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(no subject)

WHO: Everyone!
WHERE: Jeopardy -> Heropa
WHEN: Nov. 19
WHAT: A resolution and a swear-in
WARNINGS: Please label threads

Somewhere, in a place that is and is not Jeopardy, time has passed. To some, it may have felt like mere hours; to others, days. For time doesn't truly touch this place. Only fate exists here, for imPorts to change or allow to proceed as it will.

Somewhere, the sisters look into the hearts of those with the power to decide the fate of this entire world and know their choice. A blinding light grows, forcing even the strongest to close their eyes, and as they do so, a vision of what could have happened appears in their minds. A world wreathed in flames, fire and screams echoing ceaselessly as they depart; a peaceful world, healed and whole and well—and a certainty that another world has paid a heavy price.

And then there's the sensation of three powerful forces leaving, two taking an unwilling third with them to wherever they are going. This world will be left as it is now, and its future will be whatever the people here make of it.

MEANWHILE, IN HEROPA

One week into the mysterious storm that has enveloped much of Jeopardy, citizens across the nation are losing hope. The government continues to monitor the situation at a safe distance, but cannot enter the affected part of the city, though one SEAL team did make an attempt, only to become lost in the wind for hours before emerging without ever making it through. While the storm hasn't grown, neither has it shown any sign of changing.

The heroes who bravely charged into the storm have not officially been given up for lost, but with no news coming from Jeopardy, few believe they will emerge unscathed. To honor their sacrifice (?) and offer sorrowful natives a means of coping, a candlelight vigil kicks off outside Heropa City Hall at 4:30 PM EST.

Speeches are given. Commemorative t-shirts are sold. It is at this point that a large portal of light opens up in front of the building and deposits all imPorts who entered the storm, as well as a confused but unharmed Layla and Sally Clapp. A stunned silence falls over the crowd — followed shortly by an eruption of cheers.

Organized chaos quickly reigns over the occasion. Medical personnel are quickly called in to aid any imPorts who might need it, and government officials quickly descend, one thing on their mind: what the heck happened, heroes?! ImPorts are asked to state, for the record, exactly what they experienced — which leaves a lot of room open for the more creative among them. Just what each imPorts is willing to confess to or lie about is up to them, but there are other imPorts at hand to refute or support all statements.

While imPorts are technically free to go, all are encouraged to enter the building for a debriefing with government officials. Those who care to share their story begin to paint a picture of what happened, and a flurry of transportation begins to move between City Hall and the local porter outpost, as Jeopardy will certainly require some aid now that it is fully accessible. Reports begin to filter back that while there have been some casualties and collateral damage to the city, it is far less of a disaster than the government anticipated during the storm, no doubt due to imPorts' efforts. Additionally, news from other porter cities begins to arrive; with the dissipation of the Jeopardy storm, all dimensional anomalies elsewhere have ceased.

Following the briefings, ImPorts may go home and get some rest, although they may have trouble shaking off the crowds — which are largely ecstatic that the people who apparently saved the world are in front of them.

While imPorts were occupied with the post-disaster debriefings, locals have used the time to launch an impromptu celebration of their defense of this world. Local restaurants, breweries and nanas have hustled their finest wares over, and free food and drink are flowing for the homecoming heroes. A local party & events organizing company has strung up some lights and tents in the park across the street from City Hall, lending a festive atmosphere to the area. T-shirts being sold to honor the assumed-fallen heroes have been 'edited' with permanent marker, going from 'FALLED HEROES' (there was an error in the print run, given the notice of less than a week) to 'RISEN HEROES' and are, regretfully, being given away for free.

For those who stay, an impromptu party breaks out, and the occasion quickly becomes the latest swear-in, albeit with a more casual emphasis on the actual swearing-in than usual; a card table is set up with the usual seals and documents, but it's a bit haphazard.

Along with tasty libations, local musicians start jamming on acoustic guitars in the park's gazebo, setting up some cheerful background music—or maybe you're not too tired to dance? A local physical therapy school has rolled in multiple portable massage tables, with free sessions for sore heroes!

The locals who haven't dispersed yet are also around, likely to seek autographs from the world savers, while podcasters, BlueTubers and regular nosy nellies might lean in with a recording device, asking for the real story of what happened. For imPorts who become too intoxicated or exhausted to porter home, many locals are offering couches to crash on — although the pillows they use may later show up on ePay.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The problem with fresh-faced and boyishly happy in virtually any situation is that it's something Victor is very used to seeing by now, just on someone else's face. This face at least has light in his eyes when he smiles, probably a product of actually being young and full of life.

What Victor can't tell yet is if he's a coward by necessity, or a sharp survivalist.

The question draws an amused snort, though the humour doesn't reach Victor's expression or warm him in any way.

"Not on this occasion. Like you, I had other matters to attend to while our brave heroes rushed in to save the day."

A reveler, high on relief and who-knows-what-else stumbles a little too close for comfort and without batting an eye or giving any tell at all, Victor gives their nerves a little squeeze and tug to draw the line of shuffle away from him and just barely away from his conversation partner. The cluster to their left can deal with that tripping incident.

"Personally," Victor continues as if they hadn't nearly had a collision, "I would have preferred more time to settle in before being told the world I'd just been dragged to was about to end."

Neatly side-stepping the reveller with a swordsman's grace, Rupert watches with interest as he stumbles away with a sudden grimace of pain. But it seems he didn't need to have sidestepped at all; the man seems to have swerved, quite noticeably, away from them. A rather lucky near-miss for them and a very unlucky fall for the reveller as he stumbles to the floor with a painful crunch.

"You'll find we don't stand on ceremony here," Rupert replies as he turns away from the commotion with a nonchalant shrug. "One day it's 'welcome to the future, the world is your oyster', the next it's 'welcome to the end of times, the world will be collapsing imminently'. You'll have to keep up, I'm afraid.

"And talking of not standing on ceremony --" He candidly extends his hand to Victor. "Rupert von Hentzau, at your service."

Of all the things Victor has picked upon from this young man (Rupert, apparently. And German, it would seem), the way he moves is suddenly the most interesting. Most people move clumsily when faced with unwanted and unexpected contact, often resulting in double the injured parties or at least some wounded ego. But Rupert moves like a dancer, not a flicker of concern or any particular concern about the near-kerfuffle at all. Interesting. It was first and foremost Victor's intention to not get barrelled into, but he'll take that curious tidbit.

The smoothly extended hand earns a customary downward flicker of Victor's eyes and an equally swift return of his eyes to Rupert's face. His hands remain quite squarely in the pockets of his coat.

"Victor Vale," sure sounds like a superhero's name.

"And do you always do that?" He gives a light nod in Rupert's direction, "Offer your service without knowing who you're offering it to? Or without them knowing what your service is, for that matter?"

Yeah, it's a turn of phrase and Victor knows it, but being a smug ass is just sort of what Victor does.

"It's a turn of phrase, Victor Vale," Rupert replies with a serene, glittering smile. "And you know it."

Oh, but this is an interesting little challenge. People all too easily fall for Rupert's charms. It's nice to have someone at least marginally resistant. The hand remains pointedly extended Victor's way; if he's not going to take it then someone had better put something in it. The last person who had refused Rupert's hand had ended up stabbed, not that Rupert has any intention of doing that here. He tilts his head a fraction, his gaze still fixed smilingly upon Victor's, and flexes the fingers of his outstretched in a teasing little wiggle.

"I don't have the pox. Promise."

Now that gets a slight twitch at Victor's lip. Not quite a smile (you're not that good, Hentzau), but it's closer, the amusement more evident; in the same way not many people resist Rupert's charms, not many people push through Victor's judgemental stares and quips to call him out like that.

"It might be, but you also don't look all that scandalised."

The hand is a challenge and if there were ever an unmovable object, it would be Victor and the wiggling digits win Rupert only a slow blink and an ever slower raise of Victor's brows.

"Any other ailments you want to let me know you're free of?"

"Oh, I don't know," Rupert says with a shrug. "Leprosy. Scarlet Fever. The plague."

But Rupert knows that none of these assurances are going to get him a handshake anytime soon. He turns the extended hand into a flick, dusting off a speck of something from the lapel of Victor's rather lovely black trenchcoat. There's a hint of a smirk to Rupert's expression; he still gets to achieve that silent, insistent touch that Victor seems to determined to evade. Speck removed, he gives the taller man an absent, breezy smile.

"And yes, I'm rather difficult to scandalise. It'll take more than pretending not to know what 'at your service' means, I'm afraid."

What a positively archaic list of possible illnesses, though the extending hand is immediately more distracting in that moment.

He subtly straightens, not shrinking back or moving forward to stop the contact, but his gaze narrows into a slow warning even while knowing those fingers are still going to connect with his coat.

And the moment Rupert's fingers brush the fabric--Oh. Was that a static shock? Maybe a tad sharper than normally, but it's just as short and sharp, there and then gone, and Victor seems none the wiser. Petty? Yes, absolutely. But that's just how Victor is sometimes. Often.

"Luckily for both of us, I'm not really interested in finding out where your limits are in that area."

Shocked in more ways than one, Rupert flexes his fingers as he inspects his hand. The smarting pain had been brief but impossible to ignore, and the mystery of electricity is still something he's yet to fully understand. He rubs his thumb against his fingertips curiously.

"What the devil was that?"

One of them must be wearing cheap polyester and it certainly isn't Rupert.

"Hm?"

Victor cocks his head to one side quizzically. In some people, it could look like innocence, but while Victor is many things, innocent is not one of them.

He does slowly, lazily glance back and forth over his shoulders.

"What was what?"

"Didn't you feel it?" Rupert narrows his eyes. Of course, Victor had to have felt it; the sharp pain as he made contact with the fabric of his coat was unmistakable.

"When I touched you," He continues slowly, suspecting something but not entirely sure what. "Like so..."

With a look of dedicated intent he reaches forward again, palm flat, to ghost his fingertips over Victor's lapel once more.

This time, Victor turns his head to watch the hand reaching out to him, letting it get closer and closer to his lapel.

... Except there's nothing. No zap, no pain, no jolt. Just like most static shocks, the 'charge' is gone.

Victor gives the younger man a flat look.

"No, I didn't."

His own hand snaps up then, fingers coiling sharply around Rupert's wrist to hold him firm as he slowly leans in, eyes cold and focused and unimpressed line forming his mouth.

"But I don't much care for people making excuses to touch me," the edge of his mouth twists up ever so slightly, wolf-like in a way as he gives a further little squeeze against Rupert's pulse, "So I wouldn't make a habit of this if I were you, von Hentzau."

Oh. There's a boundary. Nicely delineated, underscored with pain. Boundaries are such a rarity for Hentzau, who laughs uncertainly at the sudden vicious twist their conversation has taken. The grip on his hand hurts, it really hurts, and for a moment Rupert wildly imagines his future as a one-handed swordsman. It would make for a very dashing story, except his left hand is in need of practice when it comes to bladework and it would make uncorking wine bottles that much harder...

"I meant no harm," He assures Victor, the smile still pinned in place if only because despite the pain he's enjoying this savage reaction he seems to have accidentally inspired. His gaze flickers to his wrist, trapped painfully within the older man's grip, and the smile falters fractionally.

"But you are hurting me."

There's the difference between Rupert and Victor: he probably does indeed mean no harm. Victor, when he puts his mind to it, means plenty. And he doesn't think twice about it for the most part.

"Am I?"

The in-joke is purely for Victor's own weird, dark sense of humour. Yes, he probably is hurting Rupert with that grip, though he could make it hurt a lot more, drive him to his knees, have him scraping fingers into Victor's pantleg and begging to make it stop.

He could. But he doesn't.

Victor opens his fingers, then sweeps them back against his coat, chasing away an invisible wrinkle.

"Next time, you might touch something that bites back a little harder."

Turning his head with a deep inhale through his nose, Victor returns his hand to his pocket and casts a look across the crowds.

"But if I had, you could have really passed yourself off for a hero valiantly injured in the storm. Who knows where you could end up putting your hands with that kind of pretense."

He massages his freed wrist, flexing it this way and that as he considers Victor's advice. It's not even that Rupert wanted to touch him, but the way Victor had avoided his hand was too much of a game to ignore.

"Good Lord, you're touchy," He observes with a laugh, his natural cheerfulness returning now that he's no longer trapped fast in Victor's hand. "Or not, as the case may be. Are you always like this?"

Doing something petty because someone expressly doesn't want you to is the kind of game Victor has seen travel from school yards to prisons and it isn't something he has tolerated at any stage of his life. He's certainly not going to start now.

Once the threat has been leveled and heard though, Victor sees no reason to press the matter as long as it has been heard. He's also not stupid enough to do something more flashy in public and he's already set up something for Rupert to trip on to make his point.

"Define 'like this'? Do you mean less-than-thrilled about strangers touching me part, or generally standoffish part?"

Edited 2019-12-01 23:02 (UTC)

"You've clearly been touched by the wrong strangers," Rupert remarks, unable to resist such an open invitation for filth. Satisfied that his wrist is completely fine - it was the surprise of it that struck him most, he thinks - Rupert sips again at his drink, mercifully unspilled from the surprising turn of events. He shrugs a little.

"But yes, the generally standoffish part is what I was referring to."

The sweeping innuendo is entirely lost on Victor who has neither the appreciation nor the inclination toward flirting humour to play this game at all, so instead he just gives Rupert an intensely flat and unimpressed stare.

"Maybe so. The ones who were stupid enough to do it."

That's also not an invitation to get to know him better to remove the stranger title.

"And if that's what you mean then no, this is my celebration mood."

Thick, scathing sarcasm: far more Victor's speed for humour.

Rupert takes Victor's unimpressed demeanour in his stride, making up for his coolness with more careless warmth of his own. Slapping down Rupert's innuendo is just an invitation to do better that he mentally pockets away for another, greater opportunity; he lets the joke go for now.

"If this is your celebrating mood then you're not very good at it, sorry to say." He gestures at the makeshift bar with his cup. "Here's a tip, have you tried alcohol? It'll vastly improve your chances of cracking a smile. It might not even kill you."

"My talents lie elsewhere," Victor says smoothly, though he does shift his eyes toward the bar as Rupert indicates it.

There's no real shift in Victor's face, no impression that he's either interested or disinterested until he flicks a glance back at Rupert with a vague impression of humour in his eyes and maybe a twitch of his lip. It's not a warm kind of amusement though.

"Perish the thought of a near death experience," he comments dryly, the internal joke purely for himself before he nods at the cup, "And is that where you find your good spirit, or is this your default state? Touchy and overly cheerful?"

"I believe the words most commonly used are 'terrible' and 'menace'," Rupert informs him. Mindful now of not touching Victor, he does his best to shepherd him closer to the bar without making contact - it's more difficult than he realised but Rupert is persistent in his shepherding until they're within reaching distance of the makeshift bar.

"One never needs alcohol for high spirits, no, but in my experience it certainly helps lubricate matters," He explains as he selects a bottle of dark, smokey liquid and holds it up enticingly.

"Are you a scotch man? You're certainly enough of a bastard to be a scotch man."

"You seem suited to both of those words."

As it happens, it's not terribly hard to get Victor to the bar, mostly because people just seem to... move aside. Funny, that.

And while he maintains an unimpressed sideeye as Rupert produces the bottle, the accurate assessment does finally manage to draw a smile and a snort of amusement out of Victor, like he's been given some kind of compliment.

"Am I? And here I was being on my best behaviour and everything."

That is definitely an green light on the scotch.

A smile! An almost-laugh! These things are a reward in themselves, a triumphant little win. Hentzau smirks to himself in delight and pours an overly generous measure into a red plastic solo cup with a fiercely pleased expression.

"Oh no, I assure you, I absolutely know a bastard when I meet one," He promises as he hands over the cup. "It's my imPort power, you know. Bastard detection."

The plastic cups are an adorable nostalgic touch in Victor's mind. He hasn't had cause to touch one at all since his college days and even then a potted plant at the house party received the full pint of keg beer that Victor didn't even remotely care for. The cup had only even been a prop, after all.

"Is that so," he says it as a statement more than a question, mixing interest with disinterest smoothly, "And do you use that to try and instill a bit of cheer into our black bastard hearts, or are you just a bit of a masochist?"

"I'm of the opinion that bastards are the most useful category of humans," Rupert replies gravely. His solemn expression doesn't quite hide the amusement in his voice but there's truth behind his words: his colleagues and friends have nearly all been bastards to a man, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He raises his cup in silent toast, as if they were lifting fine crystal glassware, and adds:

"And coincidentally the most fun. Are you any fun, Vale?"

Bastards, in Victor's opinion, are far from the most useful of people. People he can manipulate are the most useful of people and bastards tend to not fall into that category for him. Bastards, by and large, aren't insecure enough or sensitive enough about lacking direction enough for Victor to insert himself or make an offer to fill a brand of that void.

Bastards, actually, are a pain.

"No. Completely dull, in fact," His answer to Rupert's question is, largely, for Victor's own amusement. He thinks he's a lot of fun, when he's in the mood for it, it's just that his brand of fun isn't likely what Rupert is into. "I suppose you'll have to track down a more entertaining bastard."