𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗧𝗦 𝗛𝗜𝗧 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗟 𝗜𝗡 𝗔𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗛𝗨𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗥𝗛𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗠, steady, deliberate — a drumbeat announcing Jacqueline's arrival before she even reaches the door. The war room is a beast with a mechanical pulse, the generators grumbling low like distant thunder, the overhead lights flickering in protest of their own exhaustion. She didn’t rush. She lets the weight of her presence settle before she even pulled the handle, SAVORING that brief moment where she was both expected and unknown. The metal door groaned as it opens, stepping inside without ceremony, without hesitation. She doesn’t need a full scan of the room to know who was here, who matters. Her gaze flicks over the usual disarray, then lands on the woman at the workbench, hunched over a device, brow furrowed, soft lips pressed into quiet concentration. Sparks flared between Lina's fingers, lighting up sharp cheekbones, casting brief shadows under lashes that didn’t so much as flicker. Jacqueline paused, watching, something amused curling at the edges of her mind.
Then the spark bit back. It was small — hardly enough to be noticed — but instinct was instinct. Fingers brushed over stung skin, drawn to Lina's mouth, tongue flicking over the irritation in an absentminded, UNCONSCIOUS motion.
Jacqueline smirks as she steps forward, boots softer now against the humming ground. ❛ Careful, sweetheart, ❜ she murmured, voice smooth but edged with something wicked, something teasing. ❛ Put your mouth on the WRONG thing, and you might end up with more than just a little spark. ❜ She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. The words were left open, left hanging, something for the other woman to do with as she pleased. Jacqueline liked that part — the anticipation, the moment between invitation and response, where anything could happen. She rolled a shoulder, leaning against the nearest stable surface, one hand braced lightly against the table. Lina spun in her chair — graceful, easy, a lazy orbit around the one small comfort this room allowed. Jacqueline took in the movement, the brief levity of it, the way it softened the sharp edges of everything else.
The transmitter was held out to her, fingers gesturing her forward with an expectation she didn’t fight. Jacqueline took it with the same ease she handled a sidearm — natural, fluid, knowing EXACTLY how much pressure to apply. The device was warm, alive in its own way, full of electricity both literal and otherwise. She let Lina help where she could before turning the tool over in her palm, feeling the weight of something recently touched, recently repaired.
❛ If it starts feeding me static in the middle of a gunfight, I’m coming back here to haunt you, Lina. ❜ Jacqueline muses, brow arching. ❛ And when I do, I expect an apology. And maybe a drink. Though sometimes all it needs is a firm hand. ❜ A beat, a shift of her weight, the smirk deepening. ❛ Same applies to men, honestly. ❜ She let the words settle, let the weight of them STRETCH, just long enough for the other to enjoy the reaction. Then, she steps back, slipping the transmitter into her belt with an easy, practiced motion, already thinking ahead, turning toward the door. ❛ If we’re lucky, the worst thing we’ll deal with tonight is a couple of drunks, but... ❜ A pause, a slow exhale, a smirk sharpened into something almost dangerous. ❛ if we’re really lucky, at least one of them will be worth flirting with. ❜ A wink, a shift of her shoulders. The mask still, holding up.