[hr][h1][color=dimgray]Sam Clarke[/color] and [color=olivedrab]Rafael Davila[/color] [/h1]

[@He Who Walks Behind] 
[@SepticGentleman] 
[@Mr Allen J] [hr] 

[i]Bitch,[/i] Sam thought to himself as Lihua glared over at him. That girl was just as bad as Rafael, always doing work and never taking a little time to have fun. Everyone seemed good to go, so Sam started for the door, with the others behind him. As he walked, he cast a backward gaze at Nightingale. She sure had a pretty smile. He couldn't tell who the smile was directed at, though. He thought back to his wife in Mendel. He wondered how she was doing, how Little Sammy was. He wondered if Bravo had eaten the stupid neighbor's cat yet. He shrugged and led the group through the halls of NEST and through the side doors (he dared not go out of the front in case Rafael hadn't dispersed the media yet. 

Speaking of the devil, Rafael passed the group just as they left the building into the alley. As he walked past them, he sighed loudly and sipped at his coffee. He caught sight of Sam, and cast him a death glare. 

"Evening, Director," Sam said as he passed. "Did CNN piss off yet?" 

"Yeah, I got rid of them," Rafael replied. "Try not to break any necks when you go out." 

"Can't make any promises," Sam shot back. Rafael sighed and walked inside. KINGFISHER was a media nightmare. Everywhere they went, they raised Hell, and they were known to be the most brutal government agency. He walked inside and through the halls swiftly. The Department of Media Relations was on the sixth floor. He paused for a brief moment in front of the steps, and then took the elevator to the third floor. He walked out of the elevator, past his secretary's desk, and into his office. Then Rafael crashed down in his leather armchair. 

Being the Director of Media Relations, Rafael got a nice corner office that looked out towards the Island of Providence. It was a well-furnished room, with a bookshelf and filing cabinets across from a heavy mahogany desk that had an iMac on it. The walls were painted a dark mahogany color, and were decorated with framed press clippings and diplomas. A Picasso was framed near the bookshelf. A small cactus in a terra cotta pot sat on the window sill. Rafael sighed and stared out at the ocean. Boy, did he wish he was out on the water on a day like this. His secretary stood at the door. 

"Excuse me, sir," she said "Bryan Williams from NBC is on the phone. He wants to interview Director Caryl." 

"Ask him why he's not in a helicopter over Iraq," Rafael replied. The secretary smiled and walked back to her desk and picked the phone back up. 

"My apologies, Mr.Williams," she said "Mr.Davila is not in right now. May I take a message?" 

[hr] 

The Corner Reserve was a small corner restaurant and bar one block down from the NEST HQ. It was a rustic looking bar, an obvious hipster joint, with brick walls and specials of the day written on a chalkboard behind the counter. Multicolored champagne flutes hung from the ceiling, and the lights filtered through them to fill the place with soft color. A few flatscreen TVs sat around the restaurant, currently showing news from around the city. A large keg barrel at the front of the restaurant read "The Corner Reserve" in white block letters. Soft indie rock played on the restaurant's speakers. As it was not yet five, the place was mostly empty, and the NEST crew had no problems getting seats at the bar. Sam sat down between Nightingale and Carl. The bartender, who looked like a Starbucks barista with a beard, walked up and greeted him. Though Sam was no hipster, he was a regular at this place. 

"Afternoon guys," the bartender said, walking over and shaking Sam's hand. "How are you guys doing today. Our special today is our Diablo Verde craft ale, brewed in-house with jalapenos added in to give it some nice round heat. It's really good if you like spicy stuff." 

"I'll have a Yuengling and an order of the barbecue wings," Sam said. The bartender walked down the line and began to take the agents' orders. 


[hr][h1][color=Powderblue]Taylor Pierpoint[/color][/h1][hr] 

Taylor decided to lay down on the beach. She rolled out a towel from inside her Gucci purse, took her cover-up off, and laid down, putting her hands under her head. She looked up at the sun. Boy, was it a nice day. Taylor was wearing one of those floppy straw-colored hats, the kind you see people wear to the beach often, and it cast the perfect shade over her eyes. She was just beginning to sleep when she heard a shout from the boardwalk. 

A man was running down the boardwalk with a duffel bag in his hand, and from the shouts she could tell that it certainly wasn't his. Without getting up, Taylor took a bottle of water out of her bag and opened it. As it flowed out, the water froze midair. With a wave of her hand, Taylor covered the entire stretch of boardwalk in a sheet of ice. The crook, who didn't notice that the ground below him had become a slip n' slide, slipped and fell onto his face, cracking the ice. Taylor got up from her towel and walked over to him. 

"Ne prends pas ce qui ne votre pas, bastard," she said, crouching down and picking up the bag. He moved to grab her, but two chains of ice shot out of the sheet and wrapped around his wrists, restraining him. What surprised Taylor is that the source of this ice did not come from her water bottle, but from somewhere else nearby. She looked over her shoulder and picked up the duffel bag. 

"Is this yours?" she asked Jen.