ArchivedLogs:En Garde

En Garde
Dramatis Personae Alice, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-07 '
Location <NYC> High Line - Chelsea
Built on a freight rail, the High Line once was a railroad and has been reclaimed as green space in the middle of the city. A park situated high above Manhattan, what was once a rusty industrial wasteland is now a stretch of peaceful space to lounge and relax among grass and flowers and plant life. There are restaurants, ice cream sandwich stands, a beer garden, and the view all along the elevated parkland is unbeatable. It's a brisk moment of spring; the sunlight is /sharp/, almost blinding when out in its full exposure and reflecting off surfaces with resplendent feedback. It loans a baked-heat warmth that chills a few noticeable degrees in the shade, or when a passing chill wind whistles by. Parley's entrance to the park is quiet, cautious - his senses are stretched out /wide/, channeling in to the full expanse of his scope, allowing a heavy feedback from the mind around him. It also means his presence is thoroughly washed out and saturated with the 'scent' of everything else around him. He carries a long narrow sports sack over a shoulder, his attire neutral as ever in a gray t-shirt with a mandarine collar that buttons at the base of his throat. It's a woefully stereotypical style, but mostly useful for it's practical high collar that more naturally hides the fur visible at the back of his neck. He slips along the new spring blossoms, crocuses and daffodils, jutting up in a flanking row of flower boxes, scanning the green beyond, his mind seeking one cool and smooth as glass. The park is well occupied, the benches full of young and old alike, all of them looking to soak in both light and warmth. Couples stroll the paths between beds of flowers and herbs, and some enterprising individuals have spread cloths out on the patches of lawn to attempt sun-bathing. It's still a little early yet for that but they try anyway, bless their hearts. The emotional atmosphere, as a result, is one of humming pleasure, cavedwellers now soaking in the promise of at least another season or two of life. Less inclined to soak is Alice. Not to say that she doesn't enjoy the spring sunlight--especially in its current incarnation--but she's here for a purpose...however enjoyable that purpose might prove to be. The lawn stretches a good distance on the freight rail and she has claimed a patch of it for herself. A few feet behind her is the empty bag that carried her foil, on which has been piled the neatly folded windbreaker she wore here. The woman herself is clad in all black, a snug sleeveless vest with ribbed padding over the torso and a mandarin collar to protect the throat, matching pants that join with snug ninja-style boots--hello, modern fencing gear. No face protection though, leaving her hair to ruffle in the breeze and green eyes unobscured as they study the nearby throngs in search of Parley. Her foil is held loose in her hand, its tip quivering as she flicks it here and there. She'll wait a short time - long enough for Parley to scan the sky, the cars near by, the surface-structures of the minds of the people sitting nearby and soaking up rays, searching for the sharp attentiveness that might suggest 'undercover backup'. Even in doing it, he's wrying observing to himself 'how paranoid I'm learning to become', and while vaguely embarrassed, well -- it's not enough to talk himself out of it. When he approaches, though, he doesn't attempt to hide it; no skulking up behind her, nor trickling in from a side view. In the direction she faces, there's a nice long patch of green, and he starts at its further end and walks unerringly towards her, his eyes set half-mast on hers. Small flurries of wind tug at his hair, ripple through his pant legs, and by the time he's a few yards in front of her, he has one eye closed against a few patterings of grit getting blown against the side of his face. "Alice-san," he says across the distance, looking her over very practically. "I feel under-dressed." No one. Nothing. Not even a whisper of observation, though...there is a young man, dressed in a suit, seated on a bench not far from the lawns. He has an ankle resting on his knee and a newspaper open being tugged at constantly by the wind. Now and again he looks towards Alice but he isn't concerned--there is more of waiting around him, of attentiveness, as if he were a highly trained hound looking to see if its mistress requires its presence. Alice, naturally, ignores him. Her eyes are on Parley as he resolves on her radar. The foil cuts through the air, hissing as it crisscrosses before her. Then she lets it lower to her side while she awaits his arrival. Only when he's within hailing distance does she allow a smile to tug at her lips--the effect partially ruined by the strands of hair that cling there, caught in a thin coating of gloss. "Mr. Parley. You should feel nothing of the sort. You are, after all, just starting out. Allowances must be made. Your weapon?" A brow is lifted as she nods towards the bag he's brought. The air around her is charged with an emerald sort of expectation, anticipation of sparring that has less to do with blades and far more to do with /him/. "It's just a beginner's foil," Parley twitches at the side of his mouth with a touch of misery, extracting a very simple foil from the sports bag, and, after a second's hard consideration of Alice's face, he offers it over to her to inspect, if she'd so choose. And then reaches into the bag to pull out a fencing glove, equally unadorned and simplistic, which he begins to fit his fingers into, tugging it up his wrist. Commenting downward as he does so: "The mutant doctor was arrested." "One must begin somewhere." Alice accepts the weapon with a hand, taking a knee to set her own down and then supporting Parley's for a rather uninterested inspection. Yes, yes, a beginner's foil. Basic. Simple. Worthy of being dismissed--and handing back to the young man, once he is gloved. With that task completed, she shares the ghost of a smile and a pulse of amusement...and awareness. "You are ever so fond of gossip, aren't you? First the terrorist children, now the mutant doctor. Are you looking to begin a career in news, Parley? You should look elsewhere than the Huffington Post. It's undignified to have your stories run beside articles on the current fashion choices of celebrities." As she speaks, she is not reaching for her own glove. She makes certain her foil is placed square on bag and jacket, to protect it from the ground, then rises to step around him. Focus is critical, scanning everything from posture to the width of his stance to ease of movement. "Isn't all news 'gossip' in its own way? Current events is still current events," Parley's fist inclination is to follow Alice's pacing, mouth compressed, and instead directs his eyes forward, shrugging loose his shoulders and easing his feet into a very loose, painfully unfamiliar en garde. "And we embellish them as we so choose." Facing forward also means his eyes are settled on the seated young man waiting on Alice, "Are you making me an offer?" His stance itself is novice and untried, body coiled-alert if not full on alarmed, though he breathes slowly to focus. You can almost /feel/ his hackles raised, when Alice passes behind him, and every step she makes, there is a small micro-adjustment throughout his structure responsively. This does not seem fully conscious, and has, to a trained eye, something so slightly flawed to it, a fragility to a balance that is, otherwise, rather starkly shrewd. "Would you like for me to make you an offer? Do you think you /deserve/ one?" That is all Alice has to say to him. Much of her focus is consumed with his stance. She reaches out, knuckles tapping here at the small of his back above the shirt-covered scar tissue, fingers pulling there to adjust the set of his shoulders. She passes around before him, eyes lowered and calculating. Her toe kicks out to make his feet shift into something proper and her hand reaches to curl around his wrist to bring his arm to the correct level. Then, finally, she speaks again...but only to tell him, "Chin up." Her voice is quiet but the command is a whipcrack, her eyes equally sharp when they lift to study dark with pale. These corrections are taken without complaint; under one or two touches, Parley can be felt almost brutally seizing down on any twitch or jump that tries to manifest and forcing himself to cooperate, to mold to formation and unhinge the slight jittery-twitchiness to a smoother, useful tension. It seems to hit the worst struggle when his core weight distribution shifts; had he a tail, it would swing in half a propellor twist. But he doesn't. And the compensation is delated from /consciously/ having to readjust. Raising his chin seems to take longest, for a moment not seeming to have heard, save a twitch of shoulder at the /command/ in her voice. Then, all at once, it juts up, eyes snapping back to hers, "What one would like and what one deserves are two different things, aren't they? It all becomes a sticky matter of entitlement." He loosens then /tightens/ his grip on his foil. All of that tension. Alice doesn't approve and her hands become slightly more demanding. With those touches comes intent, communication that a man of Parley's talents would easily parse: <<(all of this potential)(ruined)(so much baggage)>> While there might be a part of her bemused by those twitches, the shivery jumps like a horse shedding flies, she is impatient as well. He could be so /lovely/ if he would simply relax. If he would just trust her. "I think you are more than capable of setting aside your own sense of entitlement, to clearly determine what you have earned thus far, Parley," Alice chides him. Her fingers curl briefly under his chin when it reaches the desired elevation, warning him to maintain it there. Then she's stepping around him again, to position herself behind. Her hands frame his waist and guide him down into the desired half-crouch. It is a posture designed to make inexperienced thighs burn and she keeps him there, hands inescapable, to see how long he will last. "Now," she says, close to his ear, "tell me. Do you think you deserve an offer from me?" Curiously, the more demanding Alice pushes, the more Parley softens and bends, as hard clay will begin to ease when pounded - adapting as he must, but 'must' is so relative... That same softening is not in his eyes, which /watch/, respond, carry a strong curiosity but are detached beyond a thin vein of animal wariness. Her hands on his waist find a tight pillar that sinks into crouch when pressed. Very shortly, he develops a quiver in strained long-muscles. Her grip on him will find him slowly /relying/ on her for balance, sinking into it by necessity to focus on his legs. On exploring the forced limitations of his position without lowering his head - oh, though it is /difficult/, so close she can /feel/ him straining to keep his head so boldly raised. "--I think it would be interesting." His voice is a little throaty from strain, teeth clenched. "Don't you?" "Better." Alice cares less for his mental state than his ability to adopt the proper posture. With his legs and torso now positioned correctly, she returns to minute adjustments of his arms. It is a slow and subtle torture, being moulded into shape. Such tiny changes. Such demands to hold the posture once he is there--and her hands do not linger once he's been made into the statue she prefers. The woman slides back a step to circle him again, studying, probing, /critical/. "When you can hold this for as long as you need, perfectly relaxed, and immediately retake the stance when disturbed, then you can begin properly learning to fence." She demonstrates by reaching out and tapping the foil. It is not a gentle tap, it's intended to send the point bouncing towards the ground. "Do you think interesting is reason enough, Parley?" "Interest," Parley's balance wobbles when his foil is /smacked/, sucking in air through his nose, "is the ultimate muse." Compressing his mouth hard, a few tendons stand out along the sides of his neck when muscles /burn/ down his core to slowly drag himself back to proper formation. "I think it's a necessary /first/ step for any - ksh," a gust of wind gives him a /trial/ to keep position, "- project. And without it..." The end of his foil is the last to return to proper elevation - and when it does, it /snaps/ to place, pointed sharply back at Alice with a subtle metallic /quiver/. "There's little point to continue." /Good/. Alice doesn't say it. She doesn't need to. It washes over him with the curl of her smile, salve for the burning that builds, acid-sharp, in his body. Such a small thing, to provide so much comfort. The wind pushes hair across her face. She reaches up to tuck it behind her ear, pulling strands free of her lips again before the end up nibbled on. "A case made for interest, then. The first step. I find you interesting. Does that make you feel safer? Around me? Around him?" The same hand she'd used to smooth her hair lifts, a gesture indicating the young man on his distant bench. His handsome face has lifted and turned towards them, the newspaper ignored for some moments now. He looks blandly interested but inside he does Not Approve. "I am not like your previous employers, Parley. Your value to me is not dependent on whether or not I find you interesting. I look for different criteria...but if you are the clever boy I think you to be, you knew that. Now, answer my questions," she says as she slaps the foil again, driving it down, "and we can begin from there." The foil snaps back quicker this time, making a little 'pwang' sound before it quivers back to stillness, "I'm not really interested in what's 'safe'." Parley uses the word 'interest' with a very intentional purpose. "But to put it down to a very /pat/ phrase, Alice-san, the people you work for have interests that conflict with my own. And I'd probably betray you, to obstruct them from getting their way. I would be disappointed if you hadn't already come to assume that." He swallows, his legs visible trembling now, and it forces more a /present/-minded sharpness to his eyes, as mere composure is no longer an option. "But. I feel your position and my position aren't so different from one another." Alice's eyes lower, a look as good as a touch as she studies the quivering deep muscle of thigh and haunch. It is a look that lingers, drawing out that cool, clean moment of almost-collapse, when mind and body war with each other. She begins to move around him, fingers running along the underside of his load-bearing arm, feet moving silently through the grass. A brief reprieve. "You are improving, and so quickly. Once more and then rest a moment," she instructs and for a third time, his foil is bounced groundwards. "I confess," the woman goes on as he recovers, "that the thought had crossed my mind. I have one attempted betrayal on my plate already, why would I want to take on the risk of another? It is a matter of resources, mm? Of one's ultimate goal. I am not a gambler, because I have no need to be. Gambling does not maintain balance. Poise. Harmony. "Tell me...were you to be given a position as an administrator, what would you do with it?" The foil snaps back a third time, though Parley's stance is sagging, crumpling, and then trying to force itself back to alignment again, through the tendon-burn; a small vein has become visible in the side of his temple, as have a few in his forearm and hand. He does not recoil from Alice's touch this time - his body can't /afford/ to at this juncture, something he notices with a grim, private smile. "I would use my position," he lets out a swatch of air and slowly lowers the foil, shoulders slumping, "to administer /balance/." A braced arm on a knee is necessary to pull in his back foot, remaining stooped over and as he strives to catch his breath. It drops some of his spikey-messy hair over one eye when he looks up at Alice's face, mouth so slightly open to pull in air. Alice completes her pass around him. A brief detour to her bag produces an aluminum bottle of water; its gleaming exterior is marked with vinework in brown and soft green. She offers it to Parley where he sags. Such a generous touch. But behind the gesture, her mind is ticking--<<(the right answer)(of course)(capable of taking a longer view)(capable of adapting)(to what /I/ want?)>> Her eyes, observing him, are very cool and very green in the harsh sunlight. "You propose yourself as an ally. I thought simply to lure you back," she muses quietly, aloud. And then she is sinking to the grass, whatever else she might have said going unsaid as she arranges herself, one knee up, one jutting out, her arm draped loose and relaxed over the upright. The other braces behind her, palm spread in the cool lawn. "What is it that you would like me to hear, Parley? What am I missing?" "We may need," Parley takes the waterbottle, though eyes it for a long moment, and then Alice, before sighing and taking a drink, "at this moment to agree to disagree on our major motivations." He eases down beside her, eyes pinched shut and grinding a knuckle into a knot in his lower back, "I'm not going to help you round up your escaped toys any more than I imagine you would help me free more of them." He says it lazily, without drama, the strain in his voice only from administering his self-massage. "But we have, perhaps, a mutual enemy." "Mmm...we speak of hypotheticals then. My favorite game." Alice's eyes close but her smile lingers on, long after it appeared for his hesitation over the water bottle. Like a flower, she turns her face to the sun. "In diplomatic circles, amongst ourselves, we sometimes refer to this as "what if". What if we were to cede this advantage in return for that advantage. What if you were to turn a blind eye and what if this were to be the result. Sometimes I think we deal in smoke and mirrors more than the dreamcrafters in Hollywood. And yet somehow it keeps the world afloat." Slowly, so very slowly, she draws a breath in through her nose. Upon its release, she murmurs, "Our mutual friend. The man with the plan. What a thorn he's become. You have /no/ idea, Parley." "Is it all so much strategic plumage?" Parley muses, a very slight twitch at the side of his mouth, though he's absorbing. Glancing through the corner of his eye and soaking in Alice's words with the attentiveness of a student. The twitch fades and he pulls in his legs, crosses them, sets an elbow over either knee and laces over his fingers to make a shelf upon which he rests his chin. "I might be able to imagine. He seems half the time intent on working against /himself/, laying down as many new obstacles as he can conquer. Mnh. You know, were we in a different era, one with warlords and siege weapons and swords, he would be well suited for survival. Here..." He takes another drink of water and then offers back the bottle to Alice, "It's like an immune system so intent on its work it destroys its own body." Pause. "His public platform, however..." "And finesse. And, of course, the ability to back up one's...strutting?" She cannot help but laugh at her mind for presenting that word. The image of Alice strutting is a strange one indeed. "Display might be a better word. One must /be/ as formidable as one appears. In most cases...yours seems somewhat different. Yours is a distinctive camouflage. How many, thus far, have seen the fur and spots, and wanted only to pet you?" she asks, opening her eyes to tilt her smile towards him. It also allows her to see the offer of the bottle and so she takes it, tilting it this way and that to determine the level of water still inside. "He's a mutant, you know." She says this as casually as someone might announce the weather. "I'm fairly certain his bloodwork was /not/ tampered with. And yet." "Well," Parley makes a strange, light laugh, eyes directed blankly ahead over the emerald green of spring grass, "I am quite soft." He sits for a long moment, legs crossed and chin propped, bathed in the sharp sunlight, the ripples of light wind. He's not smiling, nor frowning; he could be thinking nothing at all, or about sandwiches or math problems or poetry. What he says: "His mind is abnormal." He looks up at the vast brilliant blue sky and all the fluffy clouds overhead, "He sinks a lot into anti-telepathy research..." "Mmm." Just that, more acknowledgement of his first remark than any proper reply. It is the second that has seized Alice's fancy--but only for a moment, like a fingernail briefly catching on fabric. No. No, why would that matter. Although it would be interesting to see his medical records... "We have all sunk a great deal into anti-telepathy research, my dear. Most of these people," she says, gesturing with the bottle at the parkgoers, "their greatest fear in regards to mutants are those that they can see. The loud ones, the visible ones. Not unlike the AIDS hysteria of the early '80s, they fear being /next/ to them, being /touched/ by them. And of course, they fear the destructive ones...your pyrokinetics, your haemokinetics, the plague-bearers, those with predatory features. Because, in our hind brains, most of us are still prey animals. And it is true, they have something to fear...imagine a walking nuclear bomb taking a job as a page in the Senate. Imagine that that bomb was in fact hired by a foreign power...North Korea, for instance, or Iran." She pauses here to wet her throat from the bottle, tilting it up and drinking deeply. A breath follows, her eyes open turned to the sky. "But imagine next a world with no secrets. I might know everything Norman Osborn knows. But he would also know everything /I/ know. In a world filled with men like Osborn, and women like me, secrets are /essential/. I agree, he has an abnormal mind. But anti-telepathy technology is paramount to national security." "Did I say it was wrong?" Parley inquires, adjusting over to rest on the side of his hip. "Your argument is less necessary than you may think, even most mutants would like to be able to defend their minds from telepaths. Though." He closes his eyes, sliding his thumbpad along his fingertips where the hand hangs off the side of his hip, "As an individual whose happens to have a natural immunity to most common forms of telepathy, I can tell you - I have /qualms/ with your research methodology." A pause, "What are your thoughts about this /school/ idea he has?" "Not mine, dear. I am no scientist." Alice tilts the bottle towards him again, offering. "I believe there is some merit in his plan to build a school. In the long-term, say...decades, it is likely unsustainable. There will be abuses, many of them worse than what we've already seen. Residential schools have a glorious history on this continent," she says with a faint smile. "It typically ends with legislation and official apologies. But as a stepping stone to a public face...yes. It has a great deal of potential. Provided we do not have Mr. Osborn at the helm." "'You'-plural," Parley contends, though there's no confrontation to it, "There's no equivalent for shared possession, liability or otherwise, in English. It's very singular-individual centric. You know, in Japanese, there's a suffix that can be added to any verb, that transforms it into meaning 'let's do it in a group'?" He takes back the water, sips, sets it down between them, rubbing at the twanging, knotting muscles in his thigh to fight off a charlie horse threatening to form. "You realize," he says, looking downward, "it would only be a matter of time before mutants wanted to run it themselves." "I've yet to learn Japanese. I keep meaning to but..." But. Alice tilts her head to watch him at his work, her mood descending into something quiet and slow. Serene, even. The wheels continue to turn, however, grinding gradually but grinding /fine/. "It is only a matter of time before mutants will want to run it all themselves," she counters after a long, long moment of silence. "Fear he who has the power to cast you into hell. Many of them have the power. So very few of them deserve the advantages it grants them. Making an exception for one..." Her eyes shift from thigh to face. "That would need to be very carefully done." Perhaps intentional, perhaps not, but when Alice looks to his face, he's looking away, towards the horizon. And to this, he is nodding very slowly, "It would." "Very few of them deserve the treatment they've given, either." he contributes, speculating, "You could say a human with a gun has to register for a background check before they're allowed to carry it. But no mutant /wanted/ to register for their abilities at all. Ambition and natural power are not mutually inclusive. Dangerous mutants are only a small percentage of dangerous /people/ on the planet - we've been killing one another quite effectively long before the X-gene ever manifested." Slowly, he begins to gather his hands up beneath him, to push himself up onto his knees, "So. It's something to think about." "And seeking ways to prevent the same for as long," Alice says in turn. "Want has nothing to do with it, Parley. You know that. You might use what you can do responsibly. But you cannot say you haven't also used it to your own ends, weighing your need greater than that of others. Will you tell me otherwise?" She waits a moment, eyebrow cocked at him, expression otherwise unmoved. Then she is shifting as well, curling her legs beneath her and unfolding them to rise. Behind them, the young man stands from the bench, shaking out his paper. "Balance is the important thing. A question for you, Parley." "Ah-ah, careful," Parley says, with a little vacant laugh, offering a hand to Alice if she would like aid in standing. "Misusing mutational talents isn't, perhaps, a ground someone of your affiliation has the strongest footing on just yet." He glances up when the young man stands, but only for a moment and then looks back to his present company, imploring softly, "Ask." Alice does slip her hand into his to find her feet, though assistance is unnecessary. She is not above giving his fingers the most gentle of presses before releasing them, with an amused tickle of <<(so very soft)>>. Then she's bending to brush bright grass from the black of her clothing. "How many people have you told about me? About my...affiliation?" She does so love ending on a strong note--though she is in the act of gathering her things, her gaze remains trained on him. Her smile might be gentle. Those eyes are not. Standing, the prolonged tension-strain in Parley's legs reminds itself to him with a steady quake in his knees, as does a few crimps in his back, which he tries to quell with putting a hand on his hip in a rather modern pose - and then /compressing/. "Mh," he says distracted, as though he'd expected the question and isn't much surprised by it, wondering seemingly to the chill sky above, "would you believe me if I answered that, I wonder?" "Maybe. Maybe not. But if you expect to work with me, and would like for me to help advance your career, I think attempting to answer me honestly is not asking too much, mm? Give it a try, Parley. It can't be more difficult than en garde." Alice pulls the strap of her bag up over her shoulder and looks at him, expectant. She is thinking, << It is too easy for you to hide behind the veil of my mistrust. No more, young man. >> "Oh, I think the truth is much more dangerous than these," Parley gives the handle of his foil a little shake while tucking it into his bag. And tips his head to one side, then the other, then locks eyes with Alice, shifting his bag's strap over the hook of a shoulder, "One." He turns to leave, "One that I found discriminating enough to not be /foolish/ with it. Let's meet again like this." "One," Alice repeats, inhaling slowly. It is not the /best/ answer he could have given and this show in the way her lips press together, thinning greatly. But it is not an offensive answer, either. She tilts her head towards him--and leaves him to read between the lines of potential displeasure, should that answer ever change. "Here? Or the pool?" The diplomat is quick to find that small cat's paw smile again, her eyes flicking briefly down over his body. It isn't a refusal, though she follows the question--rhetorical, it turns out--by turning to walk towards her young escort. The man is handed the bag, for to be carrying it and Parley is gifted with Alice's hand raised in a brief, graceful flourish of good-bye.