.

Her eyes met the eyes of a man not too far down the bar from them. He had shaggy brown hair and a nice smile... and it looked like his right hand was made of metal. He was next to another man, a man with dark brown hair, and a strong brow, a square jaw, in his thirties or forties. A man who looked like he'd taken a few punches to the face, but won more fights than he'd lost. He had a silly mustache, but the muscles and bulging shoulders underneath his white business shirt more than made up for it. He looked like the kind of guy who knew how to handle himself, and theoretically, high power military-grade firearms. Him, now he was looking at Rianne like a narcissist looks in the mirror. With approval. It was kind of unfair. He was kind of her type.

Amelia caught Rianne's attention with a subtle "Don't look now, but I think someone is checking you out." She muttered it into her drink as she slid back to face the bar. No need for her to get caught looking too.

If the guy looking at Rianne liked Rianne, she would step aside. Even though he was stunning. Because she could be a good wingman. And friend.

"Not to quote any particular singer or song, but -- I just need to shake it off." Amelia said before her gaze drifted to the dance floor.

"I like that song." To be fair, Rianne just liked that album in general. It had style.

"Maybe we can find some men to dance with."

"As long as they can dance on the floor, not my feet." The last time Rianne had gone out dancing she'd spent an entire evening it seemed dancing with men who couldn't keep their feet of hers. Such is finding people to two-step with here. Welcome to New York, very few real cowboys here. Not that there was any bad blood.

Rianne drank some more of her margarita. A moment later Amelia got her attention, "Don't look now, but I think someone is checking you out." Rianne's eyes widened at that and with a quick act of will kept from straightening her back.

"Is he cute?" Rianne didn't want to just spin around and be obvious. Sometimes you just felt like you were still 22.

Amelia laughed at the comment about dancing on feet. "They'd better not," she said, voice surly. "I like my shoes."

Rianne kept a low profile. She didn't peer around. It seemed like she was good at following directions.

Is he cute, Rianne asked her. Amelia gave the honest answer. "No," she said. She laughed a little to herself. "Not cute. But handsome. Tall, brown hair, strong jaw, strong shoulders. Nice guns." She gave Rianne the brief rundown of height and defining features. The guy looking at her wasn't wimpy looking, but he didn't give off the all American look of the one looking at Rianne. "It looks like he has a wingman." She added. She didn't bother describing the wingman.

In the reflection of the mirrored bar backing, Amelia could see them, but she wasn't obvious about looking. She saw their reflections out of the corner of her eye. The guy with the metal hand was partially blocked by a bottle of Jack Daniels. She didn't really care about him. All-American had an expensive watch. He didn't look like a banker or a salaryman, nor did he look born into money.

The bottle of jack Daniels didn't have a reflection behind it anymore. The man with the metal hand was approaching them from behind and to one side. He slipped into a seat by Rianne. A moment later, his buddy slid in next to Amelia. They each ordered themselves drinks, as if their moving hadn't had a thing to do with the ladies. Neither offered to buy the ladies a drink, either. That was a point in their favor. If they'd done that, it would have seemed desperate. How it appeared now, as they greeted the two of them with mild "Evening" and "Hey there"s was that they'd moved for the conversation, rather than to drop terrible pickup lines. A woman always had to be critical of these sorts of things.

The metal handed man smiled at Rianne. "Is it okay if I sit here?" He asked.

"Frozen margaritas, huh?" All-American made conversation. "Good call on no salt. Always feels out of place to me when it's frozen."