DOWNTOWN: Strife Delivery Service

     Quaint is certainly the word to describe the interior of the Strife 
Delivery Service. Well, other than utilitarian, anyways. It has everything one 
would expect from a modern businessplace, kept reasonable clean and organized 
with everything in its proper place. There are a few chairs littered about for 
sitting as well as a simple desk the dominates the scenery. Parcels of various 
size are usually stacked upon it, a noted pad lying off to the side with 'place 
your order here' scrawled across it what appears to have been a haphazard manner.

     A set of stairs leads to the upper floor, a ringer built into the wall next 
to it so as to inform the tenant above when there's business present.

Contents:
Squall
Savoi
Obvious exits:
Upstairs  EXIT

     Jake is bored.
     For anyone who knows her, this is a Bad Thing.
     (Well, so if she were her brother, it would be worse. Fortunately, she's 
not. But still, not a good thing.)
     She has no particular desire to go out in public right now, what with the 
lovely line of bruises rising purple and welted on her face from her personal 
encounter with the edge of the restroom door. It might bring awkward questions 
that she has no wish to answer. She's not working right now, probably because 
Tony's either in the lab or asleep, lord knows which one, and there's only so 
much you can do sitting in your room by yourself, and she's probably done most 
of them already, take that to mean what you will. And there's nothing on TV.
     Obviously, the logical solution is to go bother her roommates.
     Ascending the stairs from a quick trip to the kitchen to get herself an 
apple, Jake knocks at the first door she comes across--which actually happens to 
be that of the stodgy young one she'd disturbed a while back after a shower. 
Hearing no response, she knocks harder.
     Still nothing.
     Well, it's not wrong if they don't catch you at it. And she has to admit 
she's a trifle curious about him, after seeing the way he handled those knives 
during the sushi restaurant fight. Glancing around, she puts her hand to the 
knob, and turns.
     Unlocked. Score.
     Wandering in, she looks around the room, peering about for anything of 
interest. She probably won't go so far as to actually rifle through closed 
drawers--too much effort--but anything in sight is fair game.



Squall has been somewhat curious about Jake himself, ever since he found out she 
not only carries guns, but seems very proficient at using them. However, 
Squall's curiosity does not bring him to look through her room. It's not his 
business, and he'd probably be afraid to go through a girl's room anyway: or, 
for that matter, ask her about it.

Unfortunately, Jake has more than enough curiosity for the both of them.

He'd been out for a short while running an errand, and when he comes back it's 
to a quiet house. Ruffling a hand through his hair wearily, he starts ascending 
the staircase towards his room, completely unaware there's somebody already in 
there. He's quiet about his movements, as he always is.

There is a case on the floor of Squall's room, a long black one with an 
interesting silver lion stamped on it. It's half-open already, revealing a 
tempting glint of metal lying just inside.


     And not enough fear for either one of them, for that matter. Or at least 
hesitancy.
     Jake's not quiet about moving around in his room--what point? Either he's 
not here, or he'll see her. It was never her intention to sneak about, anyway. 
She's just rummaging, and if he gets mad, she'll deal with it. Her gaze finds 
the case quickly, laid out in the middle of the floor as it is, and she makes a 
soft, thoughtful noise. Sticking the half-eaten apple between her teeth to hold 
it, she kneels next to the case, pushing the lid back (takes some doing to snap 
the bottom and lid apart; better to keep it shut and use as shield or thrown 
distraction, but some possibilities for snapping it open if swung just so and 
sending the top flying open), and looking inside.
     Ooh, shiny. Looks kind of like some archaic examples of gun-swords she's 
seen, except that the mechanism is much more modern and the piece obviously 
fairly new.
     Eyes brightening in interest and curiosity, her hands itch to pick it up, 
and so she does. (Weight much more toward the hilt. Best used for swinging, not 
so much for stabbing. Gun is not made for discharging a simple bullet, but 
something else her gift can't quite figure out. And more than can be expressed 
in simple words.)
     Standing, she removes the apple from her teeth and lays it aside on his 
desk, before tossing the gunblade from one hand to the other. Her body and arms 
shift and move automatically to compensate for the awkward weight distribution. 
Angle the elbow just /so/, move the wrist like /so,/ and a good thing she works 
her wrists out, too, and the blade flashes in a whirl of silver, weaving an 
intricate pattern before she shifts grips again to the other hand, continuing 
the pattern seamlessly. Not a weapon that can be used reversed much, but get it 
moving and it has a good mass behind it. He'll be glad to know she approves of 
the sword she found while going through his room without his permission.
     While she's doing this, though, she misses the sound of Squall coming up 
the stairs, quiet as he is and with her own movements to cover it.



Noticing his door is already open when he reaches the top of the staircase, 
Squall's steps quicken. An irritated frown sets heavily into his face as he 
pushes the door open, and his greeting is less than impressed.

"What are you /doing/."

It's not really a question, and the weight of each word suggests a deep 
displeasure. Squall really hates getting mixed up into other people's business, 
and he hates other people getting into his own business even more. Those walls 
and defenses are up for a reason, and people who breach them are-- are--

--somehow able to wield his weapon effortlessly: his weapon that requires years 
of training, and usually claims the limbs of the unskilled foolish enough to try 
using it anyway.

This is unusual enough to momentarily distract Squall from his upset at finding 
her in his room. Standing there in his doorway, utterly nonplussed, he can do 
little more than stare for a moment before he manages, "...how are you able to 
use that?"


     Let it be known that Jake does not do 'innocent' very well. Doesn't keep 
her from trying, though.
     Given as she's gradually turned about to face the door while playing with 
Squall's sword, she's only momentarily startled when the door is pushed open 
fully, and not at all when he speaks. Stopping the gunblade with a quick press 
of her unoccupied palm to the blunt edge of the blade, she casually slings the 
blade over her shoulder, in a pose almost eerily like the one he or Seifer 
favors while standing at rest, and grins innocently at him. "Natural talent." 
Which is true, just... not quite the way it sounds. "What're you doing with a 
sword like this, anyway? And what the hell does it shoot?" She taps the gun-
chamber with a finger. It has to be something computerized or super-techy, she 
figures, if she can't tell what it is at a touch.



Squall's eyes narrow. In a normal person, this would be the equivalent of 
shouting.

His gaze flickers uneasily from his blade-- perched so jauntily on her shoulder-
- to the culprit herself. "Natural talent doesn't explain what I saw," he says 
grimly, terrier-like in his unwillingness to drop the subject. "Only years of 
training can." ...years? When the hell did he start learning? "And if you got 
training in this particular weapon, I--" a pause, "--it'd concern me." Since 
it's possible that she might well be from where he's from.

Dodging the question of why he has the blade, he shakes his head irritably. "It 
doesn't shoot anything but blanks, the added energy from the explosion puts more 
force into the swing. You haven't answered the question of why you're in here, 
either."

Normally he'd have ordered her straight out, but her ability to use the blade 
keeps him from just tossing her out the door. He wouldn't even have been all 
that interested in prying about /that/, if it hadn't been so utterly surprising 
to see here in this world. But given the circumstances, it doesn't seem he'll be 
letting her go all that easily until he gets a confession.


     Oh god, he'd better not start yapping incessantly and dancing about her in 
a nervous twitchy circle. Just sayin'.
     "Years?" Jake's quick to follow up on that line. Eyeing him from head to 
toe, very obviously, she lifts a brow. "And how long did you learn this? Or do 
you know how to use it, even?" He ought to--he doesn't strike her as the sort of 
person to keep a weapon around just for bragging rights, and the competency with 
which he handled the kitchen knives suggests deep familiarity with a similar 
sort of weapon--but there's a chance that might not be the case. It wouldn't be 
the first time she's made a wrong assessment.
     She shrugs the questions away with an irritated lift of one shoulder, but 
she does at least offer some answers, if rather unhelpful. "First time I've seen 
a weapon like this before, beyond the ones stuck in museums from the times 
before they figured out that combining swords and guns wasn't always the best 
idea. What, is the training of this weapon a long-held secret passed down only 
to the chosen bearers of an ancient lineage?" Her grin is slow, but deeply 
amused when it comes. "And I was bored, and stuck here. No reason to go out with 
a face like this." She makes a quick gesture at the line of bruises down the 
left side of her face. "I knocked, but you weren't in, so I let myself in."



Squall doesn't yap. Nor does he 'dance.' There will be no exhibitions of such 
today.

Instead, there's just a closing of his expression once Jake catches his slip. 
He's silent a moment, debating how to answer, before he replies honestly, "Eight 
years. Nearly nine now." And it usually takes a year to get to a point where 
you're not in danger of hurting yourself more than others, with it. "If this is 
the first time you've seen this kind of weapon, there's no--" A pause, as 
something suddenly occurs to him. Does she have some kind of power? Some people 
here have weird powers. "--mundane explanation for what you did. I haven't seen 
any other sort of weapon that's even similar to mine i-- ever."

And as for her explanation? "If you knock and I'm not in," he says flatly, "then 
you /shouldn't come in anyway/." God, his entire tenure here is going to be 
spent teaching basic social niceties to the women Cloud brings home.


     ... wow. So the exaggerated point she'd made--if nonverbally--about his 
relative youth is actually true. Blink. "You're fucking me. You can't be more 
than twenty. You started learning a sword--I mean, seriously--when you were 
around /ten/, and kept it up all the time? What the hell kind of place did you 
learn at? Because I would've liked to have had that." Fighting is more about 
than just knowing how to wield a weapon, after all--and that stuff would have 
been nice to have training in when she was younger.
     Strange choice of word there. Eyeing him speculatively, Jake seats herself 
on the edge of his bed, moving to place the gunblade back in its case with care; 
she may not have much respect for his privacy, but she has respect for a fine 
weapon. "Mundane, eh?" Reaching for her forgotten apple, she takes a bite from 
it and leans back on the palm of her other hand. Well, she certainly didn't come 
from here; and where she didn't, others may well be the same. It's certainly 
possible people from her own world could have been stranded here, and given the 
number of worlds out there, not impossible that other places could have stumbled 
over this one. "I wouldn't call it mundane, no, but whatever you want to call it, 
I know my fighting. Give me anything and I can use it as a weapon. Doubly so for 
weapons." She spreads her hands in a 'so there' gesture. "Your turn. Where did 
you get the sword from, and what the hell kind of place did you come from that 
started training you in a sword at the age of ten? Are you even from this 
world?"
     Please. Cloud didn't bring her here, she walked in herself, following an 
advertisement for places to rent; the fact that she'd met him before, and that 
she was a woman, was coincidence. We'll skip the 'social niceties' bit. "Jesus, 
Leonhart, take the stick out of your ass and relax for two seconds. I wasn't 
going to steal anything, and from the looks of it you don't have anything to be 
embarrassed about." Quick glance about. "Or at any rate, I don't see heart-
printed boxers hanging out of the drawers."



Squall looks tired. More tired than a kid has any right to be. "...eighteen," he 
corrects. Then, he shifts a bit at the door, his hand sliding down the frame 
slightly. "I-- learned at a place where this kind of thing was common," he 
finishes lamely. "It was an academy meant to teach us to fight."

He watches her carefully as she replaces his weapon, relaxing inch by inch as 
she handles it respectfully. He comprehends her explanation only as an admission 
that she has /some/ sort of ability, a weapons-touch sort of ability, and nods 
uneasily: only to be asked another question. "Got it as a commission. For the 
academy I attended," he says tersely, but leaves it at that for the time being. 
But when she asks him if he's even /from/ this world, he freezes. Is she just 
joking, or is she actually /asking/? Hesitating slightly, he emits only a long 
and uncomfortable sort of silence before he manages to reply, "...are /you/?"

And then she tries to defend her act of walking right into his room. "I just 
don't like intrusion. In my space, in my business," he states, utterly failing 
to comply with her injunction to relax. He doesn't even dignify her last comment 
with a reaction.


     "So, not on the level of a McDojo, I'm guessing," she remarks wryly. "Too 
bad there's very few places like that left." Well, so, there's the army. But she 
has a good idea that she would have hated it.
     When he answers her question with an uncomfortable stiffness and the 
retaliatory question, Jake sits up and blinks at him. "Wait, was that a serious 
question? You actually think you're from another world?" She lets the astonished 
look remain for a second, the silence stretching out, before her expression 
relaxes into a grin and she waves the nearly-decimated apple at him in a 'relax' 
gesture. "Sorry, sorry. Just fuckin' with you. Judging from your reaction, I'm 
probably from around here just as much as you are... well, maybe more, since 
this place is almost exactly like home. Just missing a few things." For all of 
her teasing, though, she's actually rather pleased to find that she's not the 
only one. "That explains a few things, though--like where you got your training 
from and why you have a sword like that and why you're not still in school. Not 
to mention your name." There's no way a logical parent here would have chosen 
the name of Squall for their kid, or any kid choosing it for their own, even. 
"How did you get here, then?"



He starts to look even more awkward when Jake sits up suddenly with that look of 
incredulity: shifting slightly in mild irritation and faint embarrassment. Hey 
now, the way he'd phrased it, it was a careful, half-veiled question disguised 
in such a way that a Native could take it for a joke! Admittedly he could have 
executed the tone of it better... but then again, speaking in a non-serious 
manner is nigh-impossible for him.

He untenses slightly when she finally relents and admits she's not from here 
either: though a mild scowl shows exactly what he thinks of the little practical 
joke. "I wasn't sure if you were another 'Foreigner,'" he mumbles, mouthing the 
DFA's term for it with some grumpiness. But now that he knows she /is/... well, 
that makes three of them. Cloud, himself, and now Jake.

Choosing to ignore that choice comment about his name, Squall shakes his head. 
"No idea. I just showed up here one day, almost a year ago. Can't remember much 
of what happened before that, though I remember where I was from." But her 
expression of relief that she's not the only one catches his attention, and his 
eyes narrow. That suggests she didn't get the DFA welcome-wagon, because the 
welcome parade usually, you know, tells people that they're not alone. "...Did 
you get approached by something called the DFA?"


     So, maybe Jake hasn't hung around with Squall much, but she has never ever 
heard him crack a joke. Which doesn't help the possibility that he might have 
been cracking a joke.
     "A foreigner?" Where Squall says it with the capital-F, Jake's wording 
leaves no doubt that it's just another uncapitalized word for her. "No, not 
really, I was born in the States. If not these States."
     Huh. Sounds like it could be another nexus, kind of like Middanka was. 
Maybe. Except that she hasn't heard of anything remotely resembling other worlds 
in everyday reference, nor does there seem to be a system set up. Maybe it's 
like Middanka, only without the people who can make use of the gates? Rubbing 
her chin thoughtfully, her line of thought is derailed when he mentions some 
acronym or other. "The whatafucka?"


Well. Squall doesn't crack many jokes at all, no. And whenever his humour /does/ 
show up, it's invariably of the bitter, cynical, and wry sort. When he 'makes 
jokes,' they're invariably more cutting and bleak than they are funny.

He shakes his head briefly at her slight confusion regarding the word 
'Foreigner.' "It's the name used to describe people not from this world," he 
explains, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. Not 
privy to her internal thoughts-- and not really sure himself how these things 
work-- he makes no comment on the logistics of this world and travel here, and 
indeed doesn't speak again until prompted by a direct question. "Department of 
Foreigner Affairs," he replies tersely. "From what I can tell, they're some 
government agency set up to deal with this kind of thing... usually, they 
'greet' new arrivals. Guess they missed you."

He thinks briefly on the speeches he got from the DFA, trying to pick out what 
might be most important for her to know. Some scrap of decency in him spurs him 
to care just enough to want to take time and think of things she might Need to 
Know; because some of those rules, if broken, had pretty nasty results. Off the 
top of the head, the first thing that occurs to him is-- "...I hope you weren't 
planning to leave Midgard anytime soon."

Yeah. That particular rule has pretty nasty effects when broken.


     "Ahh, gotcha." Innocuous enough of a word that anyone not in the know who 
overheard it wouldn't guess, uncommon enough that those who did know would hear 
the capital letter. The DFA thing makes sense, too. "Wait, I take it by that 
that the government knows about elseworlds?" She makes a vague, twisty gesture 
to indicate those other worlds. "But the public in general doesn't? I haven't 
heard any references to anything like that in the regular media, though I have 
noticed a rather large amount of killing and scuffles in the news." Almost 
enough to make her feel at home. Well, not really. It makes sense, though--not 
everyone who accidentally drops in from other places is going to be sweet and 
nice and not powerful. "Yeah. I did hightail it out of my arrival place pretty 
quickly. And I blend it fairly well, so." Probably not entirely surprising they 
missed her--although it would have been nice to get a briefing. But on the other 
hand, that means the government doesn't know she's around, which can really only 
be a good.
     "... why?" she asks warily, raising her brows. "Some kind of government 
ban?" Because if that's it, she's not too concerned. But something about the way 
he says it makes her think there might be more to it.


Squall nods mutely in response to her query: affirming her first question, and 
then confirming that yes, those strange news stories /are/ related to the secret 
of the Foreigners. But all that unusual coverage is just cover-up, really: 
concocted by the government to keep the public unaware, and to explain things 
away when the supernatural does rear its head. There'd be such a panic and a 
riot of excitement if the they /did/ know!

He has no comment on the particular benefits or drawbacks of her not having met 
the DFA. Addressing her lack of knowledge on this rather crucial point is more 
important. "Foreigners can't leave the city," he tells her bluntly, never one to 
sugarcoat or break things gently. "If you stepped out of city bounds, you'd 
probably just vanish. There's some kind of energy that keeps Foreigners in this 
world, and I guess it doesn't work outside the city."



     "Man, it's like the X-Files all over again, except that there's even 
weirder shit and the government actually knows about it," Jake comments. "Anyway, 
I'm not going to let some stupid government ban stop me from--"
     Pause.
     Rewind.
     "--wait, we are /physically incapable/ of stepping outside of Midgard on 
pain of vanishing into little bits of nothing?" She hadn't realized when she 
stood, but now that she is, well, she figures she might as well stay on her feet. 
Besides, she's occupied scowling at Squall, as though it were his fault. Which 
she knows it isn't, but, hey, he's right in front of her anyway. "Jesus fucking 
Christ, what the fucking piece of ass kind of shit deal is that?" Her voice 
hasn't risen any--or at least, not much--but she's definitely upset. Amount of 
cursing and level of anger are generally directly proportional, after all. "And 
where," she asks of no one in particular, directing her inquiry and her emphatic 
gestures toward the ceiling, "the ass is Luke when you need him to get you out 
of a fucking trap of a city?"
     Well, okay, so Midgard is a decently-sized city, and it would take her a 
couple of days of walking just to get across it. Nevertheless, she suddenly 
feels cramped and caged at the idea that, barring luck, this is where she's 
going to be spending the rest of her days. Even if she hasn't tried to leave yet. 
It's the principle of the thing.
     On the other hand, there's no point bitching about it for too long. Though 
she's still irate, Jake folds her arms and looks back toward Squall, raising an 
eyebrow. An angry eyebrow. At least it's not directly aimed at him. "Is there 
anything else I ought to know?"



Squall is utterly imperturbable. He weathers through her incredulous anger with 
remarkable aplomb. What he exhibits isn't exactly patience, though; it's more 
like he just doesn't care enough about it to get worked up. It's not his concern 
if she's upset! He's just the messenger. His duty extends no further than the 
barest conveyance of information: it stops way short of having to console a 
distraught woman.

As such, his only initial answer to her angry rhetorical questions is an 
eloquent shrug. That's how shit is in Midgard, Jake. Sorry. "...It's just really 
difficult to leave the city. At best you find yourself weakened: at worst you 
disappear out of existence. "You'd probably disappear, period, if you went far 
enough from the city." He pauses, regards her with a calm bordering on utter 
coldness, before seemingly being 'moved' to continue speaking. "There /are/ 
multiple pools of energy connected by leylines, so you /can/ travel out of the 
city as long as you use the lines and go to other pools. But other than that..." 
You're shit out of luck.

Anything else? Squall takes a moment to think this over, his aplomb as of yet 
totally unshattered. "...I'm probably not the best person to talk to," he admits 
after a long pause. "I don't really work for the DFA. I just take bounties from 
them." Though he can't really think of anything else immediately life-
threatening she might need to know.



     Watch those accusations of 'distraught woman.' Even if... well, it's not 
too inaccurate a way to describe Jake right now. "Pools of energy. Leylines." 
The words are flat. "When the fuck did my life become a fucking fantasy novel?" 
Another rhetorical question; she has no reason to doubt his words. Certainly, 
she doesn't know enough to contradict him. "How do you use these... leylines? I 
have no--" Twiddly fingers. "--magic or whatever."
     "Then who is?" she asks immediately. Names, she'd like, and maybe an 
address or a phone number. She intends to find out as much about this as she can.



"A little after mine did," Squall replies, more swiftly than he usually does: a 
hint of his own grumpiness lacing that unusually snappy comment. But he falls 
silent again afterwards, as if he had used up his energy quota for the week in 
just making that sharp statement.

"You don't need magic to use the lines. They're like subways, you find the doors 
down into them. I don't know myself, never used them." Ideally, the person he 
would refer her to would know these things, but the problem is that Squall 
knows... very few people. He looks nonplussed a moment at her quick question, 
before he blinks. "I know a couple people at the DFA office who could answer 
your questions, if you want to go there."



     Now, now, Squall's was a fantasy for his entire life. I mean, look at the 
title. Jake's was just... sci-fi. Sort of. ...... well, okay. "Says the guy who 
used a sword from what, ten?" Jake returns, just as grumpy. The information on 
the lines is accepted with a nod. She'll find out about these things, one way or 
another. If she has to bust down the doors of the DFA to do it, fine. ... 
although, glancing at her watch, she realizes it's a little too late to be 
busting down doors as it is; they're probably closed. "Fuck it. Give me the 
names later, I'm going to go for a drink. You want to come?" So, he's not the 
best company, but it's better than nothing. Besides, it's pathetic and lonely to 
go out drinking alone.



This is plenty fantastical for him, thanks. Back home he didn't work with little 
girls made entirely of tiny machines, or get chased around by horrible demon 
shapeshifters, or... any of the crap he sees in his line of work as a Hunter, 
really. But he doesn't try to fight Jake's grumpy retort. Nor does he really 
even react to it, disappointingly enough: it just pings off him, like most 
things do.

He nods mutely when she tells him to just give her names later, but hesitates 
when asked if he wants to go drinking. "...I just got back," is the lame 
beginning to his protests. ...Er, he just got back from being out, not from 
drinking.



     "So?" From the way he says it, she rather doubts he got back from drinking 
himself, so that's not reason enough to avoid going out to drink. "Learn to live 
a little, Stormface. Do you even know where the bars around here are?" She's on 
her way past him and out the door of his room--nearly past--and then she reaches 
out with a long arm and hooks him by the arm, all but forcibly dragging him with 
her (backward) out the door. "You'll miss another rousing fight! Well, maybe." 
And another rousing encounter with a door? ... well, that hadn't been so rousing. 
Whether or not he follows or protests, anyway, she's swiftly out the door.



Well... no. He hadn't just got back from drinking. But he hadn't particularly 
wanted to go /out/ drinking either! Don't get him wrong, Squall doesn't mind a 
drink now and again (thought he staunchly refuses to drink any amount that would 
make him lose any iota of control over himself), but the social aspect of 
drinking usually kills dead any enthusiasm he has for doing it in the first 
place. And thus he balks, about to just tell her flatly, "No."

Except she grabs him first.

He's unnervingly soundless as she drags him down, neither yelping nor protesting 
the treatment aloud. Perhaps her behavior struck him speechless. Either way, 
he's too awkwardly positioned to resist aptly, and thus he is effectively-- and 
literally-- dragged right out; whereupon his face settles in a look of 
disgruntlement, and he caves resignedly rather than bother his vocal cords with 
arguing. "Fine."



A hard day of work called of hard night of...um...sleep? At least, that was the 
foremost thought on one Cloud Strife's mind as he trudged into his places of 
business as well as home, deadset on throwing himself upstairs and in bed as 
soon as possible. Not only had it been hot, he'd had to deal with an unusual 
amount of traffic. He'd gotten behind on his route as a result, causing a far 
later return than he'd anticipated.

He enters in on a curious scene, however.

"Wha.." It was actually rather unusual for all the paying tenants of Strife 
Delivery Service to be about at one time. Usually someone was always out doing 
something when another was there..but that aside, Jakes seemed to be dragging 
the usually obstinate Squall...well, somewhere.

"Um..." Cloud's not too sure what to say, or if he even -should- say anything, 
and thus he stands there, not unlike a deer caught in the headlight of an 
approaching force one best clear the way for.



     Because if you don't clear the way, then the way will be cleared. Jake is 
determined to act like Moses, parting all in the way of her path, except that 
instead of the Red Sea she just has Cloud to contend with. A lot easier. "We're 
going out to get smashed, you're coming with," she declares, bearing down on the 
confused blond. One arm's occupied dragging Squall, but the other arm is still 
free! So she uses it to hook Cloud by his nearest arm and drag him, too.
     They'd make an odd trio, one determined and slightly pissed-looking woman 
in jeans and a button-down shirt and an ugly bruise down the side of one face, 
slightly masked with makeup, striding forward with two younger men being dragged 
backward by their arms. Now, the question is whether to drive to a bar or just 
to find one within walking distance. She votes walking distance, just so that 
she won't have to bother with thinking about designated drivers and all that.



     If Jake's prayers existed, they would probably be answered. From behind the 
trio, gleaming ominously, a car comes. Of course, car isn't what most people 
would call it-- more likely is the term "limousine." It is a gorgeous vehicle, 
perfectly drawn lines set off by a million-dollar (not quite literally) wax over 
the deep midnight blue paint job.
     Who could it possibly be? If it were Old Shinrapants, it would probably be 
silvery-white or something, and in much less taste. That leaves a list of one 
name, and when the car slows smoothly to keep pace with Jake and her, uh, 
charges, the window rolls down and confirms it. Tony raises a fine eyebrow at 
them. "Jake, I don't know where you're going, but it would probably be easier to 
ride than to drag them all the way. If I had known you were doing abductions 
tonight, I would have brought a van."



Squall has, by now, given up all resistance. He tends towards passivity, after 
all, and Jake is telling him exactly what to do; even if he doesn't really want 
to do it. Now, if he really cared about NOT wanting to go out, he'd definitely 
just break away and stomp off, Jake be damned: he's not a complete noodle. But 
the fact is, he really /doesn't/ care, and so she wins this battle of 
wills. ...for now.

What he /does/ do is wrench around and away from her, out of her grasp. He 
despises contact and closeness and being touched, thanks. He'll walk by himself. 
A little sulkily, but he will. Just be thankful he didn't turn straight around 
and walk right back home; because he would if he really wanted to.

When Tony rolls up, he gets one hell of an indifferent look from Squall: but 
then, pretty much everyone gets an indifferent look from Squall. He remains 
silent, letting Jake talk: she's between him and Tony anyway, so he feels no 
compulsion to say anything unless specifically singled out.

...One thing he can say for her, though, she sure picks wealthy friends. 
Veritable Rhett Butler of Midgard, here.



There's not even enough time to protest. Before Cloud even processes what Jake 
says he's in her (surprisingly strong!) grip and headed in the complete opposite 
direction he'd intended to go. At the very least, he's not as averted to 
physical contact as Squall is, and thus doesn't wrestle away from the 
woman....really, it's more that he's too exhausted to even -attempt- fighting 
back. But, well...a good drink didn't sound so bad either, now that he was 
thinking about it.

Then an amazingly expensive-looking car pulls up and the resolve lurking 
somewhere in the murky depths of Cloud's psyche flares up, putting him on 
instant edge. There is, of course, only one person who could afford a car like 
this that the blonde believe would find any reason to stop here. Thus he's 
somewhat relieved when the window rolls down and reveals an entirely different 
person, since he really wasn't in the mood to deal with Rufus...well, if he ever 
was.

Wait though...this man...hadn't he seen him before? In contrast to Squall, the 
would-be Ex-SOLDIER leans forward a bit, squinting curiously. "Jake..." He 
slowly begins, "How do you know this person?"



     Most excellent. Hearing the car coming up alongside, Jake turns her head, 
but doesn't slow her pace. There's only one person she knows who could have a 
car like that who would be in this area; or rather, there's only one person it's 
likely to be, though she has been surprised before. "Damn, you have good timing, 
Tony. Let's go drink." Unceremoniously, she stops in her tracks to open the door 
and pile in. "Get in, guys. It's just a good thing we're all skinny here. Got 
any suggestions?" Pause. "Preferably not somewhere Asian." She seems to have bad 
luck with Asian restaurants/bars. Or maybe it's just Japanese sushi places.
     Blinking at Cloud, Jake suddenly realizes that they probably have no idea 
where she spends the vast majority of her time. Or why. Or maybe even the cover 
story. Flashing him a smile, she moves to thread her arm through Tony's. "This 
is my boyfriend, Tony Stark. Tony, these are Airhead and Stormface, my 
housemates." She indicates Cloud and Squall respectively.



     Well, the back of the limousine is not exactly cramped, frankly. The car is 
not one of those block-long stretch limos, but the back seat does have two 
facing benches of leather-clad seats rather than a single bench. Tony is dressed 
comfortably, slacks and a high-collared dress shirt with no tie and an open coat. 
He's prepared to go anywhere and drink anything.
     "Hmmm. There's a restaurant I've been thinking about lately." Tony touches 
the button to the intercom so he can talk to the driver separated from them by 
smoked glass. "Sky Isle, Jared, please. Straight to ludicrous speed." He smiles 
at Cloud and Squall in a friendly manner as he's introduced, holding his hand 
out to shake. "A pleasure, gentlemen. I'm surprised we haven't met before." On 
the other hand, his excellent memory does flit back to a certain event that 
Cloud's not the only one to remember.



This is way too spontaneous for Squall's liking, but he finds himself rather 
efficiently bullied right into the car alongside Cloud just by virtue of Jake's 
pushiness. He listens perfunctorily to Jake's answer to the very valid question 
of just where she knows this guy from, and accepts it easily enough. Not 
entirely surprising she'd fall in with a guy like that, not that the thought is 
judgmental in any way.

Squall somehow manages to evade Tony's offer of a handshake, offering a 
perfectly serviceable and courteous nod in lieu of physical contact. "Squall 
Leonhart," he corrects Jake with something of a long-suffering air, the 
introduction more automatic than 'friendly.'



Wait, now he was in the car? Wasn't he just outside a moment ago?! A small sigh 
is all it really takes to accept however..somehow Jake reminded him of Tifa and 
Aerith in this respect, when it came to being 'in charge' of things. A nod and a 
handshake is at least offered where Tony provides it, "..Cloud Strife." He 
likewise corrects Jake's earlier introduction, and slumps back in the seat. He 
remembers now where he'd seen Tony before, but doesn't see much reason to 
mention when they were about to embark on a night of amber-brewed delights.

Plus, the car was pretty damned comfortable! He certainly hadn't thought Jake 
would have this kind of a connection...but recalling how he'd met her, it 
doesn't exactly surprise him.



     "Going to Sky Isle with Cloud and Squall. Cute." Jake can't help but grin 
reluctantly, shaking her head, before settling back on her seat. She's probably 
dressed a little casually for the kinds of places Stark frequents, but at a 
glance she'll do. Well, aside from the leftover bruise from the door. (Hopefully 
this won't lead to rumors that he beats her. Hah.) "Probably not that surprising, 
considering we're almost never in at the same time, anyway. We're a busy lot. Or 
something of the sort," she dismisses the fact with a careless wave of her hand. 
Despite the flippancy, though, there's an edge of annoyance still to her words 
and gestures, perhaps evinced in the very determination with which she is 
setting out on this bar trip.



     Tony laughs appreciateively; he rather likes the joke. His sense of humor 
expresses itself through the world around him without him even meaning 
to. ...okay, so it's just a funny coincidence. "It's a nice place. They mix 
their drinks well, and the view is quite spectacular." Tony was seen by many 
people the night of his riot; he made quite a spectacle of himself. He snuggles 
up against Jake casually. "Strife. As in Strife Delivery Service, then, I would 
presume."