Logfile from M3

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "*coolly* Afternoon."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "<equally as cool> Afternoon."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "You gave me the slip, sir."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "I've been busy -- and I suppose I'm just calling at the wrong time. What do you have for me?"

[Radio] Transmission detected: mwee-hee!

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "I want to talk to you /in person/."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "... Name your place, then."

[Radio] You send Abernathy a direct message: "*muttering, with the occasional 'faen det' thrown in* I--hm-- this won't do-- oh-- *sigh* I don't bloody know, but I want some modicum of privacy..."

[Radio] Abernathy sends you a tightbeam radio transmission: "If it's that important, there is always my office -- though I assume it /is/ that important, yes?"

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

Abernathy's Lair <AL>

The corner office lurking behind the door bearing the Director's nameplate is a forbidding place, as befits the man who holds executive power over Interpol and its troops.

Normally, the lighting in the room is kept relatively dim, to spite the large windows taking up two walls and overlooking Seoul's skyline. The blinds are usually drawn on those during the day, the office lit instead by subdued track lighting. Though it is a spacious office, the lighting lends it a closer feel, a feeling that is only enhanced by the spartan, dark wood furniture. Bookshelves line one of the two walls not taken by the windows, playing host to a plethora of books both old and new; an inactive plasma screen occupies the other wall, directly across from the desk.

A laptop computer and its power supply hold pride of place on the desk, and beside them, a small halogen desk lamp. Papers, crystal chips, plastic flimsies, and chip readers occupy their own corner of the desk, neatly sorted and stacked well within reach. Two high-backed wooden chairs face the desk; behind it, there is a faux leather and metal chair that lends the slightest air of intimidation.

Abernathy [Dies Irae] [C]

Obvious exits:

Out <O> leads to UN HQ - Offices

K-nock k-nock. Or something.

Of course, before Abernathy can get up to open the door, the Fool, looking to the keen observer rather like he's agitated and hiding it, opens it himself. Must be impatient.

If rain brings winds of change, let it rain on us forever ...

Abernathy has been oddly distracted from his work today -- perhaps because of Feste's agitated behavior. Or maybe he's just getting cabin fever. Either way, as the Fool walks in, the Director is not working -- he's standing, leaning against his desk, arms folded across his chest, as he gazes out the window.

As the door opens, he turns, hand dipping to brush against his sidearm briefly. On seeing who it is, however, he doesn't pull the gun. "Lock the door and sit down," he orders the Fool, after a moment's thought. "Then tell me what's going on."

It's really too bad the Fool hasn't learned the rules of behavior when around military folks. Primarily because there are so /many/ of them, and they're all so... jumpy. But can he blame them? No, never...

Mouth set in the beginnings of a frown, Feste does so, door shutting with a nice, solid 'click'. He sits in the left chair facing the desk, and promptly props his face up with an elbow propped up in turn by his knee. Hand covering half his face, he begins speaking - more murmuring out of the side of his mouth, since the other side is partly covered.

"The last time we spoke, you told me not to encourage him."

'Him'? Oh, yes. Abernathy remembers now. The Director frowns, himself, and circles around the desk to perch on one corner of his desk. He folds his arms across his chest, watching Feste for a moment, before giving a slight nod. "I did. So what's happened?"

"I didn't," he says, voice casual, but carrying an hidden, almost plaintive note. "I didn't, I swear to God. I was minding my own business..."

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and continues once more. "I was minding my own business. On Eurasia. And I walked past someone I didn't know -- a painter -- he kept trying to get me to buy his services. When I turned around, it was -him-." Clearly, he's -attempting- to remain nonchalant and casual, but the mask is being usurped by the face.

As much as Abernathy would -like- to go over there and steady his friend, he does not move from his corner of the desk. His own mask is quite firmly in place, the Director's impassivity keeping him a step removed from this. "I see," he comments, simply. "And what happened after that ... ?"

"He recognized me first. There were threats if I did not keep my silence." That solitary visible eye looks up, shifting from the woodgrain of the desk to the Director standing over yonder. "Which I was going to keep /anyway/," he sneers, bitter. Anger -- it's one way to deny the other mixed emotions welling up inside him. "But I froze. So he grabbed me, dragged me into an alleyway, and put a knife to my throat." The bitterness remains, but his tone begins to falter.

The Director's icy mask doesn't change a bit -- but there's this momentary spark of rage in his eyes. His voice doesn't betray that emotion. "On Eurasia." He's going to have a talk with Dynamo about the security up there, if the Mavericks are -still- running around threatening people. " -- I see. And did he make any demands, or was this just for sport?"

The other man doesn't answer for some time, whether it's because he's simply thinking the words through, or breathing or -- whatever.

Finally, he breaks his silence. Let's keep it simple.

"He-- /asked/ me-- what your weaknesses were. Physical and mental."

Abernathy closes his eyes, canting his head down and taking a careful breath. "And what did you tell him?"

After another moment, Feste laughs quietly. But it's not the sort of laugh that sane, stable, -happy- people usually have. It's more like a strangled attempt at one, for starters.

"I told him," F replies, sounding amused, "that you were an albino, and extremely uptight. With the righteous rod of honor thrust straight up your arse and all that." Which isn't QUITE what he actually said, but...

The Director looks up, arching one pale brow at this. " ... I am supposing," he says, keeping down a little hysterical amusement of his own. "That the fact that you are not dead means that he didn't already -realize- either of those facts." They were both true, after all. Well, in a way.

"Bloody /idiot/," Feste replies, and buries his face in his hands. He must still be laughing, judging from those little bounces of his back, and the small, strangled almost-laugh heard once more.

"Apparently," Abernathy remarks, dryly. He gets up from the desk, unfolding his arms and crossing to where Feste sits, to rest a hand on the Fool's back. "Was there anything else?" he asks, calmly.

In between those strange, quiet chuckles, the Fool, still trying to keep up his act -- must be rather trying for someone who was never really trained in the art -- answers. "Suppose he... heh... suppose he wants to kill you..."

Abernathy keeps his hand on Feste's back, using it as a guage on his friend's mood. And what he's feeling does not do anything to alleviate his worries for the Fool. "He probably does," Abernathy says, very mildly. "I am a high officer in a government he has willingly turned his back on, in favor of a genocidal terrorist organization. It's rather routine."

Feste is tense underneath that hand. Tense. For what it's worth, the Fool's reaction was probably calmer than what Andruw's would have been, and this way he just looks like he's crazy, and not psycho paranoid.

After a moment more like that, he sits up, hands dropping to his lap and remaining there. "It figures," declares the Fool.

Abernathy resists very firmly the impulse to play with Feste's hair. Not on business. So he simply rests his hand on his friend's shoulder, tilting his head to one side to get a better look at F's face. "What figures?" he inquires, quietly.

Tsk!

Feste's face is rather clear of expression, at least at the moment. It takes effort, but he is doing it. A smile slowly creeps across his face again.

"It just does," he answers, intent on not really answering at all. This is better than working oneself up into a frenzy, F reflects. It really is. See, Andruw?

There, see? Despite the tension he can feel under his hand, Abernathy smiles slightly in return, and gives Feste a gentle pat on the shoulder. Then he steps away, letting his hand fall to his side and making his way back to his desk. "I suppose I see."

[Radio: (F) Public] Bass transmits, "And thus ends the sad tale of /that/ incursion into our territory."

[Radio: (F) Public] Bass transmits, "I do hope that lessons were learned this evening."

[Radio: (F) Public] Spin Cougar is silent, aside from an idle and intelligible muttering.

[Radio: (F) Public] Firewall Ferret transmits, "What Lesson would that be Mister Bass sir... That Robot Masters really are as dumb as they look... or that they really do smell bad ?"

[Radio: (F) Public] Tengu Man transmits, "Aww, shut up."

Frequency f is now gagged.

Mmf. Abby's being so... formal, and yet so... hrgh. It just makes poor Feste uncomfortable, knowing that Abernathy clearly feels one thing but shows another. It must be painful. No one should have to do it but himself. Life is so unfair.

"You suppose?" he asks, weakly -- if only because he doesn't feel like putting effort into the question, for whatever foolish reason.

Abernathy leans back now, losing that air of amusement he had previously. "You really are that worried about this," he observes. "Was there anything else he said to you? Anything else he'd threatened to do?" He tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowing speculatively. "Have you been listening in on any Maverick channels ... ?" <re>

"Yes, not really, sort of, and... no," Feste replies, easily rattling off every answer. "They don't talk much when I listen, those Mavericks. But-- for what it's worth... I think our dear charlatan is in a spot of trouble."

Abernathy leans forward a little now. "Oh? Do tell. I wonder how we could make it worse ... " Uh oh. He's scheming aloud. That means he either trusts Feste completely, or intends to kill him.

oh nos!

Feste smirks devilishly. Oh, he would like that. "Well. I would suppose, what with his having a filthy -brain-, he is not widely liked by his comrades. Peradventure..."

... probably trusts. Killing leaves blood stains in the carpet that just don't come out, and have to be explained away. 'Why, yes. That's Koolaid. My daughter loves red Koolaid.' "Hmmm ... ?" Abernathy tilts his head to one side. "I'm sure they already know that part of his existence, but ... "

Feste crosses his legs at the ankles, and nonchalantly examines his fingernails. Tra la. o/` Still smirking, he replies, oh-so-slyly. "And I'm sure they'd be glad to hear that he's doing something he's not supposed to be doing."

"And how do we get that information into their hands?" Abernathy replies, thoughtfully. "Furthermore, do we know what he is doing that he's not supposed to be?"

"He's a human pretending to be a robot in a group of robots that hate humans with a passion, and probably hate pretenders even more," Feste continues, not even looking at Abby. Thank you, Captain Obvious. "It won't be hard to find /something/ they'd nitpick over -- or failing that, turn it into something they could. As for the how..." He looks over at Abernathy and smiles, looking so young and impish for a brief moment.

Abernathy watches his friend levelly at that, not smiling. In contrast to Feste, Abernathy looks a lot older than his scant three and twenty years. He's seen too much, done too much, to pretend that his knowledge is limited by his youth. At last, he speaks very quietly: "If you do that -- and I am tempted to advise against it, knowing your penchant for getting involved with these things -- and you /die/, I will have you brought back exactly the same way I was, so I can throttle you. And then I think I'll probably kill myself for letting you do such a stupid thing."

"Oh, that would be so... dreadfully... poetic," says the Fool. "They might have to write stories about us, after we're dead." So-- un/caring/... "I will get the job done. I have a gun for a reason, after all."

Abernathy's expression remains quite sober, despite the Fool's jest. "Maybe. I'd rather hope not, though. I never wanted to be immortalized." He pauses. "You have a gun. But do you know how to use it?" It's a soldier's interest. "Have you ever shot at a man with the intent to kill him?"

"Aye. All art is, after all, useless," he replies, returning his attention to his hand. Supposedly. "As for my gun, no. Not yet. But I intend to." Smirk.

"I never said that," Abernathy rebukes.

Then his eyes narrow dangerously behind his sunglasses. "You 'intend to'. Tell me, dear Fool, how much combat experience do you actually have?"

Feste rolls his eyes. "Of course you didn't. When have you known me not to put words in your mouth, sirrah?" Still a-smirkin'. "Oh, precious little." At least he's /slightly/ more serious than before. "But..."

"It's one of your less than charming habits, yes." Abernathy's tone is, for a moment, sarcastic. But it quickly goes back to dead serious. "But -what-? You expect to go out to parley with the Mavericks, one of whom has already held you at knifepoint, and you barely know how to defend yourself?" He gets up from the desk, pacing over to the chair. "This is not a situation you can get out of by -hitting people- with your escrima sticks, Andruw! And the worst to come of it won't be a nearly punctured lung, if you fail to defend yourself."

His tone is still icy-cold, but softer now: "I've sent men out to die already, Andruw. I expect it to happen when dealing with the Mavericks. But I will be damned if I ask you to do the same when I know that essentially amounts to a damned -sacrifice-."

Throughout all of Abernathy's monologue, stirring proof that he does, in fact, CARE, Feste remains silent. And inattentive. And irreverent. Doesn't it just make you want to smack him?

Even when called by name, Andruw shies away. Coaxing him back is a rather difficult thing, but... he comes to the call. Eventually.

"So." The smile is dropped. "I'm special, then?"

Abernathy stares at Feste for a very long moment. "Yes. You are very special. I wish you would realize that."

Feste laughs -- once, quietly. Oh, that's nice of him to say that. But is it true? Hm hm. "To you, or just in general?" Andruw asks, teasing, smiling once more despite the gravity of the situation.

"Both. But does it matter, really?"

"I was just checking," replies Andruw, with a grin.

Abernathy smiles back, very slightly. "Well, there's your answer. Will you trouble me for more, or are you content?"

Andruw pauses, still smiling, and rather happily at that. It's not at all forced or faked or anything of that sort, for once. "Will you still take me to lunch?" he asks, tone akin to that of a child's, begging for the must-have of the moment.

Abernathy's smile widens just a little. "Of course. I said I would, didn't I?" And if there is one thing Abernathy always strives to do, it's keep his word.

Including when it was to tie F to a chair, or various other sundry things. Right, gotcha.

"Well, then, I am content for now." From frenzy to forced happiness to petulance to all smiles. For shame.