ArchivedLogs:The Delicate Art of Subterfuge

The Delicate Art of Subterfuge
Dramatis Personae Parley, Claire, Emma	2013-03-13 Parley and Claire have a meet-and-greet with Emma; Claire is /not/ buying Parley a suit.
Location Some Thai Restaurant
Restaurant. Somewhere. A nice one. Thai, maybe -- Claire loves a good Thai curry. Do cats like Thai curry? She will soon find out. She arrives in her usual green wool coat, matching flower hat, pink-and-white stripped scarf, and black lacquered cane -- but as she moves toward the door, she cautions the following Parley -- her mental words spoken in fluent French: << {Let me go in first alone. We don't know who this person is, beyond someone who is looking for mutants. I'd hate for you to walk into something dangerous.} >> Perhaps an unnecessary gesture of caution on Claire's part -- but she's learned to be cautious at the intersection of 'obvious', 'mutant', and 'looking for'. If Emma searches the mind of the older woman who is stepping into the restaurant, she will find a surprisingly brisk, structured psyche -- like charged, hardened crystal. It is polished and practiced -- this is someone who has had /considerable/ interaction with telepaths before. Her mind is razor-honed when it comes to recognizing their intrusion. She moves, eyes searching -- ah, there are not many people in here. Certainly not many women dining alone. A polite smile, a tap-tap-tap of the cane... Parley nods imperceptibly to Claire at the entrance, following soon enough alone now, scanning eyes over the decor of the restaurant in a loose meander. He's dressed in clothes that attempt to couch as class-neutral of a style as they can from a negative-zero 'refugee donation pile' budget. A simple brown turtleneck, black pants. Clean nails. His mind is a gap - or almost. It nearly has substance, in the way that a thick /fog/ might. The sense of some hazy thin membrane spread out across a wide area in a broken-up shape. If you look /closely/ anyway. If you look close, you could also see the twitch-smile he offers the server that takes him to a seat at a booth, following at a steady arm's length and slightly skirting tables occupied with strangers. His footsteps and gait possess a muted quality to match. Emma Frost enters about five minutes before the appointed time, looking around the restaurant briefly before starting to focus her eyes on different individuals in the dining area. Her mind is set to receptive, taking a head count, gleaning surface thoughts, nothing major. She is dressed in an off white pencil skirt with a blazer over the top in the same shade. She has a gauzy shirt on underneath, but the crispness and style of her jacket indicates that it does not come off often. Her white trenchcoat and knee high boots are a nod to the weather and it's utter unpredictability lately. She has an over the shoulder bag, but she carries her tablet - in a black leather portfolio - in her arms. After a moment or two in the door, she narrows her eyes, hidden between dark rimmed glasses, on Claire in a friendly fashion, judging her to be the most likely to be her contact of the afternoon. Her mind is a fascinating thing, but Emma mostly watches it from afar for the time being. She walks over to the older woman and tilts her head to one side. "Hi, might you be Claire Basil?" In the back of her mind there is something bothering her about her headcount, but she can't put her finger on it. Claire offers Emma an immediate hand. "Yes. Emma Frost? Pleasure to meet you. A friend of mine said you were working on an unusual project." A pause, then: "Shall we sit?" Assuming they do -- Claire trailing behind Emma -- she waits, patiently, until no one is within immediate earshot. Then: "Specifically, reaching out to members of the mutant community." << {Is she dangerous?} >> French. Whisper-soft. Directed to someone here in the dining room. Emma /might/ make it out -- but she'll have to pay close attention to manage. Claire's defenses are not running full-throttle, but she's being careful with her thoughts. Outwardly, she doesn't show it -- but inwardly, her mind is tense and alert. << (well). >> Parley conveys 'well' by a sense of idle inner grooming. Raspy tongue over rosettes - maybe this is to so gently tease. << (no immediate intent to kill). >> He shifts from grooming himself to grooming /Claire's/ outer mind, so subtly softening its own edges into obfuscation. << (her mind -- open? watchful. interested.) (stay sharp). >> He scans his menu. "It is an interesting proposition, anyway. I can't say specifically that it is my project." Emma finds a place to sit and first removes her coat, draping it over a side chair before sitting in the one she's claimed. She draws in a deep breath and watches Claire, to see if she'll do the same. She smiles before selecting a menu. "I am afraid that most don't find what I have to offer remotely appealing." She wets her lips quietly as she opens to see the cuisine of the day. Emma's mind does pick up the banter, but as it seems to disappear into some sort of obscurity, she finds it disconcerting. Unfortunately, Claire's powers drive her to be a little more curious than she might have been, a little more jarred by things not making sense. She scans the rest of the room again, narrowing down where the nothingness seems to be. "Did you want to eat first," Emma asks after a moment, "or jump right into business?" Oh, goodness; Claire can't stop herself from smiling /just a bit/ at the psychic rasp of a cat's tongue. << {You're adorable.} >> It's followed by a thumb scritching at a fuzzy cheek, just behind the whiskers. Scrrtch, scrrtch. The message is sent /beneath/ the surface of her mind; a stealthy little sniper shot meant to slip under anyone's active radar. But that doesn't mean it won't be caught. << {Tell me if you notice anything fishy, yes?} >> Claire does remove her coat, /and/ her hat; beneath, a rather plain white blouse. She shuffles in place and eyes the menu with vicious intent: "Oh? Oh, I'd imagine not," she responds. "I mean, /really/. Asking people already under considerable threat to expose themselves to more? It's not the most /sensible/ thing to do. But!" she adds, with a cheerful smile: "Fortunately for you, the world is not filled with sensible people. We can start talking now, I don't mind -- what is this all about, anyway? No registration nonsense, I hope -- if it is, I'll have mine to go." Her tone is brisk, quick; she makes no attempts to hide her mutant leanings. Either exteriorly or interiorly. But it's clear that inside her head, gears are churning -- she's focused on Emma, observing her. Monitoring her response. Trying to get a bead on her. << (prr). >> Meta-whiskers rolling forward for the full scitch-experience against the chops, and almost casually Parley warns: << (--telepath)(i think)(she might have noticed you/me/communication.) >> Except that this side-steps the immediate 'fishy' criteria warning for now. If being psionically sensitive alone was fishy... Well. Parley /is/ ordering fish for himself, handing over his menu. Coconut and lemongrass? Yes, please. Hope Claire is willing to pay. There's a long pause, and a slowly growing concern at what he has to deliberately realize is /not/ there rather than what is. << ...(i think she's withholding/hiding/not...having(??) her feelings about the project where i can see.) (try getting her to talk) (easier when they talk). >> "It's actually about a party," Emma drawls almost lazily, her finger running along the titles of dishes until she finds one she likes. She looks up. "I am the event coordinator at the Hellfire Club here in New York. A member and client of mine is having a very specific soiree and I've been asked to ensure that the guest list is rounded out with the types of people he has requested." Emma has mostly worn herself out of emotions regarding this project, but is determined to see it through as there is no alternative. Her mind is, however, still preoccupied with Parley's nonexistence, as it were, feeling like she can almost hear the whispering, but can't make out all of the words. Her mind is also guarded. There is the very distinctive feeling that Emma only lets out what she wants to let out. "Tell me, Ms. Basil, what are you feelings on mutant countermeasures for the government and police forces? Most people will agree that a rogue mutant is dangerous. Obviously, the police are a means of personal protection for those who cannot afford personal guards, but who gets to say what tools they are given to ensure the citizen's safety?" Claire's eyebrows lift ever-so-slightly at the concept of 'telepath'; psychic thumbs root themselves behind fuzzy ears; fingertips proceed to dig into furry cheeks, delivering a /deep/ cheek-grooming. Both sides! << {Oh-ho-ho! So /many/ of you in this city! You risk becoming too popular.} >> Again, all of it under the radar; so whisper-soft that you have to be paying close attention to hear it. The second bit of Parley's missive recieves a warm, dazzling mental smile -- and a quick reply: << {Oh, I can do /so/ much better than that, dear.} >> "'Mutant' countermeasures? Pah," is Claire's opinion. "/Mutants/ are mutant countermeasures. The whole problem evaporates when you stop treating this like some sort of zero-sum game." You learn quite a number of tricks when you deal with telepaths. Claire deploys one now -- her mind slowly retracts, growing quiet and still as she lifts the glass of water on the table up to her mouth. "Hnh," she speaks aloud, "this water tastes strange. Does yours...?" Should Emma Frost take the bait and lift her own water to sip, Claire levels her eyes right on her the moment moisture hits her lips -- watching her like a /hawk/ -- and suddenly her mind *expands* with incredible force, swelling out into the equivalent of a booming shout: << I PISSED IN YOUR ICE WATER. >> << !!! >> Parley, at his table, /coughs/. "Do you have to be vulgar?" Emma looks up from her ice water, like a tired matron at the dinner table, dealing with /teenagers./ "I was being polite, allowing you your conversations with your friend, your allusion that you had an inside track, but the provocation was uncalled for." She takes another sip and sets down her glass and draws in a deep breath. "Did you want to continue the farce, or would you like to invite your friend over to talk as well?" There's a pause, and then, "I can wait." Claire actually /grins/! "A little vulgarity keeps the soul honest, dear. But yes, that was rude of me. I apologize." << I've dealt with telepaths who know well enough to not answer when you ask them if they are listening. I wanted to be absolutely positive. >> Her mind slips back to something more quiet, and then: << {Dear...? Would you feel comfortable joining us...? I don't think she's going to eat us. She has secrets, maybe, but telepaths I can handle.} >> When she addresses Emma again, the self-indulgent grin has slipped into a softer, more polite smile: "I'm terrible at poker, Ms. Frost. Absolutely /miserable/. So let's just lay all our cards on the table...?" << What do you want? Why are you seeking out mutants? And what's all this nonsense about mutant countermeasures? >> Before Claire is even done asking, there is a third person ghosting into a seat at her side. Parley sits neatly contained in his own parameters, ankles crossed under the table and spine straight - which makes the light touch to Claire's wrist and brief glance at her that much more stark before he withdraws it. << (i don't mind.) (am curious.) >> His eyes are on Emma, then, chin tipping down in a small nod. "I'm called Parley." << You both are really quite terrible at espionage. >> Emma chides them quietly as she inhales. The smile she gives the newcomer is sweet and warm. "Oh, Parley, it's wonderful you could make it. We were just about to start without you." She looks back to Claire and smiles wider. << One does not have conversations at tables in half sentences and distracted remarks. If anyone is physically /listening/, the conversation needs to make sense to them. Your little outburst has already made this quite a mess. >> "Now that we are all finally here and discussing things openly. The subject at hand is anti-mutant countermeasures. I am representing Norman Osborn of Oscorp, a leading manufacturer of military grade arms. You, Ms. Basil, belong to a mutants rights organization that works toward the betterment of mutantkind. Mr. Osborn would like to invite you and your opinions on the matter at hand to a evening of drinks, delectables, and demonstrations. He will show off what he believes should be in the hands of the police and military forces in this country - and he wants your feedback." Emma's presentation is well rehearsed and tight, the words known so well that the sentiment is placed back over the top again as all original feelings were lost. She waits on their responses. << /Physically/ listening? Who on earth would care to -- >> Claire's nose wrinkles immediately. << You're in trouble, aren't you? >> It's easy enough to hide that nose-wrinkle as a response to the words coming out of Emma's mouth, however. /Particularly/ at the mention of the words 'Oscorp' and 'military grade arms'. Parley can /feel/ Claire's hackles rising -- were she more cat-like, she'd be about to produce the equivalent of a psychic hiss. "I would not characterize the ACLU as a /mutants/ rights organization; rather, they're interested in everyone's rights," she carefully points out -- but those words are practiced and polished. Immediately afterward: "He wants /my/ feedback? I'm just a lawyer with some interesting friends, Ms. Frost. I can't speak for the entirety of the ACLU...!" << Good /grief/, woman! What on earth have you gotten yourself /into/?! >> Parley listens, not seeming abashed by the chiding as he stealth-swipes Claire's water and sips from it. He lowers his eyes into his glass and makes a quiet exhale. "It's not about the ACLU at all, is it. Or Ms. Basil." His eyes stay lowered into the water, where he spies a little invisible floaty and chases it with a thumb. "It's for posterity, isn't it. Mutants or reputable mutant advocates, who they are doesn't matter, does it." His eyes snap up to Emma's face with head still tipped down, "He wants you to raise him a body count, Ms. Frost. That he can point back later to prove it's..." One side of his mouth twitches, "nothing personal." "He is right in some degree," Emma begins, looking over at Claire quietly, not giving an inch to her concerned mental prattling and conjecture. "This isn't really about you or the ACLU. I must apologize, however. I was lead to believe that you were a part of another organization that is about mutant rights. I apologize for my misinformation." She opens her tablet and makes a couple quick notes as she continues. "What he wants, however, he wants a selling point," Emma corrects Parley's assessment. "Mr. Osborn believes that he can get the military to back his projects if he does what no other group seems to be doing: He is seeking mutant feedback. He wants to appear like mutants are being taken into account when decisions are being made and that their opinions are being respected." She draws in a deep breath and moistens her lips again. "Also, I was lead to believe that there are no plans for a body count. You would be a guest at the party, encouraged to wear your finest and enjoy the open bar as much as you like. Any demonstrations are to be performed on inanimate objects and all of our guests' safety will be attended to during the course of those events." Emma lets down her shields a bit to allow Parley the opportunity to see her fervent honesty in this regard, though she is not entirely sure how she is going to tell Osborn that the Hellfire Club doesn't precisely have permits for weapons grade explosives in the city limits. << He wants, primarily, a group of mutant supporters - middle class, not offensively powerful mutants who are scared of what extremely powerful mutants can do - and want protections put in place. Obviously, I am not going to get that from you two, but this is an opportunity to take what is demonstrated to the ACLU - as it will affect humans too, if these weapons become police issue. >> Claire's focus narrows. She's scowling, a bit, at Emma's words... but the scowl softens at what Parley says. And gets a bit softer at the telepath'd message. << {Good grief.} >> "I don't approve of weapons," Claire states flatly, "but I'd be silly to turn down an opportunity merely to be /heard/." << As if he'll listen -- why on /earth/ are you helping him build weapons against mutants? >> Then: "Though my voice wouldn't be the one he's looking for, I fear. He wants feedback from /mutants/?" A flicker of thought. "I could speak to a few, but..." "I didn't mean 'body count' literally," Parley seeks to amend, but passively, at a point that doesn't interrupt, "Only that he wants numbers." It's his only major contribution, though his eyes dart back and forth between the two women over his laced fingers. He's set his nose on top of them. A certain... solidity is tightening through his shoulders. A hardening tension pulling in his shoulders. *And he says, abruptly, simply, eyes closing, "I'll go." Water-sip. "Ah. Well. There are some security issues I must go over with you, in regards to whomever you recommend for the party." Emma flicks her fingers across the screen as she finds the file. "I will need to know details about the powers of any mutant who comes. It is preferred that they are not offensively powerful. Defensive gifts are acceptable, but we need to be sure that there will be no assassination attempts on his person during the event. Any person who wishes to attend must not have any association with Mutant Supremacist groups, like the ones that created the incident at Liberty Island. Additionally, Mr. Osborn has requested that no telepaths attend the function as he wishes his prototypes and schematics to remain trade secrets until patented." She glances over at Parley as she finishes, sliding him a business card. "You can come, if you meet all of those requirements." << I ... cannot guarantee that a telepath could slip by. He may be able to detect them. >> She renews her smile as she looks over at Claire once more, slipping another business card out of her portfolio and handing it to her. "Please contact me if you know anyone who fits the specifications." << Always assume someone is listening. >> When Parley says that last sentence, well -- Claire's mouth grows straight and thin. Her thoughts are bare, and easy to read; concern, coupled with the thought that she's only starting to get to know this young man and already, he's planning to go to a party hosted by a gentleman who's selling weapons likely designed to kill him. << {You will need a suit.} >> she tells him, and then, pre-emptively: << {I am not buying you a suit.} >> and finally: << {I have one. It has pin-stripes. You will look dashing.} >> "I'll attend," she mentions absently, "assuming I'm still wanted." << If he's going, I'm going. >> she adds, rather quietly. "I can... speak to the few I know." << Detecting telepaths? That would be an interesting trick. There may be ways to tell. >> She takes the business card, and then: "I'm starving. Let's eat, shall we?" << It has been a long time since I have engaged in subterfuge. Pardon my rust. With your consent, I wish us to discuss this with you at length. While we eat. >> And so they presumedly will!