ArchivedLogs:Dangerous Games

Dangerous Games
Dramatis Personae Claire, Parley	2013-03-22 Parley and Claire talk about all the naughty things the diplo-cat has been up to.
Location Claire's Apartment
The warm savory smell of crepes wafts around Parley as he comes upon Claire's apartment door. He's likely been here before, to tuck in and write small assessment reports on /her/ computer (not like he has his /own/) regarding some of the clients he's sat in on interviews for, and his flip self-possession makes his mild presence nevertheless stand at home outside her door. He's not been /truant/ of late. But the debut of a certain news piece has come out with precious little warning. Whether he has to knock or ring the bell, it all reports in the end that Claire has a visitor. Guess WHO. The door opens rather quickly. Claire Basil appears; hair slicked back and wet, wearing a bath-robe tightly wound about her lean, scraggly frame. /Glaring/ with those dark hazel-brown eyes of hers. Somewhere at her feet, a black kitty with white fluff at her throat pops her head forward to see what's going on, then proceeds to *meow* at Parley. /Somebody/'s in trouble. And for once, it ain't Booger. "Get in," Claire responds, and then she's /tromping/ back into the house -- while Booger head-butts Parley's ankles. Hey. Hey. You've been bad. /I've/ been bad. We should team up. Parley meets her gaze, mostly keeping his face by default but trying to formulate something akin to contrition - it involves tucking the left side of his lower lip between his teeth? And biting it while he tries to mouth-twitch something? He gives up soon enough, entering as bidden and stooping to caress Booger's cheek with a kind of rough grab-and-jostle-by-face interaction, even if his eyes continue to track Claire discretely from behind his hair. Ahem. "It's gotten warmer out today," yes, he's talking WEATHER. While he goes about helping himself to her kitchen, opening cabinets, extracting plates, collecting silverware from a drawer to begin setting up seating for two people at the table. Booger purrpurrs. /She/ knows an ally and a fellow troublemaker when she sees one; she shoves her head right up into that rough scrrtch-scrrtch, then proceeds to hop about and follow Parley curiously as he heads into the kitchen and begins setting things up. Oho what are you up to? More TROUBLE, she hopes! Claire, meanwhile, is off to her bedroom; the sound of shuffling drawers and clothes heard, and the distant strain of her voice -- disregarding the comment about the weather. Cutting straight to the point. "Do you have /any/ idea how dangerous this game is?" Swishing a hand towel at Booger, Parley is either trying to half-heartedly drive her away, or encourage her to be Bad and swat after it. Or else /he's/ being bad and kind of letting it 'whomp' down on her head and then whipping it off again. "Mmmmmmmvery?" He says it with an oddly /lively/ tone of flippancy, like a laugh that he projects to be heard across the distance. A fork and napkin are neatly placed alongside either plate. "I brought strawberry Nutella. Should I make coffee?" Booger is not the sort of cat who is easily driven away. She is out to /maul/ that hand towel like nobody's business. She fully intends to seize hold of it with her paws and /wrestle/ it to the ground. Teeth bared, claws out. This is one kitty who makes no bones about playing rough, RIGHT from the get-go. "No, no coffee, and I don't mean just for /you/, I mean for /everyone/. But yes, obviously for /you/, too. Norman Osborn -- Parley, do you realize he murders people? And I'm not talking about his day job. I mean the man has people /killed/." More shuffling, more clunking behind that closed bedroom door! The hand towel is taken down like a wounded gazelle, and Parley relinquishes the battle to let Booger engage in further glorious battle with it. Disembowel the towel as you will, cat. "I have no doubt of that," he admits, setting out crapes on either plate with an extra dish of slightly melted whipped cream on the side to top off been smashed on the journey. "I met with him. Water? Juice?" Booger /writhes/ with it on the floor, making all sorts of angry 'die-towel-die' noises as she proceeds to wriggle and twist and /gnaw/ on her blood-soaked prey. Her tail is lashing like a whip behind her. "Water," Claire's voice responds, and Parley can no doubt /feel/ the worry that nibbles behind it. But her thoughts are practiced and clear; she is already thinking, devising, /plotting/ ways to try and play this. To avoid disaster. To make sure no one gets hurt. It is only then, in the midst of all this thought, that Parley's words seem to strike: "Wait. You... /met/ with him?" The sounds of dressing instantly stop. The words are laced with... a mixture of horror and concern. "Parley." Softer, now. Much softer: "Parley..." The setting of the table begins to slow, until Parley stands unmoving with his fingertips resting slightly on the edge of the table. Staring down at the woodgrain. Then he closes his eyes and pulls out a chair, standing behind it, "Come eat. It'll get cold." Claire finally emerges; dressed in a frumpy little evening blouse (white, with red polkadots) and dress, along with sandals; her hair is tied up and on its way to drying into its usual bout of frizziness. Without her makeup on -- well, she doesn't wear a /lot/, but one can certainly tell the difference -- she looks a bit older, a bit more threadbare. She approaches the table and sits. Not angry anymore. Now, just... well, sad. "Parley," she repeats, watching him. "You..." There are so many ways to end that sentence, and Parley can probably hear them all, muddled in the translation: '--- don't understand.' -- '---'re too young to throw your life away.' -- '--- should have talked to me first.' None of them reach her lips, though. Instead, all she manages is: "...brought crepes." Pushing her seat in, Parley is silent behind her for this, sentiments rolling along the frictionless surface of his mind. Cautiously, he sets a hand on one of her shoulders. The other side soon corresponds, and a drift forward results in an awkward, semi-stiff embrace from behind, leaning over her chair back and setting his cheek on her hair. "...the restaurant I got them at reminded me of you." He mutters. For a moment longer, she allows herself to cling to the indulgence of concern and worry. Her hand reaches, then, as he hugs her -- to place her palm warmly upon his cheek. But then... there is a slight sigh from her; a /flush/ of resignation that flows through her mind, her body. What is done is done. No use crying over spilt milk (this thought is accompanied by the image of several of her cats /flooding/ a puddle of spilt milk, and the sudden wonder if /he/ likes milk). "You should sit. Eat," she tells him, and she gives his cheek a blind little squeeze. "And tell me what you are up to. Because /I/ certainly do not have the slightest clue." That subtle mental /rush/ of tawny fur and rosettes that rustles just to the edges of Claire mind? Parley can't help but to suggest an /earnest/ jostling forward to savor sweet spilt dairy as well. He rather likes... spilt milk, it would seem. He imbues a weary 'mrgh' with the sense of a ragged little 'prrr' nestled in it, turning his cheek into her palm. Then! He pours into a seat, pulling up one leg to sit half-lotus and hunkers over his own plate as though speaking entirely to himself, "Mh... I am sorry to spring it on you." He allows, carefully set out words neither /too/ apologetic, nor /too/ flippant, though it tips considerably more in favor of the latter as he adds, "I do think it was wise to put some distance between us, however. If I want to represent mutant kind, it would be inconvenient for you to be /part/ of what I'm representing. You're more useful to all of us for now posing as a neutral sympathetic." Does that even answer anything? He glances up, then down again, FILLING his mouth with a huge bite that must be conveyed to a cheekpouch for him to ask, "What do you know about Osborn?" Claire hmphs at that; both at the image of him darting to lap up spilt milk /and/ the particular slant the apology takes. She /particularly/ hmphs at the mention of her as a 'neutral sympathetic'. But rather than pounce on that, she answers his question -- even as she plucks up a fork and knife for her crepes. Cutting. /Delicately/. "His company's rise is punctuated by the mysterious murder and disappearance of multiple competitors. He's responsible for massive leaps in the US drone program. His company's inventions fluctuate between genius and absurdity. He is a gifted liar, a skilled salesman, and /brilliant/ when it comes to managing his company's PR." She lifts the first bite up, and -- before it goes in -- adds: "He also has one very important weakness." *CHOMP* When you've lived on three years of institutional food, EVERY meal is a hedonistic treat, and Parley indulges his crepes with great luxury. He props up his cheekbone with a set of knuckles, chewing slowly with eyes, normally dull and even, considerably sharper and livelier now. Set with great /wired/ attention on Claire with one side of his mouth subtly curling up. "And what's that?" It should be obvious to Parley that Claire was setting this up; and it should be obvious to Parley that Claire /knows/ that Parley knows that she was setting this up. That doesn't mean she doesn't take a moment to relish it, though -- chewing steadily upon her helping of crepes, eyes narrowed, /gritty/ and determined as she stares the diplo-cat down. "He's completely fucking insane." Parley slits a narrow grin behind his fork; he does seem to just love it when she swears, "He is." A dollop of whipped cream is scooped onto his plate, to sop another bite through, "His mind is... odd. Dark. /Efficient/, and then chaotic in one. But." He extends fingertips to escort his water glass to his lips. "It's random chaos that caused life on Earth. He's causing something to happen, Claire. I don't know if even he knows the full extent of it, but he can /sense/ movement and he's moving with it." It's not admiration in his dark eyes. But it's something like it, a fine spark of /thrill/ and energy prickling the guardhairs of his hackles into rising with a repressed shiver. Because it's also an icy dread. "It's interesting," he breaches, then adds with a glance, "I'm not fired, am I?" "No. You aren't... no. Well, you're on probation, at least," Claire adds, but her tone -- her posture -- even her /mind/ all tell him that 'probation' means about as much as a light bap on the nose. She takes another bite; water, greedily gulped, soon follows, washing it down. Quieter, then: "I did research on him. He's come up a few times in court dockets. He had an associate, once. Mendel Stromm. Embezzled money from Oscorp. Osborn went after him for the money he stole, but Stromm found a way to tie him up in litigation that would last for /decades/." The fork and knife go about their grim business, dissecting the crepes into manageable chunks. "They found Stromm a week later. Torn to pieces. Coroner figured it for a wild animal of some sort; teeth marks were consistent with that of a canine. The funny thing," she adds, lifting the next bite to her mouth, "is that he was found on the 85th floor of a New York office building." *CHOMP* "/Really/." Parley's fingers have folded over, becoming a shelf upon which he sets his nose. His eyes cut to the far left, narrowed in consideration. It doesn't last long. One hand topples, lands over one of Claire's, draws it towards himself to lay his cheek over her knuckles. "...How are things going with Mr. Holland's situation? Mr. Hive's?" She mmmfs. Knuckles curl and shift; one after the other dragging in a steady, rippling roll. Despite herself, she's never managed to master the art of /not/ giving pushy cats the attention they demand. "Hive is tricky. I've got to visit him, actually. There's a good chance he'll be deported before we can figure something out... but if we can get him a sponsor -- a job, somewhere. Something upstanding. I think Mr. Holland has something in mind. His children... Norman's announcement has made it into a frenzy. So much going on around it, now." Her lips purse. "It's cruel to say, but... the fact that no one else /wants/ these children will make it so much easier. Everyone wants them to go away. And the easiest way to make that happen? Give them back to Mr. Holland." "All the press coverage makes it unlikely any /further/ bogus charges will be leveled to keep this little game going," Parley's head bounces on his chin when he speaks, set atop Claire's captured hand. Expression /dreary/. "This is ugly. Do you want to take me to a movie?" "Either that, or inspire them to become more creative. But... yes. I think they'll stop playing. For now. Your little ploy has no doubt left them confused and scrambling, running for cover." The captured hand continues to scritch; well-trimmed nails are as gentle as wool. "No," she decides, and she gives him a narrow little glare -- hiding the slightest quirk of a smile. "I'd rather /you/ take me to a movie." Ah, yes. /There/ it is. The nose-bap. "/Tsk/." Parley can turn his nose-bap into a /chastising/ sound. "Fine. We're seeing Olympus Has Fallen. It's about the White House getting captured by terrorists. I assume it will involve a fair deal of explosions and blood." He says this while slipping to his feet with a muffled unfurling of limbs and a ghosting of hands across the table to consolidate the dishes into a single unit; utensils in a glass, glasses on a plate, plate stacked atop the next, and then absconds with the whole of them to impound beneath running tap water in the sink. He's not even going to mention that all of his money comes from Claire anyway. His whole life is sort of running on her treat.