ArchivedLogs:Fire with Fire

Fire with Fire
Dramatis Personae Brent, Parley	2013-06-18 Brent is changing with the times.
Location Brent's Office
Getting /into/ Brent's office is no mean feat, especially not for a known mutant, but when Brent wants you there, most of the barriers to getting there fade away. Parley has been summoned to an audience with the king of MacNeil insurances, and Brent's office is clearly designed to make it quite obvious who the guy in charge of this office is. His desk is rounded, big enough to seat six people on the other side, make out of finely decorated oaken wood. A computer is built into the desk and allows him to use it without getting into his line of sight of he has visitors, and his own seat is set on a platform to make him just that bit physically elevated above those who visit his office. The remainder of the office is no less ostentatious. The walls are oaken, though it's obviously just a layer, and several pieces of expensive art adorn it, statues and paintings both. A large screen behind Brent can be set to display anything he wants to display on it, no doubt also visible in the screen in his own desk, and the visitor's seats are nearly as comfortable and expensive as his. Not as elevated though. A slight upwards draft of air can easily be felt, as the airconditioning is always on. To maintain a constant temperature and to get smoke out of the room quickly. One thing is different from usual this time. Despite the fact he summoned Parley he's not going to instantly trust the guy just because he's asked him to come over. Mutants are mutants, and so he's placed bodyguards outside the office, and possibly inside depending on how things go. Parley's entrance into Brent's office should be mostly unhindered, though a well-armed, muscular escort would not leave his side during the entire trip to that office. Parley has a way of taking all the ceremony out of punctuality; though dressed well, a light sports coat in gray, a black turtleneck worn beneath, charcoal slacks, black belt, black shoes, the thickening-humid heat of New York's encroaching summer might give the impression he's dressed a little warm - but it serves to mask the visible fur rising up the back of his neck. For the most part. His hair, though likely combed at, has an entropy all its own, making the bookish dark-rimmed glasses give the sense of a librarian: post-apocalyptic. The presence of guards seems more to interest him than offend him, slipping into a place behind and slightly to the left of his escort with a drag of eyes over small details. His mutation has a certain... quieting to his presence. A lowering of significance if one isn't paying attention - though. Likely they are. His empathy expands into the room like an invisible gray cloud; he is not a skilled /miner/ into the minds of others. But surface fragments, sentiments hidden between spoken lines, the smell of a lie, the color of a memory - what comes up /naturally/ stains through like paint spattering against tarp. "Mr. MacNeil." His near-smile is... weary. "To what do I owe the honor." He says it in a breath-rush, while folding so slightly in the spine, something between a nod or a bow. A vaguely Eastern greeting, for one with a clear American accent. Mister MacNeil's accent is quite American as well, but it's clearly a trained American accent. Too standard, and there where it fails it's a Scottish accent. The latter would be hard to pick up on, however. "Thank you for visiting, mister Turner. I'm glad you were able to visit on such a short notice. Please, take a seat." He's never gotten up himself, and the intrinsic feeling of 'I'm better than you in every way imaginable' is probably easily picked up by any empath worthy of that label. "The honour you owe to your excellent work for miss Basil. I've heard many good words about you, mister Turner." He makes a gesture of some kind, clearly it's not intended for Turner as the bodyguards react instantly, leaving and closing the door behind them, though there's no doubt they haven't gone very far from the office. "And I was of the opinion that I would like to make your acquaintance." He presses a button somewhere below his desk, and the screen behind him turns on, showing a map of the world, with a scale from green to red for every pixel. Most places hover somewhere between green and orange, a few are a subdued red, but one place stands out, the area they're in right now is a deep, bright, and obvious red. "Why don't you tell me more about yourself, mister Turner? Your specialties, your flaws, your strong points. I have been given to understand you are a mutant." There's a mixture between loathing and pity there. "Just 'Parley', please," the mutant answers first, absently, claiming a seat without much fanfare, setting aside a slim briefcase on the floor below, "It is 'communication between two sides' - it's somewhat a working name." He has a way of draping that doesn't break the sense of decorum in a room; hooking an elbow over one side of his armrest and leaning back, it defers without challenge, shoulders low, head slightly tipped down -- and beneath: an intent gaze, beneath heavy eyelids, slicing thoughtfully from MacNeil's face to the screen behind him. "Is this an employment interview?" He sounds charmed. "I have experience in legal bookkeeping and PR representation, as well as an internship a few years ago at a prestigious genetic testing facility. You understand correct, sir; though my mutation is hardly exciting - I am an..." He drums his fingers, "Interpreter of languages. Some mild physical changes. Nothing," his white teeth, utterly human, flash in a thin, thin smile, "catching, I assure you. I have trace amounts of fur. I hope you're not sensitive to dander. - what does the red signify?" "The map shows the amount of claims currently being processed in terms of monetary value, 'Parley.'" Brent presses another button and the map zooms in to New York State, giving an overview of the density of claims that are currently being processed. "While I can assure you that not all of these claims will be approved, I'm not feeling like relating the specifics right now. One of the benefits of being a closed corporation is that you don't have to open your books to the world at large." Brent presses another button, and the map's colours change, they're now going between white and red. Most is red, very little white. A smaller map of Earth is in one of the corners, which has more white and less red in it. "Tell me, 'Parley.' Can you figure out what this map represents?" Even though Brent isn't telling it verbally, he's thinking about it, violence, vandalism and mutation. Three words that circle around loathing, or maybe even annoyance. He could cheat and rush to answer, but Parley takes his time, narrowing his eyes through his glasses at the screen with his chin set in his hand. Flick-flick, his gaze shifts... Hm. "Based on what you've said so far, mnhh, I could hazard something along the lines of insurance claims resulting from mutant manifestation?" If Brent's radiant irritation is reaching the sensitive skin of his mind, it seems, if anything, to be brightening his mood. "Do you offer that?" His brows jump up, as though he's enjoying himself, "Mutant-insurance? I can't imagine who would jump on it sooner, humans or mutants themselves." "You're pretty close. I'll call this a passing grade. It's a map of the monetary share of claims that have been tagged to be mutant-related. This normally means a mutant who is not the claimant is believed to be involved, but can also mean the claimant is saying the damage has been due to them being a mutant, or the perception of them being a mutant." Brent smiles, his fingers folding together, "It's quite hard to tell the difference for most cases, according to my experts, the majority of mutants do not appear to be any different from normal humans." Smugness. There's a smugness there. "I may be inclined to hire you, 'Parley.' But I require a certain degree of discretion. It would not do to have people saying that I'm knowingly inviting mutants with the intent to hire them, and I trust that you will be able to keep this quiet. It will go on the books, but the books are not quite publicly available, and the details of this meeting certainly won't be on it." Brent presses a button once more, and the screen goes to the corporate logo, he goes over his own computer as he waits for Parley's response. The chair makes a soft protest as Parley shifts in his seat, leaning forward with a successfully captured /interest/ as Brent explains the information shown, a slight drawing together of his brows. "--that must leave a lot of room for insurance fraud as well." He speculates slowly, admitting, "I hadn't really considered it. An traffic accident, a sink hole, a baseball through a window - it would be so easy to claim a neighbor caused it to happen, wouldn't it?" He could almost sound impressed, or at least thin of breath, running the point of his thumb along his bottom lip slowly in thought. It's a thoughtfulness that remains, when the smugness of the other man ripples through, considering his expression intently. "What sort of work did you have in mind, Mr. MacNeil." "Your linguistic interpretation, 'Parley.' Is it any good at picking up lies? Would you be able to figure out whether someone is inventing a story instead of telling the truth?" Brent is pressing Parley on a hunch of his. He'll see if it works out, people with any degree of ability to glance into other people's minds tend to downplay that, for a variety of good reasons. Right now, he is mentally repeating the words 'Try me' while he seems to be intently curious. "If I do decide to hire you, you've just explained the exact context in which I would be interested in hiring people who have that kind of skillset, and who are diplomatic while at it. While I do not mind covering such claims if genuine, I do not want people to abuse it." He presses another button, showing a few pictures of sites where things went wrong. "Gas leak due to improper maintenance. Driver under influence of alcohol. Chimney that wasn't cleaned regularly. These are three cases we've proven where the responsible mutants existed only within lies. I could use people who can help me figure out the difference." "Can you, Parley?" "Mmmh." Parley's eyes narrow, studying the images on screen. "You know. During the Salem witch trials, many of the accusers genuinely /believed/ witches were responsible for the death of their cattle. Their crops. Their children." He's quiet for a long moment, considering. "I'd have to interview the accused as well. --Hm. Maybe it could be done unofficially." He pulls off his glasses and leans back again, whirling them lazily by one leg. He points them at Brent, "You realize nothing I find by that route would be admissible in court. You'd still be required to do the legwork to prove it with substantial evidence." "I'm quite aware of that, yes. But I feel that paying one guy to look into these questionable cases early on could help me save money by having my bigger claims investigation teams focused on cases where there is a high likelyhood of it." Brent answers and he pushes over some paperwork, "It's an employment contract, feel free to read it through at your leisure. It's identical to all contracts for claims procession agents with a specialty in a field, 'Parlay.'" "They go out on cases and talk to the claimant, try to feel out if there's anything suspicious but do not perform the investigation themselves. They just pass on the buck to the people responsible. In the books, that will be your job, with a specialty on damages caused by mutants of any stripe." He leans back again in his chair, observing Parley's face closely. "Feel free to have a lawyer look at the paperwork before you sign it, if you'd like to, but I assure you it's nothing special. Fortunately, privacy laws have not been updated to account for that kind of thing, so there's nothing illegal about it. I'd still prefer it if you'd keep it quiet, it would be bad for business regardless of legality." Parley's fingertips meet the papers halfway on their journey across the tabletop, escorting them the rest of the way with the delicate pluck of both thumb and forefinger. He turns them around when they reach him to put the writing right-side up. And raises the top page to view it from his leaned-back position. Either he is a very fast reader, or he's blank-skimming the font face with sharp little back and forth strokes of his dark eyes. "You will find, Mr. MacNeil, that I am generally quiet." He flips back back the top page to view the one beneath, this one only briefly, then spiders out his fingers atop the desk to rise to his feet, "I think we might have an arrangement. Shall I have these faxed over to you once I've read them over?"