Unable to speak her true name, or even show her eyes from behind the golden domino mask she wears, this is the one place Nightingale can be free.
It is rather barren, a few Tremarian flowers have been ornately arranged in a strange-looking vase by her bedside, she smiles as she thinks how well Sphyria sees her.
The walls are in a black and gold Motif, the symbol of a golden bird, worn so proudly on her chest, decorates the far wall; tiny golden nightingales on golden braches wind their way about the room.
There are no personal items, the closets bare but for another uniform and a pair of sunglasses, for when she must remove the mask...
Her bag contains civillian clothes, carefully concealed between layers of extra items for her utility belt, and the communicator that gave her direct access to her mentor even of she were truly in Space, on the Watchtower.
To activate it would mean The Kestrel would come swooping in from the night sky and do some serious behind-kicking to save her, and was only for the greatest of emergencies.
A single door, a vivid blue in contrast to all else, sat harmlessly in the corner by the door that lead to the shared bathroom. It lead into Sphyria's room, and only by her own choice, was it closed...
Tremarians had a...unique tendancy to move about unhindered by clothing...and Nightingale was absolutely certain she had no need to see such things before breakfast...
Still, it was nice to know she was close...there was no dought in the vigilante hero's mind that more and more items of Tremarian sculpture and flora would increasingly take up the space in her room as the Blue Alien continued to sneak the items in...
It was nice to have such a friend...
As it was, Sphyria was the only one who could enter her room unhindered; for the door outside was laced with electronic locks and other mechanisms to allow no one but those she chose to enter.
Identification of all personnel was required, and her permission could only be granted through intercom by the door...
The Kestrel's idea, of course...her (and by extention,their) identity must be kept secret at all costs; there was no room for an accidental walk-in whilst she was not wearing her mask...
Nightingale fell straight on the bed, without hesitation, a week's worth of sleepless nights in pursuit of villains finally catching up to her, as she slept...
It is rather barren, a few Tremarian flowers have been ornately arranged in a strange-looking vase by her bedside, she smiles as she thinks how well Sphyria sees her.
The walls are in a black and gold Motif, the symbol of a golden bird, worn so proudly on her chest, decorates the far wall; tiny golden nightingales on golden braches wind their way about the room.
There are no personal items, the closets bare but for another uniform and a pair of sunglasses, for when she must remove the mask...
Her bag contains civillian clothes, carefully concealed between layers of extra items for her utility belt, and the communicator that gave her direct access to her mentor even of she were truly in Space, on the Watchtower.
To activate it would mean The Kestrel would come swooping in from the night sky and do some serious behind-kicking to save her, and was only for the greatest of emergencies.
A single door, a vivid blue in contrast to all else, sat harmlessly in the corner by the door that lead to the shared bathroom. It lead into Sphyria's room, and only by her own choice, was it closed...
Tremarians had a...unique tendancy to move about unhindered by clothing...and Nightingale was absolutely certain she had no need to see such things before breakfast...
Still, it was nice to know she was close...there was no dought in the vigilante hero's mind that more and more items of Tremarian sculpture and flora would increasingly take up the space in her room as the Blue Alien continued to sneak the items in...
It was nice to have such a friend...
As it was, Sphyria was the only one who could enter her room unhindered; for the door outside was laced with electronic locks and other mechanisms to allow no one but those she chose to enter.
Identification of all personnel was required, and her permission could only be granted through intercom by the door...
The Kestrel's idea, of course...her (and by extention,their) identity must be kept secret at all costs; there was no room for an accidental walk-in whilst she was not wearing her mask...
Nightingale fell straight on the bed, without hesitation, a week's worth of sleepless nights in pursuit of villains finally catching up to her, as she slept...
