ArchivedLogs:Circling

Circling
Dramatis Personae Claire, Parley, Alice Lambton
In Absentia	2013-05-24 Sides begin prodding. U SCARD, ALICE?!?!
Location
Ring. Surely by now Alice has provided Parley with an appropriate phone number to contact her by. He'd make it worth the while, what with emails and comments about how /congested/ her work number is. Ring. Of course Alice has a more private number. And of course she is also cagey enough that she does not answer it directly. The line picks up. A young man answers. “Alice Lambton’s office. How can I help you?” "Could you let Ms. Lambton know Parley is trying to get in contact with her?" His phone voice is a polite-brisque, quiet tenor. The young man on the other end sounds if he’s caught in a perpetual smile. It only deepens when Parley identifies himself. “Mister Turner, so good to hear from you. Of course, one moment please.” At least he didn’t call him Einen? A Baroque instrumental cuts in. Parley is on hold but only briefly! Soon Alice’s cool, cultured accent flows over the line. “Parley. You do realize it is Friday. And that Monday is a /holiday/, dear.” "Should I have just visited you at home, then? I could bring flowers. They sell them." As though this were novel. "Does the young man that answers your phone always sound so pleased?" “He is paid to do so, yes.” Alice doesn’t rise to the bait of flowers. She simply waits. Patiently. Perhaps there is the sound of paper shuffling gently in the background. A few key taps. But mostly she is waiting. "He /sounds/ well paid." Parley's voice speaks over a rustling of wind, the distant sound of cars honking and voices suggesting out door, but not /directly/ by any roads. He pauses. Then asks quieter, "I've come across something, Ms. Lambton. That I may as well just ask you about directly." “One gets what one pays for,” Alice responds, so smoothly. Pleasantries are to be kept well oiled and at the ready at all times. But he’s won the hint of a smile from her with his last remark. She might even be pausing with whatever work is at hand. “A direct question from you, Parley? Within...” Another pause, while she checks her watch. “Thirty seconds? A new record. What is it you would like to ask?” "I could be evasive if you'd prefer," Parley offers, and then instantly contradicts himself, "I've confirmed the existence of an underground fighting ring run by members of the NYPD." He sounds - bored, actually, by this part. You can almost hear him absently checking his fingernails, buffing them on his shirt front. "Which isn't the part I'm especially surprised by." Alice adds a soft, uninterested sound to the mix, a whisper of breath, a hint of voice. The shuffling of papers resumes. “That was enterprising of you. I am afraid that the NYPD and myself have little to do with each other. You are, I assume, dangling this surprise in hopes I’ll leap for it? I am old, Parley, and not so energetic as I used to be. Stop teasing me.” "They're taking mutants off the street." Parley offers, on the back of a sigh. It has that slight strain of a throat stretched back to tip one's face towards the heavens. "Fitting them with electrocution-devices. Forcing them to fight to the death. My goodness, it seems every level of your system is devoted to wiping us off the planet. Should I be congratulating you for this arrangement?" There is a lengthy silence. When it ends, Alice doesn’t bother putting him on hold. She can be heard, phone lowered from mouth but otherwise unimpeded, speaking to someone in the room--presumably the pleased fellow from just a moment before. “Giles, see to it that I’m not disturbed please. Thank you. And leave the teapot.” Then she’s back, full force and oh so British. “I am going to attribute your choice of phrasing to an understandable emotional response, given the circumstances. Speak to me like that again and it /will/ be the last time we speak, Parley. Now...” Alice takes a breath. “Tell me.” It's a sleek, airy setting, high ceilings make for two-story tall windows along one wall, where a rotating door allows businessmen and women in high-powered suits and little sleek briefcases to assemble in wide booth environments of brown leather-upholstered seats. Mirrors line the headboard but dark carved wood lower at the elevation of the seated makes comfortably shadowed nooks for privacy and discussion. Leave the choice of where to eat to Alice and Alice will of course choose somewhere /distressingly/ refined. Welcome to Contrast, where one can enjoy the finest mouthfuls of hybrid fusion chemically produced seaweed infused-foam and white asparagus style cuisine in New York City. And when one says mouthfuls, one literally means mouthfuls. The plates are immense, the portions tiny, and the waiters all look as if they were cloned in vats. The maitre d’ was left with instructions to bring Claire Basil /directly/ to her booth when she arrived. Then, left to her own devices, Alice has ordered a scotch. Nevermind that it is not yet 5 o’clock. All the woman lacks to create the sense of having been vaulted back into the 40s--attired as she is in a crisp and elegant pantsuit in creamy linen, with hair upswept--is a cigarette. Without one at hand, Alice is making do by sipping her scotch and keeping a sharp eye on the doors. “{My God,}” Claire announces to the gentleman who is kind enough to escort her to Alice’s booth, eyes drifting across the restaurant as they walk. “{I am a pilgrim in an unholy land.} Thank you,” she tells him, with a pleasant, soft smile -- and then her eyes are turning to Alice’s, as she steps forward to take her seat. Claire’s outfit for today is friskily professional; a dark grey knee-length skirt, black coat, pink button-up shirt -- and, just to be /absurd/, pink flip-flops. They are /proper/ looking flipflops; perhaps a smidge on the expensive side, with slightly elevated heels -- but flip-flops nevertheless. Her hair is pulled back into a tight little bun full of curls threatening to spill every which way should their bindings be tugged. She’s also carrying -- in one hand, her cane, and in the other, a small, slim, leather briefcase. “Ms. Lambton, I presume? I am Claire Basil,” she offers, holding out a hand before moving to her chair. “I believe you spoke with -- Parley.” Yes, Alice’s gaze does lower to Claire’s feet before the woman seats herself. Women do things like that. They /always/ check the shoes. And what she sees causes her eyebrows to lift. Slightly. The offered hand is gently accepted. “Ms. Basil. A pleasure.” While the waiter hovers to adjust Claire’s chair and take her drink order, the diplomat maintains a small, almost sweet smile. With her eyes narrowed as they are, it would be easy to mistake it as a genuine smile. “He contacted me, yes. I’m told it’s imperative that we speak...so good of you to meet with me on such short notice,” she says, eyes drifting in the direction of that briefcase. A spark of curiosity is betrayed in that glance--though surely anyone as put together as Alice Lambton only /allowed/ it to be seen. “Would you care for something to drink?” “Oh, dear,” Claire says, eyes widening in a gesture of faux horror at the sound of Alice’s voice. “You’re /British/.” She squeezes Alice’s hand -- firm, warm. As she settles down across from her, Claire soon adds: “We’re not going to get along, are we?” It almost sounds sad. It /might/ sound a bit teasing. With Claire, it is sometimes hard to tell. “No, thank you,” Claire quickly adds, a grin threatening to tug at her mouth. She sees the glance to the suitcase, of course. And she knows she is /supposed/ to see it. “I think -- mmn! We should just leap right into it. Actually,” she adds, as if she’s just realized something -- she turns to the waiter. “A glass of orange juice? Would be lovely.” “{Not so British that we cannot converse in your mother tongue, if you prefer. It is the more graceful language.}” There’s some of the appropriate diplomatic shine. “English,” Alice continues on in the appropriate tongue, “is far less lovely, but perhaps slightly more grounded, I’ve found.” Or not. She gestures the waiter away when he gives her an inquisitive glance--just the orange juice, she is fine with her scotch--then settles back to study Claire. Eventually, her smile returns. It might even come closer to touching her eyes this time. “I believe I have been briefed on the broad details. If you would care to continue from there?” Claire visibly brightens when Alice speaks in French; there is a bit of a titter in her reply: “{Oh, goodness. I /won’t/ be able to say nasty things about you behind your back. How delightful!} Yes, the situation is -- thankfully -- under control. As I understand it,” Claire continues, that brightness dwindling down to something -- more business-like. Brisk, quick, /thorough/. “All that’s /truly/ left is to handle the -- mn. ‘Fallout’? I suppose. I should clarify,” Claire adds, “we are still gathering /information/ about this incident -- I do not wish to give you the impression I represent the interests of all involved. This is -- quite an /unusual/ situation. In many respects.” “Do, please. Don’t censor yourself on my account.” One would think they were old school chums from the way Alice suddenly /sparkles/ at Claire. Those green eyes. They do sparkle well. But she is far more approving of the briskness that follows, lacing her fingers together and leaning slightly forward while she listens. “Mmm...of course, of course. Highly unusual, or so one would hope. I understand from my conversation with young Parley that there is some concern that I might well be peripherally involved?” And so Claire is put on notice--here is the first lunge, politely expressed or no. “Mmn. I’m afraid Parley,” Claire adds, her own peacock green eyes briefly gleaming, “is a bit too /clever/ for his own good, sometimes. If he wasn’t so -- ‘useful’? Is that an indelicate word? I would hate to be indelicate,” she quickly adds, “particularly considering -- the /nature/ of this situation. Did you know,” Claire says, simultaneously changing the subject completely yet /not/ changing the subject at all, “that many of the attendants of these -- events -- are in very delicate positions themselves?” There is a flutter, then -- /just/ a flutter -- of lashes. Not toward Alice, but toward that /suitcase/. As if it were somehow sneakily involved in this whole nasty business. As if it had something very important to add. It remains, however, quite silent. “Mmn,” Alice echoes. One might suspect her of recreating that vocalization /perfectly/ in fact. “Ms. Basil. I appreciate your discretion. However, I do think that this discussion will go /so/ much more smoothly if we are clear on several points. Firstly, I know the nature of Parley’s particular usefulness. Secondly, I understand the delicate position that these, ah...”attendants”, as you so aptly put it, hold within the city. Or, at least, I can guess at a number of positions they /might/ hold, given the nature of the affair.” She lowers her voice here, to make the next statement just between us girls. “Men, I am afraid, do not lose their less...desirable edges, no matter how much personal power and influence they might wield. Mmn?” There’s that sound again. “And finally, I can assure you...when Parley told me what has been happening right here in the city, I was horrified.” Her smile is thin, lips pressed so tightly together that they would pale if they weren’t covered in a thin sheen of gloss. “There is no excuse for it, and I will take only the greatest satisfaction in attending to the matter. Once I have the details, of course.” “I’m sure you will,” Claire returns, and when she nods, it is with /such/ solemnity. This nodding, it is /so/ solemn. “I have every /confidence/ you will,” she continues. “I suppose -- the only real question -- the reason I am here, Ms. Lambton -- is to discover /how/ you will attend to the matter. These things, they sometimes have a way of, how does one put it politely --” and now the orange juice is arriving, ferried by one of these vat-grown waiters, and Claire is seizing it quite cheerfully, “being ‘swept under the carpet’? I suppose,” and there’s a hint of an edged-smile here, /almost/ exposing her teeth, “I am here to conduct the grim business of negotiating who goes to prison, and who walks away unscathed.” A brazen /stab/ /stab/ /stab/. Touche. Alice actually inclines her head to the other woman, acknowledging--even praising, silently--the sheer brutality of that response. She does not deign to answer. Not in so many /words/, at least. Instead she reaches below the table--her purse is hung neatly beside her--and produces her phone. It could be seen as rude the way she scans the screen, thumbing through several pages before pressing the dial button. A sip of scotch is taken as it rings. At the last minute, Alice puts it on speakerphone. “Lukasik residence.” “Melissa!” Alice coos, suddenly the soccer mom at a game. “How are you, dear?” “Alice? Oh, it’s good to hear from you! I’m doing well, I was about to head out to putter in the garden. How are you?” The woman on the other end sounds /just/ as pleased. “Oh, working. You know how it is, unfortunately. Is Daniel around? I’ve a question for him.” “No, ‘fraid not. You know how /he/ is too, he’s out playing a few holes with the boys from the club. Want me to have him call you?” “Yes, please.” Alice glances at Claire, raising one eyebrow and smiling. “This evening? I’ve something he might be /very/ interested in.” “All right, dear, I’ll pass it on. When you are coming out again? It’s mimosa season.” “Next weekend?” “Lovely.” After a round of further pleasantries, Alice hands up. The phone is returned to her bag. She reaches for the scotch again. If she is smug about being able to play close and friendly with a Senator’s wife, she gives no sign of it. Just sips. Watches her table companion. Claire Basil is silent during these proceedings; something very sharp and attentive flickers over her face - the usual look of good humor and frivolity dissolving into something steel-hard and aware. When the phone goes click, Claire’s eyes are on Alice’s -- something gritted, determined -- /piercing/. When she speaks next, her words are like the clashing of metal: “Every single officer involved is charged. With /everything/. Conspiracy to kidnap. Murder. Torture. All of them,” she says. “They all serve /hard/ jail-time. In exchange? The NYPD is free to make it look as if they fixed this themselves. In addition,” she continues, “all the evidence of outside involvement -- disappears.” “Mmn.” It’s such a /versatile/ sound. Alice uses it now to mark how she is considering the offer on the table. She sets the glass of scotch down--now more ice than alcohol--and laces her fingers together again. “That is so very.../restrained/ of you. I cannot say that I am in the habit of overlooking corruption, Ms. Basil. I find that when you allow even one root to remain, it can poison the entire system. May I see this evidence?” “It is,” Claire Basil agrees, “/quite/ restrained.” And then Claire Basil reaches down -- plucking up that leather briefcase. There is a solid *clkt*; she reaches inside -- the shuffle of paperwork heard. As if she is searching for something. “But the fact of the matter is -- no one knows precisely what would happen should the full scope of this -- manifest. Do they?” She produces something, then. A slip of folded paper from a yellow legal tablet. The briefcase is shut, placed down at her side -- and she passes the paper to Alice. Once unfolded, Alice will find on it -- three names. Very important names. Three people who are deeply involved in New York City politics. “You may not see this evidence,” Claire informs her. “But I will tell you this much: I have a /very/ long list. An /abundance/ of proof. And both a friend who works in the Huffington Post /and/ the ACLU on /my/ speed-dial.” The list receives its due: Alice studies it, lips pursed and eyes growing sharper by the second. Oh my. My my my. Once finished with it, she folds it up again and returns it to the table. “That depends on whom is bringing it to the public eye. And how, of course. A delicate matter...attitudes being what they are. But corruption...that is something the voting public only tolerates in Chicago. Detroit. Not New York City.” She sighs then, pinches the bridge of her nose. It is so very much /not/ a posture of composure. Perhaps a headache is coming on. “I assume you have evidence that you /can/ share, regarding these officers? I can’t very well approach senators and the governor with hearsay. Or even circumstantial evidence, Ms. Basil.” Claire’s mouth twitches into what /could/ be the beginning of a smile. She lifts the orange juice to sip -- gulp, really. “They were actually witless enough to video-tape the fights. Live-stream access. I think,” she adds, “they thought that by streaming -- instead of recording -- no digital copies would persist. These were not very /clever/ people. Some of the officers may be visible in the recordings -- I have yet to review /all/ the footage. We have the eye-witness testimonies of the survivors. We have the site itself, which will match the footage. Frankly,” Claire adds, “I think you’d do well to be careful about what evidence you /do/ present. It’s possible some of the people you’ll be speaking to in the next few days may have their faces exposed in the recordings.” If Claire finds that idea amusing, her voice doesn’t betray it. But maybe her eyes do, just a little. The thought of Alice, having to brief a politician who is themselves in the very video she’s showing them. But that amusement quickly flickers away when she recalls what /else/ is in the video. “I imagine you think it couldn’t get worse. But it does. /Mutants/ discovered this. /Mutants/ fixed this. Without a single casualty -- without a single officer harmed. Voters won’t tolerate corruption. How do you think they feel about incompetence?” “I’m going to need a paper trail. They can and no doubt /will/ argue that video can be altered. As we both know. People in higher echelons are rather more clever...most of the time.” Alice lowers her hand and reaches for her drink, only to check herself when she discovers it empty. Ice clinks, and then rattles again as she tilts the glass. “The site is more valuable...I don’t suppose you’ve found any bodies, yet? That would be better still.” Never mind that bodies require someone /dying/. Her mind is turning its wheels, grinding a sequence of thoughts to fine dust. She overlooks the callousness of her own remark. “They /are/ resourceful, aren’t they?” The diplomat regains her smile. She sounds almost...fond. Certainly approving. “I would hesitate to call it “fixed”, however. Get me the proof, so I can provide it to the people who can resolve this.” “Bodies and a paper-trail,” Claire speaks, her tone wistful. “Blood and money. Mmn,” she repeats Alice’s own sound, like she were trying it for the first time herself, determining how /fond/ of it she is. She leans back in her chair. “Tell me something, Ms. Lambton. If I were to hand you those two things -- right now -- do you believe your superiors would agree to the terms I have set forth? /Would/ that be enough?” “Give me one of those things, Ms. Basil, and I can use the second to leverage agreement. I won’t make you promises that I can’t keep. And I have to say, I dislike the idea of leaving the attendees entirely untouched. But...” Alice shrugs and somehow manages to make the gesture seem a graceful one. “One does what one can. We shall have to see.” “So we will,” Claire agrees, not -- perhaps unusually? -- commenting on the matter of leaving the attendees untouched. She does, however, enjoy the rest of her orange juice -- drinking it in a rush of what might be unlady-like thirst. “I’ll speak with you again, mmn. Monday, I think? Monday is good,” she says, suddenly rising from her chair, offering her hand -- along with that brisk, quick smile. “Ms. Lambton. It’s been a pleasure.” It would be poor manners not to rise in turn so Alice stands and accepts Claire’s hand. This time, her grip is slightly less gentle--but still genteel. “Monday, then. I look forward to it. Give my regards to Parley, will you? So good of him to think of me, at a time like this,” she says, her own smile small but warm. Then she sits again. Perhaps to order another scotch. Claire sends a text. Later in the day. Very simple, very to-the-point. Claire: Talked with AL. Think they're scared. Parley: Good. So are we. Parley: What's the next play. Claire takes a while to send the next text. Claire: Burn it all down. Parley's answer comes instantly Parley: What do we need. Claire: Find bodies. Show media. Dead children. No m-word. Not at first. Parley: The media does love its dead children. Parley: I'll check local crematoriums. Parley: Don't get angry. It might do well to bring in Mr. Law. Claire: Ergh. Claire: The one who controlled them. May know too. Parley: If it's who I think it is. Probably. Parley: Be careful. Claire: You too.