ArchivedLogs:Prêt

Prêt
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Sebastian, Shane
In Absentia	2013-09-05 '
Location <NYC> Fencing Club
Fencing is somewhat of a specialized sport; there are a number of clubs around the city that cater to it, though, some more respectable than others. The one that the twins find themselves in today has been around since the 1800s, and boasts a number of Olympians among its members (and a few ex-Olympians among its trainers.) It probably wins high marks for respectability. It is /concerned/ enough about its image, at least, that it takes almost no time at all between the tiny blue-skinned sharkboys' entrance and the time that a nervous-eyed receptionist is hastening over to usher them back /out/. Sebastian, wide-eyed and lingering slightly behind his brother, in pleated yellow skirt, pink tank top, knee-high pink socks, flushes darker, edging back towards the door at their unwelcome greeting. Shane, though, (/dressed/ respectably at least -- grey slacks, grey vest, dress shirt, bow tie) /frowns/ at this, slipping his hand into the crook of his brother's arm to step forward with his chin lifting slightly. "No, I'm sorry, we /had/ an appointment. To see the facilities. We called ahead." "What seems to be the problem here?" Malthus' tone is level and calm -- the sort of razor-sharp precision that has a way of slicing through a situation and draining it of all its confusion. It's carried by the tall, darkly dressed man's stature -- his head is shaved as smooth as glass, with his cruel snarl of a scar slitting past one eye, leaving it pale and sightless. He carries in one hand his helmet; in the other, a duffel bag slung over his back. "--oh, pardon, Mr. Rogers," the receptionist immediately straightens, her attention briefly wrested from the two sharktwins. What was merely nervous tension now blossoms to full-on panic. "We'll have them right out--" "Why? They made an appointment, did they not?" Malthus' one functioning eye drops to Shane, first -- then Sebastian. Lingering for a moment longer than might be polite. "I'll give them the tour." Sebastian stays tucked slightly behind Shane, shrinking back a bit further with a quiet diffidence. His eyes widen still further, huge back pools in his elfin face, tipping his head way back to look up from his diminutive height at the tall man. "Oh -- gosh, sir, you don't have to --" "Thanks," Shane cuts in over his brother, moving forward past the receptionist and tugging Sebastian along behind him, "we appreciate it. -- Mr. Rogers?" This comes with an upward quirk of ridged brows. "Seriously?" "No relation," Malthus responds, almost automatically; there /might/ be the slightest uptick of a smile on the left side of his face. The receptionist -- who seems to be having a full-on panic attack -- steps back. /Apparently/, this Mr. Rogers fellow has a lot of sway at the club; his statement seems enough to dismiss her. She's heading back to the desk -- maybe to make a phone-call or two? Who knows. Malthus glances her way, then back at the twins -- before gesturing for them to follow down the hall: "You know, of course, they will not allow you to return. I presume you are inspecting the premises on someone else's behalf?" "Nah, we just thought we'd come and make a fuss and then sue them for discrimination," Shane says cheerfully as he follows after Malthus, "are you /sure/ no relation because you seem kinda --" Sebastian straightens, pulling up enough to walk abreast of his brother, at least, rather than behind him. "For my employer, sir," he answers quietly, "I'm looking for a good place for him to get back into practice." "I'd say we should go with someplace that's not dickbag bigots but let's face it, what places aren't dickbag bigots when they see /us/." Shane doesn't seem overly /bothered/, at least; his tone is still blithely cheerful. "Employer?" Malthus replies to Sebastian's comment first -- his steps are crisp, professional, quick -- almost surgical. "Someone who could afford /this/ club hired /you/?" There's an edge of interest in Malthus' tone, now. "Mr. Stark? I heard he had mutant sympathies -- though I did not take him for the fencing type." "--oh, yes," Malthus agrees with Shane as they reach the gym proper -- on either side, within carefully contained rooms, men and women wear fencing gear, practicing under supervision -- there are a few glances thrown their way, more than a few eyebrows upraised... "I think if you limited yourself to more 'enlightened' establishments, you would find yourself with very few prospects. Do either of you fence?" "No, not -- wait, how did you know I worked --" Sebastian looks over Malthus, puzzled. "He didn't know," Shane answers, shrugging a shoulder. "That was a guess. But no, not TonyFreakingStark. Though B /does/ also work for -- I don't think he fences, though." "No," Sebastian still sounds a little puzzled, "I don't think he fences." His eyes drift away from Malthus, skirting around the club with open curiosity. "And, yeah, we don't often find places that'd let us --" "Piss in their fucking toilets, let alone fence," Shane cuts in, "but yeah, we both --" "-- both fence." Sebastian has an apologetic color to his tone now. "{/Language/.}" The quick word of Vietnamese lacks any of his previous diffidence, quiet but firm. Shane's mouth curls upwards. "Sorry, right, everyone here's all /respectable/. -- You been a member here long, then?" Malthus' brisk pace pauses just a moment at Shane's comment regarding Sebastian's employment by Stark. "Really. You work for Tony Stark /and/ someone rich enough to..." His pace once again quickens, moving toward a currently-empty room. "...you move in interesting circles," Malthus states. At Shane's comment about the toilets, Malthus turns to enter the room -- the twist of his torso allows the twins to see the slightest hint of a smile at Shane's vulgarity, threatening to twist his mouth upward. "Yes, I have. And no, they wouldn't." Malthus steps into the room, placing the helmet down. His back is to the twins as he opens the duffel bag: "It's strange, but when I saw the videos with you two in them... I immediately presumed that, if you did /not/ fence, you would at least find the art rewarding. Ah," Malthus adds, turning to face them, now -- his expression mildly apologetic: "I apologize; that was -- blithe of me, perhaps? To mention the videos so thoughtlessly." "I don't -- work /for/ Tony Stark, sir, I --" Sebastian blushes deeply, head ducking downward. "Just work for Stark Industries, it's not -- there's a /lot/ of people who work for --" "-- What the fuck ever -- sorry," this apology comes reflexively and -- actually seems /sincere/; Shane blushes faintly, dipping his head downward in an apologetic bow to his brother, "-- but Tony Stark hired him /personally/. Where /are/ the toilets, I'm pissing in one /just/ for the sake of --" He trails off, though, at the mention of the videos. His teeth bare in a sudden /sharp/ smile. "Well, look at that, we're famous." Sebastian goes dead silent, his eyes wide as he falls back to notch himself in behind Shane's elbow again. "You're a /fan/, then? I could give you," Shane offers magnanimously, "an autograph." "I wouldn't call myself a fan," Malthus mentions, but this statement comes with what is now a full-on smile. "But it was fascinating." And then, Malthus is opening the duffel bag; he is withdrawing a carefully folded fencing uniform -- hanging it to the left, removing his coat, followed by his shirt. Underneath, Malthus wears only a loose-fitting sleeveless cotton shirt; it exposes -- /muscle/. Malthus is old, but he is fit -- arms are thick with sinew. Two vibrant tattoos are laid upon his bicep; scrolls writ upon with fire. One says: 'Aut viam inveniam aut faciam'. The other says: 'Death Before Dishonor'. Malthus reaches for the fencing vest. "I heard a rumor, too -- regarding that fire-fighter vigilante the Bugle goes on about? -- being kidnapped and made to fight. I don't recall a video of anyone fitting his description, however." "Fascinating." Sebastian speaks very quietly, still lurking behind his brother's arm. "That's a word for it, I guess." "City's got a lot of rumours, and the Bugle prints a lot of sh --" Shane glances towards his brother and dutifully amends: "-- nonsense. You watch /all/ the videos, then? That's, uh, kinda sick, dude." "Come on, as if half of everyone we know /didn't/." Sebastian's nose wrinkles. "Yeah, but it's different when you know people who -- uh, /did/ you know people involved?" Shane looks Malthus over, his smile sharpening. "On either side?" "I did watch all the videos," Malthus replies, the vest sliding down across his torso. Taking pains to secure it. "But I did not know anyone involved. On /either/ side. Had I known," Malthus adds, "I would have taken action." Malthus pauses as he straps the vest down; the helmet is lifted. "You didn't encounter him there, then? The vigilante. Interesting." He lifts the helmet, then, securing it around his head. "I don't know," Shane answers, with a hint of amusement, "nobody in there was wearing ridiculous costumes." His eyes stay fixed on Malthus, watching with apparently great attentiveness as the man dresses. "Taken action?" Sebastian's head tilts to one side. "What kind of -- I mean, what do you do that you /could/ have --" Shane's eyes leave Sebastian, just for a moment, to sweep around their surroundings instead. "Oh, I think he'd've --" His lips twitch. "Found a way. -- What /do/ you do, though?" "I work for the military," Malthus announces, his face now hidden beneath the mask. He reaches toward the rack where practice blades are carefully stowed. "We kill mutants." His tone is flat; his expression, unseen. "Would you like to play a match?" It's impossible to tell which twin he's asking; he might be asking both of them. "Or made a way." Shane says this with a sudden flatness to his own tone, levity gone out of it; almost reflexively, after Malthus's answer, he drops a hand to curl his fingers around Sebastian's wrist. Sebastian's eyes have widened again, the gills at the sides of his neck very abruptly fluttering. Past this, though, there is not much other movement from him; a faint twitch of his arm in Shane's grip, and then he relaxes back down onto his heels. "I don't know if that's --" His voice has gone very quiet. "Why did you stop her from kicking us out?" Shane doesn't move towards the swords, doesn't release his grip on Sebastian's wrist. "Wouldn't /you/ have wanted to --" Sebastian hesitates, leaning slightly further into Shane's touch. "I'll play." Shane's jaw tightens, at this. He doesn't let go, still. "No, you won't. It's not a game." "Because I find you interesting. Because I wanted to understand your relationship with the vigilante. Because it was wrong," Malthus finishes, a certain flatness, a /weight/ to this final statement. The sword -- an epee -- is withdrawn with a slip of metal. "Because I find such half-measures to be profane. In a just society, you would either be killed -- or allowed to fence wherever you /damn/ well please." Malthus pauses, perhaps at Shane's statement. His tone grows softer, then: "He's aware." "You fence /epee/ --" Sebastian actually sounds faintly surprised at this. Shane just snorts; it sounds slightly derisive. "Of /course/ he fences epee. He's --" His lips twitch. "Tall." Sebastian exhales slowly, his head tipping forward to rest his forehead against his brother's shoulder. It sounds like a laugh, though a tired one. "And your vote is for the killing route." Shane's teeth grind, for a moment. His fingers squeeze tighter, but then he releases Sebastian's wrist. Sebastian's eyes skip over the practice swords on the wall. He moves away from Shane, looking back towards Malthus for only a moment before taking an epee off the wall. He does not bother with any of the normal fencing uniform, just hefts the blade thoughtfully, testing its weight in his hand. "My vote," Malthus responds, slowly winding his way toward the southern side of the room -- some distance between himself and Sebastian -- notably also facing Shane, although it's hard to tell just how much he's focusing on the other twin, "is irrelevant. Eventually, we /will/ seek to kill you all." He shifts, one hand almost tucked behind his back; the blade remains pointed at the ground. Waiting. Patiently. "You know this," Malthus continues, addressing -- Sebastian? "The question is only this: Will you be ready?" "Will." There's a bit of a scoff to Shane's voice at this. "Dude, we're there already. /You/ guys just haven't been brave enough to admit it." "They're getting there." Sebastian takes up a spot opposite Malthus. "It'd be better for you to just admit it, though. The kind of thing you pulled with my dad, that was --" "/Sloppy/." Shane sounds disappointed, with this judgment. "Unnecessarily." Sebastian draws in a breath, his black eyes focused on Malthus steadily. He lifts his sword in a crisp and impeccably proper salute. There is something akin to a chuckle that emerges from that mask at Shane's words. "You see genocide. I see yet another half-measure. When we truly commit, you will /know/ the difference." Malthus lifts the blade in a similarly crisp salute; then, he is instantly in a stance -- the blade's tip pointed nearly at Sebastian's stomach, his feet wide apart. "You know, I'm going to kill them," Malthus says, his voice possessing a certain icy calm. "The heroic ones. Quietly, in the dark. Him, the vigilante, the one in Harlem -- one by one, they're going to vanish." Then: "Would you like to know how you can save them?" Sebastian drops down, as well, his blade angled slightly more upwards; there's a lot more /bounce/ to his form, sneakered feet not staying particularly /still/. His pleated skirt swishes, his eyes focused. He doesn't answer Malthus's question. "Kill you, first," is Shane's reply. His hands fold behind his back as he moves to stand beside their lane. "Ah," Malthus says, tone tinted with amusement. "But /I/ can be replaced. Holland can't." And then, Malthus begins to move -- a shift, a hop -- not as animated as Sebastian, but bouncing nevertheless, beginning to close in. "Tell your father to run. Go back to Georgia. Grow peaches. Tell your friend to return to school -- and stay there. Tell Cage to... do whatever he did before this. In short," Malthus tells them, "/run/. And I will not--" And then, Malthus /lunges/, sharp and precise, for the space just above Sebastian's belly. "--pursue." "That's an -- /incredibly/ stupid thing to think," Shane decides. There's a small twitch of muscle through his arms as his hands tighten into each other. "Everyone can be replaced. There'll /always/ be more heroes. There'll be more creepyass military assholes. There's going to be no end of people for you to --" His lips press together as he watches Malthus. "Hunt." Sebastian still says nothing. He is watching Malthus steadily, his weight bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Bounce, bounce -- it stays a largely steady position, though, until Malthus lunges; he darts /forward/ at this, almost too quickly to track as he shifts in far enough to be /inside/ the reach of Malthus's blade, his own flicking rapidly forward, too, in a sudden sharp strike towards Malthus's sternum. "Replaced -- in regards to /you/," Malthus replies, to Shane. But the comment is interrupted by the blurring-fast strike of Sebastian's blade-tip; Malthus attempts to pull back -- disrupt the blade's forward strike with his own -- but by then, it's too late, Sebastian's own tip striking only an immeasurably small /instant/ after Malthus'. After the strike, Malthus steps back, his posture showing surprise. Sebastian, at least, shows no surprise here. He's retreating back to his starting position immediately, eyes still focused. Shane's teeth grind, for a quick moment. "If it's /us/ you're talking about, that's even stupider. Not to think," he allows, softer, "that he can't be replaced. But to think that he has a choice. About running." This time, it's Sebastian who lunges forward, first, quick once again as his blade snaps towards Malthus's ribs. "You could make -- him." Malthus is retreating, now, beneath that lunge; there is a brief CLACK of metal against metal as he manages to block Sebastian's blow -- but just barely. Despite his extended reach, he's clearly taken aback by the /speed/ with which Sebastian moves. "--nnnh. He loves -- you. Use his --" Clack, clack. "--love. Against him. To save him." "With us in tow," Shane says, softly, "where the fuck do you think there /is/, exactly, for him to run /to/?" The tension in his muscles is growing, hands clenched hard together. "There /are/ no safe places to take us." "Not unless," Sebastian, in contrast to the clenched tension of Shane's posture, is loosening, a growing ease to his quick motions as he relaxes into his bout, "we carve one for ourselves." He pushes more aggressively into Malthus's retreat, driving forward as Malthus steps back, the metal singing as the blades ring together. It is somewhat noticeable, though, that through this push there are -- /many/ available less-protected targets he /could/ be taking; he forgoes these easier opportunities, though, to aim his next quick strike at Malthus's chest. "If you want to save him," Malthus continues, his breathing ragged beneath the mask -- forfeiting ground to Sebastian steadily, even as he notes the dismissal of less 'lethal' targets in exchange for a 'fatal' blow at his own chest, "get him out of the city. If I don't end him, someone else--" *CLINK*; Sebastian once again strikes Malthus' chest -- this time, Malthus is not even quick enough to get a counter-blow on Sebastian, despite giving it a swift, darting try. "--will." "What makes you think it'd be safer somewhere else?" Shane's brows tick upwards. "There's nowhere he could /take/ us that people wouldn't try to --" His breath hisses out through his teeth, his head shaking. Sebastian exhales, too, though less of a hiss and more just a heavy push of breath at his next touch; he retreats, once more, to his starting position. His other hand smoothes down against his skirt, pressing the pleats back into place, though his eyes never leave Malthus. "There's no saving people like us, sir," he answers, quietly. "In the city or out of it. There'll always be people like you coming after him." "--mmnh. Perhaps," Malthus allows, though this seems reluctant. As Sebastian draws back, Malthus lowers his sword, before providing a swift, crisp salute: "Your exceptional skill renders the result inevitable. I forfeit. For now." He moves to return the sword to the rack, reaching to unbuckle his helmet. "--it's strange," Malthus admits, a certain melancholy upon his face. "I almost would /like/ you to succeed." Sebastian blinks, abruptly, at this, clear inner eyelids sliding rapidly across his black eyes. He straightens, though, returning the salute just as crisply. "Almost." He sounds faintly wry; it overlaps with Shane's soft echo: "For now." Sebastian's gills flutter quickly. He moves to set the sword back on its rack. "You're as likely to die as he is," he says eventually. "Not all of us are as heroic as Pa." "You're not running, either, though," Shane finishes his brother's thought, still not moving from his tense post beside the fencing lane. "No," Malthus agrees with Shane's final statement. "I am not the sort to run." He pauses, helmet under one arm, his other hand reaching for the duffel bag nearby. A moment later, he is moving toward the exit; he stops long enough to look back to Sebastian. Offering, as a parting thought: "You're more dangerous than your enemies think." And with that, he is leaving. Sebastian's eyes stay fixed on Malthus, his brows furrowing slowly. He doesn't move until Shane heads over to clap a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon. I'm taking a goddamn piss before they kick us the hell out." He /doesn't/ watch Malthus leave. He steers his brother past the stares of the other practicing fencers, fingers clamped tight on Sebastian's shoulders as they head the other way.