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Azure eyes, a British accent, and double entendres. She must have been a good girl lately: it wasn’t even Christmas, but already Santa was putting out.

“Dio, Dio.” She met that blue gaze with a smirk that reached her own eyes. “For a man who lets himself get tied up, I really expected more… flexibility.”

She easily angled her own arm to shake the hand she held captive. It was a firm, completely professional shake, never mind the rest of her.

“So where are we headed, Dio dear?”

That name was so cute. Fake, most assuredly: but cute.

A good ol’ Southern boy. And how. The accent was a few points off his overall score—the ideal accents, as all women knew, came from across the pond—but he gained a few back for the scruffy. Really, every time she looked at him, he gained a few points for the scruffy. Nothing wrong with a man who’d just rolled out of bed…

His first real test, of course, started now.

>> "So what kind of pup are we lookin' for?"

“Mmm, about yea big,” the red head gestured for something in the Yorkie to Pomeranian range. “Silver. With… with as many legs as that.”

She pointed to the air right above his shoulder, where a spider in the Chihuahua to Mutant Sewer Rat range was descending from the trees.

It was 5:20 AM, Saturday morning. The sun had woken up, looked at the clock, and gone back to bed: the sky was an overcast gray blanket fit snuggly over the treeline. The paths in Central Park were wet from a downpour sometime in the night, and that sky was promising more to come. The lights on the path stood out as yellow-ish orbs. Or a vapid white, where the city had switched to florescent. It was an absolutely beautiful day to be out jogging.

That wasn’t what Maxine was doing, oddly enough.

“Rex?” The young red head called, walking alone. She was dressed for jogging: she had the rumpled T-shirt, the loose sweat pants, the too-early-for-boys clunky tennis shoes.

“Here, boy.” She called out, feeling like an idiot. What else is a girl to do, when her octopus disappears?

Besides: there was something weird about the park this morning. She’d seen the usual early morning joggers on her way here, but once she was on the paths… no one. No up-and-at-‘em dog walkers, no other fitness freaks, not even a hobos curled up on their benches.

No pigeons.

No ocotoclip.

“Rex? Come on. Breakfast time. I’m heading back. …Rex?”

She wiped a strand of spider thread out of her face, and took a few more steps along the tree-lined path, trying to shake the feeling that she was being watched.

((ooc: Issie, do tell me if I should edit anything.))

Maxine got moving early, and tended to work late. It left little time in her schedule for MRI scans. Especially when she really, really didn’t want one.

“Just relax, Ms. Ralls. Are you certain you have nothing metallic...?”

“He’s down the hall,” the red head said, a little more snappily than she needed to. “Can we… get this over with?”

“Just hold still.”

Two concussions in a year, and headaches that were a lot worse since that last one. Turns out her doctor didn’t like the sound of that. Maxine held still as the machine whirred to life around her, taking pictures of her head. There were a lot of people who’d never let her live that down, if they knew.

No one needed to know.

Down the hall, meanwhile, her ‘metallic object’ was in a specimen container inside of her purse inside of a supply closet. Had been, anyway. Octosaurus Rex had dealt with the container’s lid; the purse zipper was an old friend, and easily opened. The octoclip was currently sitting on the lower shelf of a cart, toying with the camera it had freed from Maxine’s purse. It had gotten bored of her lipstick, after it stopped leaving red marks on the wall.

Shutter: a row of clean linen.

Shutter: the wheels of the cart.

Shutter: feet coming inside.

Shutter: a view looking up, as clothing came down.

Shutter: a derriere, with dress hem hiked up.

Shutter: a vexed expression far up, just visible over a hillside view.

Shutter: a determined backside, exiting.

Shutter: a green bow, atop a pile of clothing.

Down the hall, Maxine banged her head against the top of the MRI machine when the screaming started.

Concussion number three.

((ooc: Continued from A visit, a favor and a lot of questions; takes place around the same time as Secret meetings are secret.))

‘Hate’ is such a strong word. Let’s go with ‘justifiably resented,’ instead.

Many of the senior reporters at Wolf News justifiably resented Maxine.

The usual career path for a newscaster went like this. College, internship, slave labor, their name mentioned in the credits, a flash of their face on air, more slave labor, and finally, after years of background work: the break that got them their first one-minute segment in the sun, holding that glorious microphone while America watched.

Maxine’s career path thus far had been: college, internship, five minutes on air every single Friday while still interning, being abusively sent for coffee any time she was seen, college graduation, hire letter, ten minutes every Friday for her cheap gimmick of a slot.

There was a lot of justifiable resentment over that, amongst her seniors.

Quentin, now. Quentin didn’t resent her: he just plain didn’t like her. If Maxine were on fire, he probably wouldn’t waste his spit to put her out. He didn’t mind giving her a little advice now and again, though.

“Word of advice, Ralls?” The crimes reporter said, plucking that eight and a half by eleven glossy right out of her hands and dangling it in front of her face. “Keep your stories local. We’re used to dealing with you. You step foot on Washington’s turf, you’re going to make some serious enemies. They’ve got a Queen B**** in charge of crimes, over there.”

“Now why would I be poking around Washington?” The red head smiled. See, that smile: that was one of the reason he didn’t like her. The innocent, don’t-know-fish-from-water look? Not exactly the most believable.

“Ralls,” he said, companionably shoving a stack of papers off to the side so he could lean his rear on her desk, “Don’t s*** with me. If you’re going to keep shoving your nose into mutant crimes, stick with the Order. God knows I don’t want to touch them.”

“Now what would a department store opening have to do with mutant crimes? I don’t recall this one being attacked.” She batted her eyelashes. Quentin took a sip of his coffee, wondering how many hours she’d spent practicing the innocent look in front of her mirror.

“Ralls,” he said again, with a disappointed sigh, “you’re s****** with me. What did I just tell you not to do?” He flicked the paper back onto her desk, and took his coffee elsewhere.

Maxine gave him a forty second lead, then grabbed for her keyboard.

A photograph sat at her elbow: a still from the department store opening that had caught so much of Gawain’s attention. From a different angle than he’d be familiar with, though. The senior reporters might have some justifiable resentment for her, but the interns and new hires? They didn’t mind doing a rising star a favor, now and then. Eight stations had been filming in the area that day, from slightly different angles, at slightly different times. She had seven of the tapes. The unedited takes made for quite a different show.

The picture was of Mommy, slightly out of focus in the fore. Centered in the background was the man who’d been trailing her through the crowd.

Like Gawain said: reporters love that super-secret stuff.

So: Washington. DC, or state? The red head hedged her bets, by sending out a blanket e-mail to the crime reporters at each. Just a photo, and a little interpret-as-you-please phrase:

Look familiar?

Thomas Langley, Washington DC crimes reporter, never got back to her.

Gloria Kingston, Washington State, was down her throat in five minutes flat. Not an email: she actually called, like some of the oldies still did. Maxine had to give her credit on the choice: her low voice, and that mother cat’s hiss rolling off her tongue, just wouldn’t have worked through e-mail. The red head was glad they were on opposite ends of the country for this.

“Ms. Ralls.”

“Mrs. Kingston.”

“What concern is Michael Yan to you?” The older woman’s voice was crouched to spring.

“No concern,” the red head returned, scribbling on the back of the photo: Michael Yan. She let out a breath: the man. That made things simpler. “I just like to know what I’m getting into. What does Quentin Jones have against you?”

That set the woman back on her haunches. “Jones? What does he have to do with this?”

Maxine reclined in her chair. Posture: it couldn’t be seen through phone calls, but it could certainly be heard. “He flipped that onto my desk not ten minutes ago. Mentioned ‘Washington’, and ‘mutant crimes’; but he seemed to think I should keep this on the down low from you. So you tell me: what does Quentin Jones gave against you?”

“I got him transferred out of Seattle.” The hiss was back, but it wasn’t for her. “What are you going to do with this, Ralls?”

The red head caught her pen out of the air as it tried to fly off, and twirled it between her fingers. “Are you working this, too?” No need to define what ‘this’ was. She doubted that her definition and Kingston’s would match.

The silence on the other end was like a lion’s mouth: dark, deep, and lined with teeth. “Ralls. I’ve got a year of my life tied up in this organization. Michael Yan is one of my contacts. If you so much as—”

“Mrs. Kingston, I’m not interested in Yan. I’m running a parallel case, on a woman who was seen with him in my neck of the woods, but has—let’s say ‘distinct’—ties to yours. I’m trying to get an interview out of her. I think we could be useful to each other.”

“…What do you want, Ralls?”

“A phone number, an address; somewhere to reach her. Get me that, and I’ll make sure my report doesn’t air until at least two days after yours.”

“Two weeks.”

“One.”

“…I’ll see what I can do.” Maxine was sure the woman was going to hang up then, but something held her on the line. “Ralls. How the hell did you even find out about this?”

“I have my sources.” There was something so satisfying in being the one to end the call.

Yes, there was a bit of justifiable resentment going around for the upstart red head. But that wasn’t to say that the old timers didn’t have their own dog fights, or that a sudden rise in fame hadn’t left people feeling a bit—threatened is such a harsh word—let’s go with uneasy.

She could work with that.

“See?” Maxine confided in the people far, far below. “Concussion. You might have to help us down.” She thought a moment, and added: “But make the floor stop moving, first.”

The fire department turned out to be handy after all, with those ladders of theirs. And Maxine got to cuddle up to an honest-to-goodness fireman as he carried her down. She put all those snuggling lessons Allison had given her to good use. And since the man was under the impression that she was the one who had the concussion, she didn’t even hear a peep about sexual harassment. Mmm.

The hospital was less snuggly, and distinctly lacking in all those cute male interns television had lead her to expect. Basically: it was about what she remembered, from her last trip here. A concussion a year keeps the co-pays paid?

On the bright side: after getting admitted, the two red heads got to share a room. And apparently, they weren’t allowed to sleep for awhile, so they had to keep talking.

Oddly, she didn’t remember much from that sleep over. Except something about… kraken brain control?

Rex spent the night wrapped around the little metal railing at the head of Allison’s bed, tentacles writhing in the moonlight.

He seemed to understand what she meant. Good. She accepted his number with a nod of her own. They were partners in this, now.

He was kissing her. Good—

Maxine squeaked, a bit like a surprised mouse. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her face turning just as red as her hair. Green eyes blinked over her fingers.

He kissed her.

The red head shot up, dragging Gawain with her to their respective feet. A certain backside got a shove towards her bathroom, and the mirror therein.

“Get you gone, Sir Knight. I’ve got research to do. Very serious research.”

And boys, as it turned out, where distracting.

He kissed her.

He kissed her. Ha!