ArchivedLogs:Cat Toys

Cat Toys
Dramatis Personae Parley, Claire	2013-08-01 '
Location
Claire's apartment is, as always, much like her mind: Clean, polished, and FULL OF CATS. Booger is currently on his back, mawing a piece of dropcloth as if it were a poor, helpless piece of meat; his claws have sank in and he is in the process of chewing it when Claire zips by -- clad in a loose-fitting green blouse, darker green skirt, slippers, and cane. She's opening the door at Parley's arrival a moment later -- Booger's eyes /snap/ to the competing feline, and then -- DART! He's gone in a bundle of fur, paws, and sinister intentions. "Parley," Claire states, with a sluggish smile, "there you are." Dressed in usual business-casual wear, Parley has a way of making even new, well-crafted clothes have some /slight ambiance/ of being threadbare. He bears a small wooden novelty box with the words L. A. Burdick - Handmade Chocolates burned stylishly into the grain. "I brought you chocolate mice," he informs Claire, quite solemnly, box presented. Take iiiiit. "They have eyes." /Edible/ little eyes. His narrowed eyes dart after Booger's directional catfit. Like he's not sure he isn't going to have to go TAKE CARE of that soon. With a bit of /string/ or a ferocious attack-of-the-foot possibly... First, though, the sluggishness in Claire smile brings him back to her, packing in sort of awkward-closer, "...you look tired." "--are they actually chocolate mice? As in, chocolate covered?" Claire asks, lips pursed as she accepts the box. She seems genuinely interested in the answer! She steps back to give Parley additional room to step inside; the box is ferried away somewhere safe -- to her kitchen table! As she holds it in one hand, leaning on her cane with a steady tick-tick with the other. "I've been busy," she informs him. "Increased case-load with all the police activity in the city. That, and handling -- ah, finances." Somewhere, Booger peeks around the edge of a wall. And watches. Silently. Preparing. /Waiting/. Your ankles will be MINE, Parley. "Did you /want/ them to be? Because I'm fairly sure they're more mousse than..." Parley lingers at the door long enough to slip the collar of his jacket and step out of his shoes, tracking Claire with his eyes. "...mouse. Did you get my last email list? I only sent it this morning." Likely, he does some of the screening for the cases that successfully /land/ on Claire's desk. And wields the ax to cut loose those that won't. Chop chop. Then he's off, after Claire, poking around as he ever does along the way - /riffling/ at any papers, peering under a pillow as he passes the couch. If his hackles are so slightly up, it's because aaaaa there's a tiny predator watching him and it's /riling/. Small back-spasm. His voice remains conversational, "Hm. Finances. Were you ever planning on telling me? Or are you and Holland in full cahoots now." "That's terrible, Parley," Claire announces, though with a faint trace of laughter at the pun. She pops the box open to peek inside, curiously! Even as she sets the cane aside, tilted against the wall, one hand descending to grip the back of a chair -- her weight /shifting/ atop of it, keeping her steady. "--no, I haven't looked yet. I've been a little, mmn. Sluggish today, I'm afraid." Booger continues to watch. Sneakily. Skulkily. His brilliant green eyes flashing in the dim glow of the apartment, his haunches lifting; hindquarters wriggling as he nestles his chin close to the ground. His pupils are dilated; he has his /murderface/ on, now. In response to Parley's question, Claire does not seem to miss a beat: "I have a responsibility to maintain their confidentiality -- the people to whom the money is owed. I presumed you'd find out, sooner or later. {You so often do,}" she adds, in French; her inflection indicates a certain weary amusement. "Someday," it's almost second nature; quiet presence, slipping in sync with Claire's movements, Parley's touch on her elbow is gentle, distant somehow, but flexed for her weight. His other set of fingers curl around the chair back to pull it out for her. His lowering his voice to say quieter, "I won't manage to." Scuff-scuff. Even though it's making his back muscles FREAK OUT, his toes are scuffing at the ground. Then they FREEZE. Then they... /scuff/. He's not even looking down. He can just FEEL little dilated eyes watching. "Do you think," Claire asks as she sinks to that offered chair -- the touch of the elbow welcome, even as she slips down to sit -- "that it might be better for you? Mmmmmerci," she continues, releasing a breath as the weight eases from her arms to the chair. "But, yes. There is money. I have invested it. It is -- a remarkable return." Booger /darts/. His motions are like the precise strike of a bullet -- LEAPING forward for Parley's ankle, attempting to sprawl over it, on his back, and drag it down. Claws dig-dig-digging even as his tail snakes and flails beneath him, teeth attempting an indelicate CHOMP. MURDER! Tss! Parley knew it was coming, yet it still earns a very soft hiss when something small and /warm/ starts fighting his sockfoot with little NEEDLE TEETH. The foot fights /back/, lifting up and then writhing around, toes curling in to poke-poke-poke at his /crazy-ass/ face. "...surprises have rarely been good for me," he leans over to smell the faint waft of chocolate rising up. It fails to rouse a smile from his blank-severe face, even when eyes close softly. "--I wish I could have heard it from you personally." Down below the table, scuffle-scuffle; it's like two different /worlds/. His fingers wrap lightly around the table edge, knuckles faintly white, "If I'd known you didn't mind blood money, I could have suggested a number of other investments to make as well." This escalation of hostilities does not bode well. Booger's tail snaps from fro to fro as the foot entangles itself against him; his claws dig and rake as his teeth chomp chomp CHOMP in a way that is just a few points away from genuinely /DIE/. Booger plays rough; Parley's sock may not survive this encounter for long. "--it would be a breech of confidentiality," Claire insists, a little more firmly. "I realize it might seem silly, but I take that sort of thing very seriously. Blood money," she continues, lips pursing a moment, before: "You know, I've yet to find money that /isn't/ stained with blood." "Breach of confi-tss!-dentiality," Oh, jesus, ow. Parley has to sit down, though now he's stirring his foot in wide circles. Rotating Booger like he's the centerpiece in a game of spin the (fanged, biting) bottle. The sink of claws might be what puts the slight tension between his brows. The tight introverted smile may have an origin more obscured, "You mean like engaging in insider trading?" Slowly, he exhales through his nose. And his fingers release the table to rest in his lap. "You've become more flexible." The mention of insider trading makes Claire's lips purse; she doesn't say anything in response, though. Booger, meanwhile, is twirled about like a bad top, attempting to keep hold of Parley's foot -- until, suddenly, he /releases/. And bounds away, as fast as a bolt of lightning -- hiding God knows where. Probably preparing his next /assault/. "--yes, well, I've never had to deal with--" There's an edge to her tone, to start with -- as if she was about to snap. But then, she quiets; something more soothing and calm settles across her. She shakes her head and plucks up a chocolate mouse. Very /carefully/. "--the system doesn't always work, Parley," she replies. "Sometimes, you need to be willing to extend your reach /past/ the justice system to find justice." "Mm? Are justice and profit the same now?" Once his foot is freed, Parley reaches down to neaten his SOCK. /Tug/. "The money from the fights, nnh. It is a rare and enticing offer. Though Holland at least has admitted he'll be investing in it personally as well. Have you also, I wonder?" Leaning over, his face isn't visible behind the forward hang of his bristly-spiky hair. The tone doesn't sound accusative. Just curious. "--the money is going toward helping them rebuild their lives, Parley. Everyone who experienced that... perversion," Claire replies, her tone now softened and loose, less tense, more wearied. "As well as the families who lost children. The ones who are dead. I don't want it; it has nothing to do with me." The chocolate mouse -- the first of many! -- is placed upon the table before her. She inspects it, prodding it with her finger... and then. Nibble. Nibble. Somewhere in the background, Booger continues to lurk. "Holland can use it to help make a future for his children. After what they did to them, they deserve... /something/." "They deserve more than something," Parley agrees so readily that it's dismissive, leaning back in his chair. And just - stares up at the ceiling. Maybe he's looking for water damage, musing almost to himself, "All of the new Oscorp anti-telepathy technology is being experimented, first, on Latverian mutant test subjects. Nn - ," one of his thumbs twitch, "all /choice/ hand selected psionically gifted individuals, I'm sure. It's... funny. Holland is so principled he won't /take/ money that's offered to him, even from the people he's rescued. Nor will he purchase food that came from non-consenting animals. And yet he'll invest in companies that specifically exploit mutant kind." He's breathing in slowly, raising a hand to run over his face, "Do you know? What my initial assumption was, when I first tried to tip him off?" "From what I've been told," Claire responds not without an edge of lingering amusement, "he wouldn't take /this/ money for himself, either -- just for his children. But I don't think --" Ah. /There/ Booger is, darting out from a nook and cranny, leaping -- springing! -- to seize hold of Parley's foot yet /again/, chewing upon it with every intent of wrestling it into complete submission. Claire's eyebrow twitches at the sight. Reaching for a nearby water-spritzer, even as she takes another nibble of her mouse. "--I don't think. He's small enough to let his personal ethics interfere with what others need. /He/ might not like where this money comes from, but the people who need it... well, they'll get to make that decision for themselves. I've heard rumors about the testing, but..." A tiny sss of breath, before. "Mmn? Tip him off to what?" "Oh," Parley says, cringing up his shoulders when the /attack/ returns. He leans forwards, showing off the sharp punky little mohawk of guard hairs all bristled up, "Hhm. As soon as I found out Oscorp had successfully stabilized their anti-telepathy technology, I brought it to Holland. His network is wider than mine. And I thought--..." He goes quiet, for a long moment, disentangling claws from sock and scruffing a handful of loose cat-neck. And finally breathes out, a vague wistful exhale, "Well. That he might want to try and /rescue/ them." He mooshes a hand down on Booger's face, covering the kitty's eyes and smooshing down his ears. Then - peek! He pulls back his hand. Psyche! Nose-poke. "I feel I have a lesson I should be learning from all of this. And it's one I don't..." He frees Booger and sits back up slowly, rubbing the heel of his palm into an eye, "...want to." "Choose your battles?" Claire asks, though it's hard to tell if she's being serious. Booger's response to the bristled hairs is a quick, squealing mao -- and when he is plucked up, there is a /great deal/ of disobedient squirming, wriggling, and kicking. Never so much as to disrupt Parley's hold, but... The mooshing gets another mao -- the nose poke, a brief lick of his tongue, snapping over his own nose. "I don't know, Parley," Claire admits, her voice gentle, the spritz-bottle still held in hand. "--this technology. It /is/ going to be installed in various laboratories -- isn't it? Probably very quickly," she adds. "Do you think Osborn would discover their location...?" But then, much /more/ softly, with a tint of deepening melancholy: "--oh. Did you...? Hear? About..." She sets the spritzer bottle down. "--Nox." "Claire, that was /me/, five months ago- tsssss." The heel of Parley's palm remains pressed hard against his eye, his expression once more fallen behind his hair - whether Claire intended it as a joke or not, he does /laugh/. A single short, flat exhale that sounds bad. "Perhaps," he says, slowly, running his hand down his face and off, "I should choose many things more wisely." He situates Booger on his lap, face-out, the line of the cat's body down the middle of his lap - ENFORCED lap position. He keeps a handful of either of Booger's cat-cheeks, massaging at the back of his satellite ears. And he answers, "Doubtful. Oscorp doesn't have access to information as to where its technology is being installed once it's sold." His eyes slip towards a window, "I read it in the paper." "I know, Parley. But -- we can't save everyone." The sadness in Claire's tone deepens, flattens, expands. There's something unsettled in her voice, now -- knocked free by saying that. Booger, meanwhile, has switched from murderface mode to THRUST MY CHEEKS INTO EVERYTHING mode. There is a steady prrprr being emitted from his throat; every so often he will suddenly /jab/ at Parley with a claw or teeth -- but in general, he seems content to allow the petting to continue. "...she was, very young," Claire continues, and there is a hitch to her breath, before: "I visited her, before -- do you know anything about the operation?" Parley's fingers make with their own work, wrapping a loose hand around Booger's snout when he nips, or turning those sweet velvety ears down inside out so they lay flat-wrapped against the feline's skull; small returns of mischief that come in between /generally/ cheek scritching and strokes down the side of his throat. He doesn't seem to have heard or maybe just cared about the first half of what Claire's said. And to the last, he only answers, in a simple quiet statement, "I'll look into it." It's distant, patient, through some sharp-leaved and murky inner forest. "As far as I can. I'll look." "...be careful. Don't -- put yourself under any risk," Claire replies, her eyes now decisively looking /away/ from Parley, peering at -- oh, isn't the fridgerator interesting? Booger struggles beneath Parley's administrations, but soon accepts them with a mew -- only offering an occasional /NIP/ of teeth and claw in reply. "Enough people have died." "And yet more will." The problem with looking away when Parley visits is that it becomes difficult to keep track of him when he /roams/. A soft shift of weight and now there is only Booger in his chair, all rumpled from muss-petting. The vacancy drifting behind Claire's chair murmurs, quietly, "Try to sleep."