Logfile from M3

It's one of those days. Just one of those mildly melancholy days. Even a Fool such as Feste has them -- those sort of days when you just want to throw caution to the wind and go flying in the face of everything solid around you -- yeah, one of /those/ days.

Feste walks casually through Seoul's streets, eyes glowing red slits framed by his blonde bangs. He's dying for something new and extraordinary and intresting. The BnC is just so BORING. Peace is boring. Tranquility is boring.

Seoul ... is boring.

No, really. It was. There's a peace on, which means everyone's at home, watching the Battle and Chase air race. Everyone except ... a certain Director of Interpol.

Who is not. In fact, he is currently sitting -- no, lying on his back -- on a bench in a nondescript park. Nondescript, and very heavily guarded, and off the beaten path a little. But otherwise nondescript, except for the albino gracing one of its benches, his feet hanging just over the edge of the bench, hands webbed across his stomach -- and eyes on the slowly darknening sky above.

It's moments like this that make him resemble some punk kid more than he already does.

Feste continues his slow walk. Parks -- mostly the hunk of nature they hold captive -- are always more interesting. Sighting one, he casually hooks a turn toward it. Oh look. Guards. How...quaint. My, does this feel familiar.

He can guess who it must be over there, but he'd rather not. That makes it more interesting. If approached, he offers a casual, charming smile. Oh, he's harmless...

The guards are not being terribly overt about their duties -- in fact, most don't even look like guards. But either way, they don't approach Feste, relying instead on the feeling of potent MENACE surrounding. If he pulls a weapon, he'll be dead before he can touch their Director, that menace seems to say.

And the Director -- continues to gaze up at the sky.

Weapons? What are these 'weapons' you speak of? He's an English major, not a combatant.

Feste continues on unstopped, then, still offering that charming smile. How nice of them to let him continue unhindered. He spots what could only be the Director -- but he has yet to guess, even seeing that hair -- and smiles.

"See anything interesting up there?"

"One early star, three interesting cloud formations, a crescent moon, a bird, and two low-flying aircraft," comes the quiet, bored response from the man stretched out on the bench. No -- not bored. Just ... impassive. Utterly without emotion. "And what might have been a lost reploid. I wasn't sure; I didn't get a decent look, and my vision is poor."

"Oh?" says Feste, looking heavenward himself. His hands are still in their customary place in the pockets of his coat. He cocks his head, rather birdlike. "I see." And perhaps he does, actually. Hah.

"Do you."

The reply is blank, perfunctory. The Director hasn't moved, beyond speaking, and the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Oh, look. There goes another bird -- make that two of the things. Or maybe that was a bat; hard to tell.

"Quite. D'you see that one?" The Fool raises an arm, pointing out the bird -- bat? Whatever. It's an *unidentified flying object*.

What lazy Director! Feste idly steps closer to the bench, still respectfully far away.

The Director cants his head slightly, following the bird-bat-flying-paper-bag with his gaze -- but still remaining mostly still. "Yes." A long pause, as he turns his gaze back skyward -- then closes his eyes, drawing in a breath before releasing it in a sigh. "Do you need something, Fool?"

The Fool idly turns his gaze to one of the guards off over there, near that lovely tree. "Who, me? Why, no. And yes, for we all desperately need something." A hint of a smirk in that. "Nay, I am quite content, if not a tad... unoccupied." Odd choice of words. He could've just said 'bored'. Hm.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission from Gabriel.

"'Unoccupied.'" The Director would elaborate, save a radio transmission interrupts his musings. He reaches a hand up, fingers brushing at the angle of his jaw -- before subvocalizing a comment in reply, and tapping it off. No, he's not in a terribly social mood right now. " ... Not a follower of the games, then."

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You activate your radio intercept ability.

Ooo. He's missing something.

His radio is idly flicked back on. Doesn't hurt, really. Does it? "Not really. Have I missed something particularly exciting?" His tone is cynical to match Abernathy's non-social. How delightful.

Another pause; but this time, it's the Director biting his tongue -- metaphorically. God spare him from the idiots he worked with. "Not really," he echoes back, tone a model for disinterest. "Merely the end of the air race."

Then he sits up, carefully, giving a slight shake of his head to clear the nascent dizziness. Blood pooling in one's brain will do that. "Repliforce won, the Hunters placed, and I believe a Robot Master took show," he adds, without looking toward Feste. Yes, talk to his back.

Feste is a-okay with talking to backs. He is, by now, used to it. "Aha. How, ah, pleasant." He apparently does not care one iota.

He redirects his gaze back to Abernathy -- yes, staring at his back. Ever scanning, ever analyzing, ever looking for clues.

Abernathy is simply -- without clue, right now. He is not broadcasting his intentions or emotions through his body any more than he is through his voice. "Quite." He folds his hands in front of him, then -- finally casts the Fool a pink-eyed glance over his shoulder. Considering, analyzing. They could likely sit here watching each other all night, if they tried.

Feste meets it with a red-eyed glance of his own. Yes, they probably could, couldn't they? How cute.

No clues, then. Very well. Feste remains quiet and still. He didn't come here for you, after all, but rather for the park. Nyah.

Very. 'How did you meet your boyfriend?' 'Well, he stumbled on me in a foul mood in the park one evening, and we ended up staring at each other all night. We both got a nearly fatal case of pneumonia and ... '

Unfortunately, Abernathy is not that patient -- or that fixated on winning a staring contest with Feste. So he looks away again, gazing off over the park with his hands clasped in his lap. He's in a rather quiet mood, isn't he?

That is, until he starts singing. Even then, it's neither raucous nor loud -- in fact, it would be nearly inaudible, if one's hearing weren't enhanced.

o/` I was young and knew everything; she, a punk, rarely ever took advice. Now I'm guilt-stricken, sobbing, with my head on the floor ... o/`

See? Singing makes /everything/ better.

If there is one difference between Feste and Andruw Nisse, it's patience. Feste has depths of patience that Andruw could have never even hoped to tap into. The Fool can wait for damn near forever and still be relatively happy.

Feste idly rubs his chin, listening to Abby's song. It's one he doesn't recognize, but that's okay. And oh, what perfect lyrics enter his mind. Yes, how perfect, how...amusing... A smile comes unbidden to his face. Perhaps it's for the best that Abernathy's back is turned.

o/` Stop a baby's breath, and a shoe full of rice. Can't be held responsible -- she was touching her face ... I won't be held responsible, she fell in love in the first place ... o/`

It wasn't surprising. The Director had a love for music authored by those two or three centuries dead; it's just the way his tastes ran. He doesn't look up; he doesn't even seem /aware/ of what he's singing, except that those words are poignant. And pointed.

o/` For the life of me, I cannot remember what made us think that we were wise, and we'd never compromise. For the life of me, I could not believe we'd ever die for these sins ... we were merely freshmen! o/`

Feste adopts a rather bemused expression. Interesting lyrics. It's something he does often enough himself -- sings at people in order to get a message (often hidden in the lyrics) across, so he must wonder if there's one in there for him. Probably.

Maybe. Or maybe Abernathy wasn't nearly so pointed, and the song was a message to -- from -- for -- someone else. Maybe that someone is the Director himself.

o/` My best friend took a week's vacation to forget her; his girl took a week's worth of Valium and slept. Now he's guilt-stricken, sobbing, with his head on the floor ... o/`

No passion on that line. He is repeating someone else's tragedy in a carefully neutral tone, or so it sounds.

It's an act, of sorts. Feste can understand that. Kind of a morbid song, though. Eh, well, makes it more interesting. And now, perhaps, it is his turn.

o/` "They'll...come soon... I keep waiting... and I wait... won't somebody...save me..." o/`

The song is slow and sung in rather low tones, which Feste manages to accomplish beautifully. It is part of what he does, after all.

[OOC] Feste eyes the lyrics again. <F> "I'm going to hate myself for this in the morning." X)

The Director is a morbid man. Besides, the song's not so much morbid as about lost opportunities, and the stupid mistakes ... everyone makes. Out of innocence.

The next phrase -- 'he thinks about her now and how he never really wept' -- goes unsung, the Director pausing on 'now' ... before decrescendoing, the song fading out entirely, as Feste cuts in. He's not going to make a vocal duel out of this; it's evident who would win.

He had played this same sort of moment in his head over and over again. He hadn't expected it to come so soon, was quite surprised to find even this opportunity. He hasn't quite accomplished his goal yet, but... perhaps... he is very close. But he had played it in his head over and over again, toying with the different variables, toying with his own words, and often it did involve singing, but never...like this. At least, not quite.

He skips right along to the main verse. The chorus contains perhaps the most pertinent message. He'll save /that/ one for later.

o/` "You've crossed the walls... excelled... further along through their hell... all for my heart, I watch you kill -- you always have, you always will...

"Now spread your wings and sail out to me...

"Now spread your wings sail out to me..." o/`

Feste, like Abernathy, seems to be caught up in the moment, not entirely aware of what he's singing. It just flows; it feels right, it feels true. It is a good song.

Abernathy is listening. He'd be a fool not to; there is nothing casual or even light about singing. You talk about eyes being windows to the soul -- if they were, they're poor, and clouded; music is the true bay window on to the sitting room of the mind and heart.

So he listens, bowing his head, hands knotted in his lap -- knuckles gone just a little paler with tension. What kind of communication could be passing between these two men? Whatever it is, it's certainly inscrutable to an outsider.

o/` "And if you're feeling lucky... come and take me home... And if you feel loved...

"If you feel lucky, if you feel loved... If you feel lucky, if you feel loved... Spread your wings and sail out to me..." o/`

Considering the lyrics, one has to ask: what INDEED is going on here? Feste's eyes, closed once he'd begun singing, open just to red slivers, observing Abernathy. What will he do?

o/` "If you feel lucky... if you feel loved..." o/`

o/` "On my deathbed, I will pray to the gods and the angels -- like a pagan, to anyone who will take me to heaven ... to a place, I recall, I was there so long ago ..." o/`

Looks like Feste's gotten himself a response.

o/` The sky was bruised, the wine was bled, and there you led me on. o/`

Is Abernathy's tone ... teasing? Pleading? Something in between, or something that wasn't either? It's difficult to tell.

He skips the chorus; the verses are more important, at the moment.

o/` And on I read, until the day was gone ... I sat in regret, of all the things I've done ... o/`

o/` "For all that I've blessed, and all that I've wronged... In dreams until my death... I will wander on." o/`

Feste sings these words, the end of Abernathy's songs, almost sadly. Is that a 'no'? Was there even a question in the first place?

Whatever message was exchanged, it's struck a chord in Feste. He'd lean back, but there's nothing to lean back against. Except a guard, but that would be weird.

His eyes open further, just a tad. Have I missed my mark? Was I wrong?

"But tell me true, are you not mad indeed, or do you but counterfeit?" murmurs Feste quietly.

Abernathy gets up from the bench, not facing Feste. Yet. He does fold his hands behind his back; the tensing of his fingers is the only indication that he even heard the Fool finish his song for him.

After a minute's quiet contemplation, though, he does turn to face Feste, his gaze level -- over the tops of his glasses. Pink eyes, meeting red. "Give me time, I will be clear. Given time, you'll understand what possesses me to right what you have suffered," he intones, not -- quite -- singing, though the rhythm of the words is close enough.

Then he pauses, gaze still locked on Feste's. "My nemesis," he continues, no longer half-singing, "is the only sane man I know."

Is that enough of an answer for the Fool?

The Fool opens his eyes fully, taking in everything, absorbing, marking this down for later, as always. His expression remains placid, neutral, calm. What a message that is. It gives him hope, and yet... it is not the answer he was looking for.

He would like to believe that he does not need such a solid, absolute answer to his question, but in his heart he knows he does. And until he gets said answer, there will always be that hole.

But... right what he has suffered? Curious. Does Abernathy know, then, what evils Andruw Nisse has suffered? Really know?

Feste remains quiet for some time, before whispering, almost dryly: "I'll ne'er believe a madman until I see his brains."

If the Fool wanted a more specific answer, he'd need to clarify the question just a little more; the Director lived as a truth-telling man in a world of lies and half-truths, which meant he'd gotten very -- selective -- with how he parceled out his information.

Oh. And the funny thing about the word 'right' is that, in that context, it sounds very much like 'write'. Think on the juxtaposition of those two words, and what they did to the phrase.

"Those are not something I give out lightly," Abernathy replies, tone as much of a whisper.

Feste is similarly reluctant when it comes to information, at least when it concerns himself, although his reasons are different -- blind faith in his own destiny and that sort of thing. He's waiting, all his life, waiting for the right person to come along.

He blinks slowly, merely accepting the fact. Perhaps he'd gone and gotten his hopes up too earlier. Too much too fast. A moment of weakness.

"But of course. I expected as much from you." Back to the Fool-tone, that cordial English accent.

Oh yes. Did we mention he seems very distantly pained? I think not (because his player is getting sluggish).

The Director continues to stare at the Fool, senses straining -- imperceptibly -- after that sound of pain. After the corresponding look in Feste's eyes. He's searching ... "What's hurting you, Fool?" he asks, voice little more than a murmur. It's almost more ... to himself, than Feste. "What damages that facade?"

Feste manages a smile.

It is very, very well hidden; a part of the facade, but deeply embedded. How could he know, he wonders. Abernathy is just as perceptive as he expected and then some.

"Unfulfilled goals, m'lord," he says, seeming rather unsatisfied with that answer.

Abernathy moves his hands from being folded behind his back to being tucked in his pockets, mirroring Feste's stance. And still keeping his gaze level on the Fool's, his face impassive. No opportunity for any of his own emotions to be read and reflected back. "And what goals would those be?" His tone is ... still mild.

Feste hehs, still maintaining that uneasy smile. This particular pain is, indeed, part of the facade, but... it's attached to something deeper. Attached to the true-self.

"A court for this Fool," he answers, shutting his eyes again. Still unsatisfied with these answers. Something about them makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Maybe it's because Abernathy would be the first to hear them.

Never show weakness before a wolf. He'll go for the throat. The Director's eyes ... there is a flicker of intent in front of the icy facade, quickly subsumed again behind his own multitude of masks. Buried. "And what would constitute a court to your satisfaction, dear Fool?" The answers are unrehearsed -- that's good. Abernathy can /tell/, though he can't -- quite -- link the discomfort to the lack of repetitions.

The uneasy smile vanishes as the Fool regains his momentum and confidence, replaced by that disarming one from before. Perhaps he feels threatened. Maybe just a little.

"Why, I'll know when I get there," Feste replies, smirking.

How odd this is -- masks speaking to masks. Facades facing other facades.

Damn. And Abernathy had been /so/ close, too, to -- making something out of that moment of unease, that brief, flitting pain. "Deferral. I see." The Director gives a slight, polite nod of his head to Feste. "Then did I press too far, dear Fool, in asking?"

"Perhaps," says Feste, mildly amused. "Perhaps. It is the truth, however. The answer is the same, whichever fool you ask. Why, did you want to know more?" Taunting, almost.

The Director smiles a small, sad, fragile smile in the face of that answer. "Yes," he replies, simply. Ah. Words of one syllable make communication so much easier. ... even when their punctuation, as the smile, disappears rapidly.

Feste throws Abernathy an almost pitying look. Oh, look at you -- poor you!

"Well then. Maybe," muses Feste, "I shall tell you. Some day. But not immediately. I'd rather let you ponder over it while I make obscure allusions to the things you have yet to hear. Suspense is a lovely tool..."

Or, at least, he /would/ say something of that sort, were it not for that...smile, that sad little smile.

"I'll have to tell you then," he says softly. "But not now, I'm afraid..." My. He seems almost shy!

"It is late," the Director observes, simply. "And there is likely ample time for such a conversation later." Gone is -- any pretense to an emotion, any indication that he is human, and not merely a malprogrammed reploid.

How cute.

"Indeed it is," Feste similarly observes, though he sounds much more human. "It is late, and we both should be going."

He pauses, briefly looking the Director in the eyes. "Don't die on your way home," quips Feste, imitating Abernathy's voice flawlessly, and following it up with a cheery smile.

If the Director is startled by Feste's stunt, he gives no indication of it -- except the slightest inclination of his head, a little nod of approval. "The same to you, dear Fool." How strange, to think that he's found someone worth communicating with that resembles /him/ so much ... or how he was ... once ...

Feste leaves Abernathy with one last smile before turning on a heel and heading back out to the street.

How ironic that he should be thinking mostly the same thing...