Logfile from M3

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Are you dead yet? I'm curious."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "No, sorry to disappoint you."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Mm."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "And this despite the consumption of possibly poisonous watermelon! You should be happy for me."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Watermelon? *alarmed* Oh heavens!"

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "... It's not as if watermelon's inherently inimical. It ... ah."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Who gave you that?"

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "An old acquaintance. You might know her -- Dr. Matthews? Rigger?"

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "...why... yes, I do, in fact."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "Ah, well. She and I had a little run in with some lovely neurotoxin last year."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Did it involve watermelon?"

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "No. Cologne."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Well, then, that explains that. Dressing to impress, were we?"

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "... nooo, not exactly ..."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "*sounds almost disappointed* Oh. I see."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "... I must say, it's a little more scandalous. But, ah ..."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "Ah what?"

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "<sounds ... embarassed?> It's ... rather sordid."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "*delighted* Yes? I'd love to hear it, then. Sordid tales are always the best."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "... damn. I knew this would happen. <sigh> Is there somewhere a little more, ah, secure we could discuss this maybe?"

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "*amused* If you wish."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "You can even pick the location."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "You know where my apartment is, I expect."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "I think I remember."

The Seraph's Roost <TSR>

An entirely unostentatious three-and-a-half room apartment. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, and half-bath -- there's nothing much to recommend it beyond a bachelor's pad for a particularly well-off bachelor. Sure, it's neater than one would usually expect for a bachelor -- no socks tossed on top of the television, no decaying food in the sink, no anomalous stains on the carpet -- but nevertheless shows some of the telltale signs of occupation by a single male human, primarily in the spartan (easy to clean!) furnishings. The only remotely 'odd' item in the entire place -- beyond the healthy fistfuls of magnetic poetry words tacked to the refrigerator -- is one of the end-tables, an odd affair made of a triangular piece of what looks like black glass. Except there's never been a piece of glass *cut* that thin in all of humanity's existence.

Recently, however, the apartment has begun to show signs of occupation by a second human. A younger one, at that, as indicated by the various items distinctly 'out of place' for a human bachelor. Like the occasional crayon between the couch cushions, the stuffed triceratops on the bed, and one lone surreal crayon-drawing posted on the fridge, held up with magnetic words.

Abernathy [Dies Irae] [C]

Melissa [C]

Obvious exits:

Out <O> leads to San Angeles - Northern Residential

Abernathy is, uncharacteristically, sitting with his back to the door of the apartment. A little strange, admittedly, but this is Abernathy, after all. Strange is his middle name. No, really. Adrian Strange Caspianovich Vorlaikal. ... But we digress.

Knock knock knock.

Do you hear that? It's the sound of DOOM, preparing to cheerfully invade your apartment.

"DADDY! Someone's at the door! Maybe it's a mass murderer!"

And that would be Melissa, who's drawing, somewhat quietly, in the kitchen. Please don't mind her.

Abby, alerted more by the knock than by his rather rambunctious offspring, springs to his feet, winces, and turns to unlock the door. "It's not a mass murderer, dearest," he calls back, somewhat absently.

But wait! It IS a mass murderer! He's come to murder you with a rusty knife while you're naked in the shower! And-- er.

Door: unlocked. Feste opens it and steps through, because that's what doors are all about. He passed this subject at Oxford. Counting, though, that was a doozy.

"Evening," Feste greets the apartment, cheerful as always. "Now. You promised me a sordid tale."

But maybe Abernathy does not want to KNOW why the thought of him naked in the shower even entered as a line of thought here. He steps back from the door, expecting -- well -- maybe more of a greeting than that. "Ah, yes. I suppose I did. Sit down, if you wi -- " *thump*

That would be the sound of a shy-curious seven-year-old limpeting on to her father's leg. Melissa peers up at Feste with wide silver eyes. "You were shorter last time!" she declares, suddenly. "An' you had pointy ears, an' green eyes like a kitty, an' -- "

"Melissa. Manners."

Melissa pauses at this. Then clears her throat and nods politely to Feste, without letting go of her deathgrip on Dad's leg. "H'lo, Mr. Feste."

The Fool does a great job of not paying attention to Abby's opening words -- something was bothering him about this place... hm.

"You know," he adds, waiting politely until Melissa's done, "this place seems a LOT smaller." He smirks, and looks back to the people/business at hand.

"I was indeed," Feste responds, with a toothy grin. "And good evening to you, m'lady...ah... Melissa." Heheh. And -- bwah? Melissa is quite an interesting child, too... hm.

Melissa

Melissa is a young girl, about six years of age, of Asian descent. She has long, straight black hair framing a winsome face with large, silver eyes. A perfectly normal child, if you can overlook those eyes and the rare patch of biometal on her skin.

She's sensibly dressed for a kid of her age, in clothes that aren't too restrictive to make active play difficult, or too likely to get trashed from hard wear.

When not at school, or daycare, she can usually be found trailing around after her 'daddy' -- the Director General of Interpol, Abernathy.

Yes. It's a household full of cyborgs. Abernathy's a cyborg, Mikhail's a cyborg, Melissa's a cyborg ... and Kammas is a cyborg. That would be their fish. But the fish is not here right now. (which is good, because it's a preternaturally disturbing animal.)

"I'm not surprised, actually. Ah -- go ahead and sit down, if you'd like," Abernathy replies, smoothly. Not at all fazed by the child clinging to his leg. See? He's getting used to this fatherhood thing!

"Wow," Melissa mutters under her breath. Then, louder: "Can you really blink? Did Daddy really stab you? Do you really taste like fruitcake?"

Abernathy merely smiles patiently and ruffles Melissa's hair. "Melissa, dear. Let go of my leg, please. And don't ask him too many questions, he might get frustrated and explode."

"Really?!"

" ... Well." Abernathy gives Feste a sly look. "Maybe not. But you're being a little *too* enthusiastic, dear."

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Chill Snowcat's transmission to Abernathy: Please help me! Please stop them! They're takin me ta WIly! I don't want ta go! I don't want ta die!

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Chill Snowcat: I'm afraid, Mr. Snowcat, that Interpol has no jurisdiction in San Angeles. I can't.

Feste is being... admired. Sort of. By children. It's enough to swell his pride, even momentarily.

The Fool lazily walks toward the couch - it's no big deal. Relaaaax. You are not about to have a third nervous breakdown. No sir!

At Melissa's questions, Feste keeps right on a-grinnin', turning so he can face them both. "Yes, yes, and... I'm not sure. I suppose you'll have to figure that one out for yourself." ...good Lord, Feste thinks, what has he been telling her? "As for... exploding... I'd rather not test it. Although there is plenty time for questions later, milady." Smirk smirk smirk.

Melissa is still rather obstinantly limpeted on Abernathy's leg, despite his earlier request. So he resorts to one of those dirty parental tactics to get her off, i.e., tickling. This elicits a rather high-pitched giddy shriek and the desired reaction (i.e., detaching from Abernathy's leg), upon which Abby scoops up his daughter and strides over to the couch. Aww, so domestic.

He sits down on the couch and promptly releases Melissa, who shifts around to sit on the side of the couch opposite Feste, half-hiding behind Abernathy. She opens her mouth for *another* round of questions, at which point Abernathy interjects with: "I was going to tell him a story, actually."

This quiets the seven-year-old right down. Story! Whoo. And Melissa is also plotting how to determine if Feste tastes like fruitcake, having never actually had fruitcake. Maybe fruitcake tastes like paste ... hm.

Feste watches the scene with interest. He hasn't had much experience with children; this is quite the learning experience. And one must be familiar with all parts of life to adequately mock it, of course.

He waits patiently for Melissa to settle down, almost flinching uncharacteristically at the almost-unleashed barrage of questions. Oops. He /slipped/.

"Right," Feste murmurs, distractedly. (pst. fruitcake tastes like.. wait. what does fruitcake taste like?)

Now that Melissa has settled down, Abernathy can actually tell his story. "I did promise you sordid," he begins, with a qualifier, as usually. "Though now that I think of it, it's not as bad as it could be." He is telling it in front of his daughter, after all.

"Anyway. I'm sure you were around for that whole Nigh mess at the end of last year, yes?" Needed to get a fix on how much of this he had to tell, after all.

Melissa, for her part, is being surprisingly quiet.

(and fruitcake tastes like DEATH.)

Yay story! Feste settles himself, idly clasping his hands and setting them on his lap. Yes, I am the very image of attentiveness. I did not just do this so I could get into your apartment. Yes. Absolutely.

"Actually... I believe I was unconscious for most of it. I think I saw the movie, though." A thoughtful look from the Fool. Yes. Thoughtful! Way to be.

"Ah, well. All that really matters is that I ended up on the run for a little while. So! Our intrepid friend Dr. Matthews turned out to want some information from me ... " Abernathy pauses. Hm. How to explain this, in front of the kidlet. " ... That I was reluctant to give," he continues, thoughtfully.

"She ended up employing a rather dirty trick to get it."

"What'd she do, Daddy? Did she try to beat you up?" Melissa chimes in. Of course! Happens all the time on the schoolyard. It's a good way to get lunch money.

"I don't think Dr. Matthews could beat me up if she tried, dearest. No, she -- ah ... brought some cologne."

Melissa pauses, looking a little puzzled at this. " ... Col ... ogne? Isn't that like ... perfume for guys? And it smells weird?"

"Yes. Exactly."

[Radio: (F) Public] Dr. Sirius Viper transmits, "Silent isn't it...."

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "Not if you're up on Eurasia."

[Radio: (F) Public] Feste, happily: "I really love how people always pipe up about how silent it is. It's just lovely."

[Radio: (F) Public] Abernathy transmits, "Ruins the point, doesn't it?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Feste transmits, "Oh, quite!"

[Radio: (F) Public] Dr. Sirius Viper transmits, "Not really, the point was to get you all talking...."

[Radio: (F) Public] Feste transmits, "Have you succeeded, sir?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "Why do you want us talking?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Dr. Sirius Viper transmits, "No particular reason...."

[Radio: (F) Public] Cut Man mumbles, positivly sounding highly deranged, about giant flowers and dwarf elephants heroicaly defeating demon robot cats and man eating eating pancakes. Befor an *CLICK is heard*

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "Well, if he asks. I've got a suggestion, this one went down quite well last time."

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "Everyone! A one! A two!"

Feste listens attentively, of course. Because that's what you do. It's only polite. "I see," he comments, quietly. He can understand this, of course. Mm, cologne-- er. Yes.

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "We're knights of the round table...".

[Radio: (F) Public] Feste transmits, "...hm."

[Radio: (F) Public] Quick Man transmits, "That's sad Freeze, just so sa...OH! Found Cut's foot!"

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "It worked well the last time..."

[Radio: (F) Public] Dr. Sirius Viper transmits, "Bwahahahaha!"

"Why did she use cologne? Was she tryin' to -- uhm, torture you?" Melissa asks, nose wrinkling up. "It's pretty stinky ... "

"No, she wasn't. She was trying to surprise me into telling her something," Abby replies, calmly.

"Oh." Melissa maintains the puzzled look. This doesn't compute, which is probably just as well. It barely made sense in Abernathy's mind.

"Anyway," he continues, glancing from his daughter back to Feste. "It had rather the effect she wanted, ultimately. Turns out the cologne was also laced with neurotoxin, since its original owner was a paranoid ba -- ah. Man." One corner of his mouth quirks up in a slight, self-effacing smile. "She ended up getting both of us with it."

[Radio: (F) Public] Freeze Man transmits, "Up yours."

The Fool idly cocks his head to the side, concerned. "Ah. How unpleasant, and yet... fitting, no?" Hm hm hm. "Did she get it out of you?"

A slight blush colors Abernathy's face, and he looks down. "Ah ... yes. I was rather indiscreet, so I suppose I deserved it."

"Oh no," Feste scolds, smirking. "Bad form, sirrah. Tch, tch."

Abernathy waves a hand airily, conceding this point. "I'll admit it was, yes. And it got me into more trouble than I thought it would at the time." He sighs, as if irritated.

Melissa, having puzzled as much of this out as she really can without further input, chimes in again. " ... what'd she get?"

Abernathy pauses. "Ah."

Melissa waits, expectantly.

" ... she wanted to know if I liked somebody."

"My, my," Feste chips in, quietly. "Sordid indeed." His eyes narrow slightly in thought -- perhaps this has something to do with the recent incident. Perhaps. Mfle. Too many 'recent incidents'. They're all starting to run together...

Melissa seems contented by this, at least -- for the incident. Abernathy merely smiles faintly at his daughter, resting a hand on her head and tousling her hair again. "So, that's the long and short of it. Not very fun for anyone involved, but there you are. And ... yes." He favors Feste with that same faint smile he's given Melissa. "So ... I suppose this is the part where I ask if you've got any questions, because it's certainly not the kind of story that ends happily ever after."

Feste shifts slightly in his seat. "Hm, questions? Me? Never."

He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking. "So, this has absolutely nothing to do with watermelon." (right. that makes sense, feste.)

Abernathy receives a radio transmission from Junk Man.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: *thoughtful* *digital* I am sorry director. I am unable to disclose any information about Tengu. Not that I got what you were looking for anyway. I am regretful of this. ....aaand I guess that means I still owe you a favor.

"No, that part didn't. But it had everything to do with poisoning." The reason behind Melissa's sudden silence becomes readily apparent after a moment: She's actually fallen asleep. (aw.) But, reluctant to move her, Abernathy just ... remains where he is. "So. I'm not dead, you're here, and the Mavericks obviously haven't managed to overrun London yet. Everyone's happy." What a dry tone.

Abernathy sends a radio transmission to Junk Man.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Mm. That's a pity. Well, then, why not merely leave the check blank? I do promise that I won't request anything of you that could be turned against your brothers or your father.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: Well then consider it a fully open invitation director. ...I'm sorry that my brother has issues with you. He called you a very rude thing today and although I will not relate I will apologize to you in his stead.

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: <bemused> Actually, he was probably being fully truthful, whatever he said. So don't worry about him.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission from Junk Man.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: *digital buzz* ...oh. Um. Really. Well I am terribly sorry for having insinuated that such a... um... lifestyle is in any way an insult. I'm sure you're very happy. *somewhat awkward but more ashamed then embarassed*

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Truth be told, I'm really not, but I've learned to live with it.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: *even more awkward, though not in the more typical ways* ...well. I am sorry to hear that they have taken to their taunts in such a way director...

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "You know. It's almost painful to listen to you, boy. Pipe up and don't be ashamed. Insult the Director! Laud his name! Whatever, just do it with *confidence*!"

Abernathy sends a radio transmission to Junk Man.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Believe me. I've been called and received worse treatment than a simple beating for it.

[Radio] Junk Man sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "*grumps* I REALLY hate communications specialists... *grrrmble*"

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "Oh, I'm not a communications specialist, my dear boy. I'm a voyeur with far too many toys for my own good."

Abernathy receives a radio transmission from Junk Man.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: ...That... is truly tragic Director. I would not be able to live with such revilement and constant strain. You are a stronger man than I, even though I'm not, well ya know, technically a man or really anything. ...oh, and... Mr. Abernathy? *strained*

[Radio] Junk Man sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: " No you're just annoying."

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "Oh, please. That's just rude."

[Radio] Junk Man sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "*seems to pause* ...it was. I'm sorry, I've had a really bad last two or three days..."

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: It's, as I said. Something I live with. And something I will die with. Don't praise me too highly. Yes?

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: ...ahh, it is nothing. I was going to ask you to perhaps discourage an eavesdropper from your end, but that would not be kind of me. *sounds tired*

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Oh. Well. That, I can do. He's just being annoying.

Abernathy then pauses a moment, and fixes Feste with a deadpan stare. "If you don't mind," he says, after a moment, tone completely dry, "could you stop harassing the Robot Master? He's getting a little unnerved." Take that, you voyuer!

Feste merely nods at the first statement, and... sighs, noticeably, at the second. He opens his eyes again, and looks pointedly at Abernathy. Thanks so much...

The radio conversation is a welcome distraction, and so a bit of a smile returns to his face--

"Oh, fine, take all the fun out of it, why don't you," Feste returns, equally dry.

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "God give you peace, sirrah. *click*"

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: *sniff* I don't need god, I have Wily. *grumphs* I am sorry to have randomly bothered you this eve Director...

"Yes. We've established I am a killjoy of the top order. In fact, it's probably in my job description somewhere that I have to ruin someone's day." Then Abernathy pauses, and continues, in a mock-saccharine tone, "Besides, he seems like such a *nice* boy, and you're being a perfect bully."

Feste rolls his eyes, mouthing the words 'I don't need God, I have Wily' in a barely-audible, high-pitched voice only slightly reminiscent of Junk's.

"It's my job too, you know," Feste says airily, idly closing his eyes. Hmph.

"Does that mean that all we'll accomplish here is sitting on the couch and making each other miserable?" Abernathy asks, slyly. "Or should we do the whole good-cop, bad-cop thing and continue to bait the Robot Master?" Oh, he's in a mean mood tonight.

"I vote we try for both at once," Feste answers, eyes still closed and still...haughty. Silly Feste. "Of course, it all depends on how long you're going to let me stay."

Abernathy sends a radio transmission to Junk Man.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Such things do happen. It's not a problem.

"Mmm, well," Abernathy muses, after sending one last radio transmission. Ahaha, yes. He could be a smooth bastard when he wanted to be. "I seem to have sent him off for the moment, so may we'll merely have to do the former. And you can stay the night, if not longer. London's a dangerous place to be right now." He leans back against the couch himself, eyes half-closed, expression meditative.

Feste merely shrugs half-heartedly in response. It's the last phrase that really catches his attention, of course.

"You've made that quite clear," Feste says, coolly. Quite...clear. Too clear. It's not helping his attempt to avoid the problem completely by not thinking about it at all.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission from Junk Man.

You intercept Junk Man's transmission to Abernathy: *hmphs* Prolly me being paranoid again. I see. Not a problem. Remind me to cook you something sometime. Call it a tiny repayment back for all the crap that Tengu's been giving you recently. Heh. *musing silence*

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "He's vegetarian, by the way."

[Radio] Junk Man sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: " Good to... hey!"

[Radio] You send Junk Man a direct message: "*audible smirk*"

"I'm sorry, then," Abernathy replies, after a moment's thought. Obviously, he's responding more to the tone than the words said. Rather like a kicked puppy, actually, the way his shoulders hunch a little bit forward as he leans into the couch cushion. And doesn't respond to Junk Man's next comment, because, ah ... his mind's elsewhere.

[Radio] Junk Man sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "rrRRrgh!"

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Junk Man: Ah! Well. Thank you, then. I'll keep that in mind.

Oh, that's...cute, sort of. More sad, but...still.

Feste swallows, barely hiding it. "I'm sorry, too. It's just that you're /not helping/." Feste looks askance, contemplating those very words. Why'd he have to go and say that? Now he'll have to talk. Damn.

Abernathy raises his head a little, casting Feste a sidelong glance at that. "I know," he says, after a moment. "It's not a familiar thing, this ... 'being helpful'." He pauses, then continues, tone a little firmer. And accusative. "I'm not supposed to care, you know, about whether or not my words are cruel or kind, so long as they're truthful." Aha.

Abernathy receives a radio transmission.

You intercept Chill Snowcat's transmission to Abernathy: Do you know anywhere safe? Anywhere I can go? I'll do whatever ya want.

Oh, well. We already knew *this*.

"What kind of diplomat are you, anyway?" he retorts, just the *slightest* bit irritated. "Truth does not always win the hearts of the many, you know." Grmph.

Abernathy sends a radio transmission.

You intercept Abernathy's transmission to Chill Snowcat: I'm off-duty right now. Please talk to my secretary.

... a significant look at Feste, at this comment. I know you're listening, you dog.

"A very unusual and only half-successful one," Abernathy admits, quietly. "And a worse politician. It's really funny how much you're required to outright lie in the line of duty, and all that."

Blink. Oh, no, -no- he -didn't-. I am *not* your secretary...

Feste grimaces, but... sure. Okay. He'll do it. Just because. But you owe him. Oh yes.

"Good thing you weren't elected," Feste mutters, and returns to his radio.

[Radio] You send Chill Snowcat a direct message: "*official-sounding secretary voice, with a not-so-subtle hint of irritation* Hello, you've reached Abernathy's office. He's currently unavailable right now because he's too busy being an ass. May I take a message?"

"Isn't it? Some days I'd rather I were. Then I could guarantee I'd be out of office in another -- " Abernathy looks down, pulling his cuff back from his watching and squinting at it. " ... Year or so. But, ah." He shakes the sleeve of his shirt back down and leans back again, humming softly to himself.

Feste takes a moment to glare at Abernathy. Glare glare glare. "I'm sure Senator Romero and her ilk wish rather the same thing, hm?" Hm hm hm? Feste idly taps a finger against his cheek, waiting to see what the 'message' will be. Bleh. This is why he went to *college*, so he wouldn't have to be a *secretary*... but no. Nobody appreciates a degree in English these days...

[Radio] Chill Snowcat sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "I'm just asking him for a safe place....I'm willing to work hard and do whatever I can to earn the help."

[Radio] You send Chill Snowcat a direct message: "Hold, please."

Feste asides, irritated: "Why don't you just send him to the United States or something? Plenty of things to do over there, I'm sure..."

A very innocent look meets the glare, as if to say, 'Hey. You're here, and I don't want to deal with him. Besides, you like stupid reploids, right?' Abernathy then gives a slight shrug of his shoulders to this comment. "As far as I can tell, Senator Romero doesn't have much of an opinion of me. Which is just as well, in terms of my political longevity. Unfortunately. Mm.

"And that would be unkind. Do you know how much of a bounty he's got on his head?"

"Well, /fine/," Feste answers, rolling his eyes. "Not like *I* know many safe places he can go. They're all in /London/." Feste's eyes narrow slightly and flare a brighter red. Grr.

"It isn't as if that whole mess is *my* fault," Abernathy snaps back, irritation coloring his tone at last. He sits up a little straighter, and gives a slight shake of his head. "And what's happened has /happened/, so the best we can do is make sure YOUR petty sensibilities along with the *rest* of Britain's population doesn't get reduced into thin red jelly by the Mavericks."

Feste's -- Andruw's -- response to all this is to grow very, very quiet. He stares dead-on at Abernathy, simply because he doesn't have it in him to look away. His breath quickens.

The words escape him. All he can do for the moment is sit there and breathe. What can he possibly say to that?

"Your concern is appreciated." My. Is that all he can come up with?

Abernathy locks eyes with the other man, also grown silent. He hadn't quite meant that to be so much of an outburst -- it had sort of gotten away from him. Nor had he quite meant it. But what was said, was said, and couldn't be unsaid ... only followed by more unfortunate words.

"If I could bring you London and lay it at your feet by way of apology for this, believe me, I would."

... did he just say that? Abernathy blinks, looking away quickly. No, of course not. Nothing that shamelessly emotional could possibly be associated with him.

Feste's shoulders slump as all of that bottled-up tension just sort of...falls away. He...

"But you can't," Andruw whispers, voice betraying his sheer desperation and outright fear.

It's his turn to look away, now. Good Lord. talk about awkward silences... and to think. Melissa's blissfully asleep for all of this.

"No. Of course I can't." Abernathy somehow manages to maintain most of his composure as he says this. No matter how much effort it takes, no matter what weight of disappointment he has to work through to do it. He cannot let go of that thin icy shield. "And I am gravely sorry. Give me a way to make it up to you."

It would be arguable just what the Director could do, however, to make up a debt owed of an entire city -- no, an entire *country*.

The depth of Andruw's despondency is perhaps apparent only in his eyes, and the deep-set frown that current occupies his face. Interesting, how those inhuman eyes could be alternatively very expressive or simply that -- inhuman.

"Like what?" He's losing hope. Fast.

I need you again, he thinks. I'm so sorry, but I need you again. Please...

Thankfully, this is not a very large couch. Two adult humans and one sleeping child just about fill it up, which means it's not much that Abernathy has to shift sideways to put his arms around Andruw.

Abernathy is not an empathic creature by nature. But you didn't need to be that empathic to sense the kind of despair Andruw's radiating.

"I don't know," he finally murmurs, after a moment's thought. "It's a rather large debt to make up. But I'm sure you can think of something." And, meanwhile, he's right here. Rely on him! It'll be good for you.

Despite...whatever it *is* that stubbornly holds Andruw back, he welcomes that embrace. Almost /needs/ it. Silently, he closes his eyes and just puts his head on Abby's shoulder. thank you thank you thank you...

"I'll think of something," he echoes, quietly, voice distant. I'll think of something...

as soon as I wrap my mind around the fact that London is, for all purposes, dead. all the things...all the people... gone... No Hyde Park, no Tyburn Tree, no Plague Rat, no Stratford-upon-Avon, no Oxford, no....

"Tell me when you do."

Of course -- despite his (truthful!) words to Junk Man -- Abernathy is quite content to sit here, just like this. And be a rock of stability, just like this. Because it's an aspect of what he holds as 'duty', and not just about pure attraction, be it physical (oh heavens yes) or mental, or emotional.

It's a matter of keeping his debts, no matter if they're assumed.

It's a matter of being human, and doomed to fail by his own flaws.

It's a matter of love.

<Fade. To. Black.>

[OOC] Abernathy would probably let you sleep on the couch, if you asked. ;) And if you want to creep out and avoid human interaction in the morning, that's cool.

[OOC] Feste hm. Sure, though he might stay a *bit* longer. Just 'cause.

[OOC] Abernathy nodnods.

[OOC] Feste kicks errybody off the couch. e_e

[OOC] Abernathy scoops up Melissa and skitters off. Jeez. ;)

[OOC] Feste beams.

[OOC] Abernathy says, "'Give me some emotional stability, Abernathy,' he says. 'Let me sleep somewhere, he says.' 'Fine,' I say, and then he KICKS ME OFF THE COUCH. MY COUCH."

<*giggles* we here at M3's Civilian faction hope you have enjoyed this small sample of RP. There's certainly more where this came from, at both sides of the spectrum! Both uber-angst and wackiness. :D Just ask, and ye shall receive.>