Sizing Up the Other's Caliber

January 04, 2016:

Reginald and Peggy meet at the Triskelion Firing Range


The Headquarters, Armory and Fortress of the Strategic Homeland
Intervention Enforcement and Logistics division is, for the most part, an
unassailable tower in the midst of the diplomatic sprawl that is Midtown
East. The primary intelligence clearing houses and most of SHIELD's senior
leadership are all housed hear, along with a veritable army of agents and
staff to keep the place running, the world spinning and the weirdness at


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Reginald is down at the firing range. He's in his two piece bespoke suit— naturally— and has several targets set up downrange. He eyes the setup momentarily, considering, then nods confirmation at himself and draws his sidearm, a Walther PPK with classic lines. He starts shooting with both hands, then transitions to his left hand, then his right, pausing only to reload. In moments, four silhouettes have a neat and ragged pair of holes high center mass and in the middle of their forehead, and he holsters his gun in a cross-draw rig and heads back to the table to load up again.

The shooting range is a place Peggy often frequents at SHIELD. She's always been a good shot, but there's always improvement to be made. Her own dress has slowly become more modern, though she still is wearing skirts and collared shirts to the Triskelion. It feels wrong to do anything else. She's already in the shooting range and finishing up when she eyes Reginald and his gun: the same model as her preferred weapon. In the aisle nearby his, she pushes the protective eyewear upward and nods at him in acknowledgment at his gun. She's holding the same one. Her own target is full of holes - mostly center mass or head shots. Old school army shooting.

Reginald gives Peggy a look in return, that flickering gestalt of a spy assessing another spy, and knowing that other spy knows, and doing so in a fashion leaving that other provacteur wondering if they caught /everything/ or missed a concealed weapon hidden somewhere.

"Agent Fleming said that he never felt undergunned with a 9mm Short," Reggie says, in Euro-accented English that even a trained ear would have a hard time pinning down. "But he preferred the .32 Beretta. I find the nine-short to be a … better compromise," he suggests, glancing at Peggy's gun. Tiny cosmetic differences aside, the two pistols could have rolled off the assembly line at the same time. "I see we're of a shared mind in that regard?"

The checking out of another agent to see what can be gleaned from a passover is a time honored tradition in their profession. Peggy doesn't feel as if she comes up lacking in the department and she doesn't raise an eyebrow at his accented English. One of the things about their business is to not show too much emotion and it seems Reginald is already doing a once over.

"Agent Fleming was a cad. A gifted spy for king and country, but he once started a briefing by attempting to put his hand on my thigh. I was forced to break his finger." She smirks. "However, I quite agreed about his choices in weapons. Easy to conceal, packs enough of a wallop." She reaches out a hand to shake. "Agent Carter."

"Agent Darrow," Reginald responds, catching Peggy's fingers in his upturned palm and squeezing gently. He bows slightly over her hand, squeezing her fingers lightly in a German style handshake, and releases his grip on her. "My codename is Stylus, but please— call me Reginald. Reggie, to my friends. Your reputation precedes you, Agent Carter," he tells her in his accented baritone, his bright hazel eyes on her face. "When the US Government declassified some of your files from the War, you regained quite a bit of celebrity as a history icon. One doesn't often meet a living legend, particularly… in the flesh," he says, with the faintest of impropriety in his tone that conveys it as compliment.

Peggy smirks at the tone that Reginald adopts. She's not unused to members of her organization attempting to flirt with her - either implied or outright. It was part of being in the service. "Very well, Agent Darrow." It's a clear line of professionalism that she's drawing there, however her tone is not angry or sharp. Simply amused. "I have heard as such. I never realized anyone would know who I was in these days. It came as quite a shock, I'm sure you can imagine." With a quirk upward of her lips, she shrugs her shoulders. "I imagine were I merely a skeleton, that would make this conversation just the more awkward."

Taking her hand back from the German handshake - one she well remembers - she studies him once again. "You have me a bit at a disadvantage. Have you been with SHIELD long, then?"

"I'm not with SHIELD, to be precise," Reggie corrects Peg. "I'm on loan as a temporary asset. Normally I work with INTERPOL, but I tend to lend myself out wherever I'm needed. But I've worked with you lot a few times over the years, so this is old hat," he assures her. "I did an operation in Mumbai with several agents from your India bureau," he offers.

"And of yourself?" he asks, leaning against the divider between their lanes. "Is this all the same old for you, or are you easing into the new digs as they say?"

"I see," Peggy nods as she places her gun down for a few moments before reloading. It's good to have a bit of a breather between shots. Taking in the information, she nods a few times to show she's listening. "I see. Enjoying your time with us, then? I've heard the coffee is better here than at INTERPOL."

As for old hat or not, she smiles. "A little of column A, a little of Column B. They're not exactly new digs." As he may be aware as he knows something of her history.

Reginald tilts his head at that point. "Of course," he murmurs, understanding. "I should think you're quite used to anything, at this point. You're… well, notorious isn't quite the word, but it's in the ballpark," he says, with a flickering grin.

"As for the refreshments, I must say that SHIELD's budget allows for quite a more generous spread at the cantina. There were more than a few long nights fueled by croissants and stale coffee in my day— the French officers are notoriously pithy when it comes to feeding their officers."

"Notorious?" Peggy raises an eyebrow and flashes a smile. "It may not be the word, but I do quite like the sound of it. Despite it going against much of what I should enjoy about being an Agent." One of the biggest ones being practically nameless.

"Your day, hm?" There's a shake of her head. "French officers have always been notoriously pithy. Though, there were some grand feasts during the War when we managed the rations." She did spend quite a bit of time under cover.

"Well. In… select circles, of course," Reggie assures Peggy, conspiratorially. "Ours is a lonely profession, but really, there are only so many of us playing these games anymore. There's a camraderie there that goes beyond national borders, after all, no matter what side we're on at a given moment." He shrugs apologetically at Peggy, one narrow shoulder rising and falling.

"I shan't keep you too late, but I'd relish a chance to stand at the range for some friendly competition sometime," Reggie tells Peggy, easing out of her firing lane and giving her grinning encouragement. "That is, if you're confident in Her Majesty's Secret Service and their shooting courses."

"Well, of course," Peggy gives a soft laugh. At the mention of theirs being a lonely profession, she merely nods. "Yes, it can be. It's always good to keep ourselves occupied and among like company when we can." The apologetic shrug is met with a smile as if to show none is necessary.

"Yes, us old people must get to bed at a reasonable hour," she replies. The tales of her exploits in World War II certainly do suggest that she should be well into her eighties at the least. "I would be glad to partake. I've had more courses than simply from the SSR."

"In that case, I look forward to it." Reginald gives Peggy and down, then smiles floridly— the expression somehow made insincere by being so blatant. "Until we meet again, Agent Carter. Ciao," he offers, before gathering his spare magazine from the table and heading out of the firing range.

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