A Night at the Museum

May 10, 2015:

Amora sneakily spies on Jason Blood. But she gets caught. he, of course, is doing something weird.

New York Museum of Modern Art.

It's a museum. It has a lot of marble, glass, and priceless artwork.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

It's midnight. Well past closing time in the New York's Museum of Modern Art, and yet there is still one person inside. The guard is long asleep, a soft, pervasive green smoke lingering near his nostrils from a tiny porcelain bowl. The intrusion is impossible to detect, really; lasers seem to ignore the man in the suit, who carries with him a rather cumbersome painting. It looks delicate; important. At least, he treats it as such. He has red hair and a white streak through it, and the set of his jaw is grim and stoic.

There really should not be anyone here other than the guard. When you're a magically adept thief absconding with a modern masterpiece for… whatever reason… that's one of those things that you not only check, but double check. Who's here, where they are, what they're doing… that's just… obvious, right?

Which is why the audible little gasp coming from the subtly concealed doors leading to a storage room is both loud beyond its volume and certainly surprising. The source, when he turns his head, proves to be a slip of a girl that has to be some sort of intern, barely old enough to drink legally. Her cornsilk blonde hair hangs in vaguely medieval looking waves to her denim-clad waist and the look she gives him with her big blue eyes is fearful and shocked. A slightly trembling hand lifts to clutch at the cross dangling from around her neck.

Curiously, Jason is not moving towards the door with the large painting, but rather to a wall. he stops dead in his tracks when he hears the gasp, and glances over at the girl. There's a brief, deep frown that comes over his face, and then he reaches his hand out and beckons with his fingers towards the hall. Instantly, a stream of green smoke trails out around the corner and heads directly to the young woman. "Truly sorry about this, dear," he informs her, British accent crisp, as the magical, teledirected knockout gas heads right for her nostrils.

The terribly innocent and clearly petrified looking blonde makes another plaintive little squeak as he apologizes and wafts… whatever that is… in her direction. She clutches at the cross and squeezes her eyes shut tight like a prisoner waiting for a barrage of rifle fire, totally missing the way a little luminous glow seems to envelop her for an instant like a golden halo, dissipating the smoke.

When a few seconds pass with nothing untoward happening she opens one eye and ask tentatively, "Are you the firearms and murder type of art thief or the… less murder-y sort of art thief? Please be the second kind, please be the second kind… "

"Shite," Jason says when his spell is rebuffed. He takes another long step towards the wall and sets the large painting down. It's about the size of the painting on the wall—a Dali. "Who are you?" He's calling bullshit on her being a lowly intern who just happens to be around past midnight /and/ can counter his spell. He's already narrowing his eyes to start peeling any mystical veneer she may have obfuscating her true form.

"My name is Cindy Smith and I'm a graduate student at NYU." The blonde says in a breathy voice, still sounding quite terrified… still clutching the cross about her neck. But there is definitely something funny about her that he can sense the more he probes and pokes at her with his sorcerous senses. "I can count to a hundred before calling the police? Only please don't steal anything, I'm doing research on… Oooh, goodness… that wasn't half bad."

The last few words are said in an entirely different voice, one not the least bit afraid. On the contrary, the blonde who's now looking at him with wry half-grin sounds both impressed and amused. "I honestly thought you'd just run with it, but of course letting you lull me to sleep would have been entirely unproductive. Not to mention dreadfully boring."

Jason visibly ''relaxes'' when the person stops lying. Or, at least, seems to drop one facade in favor of something else. Nothing worse than someone pretending to be someone else when it's obvious. He leans the painting on the wall, slipping one hand into his pocket. Who knows what he may have in there; a wizard's pocket can be a cavern, a safe, or an armory, after all. "It would have been efficient, however, and I don't have a lot of time. Can I help you, or are you here to observe?" Observe what? He looks at the covered painting he was carrying and then back at the blonde. He's tall, too—easily reaching six feet.

Its okay, an Asgardian sorceress worth her salt can talk down to anyone, no matter his height. The doe-eyed intern-shaped creature with the feline little half smile leans back against the wall, seemingly content just to observe for the moment. "I heard all the interesting people gathered here after dark. I'm delighted to find that I wasn't misinformed…" She purrs, eyes drifting lazily from him to the painting with a little uptick of her chin. "And that?"

"I would hardly call us 'all'," Jason says, but at least he doesn't do her the disservice of calling her uninteresting. He turns to look at the large Dali painting on the wall, and reaches up to take it down. No alarms. He clutches it tight, whispers a word against its canvas, and the entire thing goes up in a flare of blue smoke.

"I think you know who I am, but it's not a mutually shared condition," he says, dusting his hands.

His audience watches dispassionately as the priceless work of surrealist art is consumed into vapor, making a single little clucking noise of lament before she notes, "Little Cindy Smith would be heartbroken. Its probably just as well she's not real."

This draws the coy smile back to her lips as she slinks a few steps towards him, her hips drifting from one side to the other as she watches him carefully, arching a brow when she closes to within a paces of where he stands. "It's hardly my fault if you gave up. I mean, I wouldn't want to ruin your fun by just stripping at the drop of a hat… how often do you get a real challenge?"

"Often enough," Jason says, "And Cindy Smith would be thrilled." Jason pulls the cover from the painting he walked in, and it looks exactly like the one he just obliterated; down to the frame. He lifts it up, and hangs it on the wall. "Now that the original is back in its place."

The blonde in front of him dons the disguise fully for another moment, clasping her hands just beneath her chin in a worshipful gesture that went out of fashion around WWII as she gushes breathily, "My Hero. Goodness gracious, that's a relief Mr. Blood. You're the bee's knees."

Its too much, even for her, and she dissolves into laughter for a moment before her hand lifts, smoothing fingertips across hair that shifts from cornsilk to ebony beneath her touch. In the span of half a second she's another woman entirely, all slinky curves, scarlet lips and a gown cut up to the top of her thigh. "Sorry, that was getting cloying. And somehow this feels more appropriate now. But please, I'd love to hear an explanation of what brought you out tonight besides the lure of culture… if you'd care to enlighten me?"

"Not particularly," Jason says, watching her transformation less with an air of awe and more with the wary gaze more appropriate of someone who's been around the block a couple of hundred times. "I needed the painting for something, so I left a decoy. Now I'm returning it." Sometimes being forthcoming with the pointless details is better than being a complete mystery. "What brings you here to spy on my affairs?"

She tilts her head a bit to one side, casually assessing him as she notes, "It /is/ a public place. Closed, admittedly, but we're both equally entitled to break the law and be here one would think. So /spy/ seems to be overstating things a bit…." She rolls one shoulder in a shrug, her crimson smile deepening before she adds flippantly, "You're interesting. It's a rarer quality than one would think at first blush. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Spying isn't predicated on the degree of privacy alone." Jason tilts his head and then looks at the painting. He adjusts it, leaving it straight, and then he starts to walk for the hallway. "It's a reason, at least; though you know who I am and are skilled enough to know ''why'' I am, so your reason is not, to my desires, ''enough'' at all. It's rather foolish, frankly. He could come out." He, even though Etrigan hardly deserves such constriction of pronoun.

Foolish? That does make her now dark eyes narrow at his retreating back in a look of brief pique. She lifts her chin fractionally higher before she lilts at him, "Oh, I suspect you have a better working relationship than that, though… " It would be interesting, wouldn't it? She slinks after him a few steps and murmurs, "I would imagine there aren't too many humans who are of a like skill, however, Mr. Blood?"

"I wouldn't know. I try not to keep in touch with humans of a like skill." Jason does allow a brief little smile to escape. "It gives them a fighting chance if he doesn't know where they are or what they can do." He narrows his eyes briefly at her, and then says, "I don't suppose you'd drop the facade and tell me who you are? Or are you going to make me figure it out?" Fine. His curiosity is piqued.

There's a bit more slinking as she catches up to him, turning to face him and leaning her hip against the doorframe as she smiles amusement up at him. "Really, wouldn't that be ever so anti-climactic at this point?" She purrs, pausing to study the white sweep cutting a swath through his red hair. "Besides… I still think you'd /like/ a challenge. And I'd rather like to see what you can do."

For the longest of moments, Jason watches the sorceress before him. He's analyzed her magical signature; some study and recollection will give him more information and once he knows what ''kind'' of magic she wields, it'll just be a process of elimination. For the nonce, however, he offers her a taut smile; barely more than a rictus. "I'll get back to you when I've figured it out." And he doesn't even ask for her phone number! She's not the only one who can stalk someone.

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