Ilad, Illyana, Isabel, Kestrel, Xen
Moral outrage.
That is what burns in these hearts, what boils in their blood. What makes even the detente of mutual cooperation in the face of massive potential destruction too bitter a pill to swallow without choking. It fires the demand in our voices, it ignites the loathing in our eyes. Not mine, though.
It must be so simple, the Italian said, for us to simply classify them as murderers. Simple murderers. Simple terrorists. That is a laugh. I am a soldier. I have killed men. I have been called a murderer, a butcher, worse; I have earned many of the names that have been laid on me, many of the curses that have been hurled upon our people.
No, I do not hate you for anything so simple as for being a murderer. It is not the moral certitude of righteousness or justice that curls my lip when I consider your paths, you little grains of abrasive sand.
It is your certainty I hate.
I have broken men with my own hands, burned them with my own flame. I have committed acts of the kind that degrade a man's soul and never leave him in the smallest hours of the morning. It was considered action in the service of my country or in the service of my oath, in the service of my honor, of the greater good, of whatever how fine a point you place on it: beyond myself, beyond the bitter scorch war and injustice might leave on a man's central being, upon his purpose. But I never left doubt behind. It is my bosom companion. You do what you must for your duty. But you do not do it lightly.
And when you commit a heinous act of destruction in pursuit of the greater good, it still anchors you like a weight of sin.
It is not so simple. No. And the lightness you make of your crimes, and the certitude you carry of your righteousness as you walk into the blackest pits of evil and coat yourself in grime. That is what I hate you for. That is worth my disgust.
I do not need to hate you for your actions, for your philosophy, for your choices. I need only hate you for how easy you live with yourself afterwards.
Close enough to moral outrage, I suppose. As they say. Close enough for government work.
It is after dawn, so the pale light that filters through the windows and the glass door of the hotel in Istanbul is undeniably morning; but it is not ... /late/ morning by any means. There is something of a stumble to the way that Ilad emerges from the room he slept in, towel slung across his bare shoulders, inhibitor carefully tucked behind his ear despite the damp tousle of his towel-worried hair. He stubs his toe on the door and curses in Hebrew, a little too loudly.
Xen teleports in.
It is after dawn, so the pale light that filters through the windows and the glass door of the hotel in Istanbul is undeniably morning; but it is not ... /late/ morning by any means. There is something of a stumble to the way that Ilad emerges from the room he slept in, towel slung across his bare shoulders, inhibitor carefully tucked behind his ear despite the damp tousle of his towel-worried hair. He stubs his toe on the door and curses in Hebrew, a little too loudly.
Illyana's hair is dry, shower last night instead of his morning, or--sometime recently, during the time changes. Who can keep track. She's having just as much inhibitor trouble. She's found a seat out in the suite's living room, and has taken her hair down, but is finding it more challenging getting it back up and neat again. She looks up quickly at the curse.
Oh my God, what time is it? Kestrel has absolutely no clue. She hasn't had a lick of sleep compared to some people, just getting in from a changing of the guard on tailing Demet Karyo, and so when she emerges--after haphazardly tossing some clothes on, nobody say shit about her pajamas--she is a bleary-eyed zombie on a mission. Nooooms. Stupid hunger making sleep all but impossible. Her quest comes up short with that cussing, though, and she squints at Ilad with one eye while rubbing at the other. "G'morning to you, too. ...it's morning, right?"
Xen is already up and dressed for the day, obnoxiously like an early riser, despite the time change. He is also seated on one of the wing chairs in the room, a mug of fresh coffee sitting next to him on a little table. His laptop is flipped open and sitting on his lap, and he's idly watching some of the feeds placed from the day before. However, he does glance up at the arrivals as they step into the room and nods to them. Good morning.
Ilad looks over his shoulder to peer at the light beyond the closed glass door. "Apparently," he says. He closes both hands into either side of the towel slung across his shoulders and neck, wet droplets still clinging elsewhere to the golden olive skin of his torso; scars mark him at one hip and at his either side, but most of the scars are hidden by the pants he has remembered to put on. "Yes." Running his knuckles along the curve of his jaw, his throat and cheek tighten behind the closed press of his lips as he fights a yawn.
"So my watch says," Illyana says with a yawn. She looks around the various people ends on Kestrel. Stereotyping! "Anyone know how to french braid?" she asks hopefully, and then winces. Yeah, she did just ask someone to braid her hair.
Isabel is a bit later out of her room, and judging from her pajamas and the wildly tangeled state of her hair, as well as the yawn she's smothering behind one hand, she's only just now woken. She pads into the room on bare feet and spends a moment taking in the occupants.
"Probably a bad thing I couldn't care less as to what /day/ it is," Kestrel half-mumbles, mostly to herself, and drifts on. To the... do they have a kitchen thing? W/e, onward to nooooms. "Mhmm," is a positive sound, and probably relates to Illyana's question, although she doesn't stop on her way. She at least manages to muster up the ghost of a smile for the woman and for Xen as she goes. She kind of misses Isabel's surfacing, though. Such a bad surveillance... person, Kestrel is. God, she's tired.
Ilad claims a corner of the couch, folding himself down onto it and leaning forward with the prop of his elbows on his knees. Towel forgotten across his shoulders, it begins to slip-slide a little down their blades, but he ignores it.
Illyana watches Kestrel pass by, and then starts on her hair on her own again. Come on, inhibitor, you don't want to snag hair, do you? "Watch, just when we're on this time, we'll be somewhere else."
"Coffee's in the kitchen," is volunteered from Xen, as if the smell of the fresh pot weren't obvious. And then he takes a sip from the mug next to him that is tainted with cream and sugar. There's a half-amused grin from the pilot in Illyana's direction before his eyes return back to the laptop screen before he folds it shut. "Quiet morning so far."
"As long as we're functional," Isabel replies with a twitch of what might be amusement as she rubs at her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Ilad for a moment, catching on the slide of his towel and following it downward before she snaps it away at Xen's voice. "Coffee. Fucking awesome." Her gaze trips toward Kestrel. "Northstar's out on our guy?"
Don't worry, Illy, Kestrel's not abandoning you. She's just dealing with a ravenous hunger. Surely, there must be some kind of bagel she can stuff in her mouth. With sesame seeds. Mmm, sesame seeds... "Yeah," she answers Isabel, and sends a tired smile her way--good morning to you, as well--and then she rummages and digs out a bagel. "Got a comb or a brush?" This question is /probably/ meant for Illyana. It becomes somewhat muffled on that last syllable, however, due to bagel.
"Functional," Ilad rumbles, tracing the shape of the word in his mouth. He considers the floor with narrowed eyes for a moment, and then pushes himself back into sitting upright, blocking a yawn behind the knuckles of a fist. "Functional enough, I suppose."
Illyana digs around next to her thigh on the chair and offers a brush with a smile of thanks. "If there's things to make tea, I'll do that when I'm finished here," she offers to others who might be interested.
"Tea does not have enough caffiene," Isabel answers as she moves toward the coffee with a brief, "Anyone else want a mug?" over her shoulder.
"Ordinarily I would prefer tea," Ilad admits, but he tips two fingers in Isabel's direction, along with the slight inclination of his head. "But today, I think. Please."
"How tight you want it?" Kestrel asks, accepting the brush while sticking the bagel back in her mouth. Mouths are totally great for holding things, what. She gestures with the brush for Illy to park on the floor, so she can sit behind her, and once they're all situated, she brushes away. Since her own is such a bitch to manage, she is probably pretty great with hair. A muffled, "Me," sounds, with an extra syllable that probably functions as a 'please' at Isabel's question, even though she was /just/ in there.
Xen lifts his already filled filled mug in answer and shakes his head, taking another sip before setting the mug down and folding his legs up on the chair, re-settling his laptop.
Isabel pauses to scrape her fingers through her own hair as she glances at Kestrel and Illyana, but to little effect, and she abandons it quickly to turn back to the process of coffee. "Milk, sugar?" she wonders as she works, telekinesis and hands-on mixing for maximum efficiency.
"And I suppose if I drink enough to make up for that, I'll be needing the bathroom at terrible moments," Illyana says, wry. "Very," she answers Kestrel. "As much as it will let you." Illyana's hair is fine, and a little slidey, and likes to whisp away. She plants her fingers on the inhibitor to hold it in place.
Ilad says, "{Yes.}" He glances across the room, something faintly quizzical about the twitch of his eyebrows as his eyes pause on Kestrel and Illyana.
What? They totally do not look ridiculous or anything, with Kestrel brushing Illyana's hair in long, sweeping strokes while in her pajamas with a bagel wedged into her mouth. Totally not at all. She pauses long enough to take said bagel out of her mouth to answer Isabel with, "You mind putting a lot of milk in mine? I'm gonna sack out after I eat, anyway." And then bagel is replaced so she can start on the braiding process. Since Illy's request is very, she does not screw around about it. Braidbraidbraid.
"Nope," Isabel returns with a wisp of amusement as she works. "I'm practically a barista. She finishes Ilad's order first, then glances over her shoulder to send it floating toward him before tipping a generous portion of milk into a second."
"What's the point of coffee once you've made it as unlike coffee as possible with all the stuff in it?" Illyana muses. She tries to hold herself still, but it's still clear she's not used to having someone else working on her hair.
Ilad watches the approach of the coffee through the air with a slight increase to his quizzical crease. He takes it. "My thanks," he murmurs, and does not comment on the point of coffee.
Braidbraidbraid. Kestrel finally sets half-eaten bagel aside, giving up on not putting it down for fear of Istanbul germs or something. "What, you never had cafe au lait?" Braidbraidbraid.
"Welcome," Isabel responds automatically as she gives up the mug to Ilad's grip just in time to deliver Kestrel's drink the same way.
"Coffee au what?" Illyana says, frowning a little. Isabel's use of power catches her attention, and she watches it with her usual curiosity and interest, only made a little fuzzier by her tea-less state.
"Coffee with milk," answers Xen, sounding just a touch like his normal self. He reaches out and takes his own mug in his hands again, sipping on is own coffee. "It helps sweeten the bitterness. Take the edge off."
Ilad sips his coffee and takes a long breath through his nose, sitting straighter again. "They like it edged here," he says, a little bland. He glances toward the glass and the pale light of morning beyond. "Boring night, Hitchcock?"
Isabel wrinkles her nose as she mixes her own coffee, generous with the milk and sugar. "They like it disgusting here," she tells Ilad before turning, her hands wrapped around her mug as her gaze fixes on Kestrel.
"You'rea peach," Kestrel informs Isabel as she plucks the mug out of the air, pausing in the braiding proccess--one hand holding things in place--to take a sip. "Yeah," she answers Ilad after, sounding really more tired than frustrated about it. "Not a damn thing going on. I'da been twiddling my thumbs if I'd had 'em." Braidbraidbraid.
Illyana looks longingly at everyone's drink now they've getting the lifeblood caffeine, but stays still while weaiting for her turn to go make her tea. "It's nice you can be so unnoticable," she tells Kestrel.
"Hey!" Isabel says suddenly, her gaze locked on Illyana before she snaps her eyes pointedly toward the door behind which Hugh and Silvio are in theory sleeping.
"There are shops that specialize in Turkish coffee in Tel Aviv," Ilad tells the ceiling, as he takes another, longer swallow from his mug. Dark gaze flicking toward Kestrel, he tips his head, running his thumb along the curve of his mug. "My sympathies."
"You weren't the only one with a boring night, at least. Our feeds turned up pretty much the same." Xen indicates downward at the laptop that's currently closed in his lap. At Isabel's pointed snap in Illyana's direction, Xen's face scowls a bit more noticably, and he puts his laptop to the side. He then stands up from his seat and moves back into the kitchenette where water is run into a mug, and then placed in a microwave, running it for a few minutes to heat up the water.
Kestrel isn't too terribly ruffled about the talk about her, although she doesn't really continue that conversation line, either. Instead, she asks, "What do they /do/ to the coffee here, anyway?" And she taps Illy's shoulder and wriggles fingers in a gimmie sort of way in her peripheral vision: do you have a hair tie or holder or whatever? Can she have it pls? "I bet /that/ was fun, Rebound."
"She obviously has some skills to get assigned the job," Illyana says with a snap of her own. Maybe she should give up and get coffee just to get some caffeine earlier. She holds on the hairband to Kestrel with murmured thanks.
Isabel says nothing further on the topic, although her gaze on Illyana is steady as she sips at her coffee.
"Mm," Ilad hums with a tightening of his lips. He looks off into the middle distance, nursing slowly from his mug. "Clearly not. Clearly we are all incompetent."
"Not particularly," comes Xen's answer, the side of his mouth tugging upwards ruefully. "Staring at video feeds isn't my favorite thing to do, but I've gotten a lot of practice at it." When the timer for the microwave dings, Xen pulls out the mug of hot water and rummages around to grab the teabags. Assuming there's really only one kind, he opens the packet and drops it into the hot water and stepping back out to hand the hot mug to Illyana still sitting in front of Kestrel before taking his own seat again.
Illyana gives Xen a look of pure gratitude. "Thank you. I was going to--" She nods to the kitchen area and her intention to do it herself, and then inhales the steam from the mug. "I'm sure we'll all get our turns at watching things."
"I hope not," Isabel murmurs over a measured sip. "I hope we turn something up-- soon."
"Yeah, well, right now, I sure /feel/ incompetent," Kestrel half-mumbles, humor mixed with a touch of exasperation at herself for being fuzzy-headed. She secures the braid with the hairband, and then taps Illyana's shoulder again to signal she's done. "Anybody else want their hair did?" she asks, the corners of her mouth pecked at by amusement as she glances around and takes up her bagel and coffee again. Omnomnomsip.
Ilad's eyebrows twitch. He rises from his seat on the couch, towel falling away from his back to remain behind so that he stands largely dry and half-naked in the living room. Sipping from his coffee, he slants a look askance across his teammates, still quizzical. Then he starts shuffling back towards his room.
"They're here," Xen replies to Kestrel. "It's only a matter of time before they make their move, and since we know where they're watching--" The pilot's lips twist grimly. "I'm hoping we'll see some indications before they actually taint the water."
"I'd wish to turn something up soon too, but wish for soon, and maybe it will be too soon, where we don't expect," Illyana says. She shakes her head to check the feel of the braid, and then sips her tea. Mmmmm.
Isabel, as the only one in the room with braidable hair clearly in need of brushing, gives Kestrel a brief smile and an equally brief shake of her head before covering another yawn. "We'll be ready," she answers simply.
Kestrel sounds a thoughtful note and sits back, closing up her little impromptu beauty shop. Illyana's brush gets handed back in between bites of bagel. "I just hope we ain't looking in the wrong spots. If I was gonna splinter off from a group, you know, I dunno if I'd be all that truthful 'bout what the bug I was cooking up could do. Or how it could be dispersed." She's so positive right now, you guys.
Xen's eyes drift over to the room for Silvio and Hugh at Isabel's comment, face darkening slightly before he looks back to the room at large. "We'd better be." His eyes are then drawn to Kestrel's comments, his own eyes narrowing just slightly, "I suppose it depends on when the disagreement occurred, then. I get the feeling that this whole thing was cooked up and ready to go, just waiting for another target. Not much to hide."
Ilad disappears off into his own room without another word. Presumably while he is in there he will find a shirt.
That is what burns in these hearts, what boils in their blood. What makes even the detente of mutual cooperation in the face of massive potential destruction too bitter a pill to swallow without choking. It fires the demand in our voices, it ignites the loathing in our eyes. Not mine, though.
It must be so simple, the Italian said, for us to simply classify them as murderers. Simple murderers. Simple terrorists. That is a laugh. I am a soldier. I have killed men. I have been called a murderer, a butcher, worse; I have earned many of the names that have been laid on me, many of the curses that have been hurled upon our people.
No, I do not hate you for anything so simple as for being a murderer. It is not the moral certitude of righteousness or justice that curls my lip when I consider your paths, you little grains of abrasive sand.
It is your certainty I hate.
I have broken men with my own hands, burned them with my own flame. I have committed acts of the kind that degrade a man's soul and never leave him in the smallest hours of the morning. It was considered action in the service of my country or in the service of my oath, in the service of my honor, of the greater good, of whatever how fine a point you place on it: beyond myself, beyond the bitter scorch war and injustice might leave on a man's central being, upon his purpose. But I never left doubt behind. It is my bosom companion. You do what you must for your duty. But you do not do it lightly.
And when you commit a heinous act of destruction in pursuit of the greater good, it still anchors you like a weight of sin.
It is not so simple. No. And the lightness you make of your crimes, and the certitude you carry of your righteousness as you walk into the blackest pits of evil and coat yourself in grime. That is what I hate you for. That is worth my disgust.
I do not need to hate you for your actions, for your philosophy, for your choices. I need only hate you for how easy you live with yourself afterwards.
Close enough to moral outrage, I suppose. As they say. Close enough for government work.
It is after dawn, so the pale light that filters through the windows and the glass door of the hotel in Istanbul is undeniably morning; but it is not ... /late/ morning by any means. There is something of a stumble to the way that Ilad emerges from the room he slept in, towel slung across his bare shoulders, inhibitor carefully tucked behind his ear despite the damp tousle of his towel-worried hair. He stubs his toe on the door and curses in Hebrew, a little too loudly.
Xen teleports in.
It is after dawn, so the pale light that filters through the windows and the glass door of the hotel in Istanbul is undeniably morning; but it is not ... /late/ morning by any means. There is something of a stumble to the way that Ilad emerges from the room he slept in, towel slung across his bare shoulders, inhibitor carefully tucked behind his ear despite the damp tousle of his towel-worried hair. He stubs his toe on the door and curses in Hebrew, a little too loudly.
Illyana's hair is dry, shower last night instead of his morning, or--sometime recently, during the time changes. Who can keep track. She's having just as much inhibitor trouble. She's found a seat out in the suite's living room, and has taken her hair down, but is finding it more challenging getting it back up and neat again. She looks up quickly at the curse.
Oh my God, what time is it? Kestrel has absolutely no clue. She hasn't had a lick of sleep compared to some people, just getting in from a changing of the guard on tailing Demet Karyo, and so when she emerges--after haphazardly tossing some clothes on, nobody say shit about her pajamas--she is a bleary-eyed zombie on a mission. Nooooms. Stupid hunger making sleep all but impossible. Her quest comes up short with that cussing, though, and she squints at Ilad with one eye while rubbing at the other. "G'morning to you, too. ...it's morning, right?"
Xen is already up and dressed for the day, obnoxiously like an early riser, despite the time change. He is also seated on one of the wing chairs in the room, a mug of fresh coffee sitting next to him on a little table. His laptop is flipped open and sitting on his lap, and he's idly watching some of the feeds placed from the day before. However, he does glance up at the arrivals as they step into the room and nods to them. Good morning.
Ilad looks over his shoulder to peer at the light beyond the closed glass door. "Apparently," he says. He closes both hands into either side of the towel slung across his shoulders and neck, wet droplets still clinging elsewhere to the golden olive skin of his torso; scars mark him at one hip and at his either side, but most of the scars are hidden by the pants he has remembered to put on. "Yes." Running his knuckles along the curve of his jaw, his throat and cheek tighten behind the closed press of his lips as he fights a yawn.
"So my watch says," Illyana says with a yawn. She looks around the various people ends on Kestrel. Stereotyping! "Anyone know how to french braid?" she asks hopefully, and then winces. Yeah, she did just ask someone to braid her hair.
Isabel is a bit later out of her room, and judging from her pajamas and the wildly tangeled state of her hair, as well as the yawn she's smothering behind one hand, she's only just now woken. She pads into the room on bare feet and spends a moment taking in the occupants.
"Probably a bad thing I couldn't care less as to what /day/ it is," Kestrel half-mumbles, mostly to herself, and drifts on. To the... do they have a kitchen thing? W/e, onward to nooooms. "Mhmm," is a positive sound, and probably relates to Illyana's question, although she doesn't stop on her way. She at least manages to muster up the ghost of a smile for the woman and for Xen as she goes. She kind of misses Isabel's surfacing, though. Such a bad surveillance... person, Kestrel is. God, she's tired.
Ilad claims a corner of the couch, folding himself down onto it and leaning forward with the prop of his elbows on his knees. Towel forgotten across his shoulders, it begins to slip-slide a little down their blades, but he ignores it.
Illyana watches Kestrel pass by, and then starts on her hair on her own again. Come on, inhibitor, you don't want to snag hair, do you? "Watch, just when we're on this time, we'll be somewhere else."
"Coffee's in the kitchen," is volunteered from Xen, as if the smell of the fresh pot weren't obvious. And then he takes a sip from the mug next to him that is tainted with cream and sugar. There's a half-amused grin from the pilot in Illyana's direction before his eyes return back to the laptop screen before he folds it shut. "Quiet morning so far."
"As long as we're functional," Isabel replies with a twitch of what might be amusement as she rubs at her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Ilad for a moment, catching on the slide of his towel and following it downward before she snaps it away at Xen's voice. "Coffee. Fucking awesome." Her gaze trips toward Kestrel. "Northstar's out on our guy?"
Don't worry, Illy, Kestrel's not abandoning you. She's just dealing with a ravenous hunger. Surely, there must be some kind of bagel she can stuff in her mouth. With sesame seeds. Mmm, sesame seeds... "Yeah," she answers Isabel, and sends a tired smile her way--good morning to you, as well--and then she rummages and digs out a bagel. "Got a comb or a brush?" This question is /probably/ meant for Illyana. It becomes somewhat muffled on that last syllable, however, due to bagel.
"Functional," Ilad rumbles, tracing the shape of the word in his mouth. He considers the floor with narrowed eyes for a moment, and then pushes himself back into sitting upright, blocking a yawn behind the knuckles of a fist. "Functional enough, I suppose."
Illyana digs around next to her thigh on the chair and offers a brush with a smile of thanks. "If there's things to make tea, I'll do that when I'm finished here," she offers to others who might be interested.
"Tea does not have enough caffiene," Isabel answers as she moves toward the coffee with a brief, "Anyone else want a mug?" over her shoulder.
"Ordinarily I would prefer tea," Ilad admits, but he tips two fingers in Isabel's direction, along with the slight inclination of his head. "But today, I think. Please."
"How tight you want it?" Kestrel asks, accepting the brush while sticking the bagel back in her mouth. Mouths are totally great for holding things, what. She gestures with the brush for Illy to park on the floor, so she can sit behind her, and once they're all situated, she brushes away. Since her own is such a bitch to manage, she is probably pretty great with hair. A muffled, "Me," sounds, with an extra syllable that probably functions as a 'please' at Isabel's question, even though she was /just/ in there.
Xen lifts his already filled filled mug in answer and shakes his head, taking another sip before setting the mug down and folding his legs up on the chair, re-settling his laptop.
Isabel pauses to scrape her fingers through her own hair as she glances at Kestrel and Illyana, but to little effect, and she abandons it quickly to turn back to the process of coffee. "Milk, sugar?" she wonders as she works, telekinesis and hands-on mixing for maximum efficiency.
"And I suppose if I drink enough to make up for that, I'll be needing the bathroom at terrible moments," Illyana says, wry. "Very," she answers Kestrel. "As much as it will let you." Illyana's hair is fine, and a little slidey, and likes to whisp away. She plants her fingers on the inhibitor to hold it in place.
Ilad says, "{Yes.}" He glances across the room, something faintly quizzical about the twitch of his eyebrows as his eyes pause on Kestrel and Illyana.
What? They totally do not look ridiculous or anything, with Kestrel brushing Illyana's hair in long, sweeping strokes while in her pajamas with a bagel wedged into her mouth. Totally not at all. She pauses long enough to take said bagel out of her mouth to answer Isabel with, "You mind putting a lot of milk in mine? I'm gonna sack out after I eat, anyway." And then bagel is replaced so she can start on the braiding process. Since Illy's request is very, she does not screw around about it. Braidbraidbraid.
"Nope," Isabel returns with a wisp of amusement as she works. "I'm practically a barista. She finishes Ilad's order first, then glances over her shoulder to send it floating toward him before tipping a generous portion of milk into a second."
"What's the point of coffee once you've made it as unlike coffee as possible with all the stuff in it?" Illyana muses. She tries to hold herself still, but it's still clear she's not used to having someone else working on her hair.
Ilad watches the approach of the coffee through the air with a slight increase to his quizzical crease. He takes it. "My thanks," he murmurs, and does not comment on the point of coffee.
Braidbraidbraid. Kestrel finally sets half-eaten bagel aside, giving up on not putting it down for fear of Istanbul germs or something. "What, you never had cafe au lait?" Braidbraidbraid.
"Welcome," Isabel responds automatically as she gives up the mug to Ilad's grip just in time to deliver Kestrel's drink the same way.
"Coffee au what?" Illyana says, frowning a little. Isabel's use of power catches her attention, and she watches it with her usual curiosity and interest, only made a little fuzzier by her tea-less state.
"Coffee with milk," answers Xen, sounding just a touch like his normal self. He reaches out and takes his own mug in his hands again, sipping on is own coffee. "It helps sweeten the bitterness. Take the edge off."
Ilad sips his coffee and takes a long breath through his nose, sitting straighter again. "They like it edged here," he says, a little bland. He glances toward the glass and the pale light of morning beyond. "Boring night, Hitchcock?"
Isabel wrinkles her nose as she mixes her own coffee, generous with the milk and sugar. "They like it disgusting here," she tells Ilad before turning, her hands wrapped around her mug as her gaze fixes on Kestrel.
"You'rea peach," Kestrel informs Isabel as she plucks the mug out of the air, pausing in the braiding proccess--one hand holding things in place--to take a sip. "Yeah," she answers Ilad after, sounding really more tired than frustrated about it. "Not a damn thing going on. I'da been twiddling my thumbs if I'd had 'em." Braidbraidbraid.
Illyana looks longingly at everyone's drink now they've getting the lifeblood caffeine, but stays still while weaiting for her turn to go make her tea. "It's nice you can be so unnoticable," she tells Kestrel.
"Hey!" Isabel says suddenly, her gaze locked on Illyana before she snaps her eyes pointedly toward the door behind which Hugh and Silvio are in theory sleeping.
"There are shops that specialize in Turkish coffee in Tel Aviv," Ilad tells the ceiling, as he takes another, longer swallow from his mug. Dark gaze flicking toward Kestrel, he tips his head, running his thumb along the curve of his mug. "My sympathies."
"You weren't the only one with a boring night, at least. Our feeds turned up pretty much the same." Xen indicates downward at the laptop that's currently closed in his lap. At Isabel's pointed snap in Illyana's direction, Xen's face scowls a bit more noticably, and he puts his laptop to the side. He then stands up from his seat and moves back into the kitchenette where water is run into a mug, and then placed in a microwave, running it for a few minutes to heat up the water.
Kestrel isn't too terribly ruffled about the talk about her, although she doesn't really continue that conversation line, either. Instead, she asks, "What do they /do/ to the coffee here, anyway?" And she taps Illy's shoulder and wriggles fingers in a gimmie sort of way in her peripheral vision: do you have a hair tie or holder or whatever? Can she have it pls? "I bet /that/ was fun, Rebound."
"She obviously has some skills to get assigned the job," Illyana says with a snap of her own. Maybe she should give up and get coffee just to get some caffeine earlier. She holds on the hairband to Kestrel with murmured thanks.
Isabel says nothing further on the topic, although her gaze on Illyana is steady as she sips at her coffee.
"Mm," Ilad hums with a tightening of his lips. He looks off into the middle distance, nursing slowly from his mug. "Clearly not. Clearly we are all incompetent."
"Not particularly," comes Xen's answer, the side of his mouth tugging upwards ruefully. "Staring at video feeds isn't my favorite thing to do, but I've gotten a lot of practice at it." When the timer for the microwave dings, Xen pulls out the mug of hot water and rummages around to grab the teabags. Assuming there's really only one kind, he opens the packet and drops it into the hot water and stepping back out to hand the hot mug to Illyana still sitting in front of Kestrel before taking his own seat again.
Illyana gives Xen a look of pure gratitude. "Thank you. I was going to--" She nods to the kitchen area and her intention to do it herself, and then inhales the steam from the mug. "I'm sure we'll all get our turns at watching things."
"I hope not," Isabel murmurs over a measured sip. "I hope we turn something up-- soon."
"Yeah, well, right now, I sure /feel/ incompetent," Kestrel half-mumbles, humor mixed with a touch of exasperation at herself for being fuzzy-headed. She secures the braid with the hairband, and then taps Illyana's shoulder again to signal she's done. "Anybody else want their hair did?" she asks, the corners of her mouth pecked at by amusement as she glances around and takes up her bagel and coffee again. Omnomnomsip.
Ilad's eyebrows twitch. He rises from his seat on the couch, towel falling away from his back to remain behind so that he stands largely dry and half-naked in the living room. Sipping from his coffee, he slants a look askance across his teammates, still quizzical. Then he starts shuffling back towards his room.
"They're here," Xen replies to Kestrel. "It's only a matter of time before they make their move, and since we know where they're watching--" The pilot's lips twist grimly. "I'm hoping we'll see some indications before they actually taint the water."
"I'd wish to turn something up soon too, but wish for soon, and maybe it will be too soon, where we don't expect," Illyana says. She shakes her head to check the feel of the braid, and then sips her tea. Mmmmm.
Isabel, as the only one in the room with braidable hair clearly in need of brushing, gives Kestrel a brief smile and an equally brief shake of her head before covering another yawn. "We'll be ready," she answers simply.
Kestrel sounds a thoughtful note and sits back, closing up her little impromptu beauty shop. Illyana's brush gets handed back in between bites of bagel. "I just hope we ain't looking in the wrong spots. If I was gonna splinter off from a group, you know, I dunno if I'd be all that truthful 'bout what the bug I was cooking up could do. Or how it could be dispersed." She's so positive right now, you guys.
Xen's eyes drift over to the room for Silvio and Hugh at Isabel's comment, face darkening slightly before he looks back to the room at large. "We'd better be." His eyes are then drawn to Kestrel's comments, his own eyes narrowing just slightly, "I suppose it depends on when the disagreement occurred, then. I get the feeling that this whole thing was cooked up and ready to go, just waiting for another target. Not much to hide."
Ilad disappears off into his own room without another word. Presumably while he is in there he will find a shirt.