ArchivedLogs:Argumentum ad Passiones

Argumentum ad Passiones
Dramatis Personae Jennifer, Parley	2013-06-17 Jennifer reaches out to Parley. Tooouch.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. One of the more spacious couches is claimed by a single woman. Jennifer Walters is seated in front of a coffee table, two neat piles of paperwork flanking her sunken form. A trio of empty plates implicate that lunch is over, so it is time to return to work, of which there is plenty. There is, however, still a cup of yet another cappuccino unfinished. Somewhere beneath the papers, the phone vibrates again, crawling across the table lazily. They will have to leave voice mail. The lawyer is currently casually dressed, choosing her usual combination of jeans and a T-shirt. Today, that T-shirt has a fancily stylised warning stating that lawyers never lose their appeal, a cringeworthy attempt at humour that Jen approved nonetheless. Her hair is even more disobedient than usual, stray wayward locks occasionally obscuring her vision until she heaves a particularly hefty sigh. If one thing Hollywood can never get right, is that lawyers also work outside courtrooms, and it happens to be the brunt of their work, too. At least today she manages to do so in a much more comfortable and convenient environment. Was he invited? Wasn't he? Did he hunt Jennifer down himself? Was this merely the alignment of the cosmos? His entrance, as ever, is no single event to place a finger upon. Jennifer's empty dishes are, at one point, present with bits of crumb still cluttering their surface, and when a shadow of passer-by drifts across the table they're gone, cleared away and replaced with a second coffee drink - an ice caramel latte with a snowy peak of cinnamon-dusted whipped cream - sitting alongside Jennifer's. And, rather suddenly, there is just - a /Parley/ here. Dressed in a thin cotton turtleneck, dark green with a black stripe encircling the middle of the torso, the cushions are sunk beneath his weight, feet are tucked up beneath him. With his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, he's reading.. /something/. Is it his own paperwork? Is it some of /Jennifers/'s paperwork? Negligently, at some point, he hands her a news article announcing an upcoming press conference called for by Tony Stark? Its speakers: Iolaus Saavedro. Jackson Holland. Just, slipped in. Underhand. At the sight of more paper - whatever it might be - Jennifer wrinkles her nose. Or perhaps it is just Parley. Unfortunately, today he fails to surprise her with his abrupt appearance. Then again, the redhead looks worn down both by work and the summer heat to the point that nothing short of an earthquake would make her move from the couch. So, for now, Parley's appearance gets a sigh and a quirk of her lips. The article is eyed next. It, too, does not seem to impress Jennifer that much. Her mind quietly sweeps through the possibilities, ranging from a boisterous applause to warlike riots tearing up the streets. The newspaper is taken and then tossed to the coffee table. "The last person I'd think would care about this whole mess, to be honest," she admits through yet another sigh. << Even that Balkan (Latvia?) (Latveria) country stepped in to (if you are reading this get out) >> There's a polite little flash of a smile as she interrupts her own train of thought. "How many people d'you think realize how close to the edge this city is?" Her eyes scan the rest of the cafe. << Look at them. Sipping coffee, having a slice of an apple cake. (I want one) Somewhere else in the city, a mutant is being beaten into a bloody pulp. Somewhere else, the same is being done to a /human/ just because they think they're a /mutant/. >> "Stark?" the side of Parley's mouth twitches, watching a woman in skinny jeans and an orange bubbledress pull a toddler along the line at the counter. "Mm. He seems to have found something in it to care about, anyway." Yes, this time, he is definitely trading out the paper he's currently reading for something else in Jennifer's stack. "I think it's crossed most of their minds - with excitement, even, maybe. In some." He lays these words, either dispassionate or humorous, or just /tired/, all down the front of his reading material, then flicks his eyes thoughtfully to the side of Jennifer's face - /small/ near-smile teasing up at that little mental push-back. It fades when he scans their environment, voice lowering to barely an undertone, more... distant. "They're going to break the news of the fights." The notion that some might find excitement in the ensuing chaos is not something that had occurred to Jennifer just yet, and so she frees a lengthy sigh, during which she even blusters like an annoyed child. Nothing is commented on the matter, at least not verbally. << (petulant)(stupid)(choke on their bigotry) >> The redhead looks to the cup she's abandoned, and so she is duly reminded why that is - because it's too damn far away. Intent on setting a record for herself, another sigh - a more petite one - just barely parts her lips. Her eyes lift up to Parley. The mention of the fights overrides her thoughts << (how did you /know/)(fight club)(is that why Jackson will be there) >> with something more powerful - concern. "Shit," is all she says, at first. Her features grown sterner, while her mind seems to weigh the scales as Justice would. The difficulty of the problem actually has her resort to denial. "Which... fights do you mean?" There is a haughty sort of chime to her tone. A moot point perhaps, considering the question arrives /after/ the weighing of options and the fact there is a mind reader nearby, but don't tell that to Jennifer. "--Ms. Basil is helping them amass the evidence they would need for a trial." Parley is a very /weary/ counter to Jennifer's firm presence, sinking in where hers stands firm and flipping over the page of the current packet he's captured to view what further browsing material might be locked inside. "They have it now. They will possibly be releasing some of it along with the conference." Beneath his lowered eyelids, he slips his gaze towards Jennifer, "What do you think of all this?" Parley's graceful evasion of her question is in and of itself an answer. The fiery-haired lawyer lifts up a hand to grind her palm against her forehead. Her emerald eyes, however, remain fixated on Parley. "Going to the public before you go to court is basically--" Her gaze becomes somewhat curious, her mind signalling the unspoken question if the words about to be voiced are known to Parley. "--argumentum ad passiones." Her mind quickly /thinks/ the translation purely out of reflex. << Appeal to emotion. >> "It means you have a reason to distrust the judicial system. Maybe because you want to sway the public opinion before you face the jury. Maybe because you suspect corruption. It's a fine line to walk, and--" Jennifer tsks irksomely and leans forward to finally grab that cup of cappuccino. It's only after she takes a well-deserved sip that she continues. "I hate walking it. I don't... like to concern myself with the whole public opinion game. My job's always in the courtroom and there alone. Anything outside that makes it a game." The cup lowers to her lap. "And you don't fucking play games with the government. We defend the law, the government /created/ it." Parley will sense a feeling of debt within Jennifer; the woman feels as though she owes a better answer. "With that big supernova - Tony Stark? It might work... or it might be the start of nationwide riots. Hell, civil war is in that deck of cards." "It's all a game," Parley disagrees, dispassionately. "There are rules set up, boundaries in which we must play, circumstances we are required to meet to progress - there is no other word that describes it. -- Public awareness also means more witnesses." Parley is less interjecting as he is adding threads to the braid Jennifer is already weaving in the void between them. "The more eyes that are watching, the harder it is to be dishonest... Mn." His head settles back on the cushions behind him, eyes closing. "Have you noticed it's how difficult it is to commit a crime until you have more than one person involved? Entirely separated from other individuals, there is nothing to steal, no one to murder, nowhere to trespass." When his eyes open, the passing reverie is gone, "-it might work." He doesn't sound hopeful, nor excited. "...they're so close to it. That young man that was shot, from the news. Ian Friedan. He's a close friend of theirs. Mr. Holland's own children were involved in the fights. Barely sixteen. At what point can you step back?" He scrubs his face, disrupting the perch of his glasses, "I don't know. Can you even expect someone in his position to /not/ have a small part of him that's hoping to start a fight?" His eyes are blank when he pulls off his glasses to clean them - the inquiry sounds genuinely curious. Hypothetical. Jennifer already begins to wrinkle her nose the moment Parley claims that all of it is a game. Her disapproval only grows with time, even if there is a fair back and forth happening between the two. There is a clear reluctance - one doesn't need to be an empath to see that - on her part in terms of whether or not to spray some more fuel into the fire. Of course, this is Jennifer. Fuel is not sprayed, it's liberally poured. "A game to /you/, maybe. To professionals, it's a /job/," she answers sharply. "I prescribe less CSI." The whips can almost be heard cracking through the air. Despite the harshness, however, her tone is more chiding and motherly than simply condemning. "And Parley? In some US states, committing suicide remains a common law crime. So no, you don't always need more than one person." Awakened from her lazy workday, Jennifer finally sits up straight and attentively. The question pertaining to Jackson actually stumps her. There's a whirlpool of potential responses clashing in her mind, all revolving around the idea that he is a great man, yet all of them are followed up with the word 'but'. The uncertainty as to what she should tell Parley can also be found in there, somewhere. Ultimately, Jennifer tugs at her thoughts, pulling them back not unlike a bunch of kids trying to pull a friend away from a scuffle. "The last thing this city needs right now is a fight, figurative or literal." Another sigh is thrown out into the open. "Even Luke Cage wisened up and closed up shop. /I/ am keeping my nose deep in paperwork and go to gym when I have nothing, hoping that will keep me off the streets. What the city needs right now is for the mutant community to redeem itself-- Swallow your damn pride and take the fall, /that/ will get you sympathy, not beating your chest about how sad and misunderstood you are." Jennifer scoffs and leans back in the couch, sinking back into it with a frown and a wayward gaze. "You might be surprised. I play this game far more seriously than most people take their jobs." Whatever may cause it, maybe aligning planets, a passing scent, a reflection of sunlight off a car windshield outside - there is a constriction, around Parley's eyes, the lower eyelid clenching briefly and then relaxing, in the side of his neck. He sinks deeper into the couch. "We'll have to see, I suppose." Just a neutral, catch-all comment, and he inflicts it with relish. He reaches for his coffee, tone rising into curious, "Do you think suicide counts as a crime? -- without other people to /inconvenience/ with it?" Jennifer parts her lips and inhales sharply, so as to begin her response. Instead, however, she calmly empties her lungs without a word spoken. "That's... a weird random question." Needless to say, the first thing that comes to her mind was whether Parley is considering it. A brief glance directed at him is accompanied by yet another mental question, whether he picked the previous thought up. The circle is complete when the train of thought is duly dismissed. "I don't... think it's a crime. I just think it's the worst mistake a human being could possibly make." The lawyer clears her throat. "Why? Why do you ask?" "Only because you said it first," Parley gently reminds behind his cup. He's watching, ever watching, the corners of his eyes turned up - either in spite of what he might hear from her - or possibly because of. Maybe he missed it entirely. Sip. "Do you often say things for the sake of being contrary, Ms. Walters?" The tension that lingered on Jennifer's part dissipates within seconds. Rolling her eyes and shedding yet another sigh, the tired gesture culminates with an accusing glare sent Parley's way. "Really?" << 'You said it first'? That's your deflection? >> The next question coaxes a longer pause from the redhead. She actually considers it for a few moments before providing an answer. "Not always... consciously. I mean, if you're talking about one thing, then clearly you've already thought about it. It's up to me to make you consider the other thing. I'll disagree with you even when I agree with you, just so that we both feel sure when we agree on... agreeing." The lawyer furrows her brows thoughtfully. "That did not make sense, did it." And then - right out of left field - comes her own question. "What's your angle, Parley? What's your goal?" A hand swiftly darts up to tut at him. "/Don't/ deflect. Politician your way through the answer if you must, but /don't/ deflect, got it?" "It make sense for a lawyer, perhaps." It's a certain type of trick; to capture the intonation, inflection - the /personality/ of a quote and repeat it back as it had been said originally: " 'In some US states, committing suicide remains a common law crime.' - your words." And indeed, though spoken in Parley's voice, it's somehow /rich/ with the strong coloration that is Jennifer herself. "I was curious if you believed in it." A certain... weariness rolls through him, leaning back deeper into the couch as Jennifer unveils her question, speaking somewhat on top of her before she's done at a low /groan/, "--not everything is as much of a deflection as it looks like, Ms. Walters." He frames the side of his jaw in an L-shape of thumb and forefinger, propping up his head in this way as he leans over onto the armrest. "Though for how often I'm asked that by people, I do wonder - if I were to ask you the same, how would you answer it? It's a bit much, isn't it? I don't think anyone has a single goal they devote their every moment to." << Don't interrupt me. You won't like me when I am interrupted. >> The words are not spoken; they are there for the empath to either pick up from her head or read in the glare that strikes Parley with the blunt force of a hammer. Still, her features gradually soften, even if she remains somewhat tense. "Really?" That rhetoric couldn't possibly sound more sarcastic. Jennifer shifts in the couch to lean against the back of it sideways, propping an elbow on top of its back. "And yet I am getting different signals from you. You snoop for Claire Basil, discuss sensitive information with Norman Osborn, conveniently show up at Cage's office and get access to all his files-- Do you think I'm blind? That annoying camouflage works for your skin, not for your actions." << Not a moment goes by I don't wonder who /else/ you're in bed with. >> "My goal, Parley? Protection. I will protect people, be it in a courtroom as a lawyer or outside it as a friend. See, knowing your goal isn't important for the sake of small talk with others. You have to know your goals so you know /yourself/. Sure, you can have multiple goals, but they should all fit under the same umbrella, and that umbrella should be definable by a single word. That word defines you." "You've also worked with Ms. Basil," Parley answers back, like sleepily skipping stones, but with his eyes closing, "And Mr. Cage. Would you feel better if I was asking Mr. Osborn to /dinner/ first?" The far side of his mouth quirks up, "Before climbing into his bed?" While the glare resumes, Jennifer steadily lifts up a hand, lets the flat palm linger in the air for a few crucial moments and then delivers it harshly across Parley's cheek. Or, at least, that is the meticulous image Jennifer has crafted inside her head, complete with attempting to imagine the degree of pain Parley would experience from such a smack. "My cooperation with Claire did not extend beyond her giving me a piece of paper in exchange for some chocolate cake. My interaction with Norman was /also/ minimal, and I am pretty sure your motivation when talking to him differs drastically from mine, so do not try to hide. Not from me. Out of all the people you might fool, that's not going to work with /me/." Both hands land at Jennifer's hips as she leans forward towards Parley. "I want to trust you, but if you keep hiding like that, you're giving me all the wrong signals. I need to see if you're someone I should protect or someone I should be protecting others /from/." Eyes already closed, a trace of shiver warms in Parley's smile for Jennifer's mental suggestion, and he turns his cheek lightly to her better vantage, "Would you like to?" And he feeds her mental image /back/ to her; he cannot fabricate a physical feeling. Only sentiment. Emotion. But these ring with an ethereal clarity... all Jennifer's. It's a surrender, her flavor-scent pouring through, his own washing out beneath it like an exposure of throat, of shown belly. The angle of his head means that when his eyes open, he is watching her through the corner of them, "We all want to protect something, Ms. Walters. Even me." Jennifer recoils back at the feedback she receives. Unsurprisingly, there's a flash of disgust that contaminates her otherwise usually bright features. Still, she soon puppeteers her visage to read an actually friendly rendition of, << Really, now? >> The sigh counter goes up by one more. "Speak to me, Parley," she pleads with a soft, gentle tone of voice. "What do you want to protect the most? And from what, if you don't mind me prying?" << (why not?) >> It's such a whisper-soft question, shivering through wordlessly on soft ripples, almost a challenge. "Ah-ah? What was it - argumentum ad passiones?" Parley sighs, adding to Jennifer's stunning tally, and it seems to have a shred of - approval? He stands up. "Perhaps another time." Standing over the woman, he -- hands her back. Her own. Papers. He's not /sheepish/ about it, either - just kind of languidly extends them, one thumb hooked into a belt loop. HERE. TAKE 'EM. "Protect the people you think deserve it, Jennifer Walters. I can't help you make that decision." The papers are angrily snatched away from Parley, although the emotion that is attached to the movement is more impatience than aggression. "That wasn't an appeal to emotion, Parley. That was an appeal to /reason/, but clearly you prefer to not just beat around the bush, but throw lit matches at it and watch it from miles away." There is a clear indication of annoyance in her tone as she rambles. Her annoyance partially melts away in her gaze. The next words are thought, not said. << If you think trying to understand you is an appeal to emotion, I'm both curious and worried what you had to go through to think that. >> The papers are flung onto the coffee table gracefully. "You're infuriatingly misguided, Parley. Anyone ever tell you that?" It's as though her temperament tripped and fell face first before it could break into a rage-fuelled sprint. Her demeanour continues to subside in intensity, and Parley might spot the very same image he spotted during her transformation into She-Hulk - that warm-eyed moustached old fellow wearing a police uniform. It is but a flash, a passing reminder. Her last sigh is also her longest one. "You /can/ help me. You just choose not to, for some obtuse reason." Jennifer offers a light shrug, her eyes still fixed on Parley. "More than anything, I hate having my time wasted. I want to go back to work, Parls. I have better things to do than play verbal chess with you." "....," Agh, all of this seems - a little out of Parley's depth, actually. He's just kind of looking at Jennifer, frankly. His brows pull slightly together, then - raise? Then he derails, gliding eyes over a young couple entering the cafe. "Well. You're probably not wrong." Both of his hands are now collecting behind his back as he turns his hips sideways to slip through the gap between seat and coffee table, "Have a good day, Ms. Walters." Everything else? /Ignored/. The emerald eyes watch Parley's departure, their owner quiet and observant. Both brows shoot up momentarily before Jennifer leans forward and grabs her phone for the table. A thumb hovers over the screen, but she pauses. Again, she looks up to see where Parley would have gone to exit. A thoughtful expression is soon brightened by the faintest of smiles, before she wipes it clean and unlocks the smartphone to check that damned voicemail.