ArchivedLogs:Plotting Plots

Plotting Plots
Dramatis Personae Emma, Parley, Claire
In Absentia	2013-05-31 Parley is a sneaky kitty.
Location <NYC> Central Park North
One of the pavilions at Central Park has been requisitioned quietly, reserved for a private party. From the outside, it looks closed up, the metal screens on three of the sides closed off to the public, with one door which happens to be unlocked, for the people in the know. It is the ideal spot considering the blistering heat of the day. There are few people in the park for that reason, but those that are there are jealous of the shade. The entire structure is marble, with thick columns at the corners with two additional support columns on the longer sides, one facing the lake, the other facing the path. The screens are closed to channel cooler air from the water into the darker, shaded portion of the pavilion, channeled out through the back fencing by some light fans set up for the meeting. If you'll accept the alliteration, Parley's made a picnic. A pretty little panoply of pint-sized snacktreats; cave-aged Gruyere drizzled in a truffle honey, strawberries smeared in a triple cream brie only 5% below the standard American /butter/ content in milk fat. Spicy little cornichons and sweet-vinegar peppadews accompany zesty cured meats with a light dessert of miniature fruit tarts encased in a thin sweet-gelatin glaze. He himself is dressed in clean new jeans, a belt and, in spite of the unseasonable warmth maintains a high collar, mandarin styled, of a thin cotton material some smoky shade of dark gray with black trim. He leans over the arsenal of kabibbles, arranging them with a faint frown between his brows. Serious business, presentation. Emma arrives at the scheduled time, the email coaxing her attendance. She carries with her a lightweight jacket, as office air conditioning is currently overcompensating for the members of the population whose fashion dictates that they still wear three piece suits. the sheer shirt she wears over hir white camisole is unbuttoned at the neck and hanging open, slipping through the doorway, padding along in silver strappy sandals toward Parley's pleasantly proffered picnic of pint sized provisions. "Parley, darling, it looks lovely. Thank you so much for putting this together." Instead of Emma's usual bag, she has brought a cooler. It is as clean of a cooler as a person can buy and keep clean, so it doesn't leave any marks on her white skirt where it brushes against it. "I brought drinks, I hope you don't mind." The cooler is presented. Inside, passionfruit sorbet rests along side a bottle of champagne and one of bubbly cider, should their third party be averse to the partaking of alcohol in the middle of the day. In a separate sleeve in the cooler, there are three champagne flutes. Claire Basil has been coaxed into the park by the promise of /treats/, Parley, and /ideas/. She arrives -- green cane in hand -- clad in a green sun-dress that rolls down past her knees; the straps leave her arms and shoulders mostly bare, with her thumb-thick curls tucked neatly beneath a matching green flower-hat -- a purse strapped over one shoulder (a gift from Parley!), along with pink sandals with /slightly/ elevated heels. As she approaches, Emma can no doubt detect the polished, puttering inner-workings of Claire’s mind -- she’s been working on some manner of project that has left her both mentally exhausted yet /satisfied/, by some marginal degree. There’s also an ominous thunderstorm of dark thoughts lurking in the corners of that well-polished stone of a brain, but it’s kept at bay. As she approaches, she gives Parley a brief wave -- and a crook of an eyebrow toward Emma. But, also a smile. Slight, but present! << {Anything I need to know?} >> she asks Parley -- the communication is subtle, practiced, and easily missed by a telepath who is not actively listening for messages being fired beneath the radar. It’s also in French, because -- Claire likes to make things /difficult/. So, too, does Parley it would seem. "Is that sorbet?" He asks Emma with a raise of eyebrows, leaning over to peer into Emma's cooler of goodies as he passes her, shuttling out to Claire to /retrieve/ her. Like a /delivery/, something precious and pressing equally. He takes her arm like he's afraid she might wander off (unless you were Claire, and could feel the brief squeeze in it), answering aloud first, "You remember Emma Frost, Claire? She's brought us a treat." << (many things). >> wends his mind-sense along the surface of Claire's in a brush of tawny fur and rosettes. The flavor of it is solemn and steely; somehow yet soft, for her like a cold, cold silk. "Delice de Bourgogne," he indicates the triple cream dolloped on halves of strawberry, offering one of either to the women present, "From Burgundy, France. You're not watching your weight, I hope." He climbs up /onto/ the picnic table to sit next to the tray - tsk, barefoot already. If his fur can't be allowed to breathe in the hot city weather at least his toes shall. And, leaning over his knees, he fixes Claire with intense, half-lidded dark eyes, "Has Hive-san given you any news?" And of course. Only after maybe giving Claire this minor gift of heart attack does he deign to add to her: << (i've told her.)(well.)(some.) >> SOME, indeed. "Yes, passionfruit," Emma replies, leaving the cooler by the food, where it is least in the way and possibly offensive to the eyes, by the picnic basket, if there is one. She then settles onto one of the benches at the table Parley has planted himself on. She looks over the offers and smiles, accepting one of the strawberry delights. "For mixing with the champagne to keep it cool. There is some cider, if you prefer not to indulge during the day, but it is hot and the day demands delicious deviations from the oppressive doldrums provided by the weather." She looks over at Claire and smiles brighter, giving her a nod. "I hope you have been well. It seems we have a very..." she pauses, inhaling deeply and letting out the breath with a slight grumble of displeasure underneath it, "interesting situation on our hands. When Parley told me about the children, I couldn't help but offer my services in any way that we deem appropriate." There is a steeling to her mood, a determined look in her eyes. Children are /not/ to be toyed with around one Emma Frost. She takes a bite of the delice strawberry and pauses to clear her mouth. "Please, only tell me what you feel comfortable with me knowing. I want to help, but not in a way that treads upon your toes." When Claire is seized upon by Parley, her eyebrows lift even higher, nearly disappearing beneath the rim of that green summer hat; she grins at the offer of treats, and the comment about weight. “Never,” she responds, and perhaps behind that statement there is a long-buried sentiment, a lesson learned years ago that has been steadily worn to a nub by time and luxury -- but still present. << {Never turn down good free food.} >> She’s slinking down beside Parley, then, crouching to sweep the skirt of her dress under her knees and make herself comfortable. When Claire reaches for one of those strawberries -- it is on its way toward her mouth when she catches what Parley says, and. “!!” A flash, tiny but present, of confusion. A glance toward Emma. Back to Parley. The eyebrows remain lifted. She nibbles, then /bites/. “Interesting. Yes,” she responds to Emma, before adding to Parley, silently. << {Sneaky little thing.} >> “...I’m afraid there isn’t much to be done, through -- proper channels. I cannot tell you much,” she admits, to Emma, “because of -- legal obstacles.” Emma and Parley might catch, then, Claire’s mind preparing itself -- that polished stone begins to /harden/, shifting and clicking and erecting old, well-worn defenses -- becoming a multi-faceted /jewel/. Prepared to watch, carefully, for any sneakiness. And prepared to /respond/. Though with what, one can only imagine. There is an apologetic flavor in her voice when she speaks next, however -- as if she has just made some faux pas, to Emma: “...an old habit,” she tells her, gesturing to her temple. “When dealing with matters like--” << telepaths>> “--this.” The word ‘telepaths’ is broadcast loudly, with no attempt to hide it, flashing across every facet briefly. “...as for Hive,” Claire soon adds, “we’re going to conduct... interviews. Of those involved. Acquire as much on-tape as we can.” If one were not familiar with Hive’s power, the assumption might be that Claire is talking about the victims. There is a flash, however, of thought -- police officers. A whole legion of them. One by one, sitting inside a calm office setting, in front of a camera. Talking with Claire. Taking her through the events in their entirety. Again, this thought is /broadcasted/ to both of them. << (more than you know.) >> Parley whisper-suggests in a steely purr to Claire, his eyes settled on Emma with a hooked smile and a wordless touch of fingers against the champagne's label to indicate his preference. It seems appropriate, regardless that he's still a minor. Who's going to blow the whistle, Claire? She's /French/. And looooves him. While Emma tends to drinks, he's murmuring epicurean introductions to the foods, identifying and relaying their recommended pairings - did Parley visit /Murry's/? Surely New York didn't think it could hide its cheese shop from him forever. Spicy bites of cornichon with hot coppa, the fire doused in the second bite with the honey-sweet Gruyere, so well-aged the calcium has begun to crystallize into little crunches in the back of the teeth. "I've been wondering." He says around a water cracker, chewing light to cleanse his palate. His eyes are directed out across the distant green, where a group of teenagers in grass-stained pants are sort of... wrestling around after a frisbee. "Once the media breaks this story," he considers the other half of his cracker, inspecting its milky-pale color. "What if the coverage were to push a few of them over the edge, I wonder? And they came forward on their own? Perhaps gave a full confession." He tucks a strawberry into the side of his cheek casually. "Press coverage can backfire if we don't actually know they are committed to confessing. They could take that opportunity to attempt to rally support for their poor, oppressed position." Emma finishes her first bite then rises, pulling everything out of the cooler. She sets out the glasses and then unwraps the lid on the cider first, opening that and giving it a moment to settle down once more. She takes a spoon and plops just one small spoonful of sorbet into each glass as we speak. "Do we have a timeline on how long Hive is willing to be involved and... an idea of what his involvement is limited to?" She pours sparkling cider into Parley's glass and slides it over to him before reaching for the champagne and uncorking it. She pours champagne for herself, then looks over to Claire, questioningly. “I’m no longer sure,” Claire begins, her tone solemn -- distant -- as she reaches for another cream-slathered strawberry, “that we should give the media the story. Parley, there is very little... the evidence I had hoped for is not nearly as strong as it was.” Again, she broadcasts << No bodies. >> A flash of a pet store; a crematorium within. As if the dead were animals. << The footage is not as -- we’ve yet to track it all down. >> Another flash, this of the media responding with little sympathy to the plight of mutants who are /obviously/ so. “I’m concerned...” << ...that Mr. Holland may be right. Without more leverage. More /proof/. That the narrative will become... something terrible. >> The strawberry enters Claire’s mouth. Chewing. She looks to the champagne that Emma offers, and inclines her head, nodding. << Hive’s grasp is tentative. The longer he holds, the more danger he puts himself in. Once we’re finished gathering information, I’m going to have him release -- the majority of them. We’ll have their names, and with only a few remaining under his control, we can regain the others relatively easily -- if we think of a better plan. But at the moment... >> She finishes the strawberry, reaching for the glass. “...at the moment, my plan is to gather as much information as possible. Get as many names as I can -- of those who lived, and those who died. To use the money to help survivors rebuild, maybe. Maybe, take some tentative preventative steps...” << Frame them for money-laundering. Something. Anything to get them arrested, off the streets. >> "I think we're too easily falling into old patterns." Parley admits, and outwardly, it's offhand, slipping fingers around his cool drink and holding it beneath his nose. In mind, cooler, ruthless statement, << (we're far more dangerous)(than this.) >> He's nodded in acknowledgement of both women's points, listening with a very intent stare on either. Between either of these women's powerful presence, he's a shade gravitated to any background, subdued - but speaking, low and even, in a monotone that hums so flat it's hard to tell exactly when he's begun. "It would do best if it started small, at first. Some young, hungry reporter breaking some small unlikely story." So slightly, a flicker of fierce /fondness/ that fades. "An escalation, a release of," grimace, "what video footage we /do/ have, whet the appetite of a few human interest groups." He doesn't say these last words with great respect. But -- neutral. "And then. Mh. Men come forward. Straight to the media. Their... /conscience/ can hold no longer. They give intimate details. /Gory/ details. Of their crimes. Details about children and disposal methods. Names of the missing." He swirls his drink. << (and if they don't know full names)(we do.)(perhaps some of the survivors would know.) >> "You realize there must be missing persons reports for at least some of them. The released names would draw out families. Friends." More importantly: << (credibility.)(give them air time...) >> "Then, perhaps a third man corroborates. Their stories match one another meticulously. Maybe a fourth would cave..." He sighs quietly. "It would be convenient. You wouldn't need much tangible evidence with so many testifying witnesses. Ones that would have nothing to /gain/ by coming forwards. Ones willing to explain the thorough methodology /behind/ destroying all the evidence." He's biting into another strawberry. Triple cream brie melting on his tongue at a more rapid speed than butter; like ice cream. << and we (make) them (plead guilty.)(to all of it.)(bloodsports)(human trafficking)(murder)(kidnapping)(conspiracy). if we must - we take the judge (we take the /jury/.) and we (/fit nooses around their necks/.)(and then.) >> He issues a minute shrug. With it is the dropping of a mental hatch. The creak of a rope pulling taut. << (we release them.) >> His eyes have slowly settled on Emma. << if (Hive-san) cannot. he is (not the only)(telepath). he isn't (alone). we (stand with him.) (right now) we are not (utilizing our resources) effectively. they (fear us) for (what we can do.) >> He dips back his head, letting the sunlight bathe his closing eyelids. << (so let's do)(what they fear.) >> << I cannot do what Hive does, not on the scale that Hive does it. >> Emma admits as she pours champagne for Claire, sliding her a glass as soon as it's full. While the beverages are chilled, the heat quickly begins to melt the sorbet further into the liquids, adding flavor. She settles back into her seat and begins to pick at some of the cured meats, pairing them with cheese and cracker. << The only flaw I can see to that it still does not release Hive from his safeguarding duties freely. He will not be able to let them just go, because they will then turn to the media with pleads for support, offering theories on why they would confess so freely to such horrible things. 'The Mutants made me do it' will quickly put telepaths in a bad light, and by extension, discredit the entire built. Unless... >> Emma nibbles, then takes a sip from her glass. << Does anyone know how good your telepath is at long term mental programming? >> << I don’t know. I’m loathe to even ask, >> Claire admits, and there is a certain flavor of distaste in that statement, lingering more deeply in her tone as she glances to Parley. Her face is hard to read; guarded, neutral -- but there’s something there someone with Parley’s particular specialty can pick up. An edge that they’re rapidly approaching -- one she does not desire to cross. << Parley, what you are suggesting-- >> A flicker of thoughts, like a twirling rotoscope -- memories, from years ago. A very small school for young children, somewhere in France -- minds, capable extending out into the world around them -- being molded and groomed by a man. The thoughts around this man are tightly guarded -- but all of them negative. << ...it would be dangerous, >> Claire side-steps that edge, suddenly, pushing instead toward the matters of practicality -- even as she reaches for another strawberry. << The government likely has telepaths of their own, you know. If they were to suspect -- Hive’s ability affords him a certain distance, but. It would also take months -- maybe years -- to do it correctly. You would have to do more than control /just/ the officers involved -- >> Her mind flickers as she consumes the strawberry. << --but that’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it, Parley. You’re suggesting we create the illusion of justice for public consumption. >> There might be a hint of bitterness there. But, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, Claire’s mind is not recoiling with horror at the idea. << (the public can be damned.) >> Small, bland /chuff/. << i'm (suggesting) that we (create) a (/puppet show/) >> Parley answers, unemotionally, << for (the people who)(were there/have give up hope) that there would be (any justice at all.) >> Pause. << (though.)(public knowledge) would make for (useful future precedents.) (/they/ broke rules first)(i'm just adapting to their game.) >> The knuckles encircling his drink grow slightly white, until he carefully sets it down. His mind is constructing half-formed faces; Jackson Holland, his children, - almost, even Claire’s is nearly whispered. All of them are kept, in his mind, as though on the other side of a cool pane of glass, separated. << the (government) likely has (many telepaths.) but we aren't (prosecuting) the (government). >> To Claire alone, a softer whisper: << (have you forgotten)(Alice Lambton)(so quickly?) >> To either again, more grimly. << (it's unfortunate)(i'm dragging you both into this). (i would do it myself) if (i could). (we already knew this would take a long time.) i have - (tentatively)(been made to understand)(Hive-san's abilities) with (individual-singular minds) is (somewhat like)(trying to thread a needle with a broadsword.) >> He frowns, just slightly. << (i would not assume he /couldn't/.)(but i would not assume he could.)(we would need to ask.) >> << Indeed? Well, I will leave the discussions of what is /just/ to those more personally affected by this horrific situation. My chief concern is protection - preventing any of this from blowing up in the face of the mutant race. >> Emma continues eating the light lunch with the poise of someone in a fine, air conditioned restaurant. Apparently, this Frost does not melt. Ze is nibbling on some peppadew with a bit of the prosciutto, finally putting some gruyere on a cracker as she chews. << The best thing when dealing with the possibility of other telepaths with opposing agendas is to implant in the mind a simple, small request, something that is not stumbled over, but obeyed. It's always the most simple and direct commands that are best. >> She clears her palate with a sip of champagne and brings her cracker to hir lips. << something that negates the possibility that telepathic coercion was involved. 'It couldn't be a telepath,' could work, if tied strongly enough into a core belief. They rather believed that mutants are beneath them and that they are above the law, so their egos should be ripe for that suggestion. With that, their confessions should self sustaining. Sure, something drove them to confess, an undefinable urge, they'll spend the rest of their lives examining the reasons why or how they were suddenly infected with morals. Perhaps one or two of them will believe in God. >> "More champagne, anyone?" Emma smiles as she gets up to take the bottle in hand once more. "This really is a wonderful treat, Parley. I'm sorry the situation is difficult, but if we keep at it, I'm sure we'll come up with something. << Do try remember that some discussion out loud deters too much suspicion. >> Claire becomes quiet as she listens to Parley’s assessment; the flicker of faces, the mention of a puppetshow. The mention of how it is unfortunate to involve them at all. She turns away, then, saddling up to lean back against the firmness of a nearby tree, letting her weight settle. << ...it would be nice, >> she admits, << to make something public of this. >> “No thank you,” Claire replies to Emma, offering her a half-hearted smile. << I am concerned about the risks, about the attention. But I would like to -- I /want/ to give people a reason to believe in justice, >> she says, eyes turning back to the park. << Even if you have to... >> She sighs. Both mentally /and/ audibly. << There’s additional risks, >> Claire tells Parley. << The victims. You’d have to get most of them to testify -- without their testimony, any trial would be pointless. And you will /not/, >> she adds, with a sudden overbearing /surge/ of fury that evaporates an instant later, << touch /their/ minds. They would have to agree to this, of their own volition. And they would have to know the risks -- we would be putting them in harm’s way. There is no guarantee we would be clever enough -- strong enough -- to protect them. To ensure this does not come back and destroy them. But... if you can do that, Parley. If you can -- get enough of them to agree to this -- /knowing/ what the risks are -- then yes. For my part, I would be satisfied to become what our enemies fear. If only long enough to try and make this... right. As right as it can be made, >> she swiftly adds. The far sides of Parley's mouth twitch up blandly. << (do you think) they (wouldn't have to testify) if we tried the (standard method?) >> The not-smile vanishes. << (i'll try talking to them.)(-or the ones that are willing to talk.)(i am unintimidating) and a (somewhat physical)(mutant.)(we have time)(for them to heal) a while (first). >> "Thank you," Parley says wearily to Emma, pushing a force of air through his nose. He hands her his glass. "We'll think of something." No preamble, all business, eyes steadily on Emma. << (can you do it?) >> << I'd need to know how many. It would take time. >> Emma definitely can and will do it. << The alternative, >> Claire responds to Parley, though there’s a bitter /clench/ to the words -- as if she finds even voicing this possibility to be deeply unappealing, << is to make this go away. And deal with the police on /our/ terms, rather than society’s. Leave the victims to recover. I don’t know, >> she soon adds, the grit evaporating, << perhaps some of them /would/ rather take the risk. We can find out. I can help, >> she adds, << with gathering their names, their identities. We need that information anyway -- to send the money. But if they don’t wish to be involved, we should. Leave them be. >> << (it will be their decision.) >> Parley... to their mutual shared communication, says it mutely. But to Claire it has a subtle, bitter apology. And to Emma: << (they'll want to.) >> Maybe not all. /Likely/ not many. But his grim certainty is one too personal to miss. << (i would.) >> He stands then, taking his drink with him. "Well. I'll leave you to finish. I should get back to work. I have a reporter I need to talk to."