Welcome to Gaia! ::

Mica was careful, tidy, professional; she was neat and put together. Her call was polite and to the point.

Ilmenite wasn't really any of those.

She wouldn't get the fumbling on the other end, but she'd get the delay: a count of about twenty or thirty before there was a curse at the other end, a ruffling, a grumpy sound -- "Hello?"

And before she could reply, he struggled more, working to get it working. "s**t. Am I doing this right? Hello? Who is this?"

He had trouble with a cell phone. No surprise that he found the communicator just as difficult.

There was a pause on Ilmenite's end, too, a lingering moment of silence -- but then, at least, when he spoke, it was clear and more capable. Of course, it also held a dry edge of amusement, a note of exasperation. It was impossibly clear that he didn't like the damned communicator, and that he'd, perhaps, never used it before in his life.

"Mica, I remember. You left me with some steroid-chugger and his...half-drained? girlfriend." It had been a while ago. It hadn't ended well, and it was entirely possible he still held a grudge. Or maybe he'd be more professional than that.

"Somewhere we can meet in person, where we can get a drink, and where it's loud enough to afford some privacy. Maude's Tavern, on 7th?"

Ilmenite wasn't late, and in his opinion, that was a positive note in his record. He also didn't skulk -- lucky enough in his uniform that, so long as he took the hat off and mussed his hair up some, he looked enough like a hipster kid who'd dipped too far into the 'weird military' bin at Salvation Army to pass as not that strange. Instead he walked through the front door, squinting around in the murk of a bar that, despite being smoke-free for a year or more, still had the lingering scent of old cigarettes and cigars.

This wasn't the kind of place he went to on his days off, but maybe that was the point of choosing it. There were darts in the back, pool, and the crowd was subdued, with something punk piped in loud enough to cover up the sounds of one conversation from another booth.

He must have known she was there, but he didn't approach to find her, didn't seek her out and grab her. Instead he found a booth, pushing empty beer bottles to the edge of the table to make room, and claimed it for them by sitting down.

Let her melt away from the wall to join him, smooth as butter. Only as she approached did he flash a smile, and wave one gloved hand, pausing afterward to peel it off.

It was strangely mundane for the two of them, powered up, to be here. Ilmenite's flair on the Negaverse.

In all honesty, Ilmenite -- wasn't sure if she was taking a dig at him, or if all of this was up front. He leaned in against the bar, long hands tangled in front of him. They were pockmarked with scars, palms slashed and puckered, an old wound that probably should have been dealt with at the hospital but, well, hadn't been. He didn't explain them. Nor his promotion. A tender subject anyway, even at over a year old --

"Buddingtonite?" She called him your Captain, and that made Ilmenite blink. In his illustrious career, he'd done exactly one promotion, of a pain in the a** lieutenant who hadn't even fully accepted the uniform yet. Awkward. He didn't have any captains, let alone --

"Oh. Wait. You mean one of Infiltration's, which would make him one of General-Queen Apatite's." After all, he was hardly in charge. Was he? "...yeah? I haven't met him, whoever he is..."

Her professionalism was noble, and another Officer certainly would have appreciated it. Of course, another Officer might have arranged the meeting on a roof or in an abandoned warehouse, in a carpark or the back of the library, not in a noisy bar with the click of pool balls and a riotous burst of laughter as someone did something stupid in the back.

For his own part, Ilmenite would have gladly had a drink in hand. He could almost taste the alcohol in the air and it made him itchy, eyes straying off of her and toward the bar as she spoke, a hand splayed across the side of his jaw. Distracted, but listening. Probably.

"Tell me what happened, and then we can figure out who'd be best in charge of it." It came out absent, with just a brief flick of eyes onto her face.

"...serious? I don't know about that." He had tuned in enough, at least, to here most of it, and to make his own conclusions -- one different from Mica, certainly. Ilmenite finally focused on her fully, leaning in over the table with fingers laced together in front of him. His expression was still jovial, and probably would stay that way, but with a flash of something harder behind his eyes.

"That whole affair was a fiasco of public opinion. Senshi are out there shouting to the rafters that we're the bad guys, so we attack teenagers and children at play at a carnival? Why don't we just dress up like clowns and hide under their beds. Or bedeck all our uniforms with skulls and crossbones." Sarcasm was his ally, sliding into his tone as he cocked his head to the side -- but then he paused, just a touch.

"But. Well. Two things bother me." He held up fingers in demonstration and, perhaps, to keep her from interrupting. "The first is, like you said, that he used a civilian's name. We're risking identity revelation here, and unless he's prepared for her corruption, it's a dangerous road. I'll speak to him.

The other finger, though, he wiggled meaningfully. "The second thing that bothers me, though, is that you call him your roommate, but the first thing you do when he makes a mistake is come running to the higher ups. It's kind of tattle-y, and doubly bad for morale. So."

Both fingers down, now. "I'll talk to him. But now you talk to me. Why are you rooming with him when you have such disdain for him, and what do you need to bridge broken relationships?"

It was, all an all, totally coherent. Even if he still very much wanted a drink.

Ideologies in the Negaverse were, obviously, split; he worked not to reflect his own disdain onto her, quiet and serious, mulling that over with his chin on his hand and his eyes narrowed. There had been a time when Ilmenite -- well, no Ever -- had been a sheep, when free will and choice had been chased out of him. He preferred good moral and friendships to the kind of heavy militarized backstabbing that was, apparently, normal in SpecOps --

"But you obey your Generals." This came out slowly, as he straightened; no more joking or good cheer, not right now. Something she'd said, something in there, had still upset or offended him, or at least had bit enough that he'd closed off. Hard to read, now, eyes somewhat distant.

"So. I'm guessing no one announced the new housing option at your meeting, but it does exist. Apartments, a building run by General-King Zinkenite -- and myself, when he wants my help -- on reserve for officers who can't afford their own homes." He tapped fingers against the table and, finally, reached to put his hat back on his head, taming the mess of white curls.

"I can set you up, if you need it, to keep you from pointlessly killing the people who you're supposed to be working with. However, you need to fix your broken relationship, whether you want to or not, and you have to learn to get along with people you hate." Just a beat; he raised his eyebrows at her. "I'll order you, if I need to."