[center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/lCPh5vm.png[/img] [color=Silver][u][b]Location:[/b][/u][/color] Warehouse District - FBI Safehouse. [color=Silver][u][b]Interactions:[/b][/u][/color] Just Viv (and Susan)! [color=Silver][u][b]Time:[/b][/u][/color] 1:00 PM - Early Afternoon.[/center] [center][b]WHEN I WAS A KID, MY WHOLE REALITY SPLIT I WAS LIVING A LIE I WAS A KILLING MACHINE, I WAS A WAR LORD WHEN I CLOSED MY EYES~ I HAD TO TALK TO THE TEACHER; SHE TALKED TO MY MOM, WE HAD A REAL LONG TALK I HAD TO TALK TO THE TEACHER; SHE TALKED TO MY MOM, THEY MADE THE VISIONS STOP[/b][/center] Vivian had her music [i]blaring[/i]. She had the entire flat to herself. At least, as much as someone under house arrest can. It wasn't a house really, but an FBI safehouse that had since become her place to stay. She had another thirty minutes to kill before the next handler was going to come in with the regular folders of work and photographs of people and she figured that if she was going to get a headache doing her work, it wasn't really going to make things too much worse if she started with one too. She bumped the volume up until she couldn't hear her hearing anymore. She didn't have money, but she had a lot of expensive shit for someone in her position. It worked on a trust and probation sort of scheme. If she was honest, did her work and proved she could be trusted with whatever it was she asked for, she'd get it, though not entirely without strings attached. She had a small netbook but they monitored her internet access and could cut it on a whim. Which meant that any contact with her friends in the Underground was a big no-no. Not that she was stupid enough to try and do that anyway, it'd get them in as much shit as it would her. She hadn't even touched any of her accounts since the trial anyway. She stopped her punk-rock 'I'm alone in this room and I can freak the fuck out if I want to' dancing to be sad for a moment. She hoped everyone was doing alright. The last month and a half had been decent despite the situation. She'd had three handlers so far, each going for about two weeks before cycling through. She'd only hated one of them, who obviously didn't like being put on babysitting duty. While Vivian kind of felt sympathetic about that - she didn't really figure babysitting a punk rock Variant would be a lot of fun, it was the shitty attitude that ticked her off. If you weren't going to make the effort to be friendly then you could go and take yourself and fuck yourself by yourself. While the music wasn't exactly helping her, she breathed out and calmed herself down. The other two weren't bad. Let her do what she wanted mostly. One of them even chaperoned a visit to the local offie so she could browse their finest in $15 gin. It was disgusting, and no amount of lemonade could chase away the aftertaste. She was pretty sure it could be substituted for paint thinner. She still drank the bottle, though. She heard the door rattle with the key, then open. While she knew in her heart of hearts that she was a prisoner here and that they didn't have to knock because it was a government safe house, she still felt it was rude every time they just let themselves into 'her' house. She walked out in her usual attire of comfy worn-in pyjamas and yawned as she waved to the agent. At a month and a half she probably should still worry about first impressions, but with a power like hers, a first impression was way more their problem than hers. She stared at the agent casually, trying not to give away that she was trying to read her. She'd been practising a lot. Not out of want, but out of necessity since if she didn't do her job, they could restrict literally anything about her life that they wanted to. Not that they ever went for the essentials, but introducing a sound system just so they could take it away if she dropped a name or two down the quota? That was low. [i]Susan Taylor. FBI, though originally a servicewoman within the Army as a Technological Support Specialist. Signals and Operations. Served six years and came out while also working on her degree within the Army's education programs. Wrote her thesis on Solomon Asch's theories of impression formation. Applied for a job within the Federal Bureau as a Telcom and Telephone liaison and was accepted due to her previous service through a government scheme to hire ex-service members. Paints using oils and watercolour in her spare time, and often regrets her time spent in the military thinking she missed out on living out her twenties, she hates coffee and tea and prefers regular hot water to both and has a scar down her left foot from when she stepped on broken glass when she was six and-[/i] Vivian took a moment to compose herself, without breaking eye contact and without letting on that she was pretty sure her brain was going to melt through her nose as a liquid. There wasn't a mirror on hand to see just how well she was doing at hiding it, but considering the monkey-cymbal crashing amounts of pain in her head, it couldn't have been convincing. She waited patiently for the agent to introduce herself before talking, knowing full-well she might just blurt out her name. While she could've used her powers to unnerve and freak people out - she didn't like to. Not too often, anyway. She didn't exactly have her pick of the litter when it came to people to talk to, and while she wasn't likely to jump in bed (metaphorically or otherwise) with any sort of federal agent (her assorted anti-police patches had long since been stitched onto her new black denim jacket), she got lonely. "[color=00aeef]Nice to meet you, Susan. I'm Vivian. You can call me Viv, if you want.[/color]" She rubbed her face, while it was a bright and early 1:00 PM, she'd not even brushed her teeth yet, let alone actually rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "[color=00aeef]Do you mind if I get a coffee before we start working? - I'll get you a hot water.[/color]" Susan had opened her mouth to ask for it, and instead just found her mouth open.