2012-11-25 Mounting Tension

What is it they say, that war never changes? But it's untrue. Like everything, the motions leading up to - and through - the wild rages of violent conflict evolve along with mankind itself, humanity's persistence rewarded through the discovery of new technologies. New strategies. While its hollow motivations may change far less than the morally-upholstered may deem acceptable, war does change. Where it was once fought by armies under a broad banner, for a united ethos or in the name of a single ruler, now an 'army' can be but a bold few. Their only aim to bring about something better, to push the boundaries of war's evolution until all semblance of the former unnecessary sacrifice is abandoned to the corridors of time...

Gone are the years where thousands need die. Where millions must.

Or so Psylocke most fervently hopes.

The Violet Butterfly is bent now over a scratched metal table in a dark room adjoining Michael Slean's former office. Lit by a few directed spotlamps, a pile of overlaying maps and diagrams, showing the wider realm of Latveria and the finer detail of Doomstadt itself. Her fingers sit poised clawlike over the rumpled papers, the right twitching in a loose rhythm to slam the tip of a well-gnawed pen against the table's unyielding edge. The sound would be annoying-- should be, but she doesn't notice, lost in her musings. Her sleek purple hair is unwashed and heavily rumpled; the wages of fingers running throughout in their nervous haste. She rarely worries...

But this operation, she begins to suspect it's too much.

In a worn holdall on a chair nearby sits her own provisions for the trip to Europe, scarcely packed any more than hurling a wad of clothing and papers into a cloth container could be called 'packing'. The sleeve of a ruffled peasant blouse hangs out on one side, and a linen headscarf is strewn haphazardly over the back of the chair. The only article that's explicitly Betsy in origin sits against the wall behind, the thrice-wrapped handle of a hundredfold katana propped up in the corner. Hardly the sort of thing one could hope to get through customs.

Fortunately this won't be *that* kind of trip. The kunoichi just hopes that all her messages have been received, that both she and her brave (or foolish) allies are as ready as they can be. Perhaps the most of all hinges on two encrypted messages sent to separate locations in the past twelve hours, one requesting assistance - after a fashion - and the other informing another party in no uncertain terms that they should not follow her to Latveria.

People have different ways of handling the stress before a particularly rough job. Take Domino, for instance. She's down on the main level, pacing within the largely empty warehouse while apparently talking to herself. Quite excitedly.

In actuality, she's trying to hash out details with another contact through a wireless earphone.

"Greg..? -Greg.- I don't care about what you can get in -next week,- I need something -now.- It's kinda the lifeblood of my work, you know. No--no, I'm -sure- it's lovely, but--Greg, -would you shut up for two seconds goddamnit?!-"

Pause.

"As I was saying, I need it -now,- not later. What do you have handy? Yeah..well aware of that, don't tell me how to do my fucking job, okay? Just..Christ. Greg, just give me a list. --A LIST. You do keep a list, don't you?" Domino hesitates with another sigh, her pace halting as she pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay, whatever. Off the top of your head--no, not a chance..does 'inconspicuous' mean anything to you?" It's followed with a muttered "Asshole" under her breath. "What? No, nothing. I'm still here, yes. Forget it, too hard to get parts for. What about--no, that's domestic, I don't touch that crap."

The albino merc rolls her head back, eyes closing against the harsh warehouse lighting. "Seriously. That's the -best- you've got on hand. A ninety-three? Okay, what color--Yellow?! Oh goddamnit Greg, stop thinking like any of these are going to help your chances of getting laid and think about your clientele, would ya?!" Again, to herself, she mutters "Dear lord, I'm gonna kill this man..."

There's a sharp motion of her hand cutting through the air, "Back up. I'm an idiot to even suggest this (more like desperate,) but that eighty-nine..? Yeah. Give me some specs." Domino goes back to her frantic pacing, silent for once as she listens and processes. "How much? Oh--you're a fuckwit, you know that? Five grand?! How do you stay in busin--because people are desperate, yes, I'm well aware--goddamnit. -Fine.- Eighty nine, BLACK, five grand. -Tomorrow.- Make sure the tank's full and the oil's been changed at least, huh? For that much green the trunk had better be lined in fucking gold. Two PM. Done."

Promptly hanging up the phone, Domino growls to an empty warehouse. "Fucking hate buying cars from that man."

There's no such thing as an 'empty' anything with a psychic nearby. Usually focused on shielding her mind from residual signals - from not just those she knows and purports to trust, but particularly from those she doesn't. From mundane, distracting things. Teenagers in love, irritated wageslaves, the drunk and the disorderly thoughts they bear; and from people buying cars. Domino is far from an open book, but she's *passionate*, and that carries first in the form of a nagging at the temples, then the curse-strewn preserves of her innermost thoughts break through the general noise to assault Betsy as she traces a path from Doomstadt's Rathaus to the thirty seventh suspected location of the city's centralized power source...

Psylocke's shoulders tense first, then her fingers dig against paper and metal enough to tear the former and flex back her nails on the latter. Until it starts to hurt. Before she's even fully aware she's doing it, she projects every gritted edge of her psychic voice into the patch-eyed mercenary's brain - hard enough that it, too, just might HURT.

|"*Domino*. There are more important things to focus on right now than *cars*."|

A moment later, the door to Slean's office is shoved open by an extended palm and the telepath stands with one hand upon her hip. Looking less like death warmed up, and more like death boiled to a churning, spitting maelstrom. Violet eyes all but blaze as they settle across the 'empty' warehouse onto Domino, the echoes of her psychic shout still dying out.

Current dealings aside, now Domino's got a headache. "Gah, hell!" comes the cry of surprise from the vast room below, the sound of her voice carrying well into the rafters. "Veev, do you -really- want me stepping on your toes as you go over the plan? This is your operation more than -our- operation, I'm not gonna butt in on your business."

A moment later and she's looking up at the office door to the psychic in question. There's an instant there where the merc almost looks guilty. "Bets, you look like hell. If I knew you were dealing with that magnitude of hangover I would have taken it outside."

Walking with purpose, Dom starts up the stairs to join her 'boss' on a more level playing field. "Look, if you want my valued opinion on anything then all you have to do is ask. If it's all the same to you though, I'd like to not stress myself grey over this op and stick with the assumption that we're all going to be here in the next day or two so our lives can continue as they want."

Guilt? That's a new one, honestly. Whether or not the building stress of the coming incursion has Psylocke's own thoughts ironically disarrayed to the point of tatters, that Domino's immediate reaction falls far short of further incitement sets her mounting aggravation on the back foot. She almost quite literally stumbles, back swaying visibly as she rights herself and places the other hand upon her opposing hip to cover for the gesture. It doesn't quite work. The fire dims in her eyes, lids slowly batting as she regards the approaching mercenary.

Drawing a cooling breath through her nostrils, she hears Domino out before speaking-- but she knows already what she's going to say, feels the mounting heat in her breast and the words forming on her lips before she's even halfway done. Dom's not the only passionate one.

"It's not my operation."

It comes out surprisingly soft, enough to surprise even Betsy. Bracing herself with a second intake of breath, she releases it as she takes a step down onto the upper flight of metal stairs leading down onto the warehouse floor. Booted feet make a harsh 'clank-clunk' as she moves, keeping both hands upon her hips and head high. When they finally draw level, she relaxes her posture, easing down and meeting Domino's gaze with an unusual openness in her own.

"If I didn't value your opinion, you wouldn't be here. More than that; I need you. All of you. If I could have done this alone, if I really believed that was possible, I..." Trailing off, she waves a hand toward the open warehouse, its emptiness now wholly relevant to the emotion she's trying to express. It's amazing how hard these things can be even for a telepath. Perhaps especially. "You know what I'd have done. I'd still throw myself away to get the rest of you through this, but that doesn't make me the strongest or the best. Quite the opposite."

Suddenly her regret is gone, a brisk shake of the head turning her away from the mercenary to lean with both hands upon the railing. Notably, this act draws her posture upward again, as though she needs the cool, hard metal to maintain her strength.

"I'm sorry I..." This time she hesitates only to smile, darting a sidelong glance that holds a measure of her usual confidence. "Shouted. But I need to know you're onboard. I can't afford to look beyond this; if *you* can, then that just makes you even more important." Beat, and she's back to business entirely. "Did you chase up our communication to SHIELD? Has she responded?"

Now Domino's caught off-guard as well. Curious, on a good day these two can be at each other's throat, yet on a -bad- day they're civil toward one another? Yeah, she's stopped trying to figure this group out right around the time that it became 'official.'

"Right. -Our- operation."

With the two now on the same level Dom's attention is solely focused upon the other mutant, nonchalantly plucking the earphone from the side of her head and dropping it into a small pocket reserved just for such a device. "Then you would have done it by yourself, I know. Bets, you should -know- I'm up for this. I've got my gear rounded together, been sitting aside ready for the call days ago. It's come down to trying to wrap up as many loose ends as possible before our happy fun outing." After another slight hesitation, she adds "I also wasn't expecting to need another car so soon." Just what happened to the last one she doesn't seem anxious to share.

Loosely folding her arms together, Dom drifts onto one leg with a curt nod. "Hasn't been easy, but I did what I could." Having certain contacts never hurts! "Naturally I didn't leave them our current address, set up a meeting point a ways out from here. We might want to 'blink' in, seeing as I can't drive us there."

Grr.

There -are- shadows in a place like this and quite often they are empty. In fact most times there is nothing in the shadows but... shadow. However, sometimes, there are skulkers, folks who have CIA training and have a habit of making use of it. Carol is in her black bodysuit, gloves, and boots. The only parts that aren't black are her hair, most of her face, shoulders and upper arms, and about a foot or so of thigh. One might think that'd make her stand out in the shadows but she does make it work. "I think you can safely assume that you have a response." she remarks as she walks out of those shadows, that hip-swaying walk of hers almost slow motion. (Gotta do the dramatic movie quality entrance, right?!) "So, if I get this right, you guys are planning something audacious, bold to the point of reckless, with a higher probability of loss of life on our end than on the other end." She folds her arms under her bustline, because the artists can't concieve of a bustline that arms can be folded -over- for superheroines. She ends up standing there with her legs about shoulderwidth apart in the dim lighting as she adds, "I'm in. I also left a file for Director Fury... but subtle, so he can claim plausible deniability, or send in the cavalry, depending on the situation."

Rather idly, Psylocke's gaze tracks the earbud as it's dropped from Domino's ear to one of her numerous pouches; one trait they certainly don't share, the telepath carrying the lion's share of her own 'arsenal' within the constraints of her skull. The final piece of that puzzle lies behind a chair in the vacated office, dull light gleaming from an edge as honed and polished as every last firearm in Domino's extensive collection. But for all their admittedly-jarring similarities, if these two were entirely alike they wouldn't be a team. Wouldn't need to be.

A slow, concerned nod is the immediate response to Domino's words, a frown furrowing Betsy's brow as she looks away with almost too much rapidity. Anyone so used to deception should sense that she's hiding something, there; another detail enigmatically held in reserve. Whatever it is, the look transmutes again, violet eyes widening and knuckles momentarily whitening upon the cold metal railing before her, her gaze flashing toward the shadows.

Toward a solitary flash of pale skin. Nobody else *would* notice it. They never do.

That's something that Betsy shares with the third woman to enter the 'empty' warehouse.

"My friend." It's a phrase she commonly uses, the telepath, sometimes in kindness and others in harsher statements, a sarcasm so dark as to be indetectable. There are relative few with whom she uses it and truly *means* it; but Carol Danvers is one of them. Coupled with the wave of relief that accompanies the surprise of the SHIELD agent's appearance, it brings a flood of warmth into the rhetoric that follows. "Should I have doubted you'd miss this for the world?"

Suddenly, she's flashing teeth in a broad grin, the pulse of adrenaline already in her veins as she vaults the railing to the ground. Hitting with catlike grace, she covers the remaining distance in her own, bold - perhaps, yes, even audacious - stride and extends a hand. Curled for a warrior's grip, inviting the other woman's crossed arms to unfold.

"I'd ask you to explain how you found us, but we've all got to have some secrets, haven't we?"

A glance goes back to Domino with that, smile gaining a wry, teasing edge. She wasn't sure that the mercenary had noticed the second layer of encryption-- a personal one, constructed during her years as a secret agent and shared with even fewer than those she calls friend.

Domino didn't receive a similar warning. As soon as she realizes the duo is now turning into a trio she spins about to face Carol, -somehow- already having one of her pistols out, readied, and halfway aimed before realizing who it is that is now joining them. She is -fast- on the draw when she wants to be. "Aw goddamnit," comes her exasperated announcement as the pistol hangs heavily at her side. "Glad -someone- in SHIELD's roster can still do a proper infiltration."

Secrets remain thick around here. Dom had been all set to grill Betsy on some -other- matter before they knew about their visitor. Rather than share the Violent Violet's enthusiasm in jumping back to the floor, she merely folds her arms across the railing and leans way forward to peer down at the two, as lazy and cozy as you please.

Hopefully Carol didn't catch wind of her brush with other SHIELD representatives just the other night. Did she leave those people hanging during the peak of excitement? Perhaps...

"Now all we need is Shiftkit and a mad wish." Also unsaid, she's got the latter part covered as well as anyone could be expected to.

Glancing uptwards towards Domino, Carol smirks a bit. As she does, her cheekbone shifts, as does the domino mask she wears. "Had a feeling I'd be bumping into you here. That's why I brought gifts. Too bad you didn't have a stocking hung for Santa Carol." She turns and heads back into the shadows for a moment before coming out with a large crate... the secure sort with straps and latches. She's hefting it one handed of course, and sets it down on a table. "Might wanna come down and take a gander inside." she adds as she unlatches the front and opens it dramatically slow. Inside the dim lighting glints off of chromed metal and black rubberized parts. It -looks- like some of the sort of SHIELD issue firearms that an agent of Carol's seniority can requisition and sign out for stuff. "I just didn't know if you'd prefer needlers, or plasma... so I brought both." That said, she looks to Psylocke as the woman approaches, and she eyes the offered hand. She shakes her head and brushes the hand aside as she steps in to do what some folks might consider unthinkable... she hugs Betsy. "Good to see -you- old friend." she murmurs softly before letting go. "So, do we have a plan? One that involves more than kicking in the door and yelling hello?"

A red light begins to flash over the loading dock bay door, signifying that someone is outside. Moments later, the light turns blue, and the heavy garage door begins to open. In the street light cast outside is the silhouette of a man shrouded in black, helmeted, and sitting on a sporty motorcycle.

They say this cat's a bad mutha, but we talking' about Shift.

The bike's engine revs, and it pulls into the warehouse at rapid speed, before spinning to the left and coming to an abrupt halt. The bay door begins to close while it's rider kicks the stand and tests the bike before hopping off. Lifting his helmet, Shift is revealed. Beneath his leather rising jacket, he wears his new duds, which leave little to the imagination. He drapes the helmet over one of the handlebars while the engine shuts off, then makes too look about curiously.

For the past ten days - perhaps longer - Psylocke has been locked into a state of anxious activity, juggling multiple issues on a level from merely 'risky' to war-startingly, perhaps even world-endingly bad in the case of Victor Von Doom. Certainly city-burning isn't out of the question; though this is a route she at least hopes can be sealed by the likes of SHIELD and the Justice League, already present upon the scene with she, Domino and the newly-monikered Shift. Still, these burdens are heavy to bear, and she all but melts in the moment of the offered embrace, forced to pull back with a toss of her head and a sigh when she disengages with Carol. Any emotional outpouring is thrust deep; as it must be, but for that fleeting moment.

Casting an eye over the proferred crate, she pushes a hand back through tangled purple locks, tucking what she can behind an ear as she arches a brow toward the statuesque blonde. "You sure these won't be missed?" There's a glint in her eye that hints at a little wit on her part. She's aware of the considerable resources SHIELD can bring to bear. Which is why she's reaching into the back pocket of her slacks - she's not dressed for war, but for the war room, in these and a crumpled shirt, the top few buttons undone - to produce a small, palm-sized device.

"My *plan* is to strike Victor Von Doom as low as he hit us. This was found at the scene in the First National Bank, inhibiting outgoing signals on all but a single frequency-- designed to draw the police to a crime scene of his own devising. Whatever game he's playing, he wants it to be seen and heard by the world. To draw us out. To play us. So I'm proposing to play him." Tossing her head, she flicks the device toward Carol, trusting she'll easily snatch it. A mirror of an earlier gesture made to Domino. "I've had this reverse-engineered, and I've ordered similar devices to be manufactured. Black market, of course, but-- my intent is to use them to relay video signals of our attack on Doom, and his retaliation. We brush aside the smoke and the mirrors; share with the world what he's really like. Step one, of course, is getting in..."

Lifting a hand, she taps it lightly against her collarbone, glancing to Domino, and then with a jolt to the roaring motorcyle as it makes its entrance. Pausing until the engine cuts off, she directs a slow nod to Kwabena, and finally finishes that thought.

"I'll be going in alone, tonight. I'll find us a way in, and the rest of you follow."

Hello, presents. Domino stays at her perch, though she's watching the scene below her unfold with renewed interest Rather, she's watching the crate rather than the other two. Psylocke's moment of openness with Carol is largely unnoticed, because..-crate!- One glance of the crate's contents, along with the word 'SHIELD issue,' and she's heading down those stairs two steps at a time. Her own sidearm is tucked back out of sight before she reaches the table, a slight glint now joining that icy blue gaze as she gets a closer look. In another instant she gets her hands on the gear, itself. Say what she will about SHIELD, they can afford some -real- fancy toys.

What she finds in that crate only proves as much. A matched pair of needler pistols are brought out first, the albino merc testing their weight and balance so far as to spin them both around on hooked index fingers, front and back. "I think I could come to appreciate you for what you bring to the party," she asides to Carol with a lopsided grin.

As if that isn't enough, next Dom's got her sights set on a plasma carbine. Of all the things she didn't realize that organization had access to... "And you just -requested- this stuff, and got it?" she asks in disbelief, now hefting the larger weapon and checking it over like a proper connoisseur.

With the arriving bike (bad guys never go through the garage door,) Domino stands there with her left hand on a hip and her right holding the longarm up toward the ceiling. As soon as the bike's engine dies out, she calls "Oh sure, rub it in."

Someone's Audi is not parked where it should be.

"Hold up. -Alone?- Veev, there is no 'I' in 'Team.' What the hell, you round us all together for this field trip into the great, wicked unknown, then take point and leave us on the bench? Doesn't sound like much of a plan to me."

That moment of connection, physical and mental is shared.. and it's -treasured- by Carol. Indeed, with so much of her memories emotion-free, she values those friends she made after the Rogue incident so much more. Though she is careful to restrain herself. Wouldn't do to turn Psylocke into a toothpaste tube with the top popped off right here. She lets go and steps back before glancing to Domino and her playing with the weapons. "They are signed out on my authority, and when this is done... they are to be returned to the armory aboard the Helicarrier. That doesn't happen, and -my- ass is gonna get chewed by mister stogie himself." And then... motorcycle. Carol eyes the bike more than the rider..admiring the lines and the sleek power of it. Hey, she rides a Triumph Daytona when she's not flying hypersonic fighter craft. And then.... "Wait... I agree with Domino here. You will need to have -some- backup at least. You have two choices. Go with backup you agree to, or go with backup that's too stubborn whether you agree or not."

"Funny what stolen drug money can get you," quips Shift to Domino's salty greeting. "What, did you park the Audi in a bad place?" He walks toward her with a half-cocked grin, only to eye her new weaponry up and down before whistling quietly. "Someone's happy."

Noticing Psylocke next, he meets her eyes and answers the silent greeting with a nod of his head. Neither she nor Carol has seen his new gear - the not-so-subtly dubbed 'Shift Suit'. Aside from being an identity-concealing costume, it serves a very important purpose, which in no way has anything to do with showing off his muscles or arse.

Having come in late to the conversation, he merely positions himself in an empty space equidistant from the other three, creating the quintessential square of power. There he stands, one hand hooked against his waist, content to listen and observe. To Carol, he merely offers the slightest of nods, for they haven't been formally introduced.

Alone. She knew that point would be contentious. Knew it when she spoke to Domino a few moments ago, asked for a restatement of her support. This part of the tenuous plan was always going to be the hardest-- not to execute but to order. Betsy shakes her head slowly before speaking, not looking to any of those gathered for the moment as she pulls out the necessary words.

"There's no intelligence regarding Latveria. No information. Just old maps that may or may not be up to date; drawn by people who could have been manipulated in a thousand different ways. Von Doom may play a dangerous game, but he's careful with his hand. If we go off half-cocked this *is* a suicide mission-- if I can find something, anything, to give us a fighting chance at actually getting deep inside Doomstadt, our odds improve exponentially. Even with you onboard," Domino gets another look, and a darting smile that's less-than-furtive, "I think that's best. I'm the only one who can both stay hidden from surveillance," a passing glance to Shift, before it more meaningfully settles on Carol. Another raised brow. "And not cause an uproar if caught."

The logic behind this is part of what's been stewing her brain so utterly these past days. Betsy has repeatedly second-guessed her own intent, her own tendency to sacrifice body and soul for a cause. But she's right; what is she to Victor Von Doom but an upstart mutant aggravated by his actions? Alone, she's a mere pest. A fly to be swatted. Not a reason to begin a war.

"But he's not a fool, and his defences will be more than I can penetrate alone. All I can do is formulate a better plan there. I've marked three insertion points around the city, and found what I *think* is the most likely set of locations for the power grid. If I can narrow those down, one team strikes there-- gets the power down across Doomstadt, for as long as we can. While the city panics, the second and third teams move in wherever we can hit hardest and fastest. Getting inside the castle is our priority. If there are any secrets to be found, they're there. We have a teleporter," that's for Carol's benefit mostly, though it reiterates the point to the others as well, lest they forget Blink's particular skillset. "We know we can get into the city. Whether we can get out... that's the part I can't plan."

Pausing for breath, she takes onboard the objections. She remembers keenly Kwabena's hand upon her shoulder, his statement that she should lead this motley crew - and here, she'll put her foot down - but as she looks to the SHIELD agent, every bit as much her friend, she's forced to reassess the situation. But her convictions remain firm. They're all a bit stubborn.

"Anybody who goes in first is stuck there. There's no leaving; this is a one-way trip until we *have* to escape, together. No matter what's been said, I can't force a single one of you to go with my word. I can't force you not to follow me. But there are risks. And there are things that need doing here. That... jammer," she's still not sure what to call it but she gestures at the small device passed to the blonde, "The devices I've ordered have no guarantee of quality. If you could stay, and pull anything *better* together, we have a better chance. If you can obtain frequences from SHIELD-- that go to global news networks, to the Justice League, to anybody else who might care and take notice, on networks that Doom might not be aware of?"

Shrugging one shoulder, she lifts a hand in a gesture that might be called helpless. If she didn't mean to help. "Even if that makes us 1% more likely to succeed in this damn fool crusade, I'll take it. Meanwhile, you can trust me to do my part. The rest is up to all of us, united."

Returned..? -Returned!?- Aw, fudge. "So much for a housewarming gift," Domino mutters to no one in particular while looking back at the plasma caster. Then back to Shift, her gaze hardening ever so slightly. She's just not going to answer that question. Like..ever.

"I don't get in the habit of leaving equipment out in the field," she says in as reassuring a way as she can manage for Carol's benefit. Mainly because now that she's seen these new guns and gotten her hands all over them, she's not all that anxious to part with them. Even so, she sets the carbine on the table alongside the needlers. Fancy fun hardware, and who's the most qualified one here to use all of it? Why, that would be her! How's -that- for a bit of good luck.

Speaking of... When Betsy gives her that meaningful look, Dom gives it right back to her. Psychic or not, how the -Hell- did Betsy figure it out? It's one of those things that people don't put down onto paper, even in a world full of superhumans and aliens, to say someone is exceptionally lucky is just ..well, it's weird. How does one begin to explain it? She never said anything about it directly, yet Psylocke somehow has her number these days. To say that it's unsettling would be a small understatement, Betsy would have had to have been paying very close attention over the last few weeks.

"I'd say something truly amazing such as 'I don't like any part of this plan,' but that won't change anything. Veev, I know you -just- enough to know that you're going to do this regardless of what anyone else says. I also know you just enough to know that if I put my own foot down, we'd both be walking out of here with more blood on the outside than when we arrived. So, allow me to round up my own thoughts thusly, announce to the room that you're an insane bitch, and press on with our business."

Shift is standing in a sexy latex-spandex-esque costume and has a nice ass. He will also do what he's told, which makes him the gimp.

Well, the -logic- of the arguement can't be disputed. "You know Betsy... one of my favorite authors wrote something that I agree with wholeheartedly. More often than not, logic is just a way to be wrong with confidence. You are right though, about the whole... consequences of getting caught. So as much as I think you're out of your gourd.... I will hang back. But... I want you to reach out and touch me.." says Carol as she reaches up and gently touches Psylocke's forehead with her index finger, before touching her own head. "If you -need- backup. I will maintain position outside Latverian airspace, but remember, I can hit mach 3 -without- an airplane..."