ArchivedLogs:Scraps

Scraps
Dramatis Personae Alice Lambton, Parley	2013-05-27 '
Location <NYC> Sweat - Greenwich Village
An apropos name; it is hard to escape the smell, when visiting this fitness club. Open twenty-four hours, this facility comes equipped with all the bells and whistles for those who want to train hard. All the standard gym equipment can be found and then some. In addition to private personal trainers, there are group classes in all sorts of things, from bicycling to crossfit to yoga to martial arts to more esoteric fare such as pole dancing and dodgeball. An olympic-sized pool makes this a popular draw, and the sauna rooms by each locker room are nice spots to unwind after a heavy workout. Thump-shuffle *ting*. Whish-whoosh. Shff-shiff *ting* *clak* /whoosh/. Short, sharp exhale. It's an aerobics room, as they're known everywhere; aerobic steps stacked to one side for the soccer moms and sports bunnies in bright 80's spandex to group together in catty social groups that don't even need a bake sale. A closed cabinet where yoga mats are stored. A full length mirror, reflecting the room back at the occupants within it to make a distracting silvery-flicker of movement in the corner of the eye. The room is reserved, for now. And two people stand crouched within it, padded in fencing gear. Their foils face one another, ends subtly quiver-swaying. Parley, his gear in mostly drab gray and utilitarian styles, is compressing a hand against his abdomen from Alice's recent /point/, slightly panting behind his mask. If they were going /by/ points, he'd have lost long ago, his albeit limited stamina already beginning to flag. And thank /goodness/ this is no fight to the death or he'd be bled out from a million puncture holes, rather than likely a few bruises. Never mind that, though. He awaits his opponent's stabilized en garde. And then steps in once more to engager her. Alice is a sleek and deadly vision in form-fitting black, with her hair pulled back sharply into a thick ponytail. There are signs of her own flagging endurance--a dew of sweat across her brow, a flush to otherwise pale skin, sharply reserved breath, an increase in the shiver claiming the tip of her foil. She's taken her own touches, though far fewer in number than Parley. Each one has only increased the predatory gleam found in those icy green eyes. A point against her is a /challenge/. She's met each with a rapid assault to score her own. Approaching is as pretty an invitation as she needs to resume the attack, full force. Better now, than to attempt it when middle-aged stamina finally decides that enough is enough. The tip of her foil slashes at Parley's face to provoke a flinch and then she lunges to drive him backwards. She doesn't truly expect to score a point against his chest but if it lands... Win-win, as the teeming masses say. Try though Parley may to leave his mutation in the locker room, intentions have a way of /telegraphing/ to him. He falls back in torso so rapidly it seems his face moves first and then his hair only comes along second, spine bending backwards in time to watch that glinting metal spear skate past his face by a shy inch. There is a certain unpolished balance to his movements, raw at the edges where you could almost see a phantom tail propellering in an arc behind him to perfect his stance. Without it, the abdomen and thigh muscles in his core needed to stand back upright /tremble/. Rather than be driven, he moves in under her arm, trying to extend his reach in a lunge for her shoulder, a chunk of air /forced/ out through his teeth in strain. That is, unfortunately, an advantage that Alice lacks. Certainly she can read the small tells of body language, and astutely at that. But there is a human limit to predictions and when he bends to avoid instead of falling back, the woman is startled. When he lunges she is caught almost completely off guard. The shudder of impact will rocket up his foil to his arm and shoulder. A second later, Alice's knee is on a direct course to his solar plexus. It has been a long several days and she is not about to take a break in her defenses lightly. Crap. Intentions can communicate all they want, but instinct and reflex don't tend to bother with language. Parley forward momentum meets Alice's knee head on, and he crumples over around it with a little 'click' in the back of his throat. And then, she'll be able to /feel/ the hard tension slowly going out of him. Just -- going with whatever takes less /effort/, dropping slowly to his knees. And then further, a hand almost absently pressed over his stomach while he rests his forehead against the ground. /Gulping/ in that floor-smell. "Is that," he pants, curious if through his teeth, "a legal move?" "I would call it..." Alice pauses, swinging back into a side stance and keeping a close eye on him while she snatches a few quick breaths. "Deserved." When it's apparent he intends to remain there for a moment she turns to approach the bottle of water she'd left near the mirror. Taking it up, twisting the cap off, she upends it for a long gulping drink that ends with a gasp. Victory might be hers but she's feeling it. With head hanging afterwards, hand fisted against her hip, she shifts around to watch her opponent make his own recovery. "Deserved." Parley smears the word against the ground in an /exhale/. It's -- somewhat a laugh. Somewhat /not/. But he grows gradually quieter, more controlled, and pushes himself back up into a formal sitting position on his knees. His jaw is subtly clenched, a vein so slightly visible in one temple and a certain animal intensity remains in a hair-thin jumped-up layer through his shoulder muscles. He lowers his chin, looking down at the floor. "I owe you an apology, Ms. Lambton." Said a little tightly. It's not the true Japanese posture for it, no hands flat to the ground, no forehead laid down between them, but ground-side elevation and the way his elbows stick out to either side, palms laid over the highest point of either thigh, makes a hybrid nod to it. "For my bedside manner on the phone with you." Being who she is, Alice allows him to remain there for a time after the apology is given. When acknowledgement is deemed necessary, she dips to collect his water bottle and brings it to him, presenting it like a knife. "It's kind of you to say," she tells him. "Does it sting, having to humble yourself? Or do you feel it unnecessary?" Should he glance up at her, he might see a blade-thin smile, before it's erased by the mouth of her bottle being raised to her lips. So rare, a show of /temper/ in the baring of teeth at this offered water bottle, as though Parley were so tempted as to seize it, project it at the mirrored wall, shatter that other dimension. He breathes in, lets it out, wraps fingers around it and letting it drop for a moment to his thigh. "I detest it," he doesn't sound like he wants to be answering, knelt there at Alice's feet like a pilgrim before the alter of some cold pagan goddess. "Which is probably what makes it necessary. I mislike making -- mistakes." His eyes scale the woman, then descend her. "... you're unharmed?" "Mmm...for someone who so dislikes having to fall to his knees, you've made rather a lot of mistakes lately." There's something breezy in this remark. Something breezy that conceals a point a thousand times more keen than the tip of her foil. Which, it should be noted, Alice is carrying reverently to the side, to slide into its case. Now it's she who kneels, taking one knee and leaving the slender nape of her neck exposed while she turns her back to him. Lest he think he's been forgotten, though, she murmurs, "Of course I'm unharmed. It will be years yet before your claws go deeper than the skin. How was Latveria, Parley?" Hrn. This is very nearly a dark humor expressed, Parley allowing in a neat little chilly rasp, "You're probably right." The quiet swish-sound of water indicates he's lifting the bottle to have a drink, his eyes fastened on the delicate back of Alice's neck. He doesn't sound at all /surprised/ by her question, "Barren. Tidy. Unpeopled. I would almost wonder whether Doom wasn't intending to build his entire population from clockwork parts." Water-sip. "It would certainly explain his interest in exploring a democratic system down the line. It would be the first unanimous governmental vote in history." Alice tucks her chin to her shoulder to look at him, making the lift of one eyebrow visible. "Goodness. You don't sound impressed. Ms. Basil was right." She looks down at the case again, dragging the zipper up to secure the cover over her foil. Once packaged, she lets herself rock backwards, taking a seat on the floor. One knee up, one curled to the side, she leans back against the wall and sighs out. Slowly, her eyes close. "I should commend you for having wormed so many fingers into so many pies. I hadn't /entirely/ expected you to be quite so busy." "She talked about me?" Parley raises his eyes to Alice, to that one vivid green eye, "Oh, dear. I hope it wasn't terribly bad." He's begun, a little stiffly, to tuck away his own equipment. Foil first, and gloves. And then he's going for the stays of his body gear as well. It weighs so /snug/ against his fur. "Dare I ask what you were expecting me to do? My skill set is somewhat limited." Agh. Free. He sets aside his coat, wearing only a sleeveless undershirt beneath, and locates a small plastic curry comb from in his sports bag. He adds, as he does, "I'm considering studying to become a certified interpreter as well. For Japanese. Would that please you more?" Alice on the battle field is most intent on maintaining her quiet, whimsical little mental shields. Alice spent, after a fight, cannot help but let those shields sag. As she relaxes back against the wall, so too does her mind. Foremost is the low and almost pleasant exhaustion of a body well used. There's a sensuality to the feeling that simple carnality can't supply. Behind that...only she could combine amusement and anger into such a heady mix. "Clever and useful was her assessment, I believe. Or perhaps she was referring to herself." Her lashes lift only enough to allow her to observe him through that dark veil. "Do you want to please me?" Slipped in alongside Alice, dressed down to a peasantwear of undershirt with spiky fur mussed and disheveled, a few faint bruises showing where well-directed blows had made their points, the contrast between them has a natural complement. Parley crosses his legs in two neat movements that echo softly for a third that would seal a tail around his parameters. Instead, only a shift of weight to spare his tailbone pressure. His comb is the flat variety of small plastic bristles on one end and a strap on the opposite side to fit his fingers through, and he begins to groom down the outermost fuzz of a shoulder in ginger strokes. It's downward, to this activity that he murmurs, eventually, quietly. "You must already know the answer to that." “I thought I had.” Just that. Four brief syllables, spoken in chilly softness. Alice ignores the young man, ignores his grooming. When the woman tilts away from him, it’s only to find the clasps of her vest, undoing them to spare her torso from that protective but unrelenting pressure. She sighs as its removed, rubs a hand against her ribs through the thinner Lycra of her sleeveless workout top. Also in black, let it be known. Where Parley's hand is compressed against the back of a shoulder, the fur remains crushed down and still. The rest... prickles. It's only faint among most of it, a slight tightening of ranks amongst fine guard hairs. But along the spine -- never will there be a more clear vision of the punky /hyena/ ridge that stands up along a hair-thin line. His rib cage expands, fills up. Then slowly deflates with a controlled breath out. His head lowers as he breathes, muscles -- carefully unclenching. "You're upset with me." The fencing vest is set aside, leaving Alice free to begin unbuckling her bracers. The smile she directs towards Parley could be mistaken for fond--by anyone by an empath. To him it would read simply: <<(oh dear no)(you’re going to have to do better than that)>> “What possible reason could I have to be upset with <<(uncertain of)>> you, Parley? Tell me.” From anyone else it would be a rhetorical question. Possibly sarcastic. From this woman, it’s exactly as it sounds. Like a child--or a student--he has been invited to reason things out. Aloud. Where she can mark his answers with her mind’s red pen. She sets the bracers on the vest and begins to work on her shin-guards. "Would it have pleased you if I'd called before the trip?" Skrrrrch. Skrrrrrrch. Parley brushes comb over the what fur he can reach. The mohawk-ridge of his hackles... mh. It's already there. He cannot reach it with ease, so he instead allows it to remain, some silent communication of his own, earned by this woman. "Or after I returned?" Alice simply turns her gaze back to him, silent, lips pressed tightly together. <<(So this is it)(then?)(your choice?>>) After that moment stretches to a point just shy of the excruciating, she murmurs, “Do you think I am a woman who can be won with trinkets, Einen? You of all people should know better. You are off your game today and I do believe it has cost you.” <<(Dearly.)>> She stands, leaving that bubble of personal space that he’d attempted to create. Her gear is gathered neatly in her arms to be transferring into her open gym bag. The sound of the zipper being pulled shut is very, very loud in the large room. The tidy lash of his name fails to drive up the usual cringe in Parley, if only because he's crumpling slightly, against the wall. Hands dropping to his lap. His eyes lift to watch the woman through sweat-damp hair with feral-blank stare. "What is it you would rather hear, Alice? I could rush to make assurances to you. Or apologies. But we're beyond those, I think. And what you've /asked/ of me so far is currently beyond my ability to /give/ you." His mouth compresses. "For the time being." “You have given me /nothing/. Not even the assurance that this association will be in any way a valuable one.” If words could carry the same intention as a deployed cat o’ nine tails, these would draw blood. Alice stands, pulling the strap of her gym bag over her shoulder and giving the young man a look to match. “Yet still I thought you might prove useful. And yet here I am, discovering on my own that you’ve made so many /interesting/ and /clever/ and /useful/ contacts. If you were waiting to gather them into a pretty bouquet for me, Parley, the time has long passed for the presentation.” Her chin lifts. Just that tiny shift of posture is enough to broadcast her intention to leave momentarily. After a statement that serves as a stake, rather than a whip-lash. “Unless you hadn’t intended to present them at all.” "Clever and useful, yes. But /contacts/, Alice," Parley /rasps/ this word out, rubbing a hand slowly over his forehead, "That would shrivel away and /vanish/ in your hands. You have to know that. There are places I can go and people I can approach that closed off to you. But having someone that is /willing/ to talk to me is far, far different than them telling me anything worth repeating. /Patience/. See what I've done in only two months. And think of what I might do in two more." All sharp elbows and rounded shoulder muscles form a confederacy united to standing in a single flowing motion, walking towards Alice. It's not an aggressive stride, his head is tipped down, shoulders as well. "Do you know why Norman Osborn was visiting Latveria?" “That explanation would be so much easier to believe, dear, if you had bothered to share /any/ of it before I learned it on my own. Now you rather have the look of a child caught with their hand in the jar, scrambling to explain just how much you /needed/ that cookie.” Alice’s lips curl. “And now for the crumbs. I expect it has something to do with wanting to get his hands on the good monarch’s remarkable technology.” "I do not /scramble/ because they are /my cookies/." Parley stops short of Alice, but nearer now for a better contact of eyes. "/I/ made them. And risked my life in doing so. And should the time come that they provide me with something that you may /need/, even now I am sure I will present it to you. /As/ I've introduced you to Claire Basil already." He raises a hand, as though already warding off some argument, "Because I can't assume you'd take on a project this dire purely for my sake. I've fed you course /one/. And I expect you to use this new scandal to your full advantage. But now you /smell more/. And it's not /ready/ yet. But you're hungry anyway. So I can only," now the words are carefully, sharply enunciated through his teeth. "Feed you. /Scraps/." Before this clash, Alice might well have reached out to cup his chin and force his eyes to remain on hers. Now...she doesn’t. But lest he think he have her on the run, she shifts modes--just as she’d done while they’d had their physical weapons unsheathed and crossed. Her voice grows softer, a caress now rather than a whiplash, but still every bit as dangerous. “And what have you fed them about me?” Parley smiles hard, and flippant somehow. "All the little things they already know. But you'd already assumed that. Or you else you really should have." But then the smile fades, and some of the tightest coiling in his back, bare at the shoulders and ruffled with fur that he resembles four-legged creatures, with talons, fangs, begins to ebb back towards the side of something subdued. Human. "And those that do not know you. Are fed nothing at all." Alice studies him for a time. She is not entirely pleased--not at all--but he’s done well enough to deflecting her lunges that no clear path to his throat can be seen. So she curls a hand around the strap of the gym bag and hefts the case that holds her foil. Now she really is drawing herself up to leave. But first... “Neatly done.” <<(I will remember)(this)(all of it)>> Then she turns to go. Parley stands where he is, tracking her departure with his eyes. "Kh." He only makes this sound after she's gone, raising his hand to his mouth and /biting/ down on the pad of his palm. Though his gaze is blank and serene, he breathes slowly. In. Out. And... Okay. He turns, and begins to collect up his own gear as well.