ArchivedLogs:Planning for the Future

Planning for the Future
Dramatis Personae Parley, Claire	2013-05-24 '
Location
There is paperwork to gather. /So/ much paperwork. And, information to acquire -- /so/ much information. And, only a limited number of people who can be trusted to acquire it! Claire has been a busy, busy bee for the previous few days; so busy that Parley has likely had little to no contact with her beyond the phone -- on those occasions when he /has/ got in contact with her, all Claire has done is give him /more/ assignments to accomplish. Credit card numbers to track down; names associated with bank accounts to acquire. And she hasn’t even told him /why/. Just, numerous “Please, Parley”s, and “It’s important, Parley”s, and “Thank you, Parley”s. When Parley finally does track Claire down, it will be in her very own apartment -- sitting at her kitchen table -- everything cleared off save for /more/ paperwork. A series of names, among them; she has a yellow legal tablet out and is hastily /scribbling/ those names down all on one sheet of paper. There is also -- a laptop, out, with various video aggregate sites opened -- and a link to Pirate Bay! Oh, Claire, you /naughty/ thing. A tutorial on bittorrents, along with an actual bittorrent program, in the process of -- downloading - things? Many things. Claire herself looks tired, but in a way that is more /burnt/ and focused than genuinely weary; her hair is pulled back -- she’s clad in a loose t-shirt, sweatpants, and a bathrobe -- pen in hand, a glass of half-empty orange juice beside her. As she /scribbles/. What initially was responded to in dry humor, quiet snark, had quickly faded into silent steady /results/ from Parley's side of the long distance smart-phone tag of email, text, voicemail and rarer dead hits of using actual /voices/. Parley's response communique are rapid and brief in report. But some documents are better in hard copy, without an email trail to tie them down to sources. Which would likely be the contents of the manilla envelope Parley has gripped in his teeth as he knocks at Claire's door, his other arm loaded with a large paper bag of /food/. Quiet but /insistent/ knocking. Which comes with a low yowl-drone against her mind. << (i know you're there)(yowl. yargle. urglaaowwrgh.) >> The sound of a cat’s gargle-yowl is something of a siren call for Claire; she emerges from her work in seconds -- and then the door is opened. THERE. Claire, /glaring/ at Parley, eyes perhaps a little dark and manic from little sleep -- and now her hand is reaching out and /seizing/ him by the collar of his shirt. YANK. The door slammed shut with her foot as she walks forward, cane in one hand, Parley-collar in the other. Toward the kitchen table. “Numerous members of the NYPD,” she begins, launching first in speech, and then in her mind, tone sinking into French. << {Have been running a secret mutant fight ring. They live-streamed the footage. It has been saved, and some of it is online. It includes deaths -- on camera -- of mutants. Some carried out by the police themselves. Or so I have been told,} >> she adds, a little vicious-grim. << {I have not -- /watched/ any of it yet. There were children involved, as well.} >> A brief pause, as if for breath, despite the fact that she is not /speaking/. << {The people running this kept all of their bookkeeping in one account. We now have that account. You have been helping me put together a list of everyone who has had /anything/ to do with this. Buying a ticket,} >> she adds, and then -- a little more grim-satisfied, << {Or taking a bribe.} >> Probably best to just haul Parley in, or he might /dally/ in the doorway indecisively about wanting in or out. Yoinked in, he bonelessly follows, letting Claire steer him with the large, thick envelope gripped in his teeth and his arm crammed up to his elbow in the bag he carries. Riffling around, so that when he reaches the table he already has take-out Italian food - fettucini alfredo with broccoli, a small dish of fruit salad, a collection of sliced sharp provolone, prosciutto and olives and a little sack of sweet valencia oranges that no one has /yet/ to have been beaten with - to begin unloading. Which he does silently while listening. At a certain point, with a section of the table cleared, his work hits a delay, pausing with a plate scavenged from the kitchen hovering half on and half off the table. Then. He slowly sets it down. And plucks pucks the envelope from his teeth and looks at it. And tosses it down on the table as if it were a disgusting thing. << (i can watch it first.) >> Is all he says, evenly. << (if you like.) >> He shoves another plate into her hands, << (you need to eat.) >> Claire actually /sniffs/ at the food, a little; as if the aroma of things to eat was a novel thing to her. She’s soon settling down at the table beside Parley, fingers extending for -- oh, yes. /Dinner/. Or, lunch. Or, something. << {Watch it, together?} >> she asks, maybe a little hesitant, like she’s -- /bargaining/. She takes the food, along with a fork. << {After we eat,} >> she adds. Then: << {Holland told me when his friends went to the media with the labs, nothing came of it. He thinks this will be the same.} >> She doesn’t add her own thoughts -- not /consciously/ -- but there are a churning number of them, most of them in desperate opposition to this idea. << (...) >> Something is hard, in Parley's wordless touch of mind. Only the methodical-rapid ticking off of items down a list, like a long hallway down which gradually lights are being shut off. << (the NYPD.) >> Just the words. Snagging here - and then moving on. << (...alright.) you would probably have to (watch) anyway. (eventually). >> Already he's settled into his seat, a tight neatness to his posture that settles a proximity just shy of touching elbows. He loads a few olives, some sliced meats, some noodles onto his plate, selecting a kalamata to begin stripping the olive meat from the pit with canine teeth. His dark eyes slide along the paperwork already assembled, assessing. << (very little evidence) of the labs. (just eye witness.)(more here.) >> There's a pause, his non-fooding hand reaching over to rotate the computer to an angle he can view the screen. << (who)(brought the case to you?) >> Claire lifts a fork with careful, agile fingers, hovering over the fettucini; almost with reluctance, she stabs - twirls - scoops. And eats. It’s more nibbling than chewing, but there’s a flutter of hunger under the surface, forgotten and ferried away. << {A police officer,} >> she responds, << {No name.} >> But here, there is -- a fuzzy image, slowly sharpening -- of Eric Sutton on a park bench. << {It’s not just that, Parley. It’s not just the evidence. It’s --} >> Another flutter, this one of fear and panic - quickly quelled, held at bay, but still struggling to break free. << {He told me, afterward, they began submitting bills. To make it official. What if we prove it and--} >> A cluster of thoughts, here, tight and difficult to unfurl. All of them /remarkably/ dark. << {--Parley, I could not. If things are that far gone, I do not -- then whatever is happening, /this/ part of the battle--} >> she gestures -- to her apartment, to the paperwork -- perhaps even, ever-so-slightly, to Parley -- << {is already lost.} >> << (we're still breathing.) >> Parley seems intent on voraciously eating now, joylessly, mechanically, large bites, eyes blank. << (not lost.) >> Without words, this idea conveys itself as something /beaten/, blood-streaked fingers fastened in talons onto a cliff face. -- while nimble, clean fingers select a green stalk of broccoli and convey it to endure a rapid /gnashing/. He slows at the moment of swallowing, throat thickening in a moment's bracing: << (is that-) … (Holland's children were missing.) >> It's a question, somehow. Unemphatic. Claire eats her fettucini a little more rapid-quick now, though, like Parley, there’s very little /pleasure/ about the activity; more the mechanical act of satisfying some specific need. << {I became a lawyer to try and change -- my sister,} >> Claire adds, and here is a /bundle/ of old, tightly buried emotions - not suppressed so much has - carefully put away, expertly bound inside of an ironclad lockbox, << {died a very long time ago. At the hands of -- roughness. I escaped, because. I do not -- /look/ --} >> The mechanical eating slows; Claire’s breathing becomes, for a moment, unsteady. There is a sense of her power being employed, then; a cheat, perhaps -- but the familiar crystallization that settles over her, sharpens her -- it gives her control. She resumes eating. << {If he is right. If this is the point we have found ourselves at,} >> Claire tells him, << {Our expertise would be better put to use than trying to change what cannot be changed. Yes. Holland’s children, } >> Claire finally answers, as if only just realizing that the question /has/ been asked. << {Were among the missing. They are alive.} >> In body, the room is almost eerily silent, two people eating alongside a stack of clean papers, a tidy computer in a wholly civilized if chilly scene. Parley's eyes do not leave his fork, watching it raise food to eat, moving away from his face relieved of their burden, breaking only once to close his eyes, exhale softly through his nose at this final news. But this small rare tidbit of elusive history of his employer finds a sense of - packing in closer, fierceness unseen on the surface. Sheltering what is - far, far too late to protect. << (in the labs,) >> he says, unemotionally, << i was used to (clarify/translate/communicate) with (subjects) that could not otherwise (speak or understand). >> He uses a thumbnail to pierce through the flesh of an orange. Unraveling a slow ribbon of rind. << (universally) it is the (dying) that (struggle)(most consistently) to (communicate). >> Mm, /orange/ wedge. He tucks one into his cheek and slips half of them onto Claire's plate. /Vitamin C/. << (i am not squeamish.)(in what i do.) >> He hovers a hand over Claire's, seeming fascinated by the small breadth of distance that maintains the separation. << (i have someone) i can ask. (that may give us a better) idea as to how (deep),>> the idea of 'deep' is visceral and penetrative, like a dagger entering the muscle-wall of an abdomen, << (this reaches.) we could see if it (would be worth it.) >> Except that the message could just as easily be interpreted as: Or if we should just put the project out of its misery. Claire does not move to devour the orange wedge that Parley has snuck on top of her plate. Instead, her hand moves -- suddenly ferocious -- to /grip/ his own. Turning, fingers entwining, /squeezing/. << {Lillian. Charcoal skin. Blood red eyes. She was beautiful. Our neighbors drove her away when their crops did not survive winter. Ours did. They imagined--} >> The thoughts are accompanied with a violent fierceness; it does not ebb with what comes next: << {I followed her. We survived, for a while. Then--} >> Whatever has prompted Claire to open this box suddenly evaporates; it is closed -- locked -- and carefully placed away within the compartments of that ordered, psionically sharpened mind. The harshness of her grip softens. The fork descends for one of the orange wedges, now. << {Yes. Please. Find out if this is worth -- the risk. I think it is. But, if I am wrong... be careful. Be /subtle/. Do not let them see our full-hand. But -- yes.} >> For a moment, the clenching of Claire's fingers is only stared at, Parley looking - bored? Reserved? Reluctant? Slowly, his fingers close too. And then close tighter. Then trembling tight. He leans over, touches his shoulder with hers, a unified bracing, looking just... glumly at the panoply of information spread out before them. He probably shouldn't ask. But there are many things Parley should not do, that he does anyway: << (you survived.)(...then--?) >> It's so much quieter than his simple, dark promise: << (i will be careful.) >> If thoughts had teeth, his would be gritted. << {And then,} >> Claire continues -- setting the fork aside to lean over Parley and deliver a soft, affectionate kiss to his temple, << {I met a /very/ naughty kitty who became my assistant.} >> While others might have mastered the technique of hiding their thoughts from their expressions, Claire has mastered the technique of hiding her thoughts even from /herself/; like a cleverly designed box, her mind compartmentalizes - clicks and slides and bends at just the right joints - to shift her memories away, hidden in places even she has yet to think to look. << {We will watch the video, first,} >> she adds, her tone a little strained, but also softer, more cheered. << {Then we will go over what we /have/, together.} >> Hrf. Parley smirks, seeming in utter disregard of the whole grimness of the conversation and makes a strangled little "ghgh" sound, conking the side of his head down on Claire's shoulder like he's trying to /wipe off/ the kiss. Or just. weird-affection it back at her. Bonk. Nudge. He returns to his plate soon enough, light and casual in his motions as though so much of this were simply normal, par for the course. He imparts sage advice: "Eat your orange."