progressing to be ready to get out in the field again.
As for the B-team (something else that stuck in my mind and I felt horrible for), they were being constantly sent out in a mad scramble to at least present something of a resistance to the Crusaders. It was at the end of one of these sorties, two days after I had started down the road to recovery, that we all had a chance to do more than exchange pleasantries.
Medusa was having her daily check-up with Duane, something I had a feeling was not a physical check-up like my own was, while I was running through a set of exercises in the small gym. Honestly, I was feeling very positive about my progress. My inactivity had been shorter than I had originally feared and, well, as much as I disagreed with the Whiteout's effects, some of those reality twists worked in my favor. Even normal people seemed to bounce back quicker from illness, injury, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, they died just as easily as before. That grim thought pushed me through my next sit-up.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Quentin's voice echoed over the loudspeaker. "In honor of our last-minute escape today, I'm whipping up a special brunch." He had taken the affectation of a cheesy cruise ship host from the 1970s. "Enjoy wonderful cuisine and mingle with your fellow resistance fighters! It will be a wonderful morning for all."
Well, it was a hard offer to pass up. I had worked up a hunger and at least most of that could be filled there. Besides, these were the people I was going to be trusting my life with. There was no better time to forge some kind of bond with them. I sat up, toweled myself off, and headed to the dining room.
I had yet to figure exactly what this building had been before as I walked into the dining room. My first guess had been an old hotel, but I was edging towards an apartment building or tower of condos. After all, what we called the 'dining room' bore more resemblance to a repurposed living room. An open bar-style counter led into the kitchen proper. The very first thing that struck me as I opened to door was the positively divine smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee. At least the Crusaders were keeping food flowing into the city somehow.
Voltage, still hurting my eyes, was hovering, sitting, lingering, whatever you wanted to call it, around the battered table in the center of the room. Frost sat opposite of him, delicately typing on a laptop with her clawed fingers. To her credit, the laptop was remarkably free of gouges or missing keys. The 'I'm A Dragon In My Other Life' bumper sticker slapped on the back of the display was either prophetic or plain strange.
"Looking good, Doc," Quentin called from over the open bar. He was in the middle of simultaneously tossing an omelet and a skillet of pancakes. "I, and every red-blooded American male, appreciate your hard work."
"Eyes on the food," I shot back. "I'd appreciate a non-burned non-spilled meal." I certainly didn't mind a compliment, of course, but not quite in the vernacular of your average New York construction worker. Quentin flashed a grin and tossed off a salute as he reached for a spatula.
"Don't mind Quentin too much, ma'am," Voltage buzzed as I grabbed a seat. "He's kind of a screw-ball."
"It's a good thing to find humor in all of the madness around us." Frost's sparkling sapphire eyes had crested the top of her laptop. "There is far too little of it in this fair city." She paused a moment, then smirked. Well, I thought it was a smirk; I wasn't up to date on draconic facial expressions. "Besides, Quentin's observation isn't exactly wrong. You certainly seem to be back in fighting trim, Indomitable."
I dropped down into a creaking folding chair as I gave the dragon a fake sour look.
"Do I need to start fighting off suitors or something? I just came here for the food."
"Ssssuitorss? Why do I alwaysss misss the good ssstuff?" Medusa
As for the B-team (something else that stuck in my mind and I felt horrible for), they were being constantly sent out in a mad scramble to at least present something of a resistance to the Crusaders. It was at the end of one of these sorties, two days after I had started down the road to recovery, that we all had a chance to do more than exchange pleasantries.
Medusa was having her daily check-up with Duane, something I had a feeling was not a physical check-up like my own was, while I was running through a set of exercises in the small gym. Honestly, I was feeling very positive about my progress. My inactivity had been shorter than I had originally feared and, well, as much as I disagreed with the Whiteout's effects, some of those reality twists worked in my favor. Even normal people seemed to bounce back quicker from illness, injury, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, they died just as easily as before. That grim thought pushed me through my next sit-up.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Quentin's voice echoed over the loudspeaker. "In honor of our last-minute escape today, I'm whipping up a special brunch." He had taken the affectation of a cheesy cruise ship host from the 1970s. "Enjoy wonderful cuisine and mingle with your fellow resistance fighters! It will be a wonderful morning for all."
Well, it was a hard offer to pass up. I had worked up a hunger and at least most of that could be filled there. Besides, these were the people I was going to be trusting my life with. There was no better time to forge some kind of bond with them. I sat up, toweled myself off, and headed to the dining room.
I had yet to figure exactly what this building had been before as I walked into the dining room. My first guess had been an old hotel, but I was edging towards an apartment building or tower of condos. After all, what we called the 'dining room' bore more resemblance to a repurposed living room. An open bar-style counter led into the kitchen proper. The very first thing that struck me as I opened to door was the positively divine smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee. At least the Crusaders were keeping food flowing into the city somehow.
Voltage, still hurting my eyes, was hovering, sitting, lingering, whatever you wanted to call it, around the battered table in the center of the room. Frost sat opposite of him, delicately typing on a laptop with her clawed fingers. To her credit, the laptop was remarkably free of gouges or missing keys. The 'I'm A Dragon In My Other Life' bumper sticker slapped on the back of the display was either prophetic or plain strange.
"Looking good, Doc," Quentin called from over the open bar. He was in the middle of simultaneously tossing an omelet and a skillet of pancakes. "I, and every red-blooded American male, appreciate your hard work."
"Eyes on the food," I shot back. "I'd appreciate a non-burned non-spilled meal." I certainly didn't mind a compliment, of course, but not quite in the vernacular of your average New York construction worker. Quentin flashed a grin and tossed off a salute as he reached for a spatula.
"Don't mind Quentin too much, ma'am," Voltage buzzed as I grabbed a seat. "He's kind of a screw-ball."
"It's a good thing to find humor in all of the madness around us." Frost's sparkling sapphire eyes had crested the top of her laptop. "There is far too little of it in this fair city." She paused a moment, then smirked. Well, I thought it was a smirk; I wasn't up to date on draconic facial expressions. "Besides, Quentin's observation isn't exactly wrong. You certainly seem to be back in fighting trim, Indomitable."
I dropped down into a creaking folding chair as I gave the dragon a fake sour look.
"Do I need to start fighting off suitors or something? I just came here for the food."
"Ssssuitorss? Why do I alwaysss misss the good ssstuff?" Medusa
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