06 / 22 / 11 - Cleo, Jean-Paul
=SF= San Francisco - California
San Francisco curves its way around the almost entirely-enclosed San Francisco Bay in a vast and close-slung C, with the Golden Gate Bridge spanning one open corridor and the Oakland Bay Bridge crossing the other. Cable cars run up and down the city's hills, carrying tourists and locals alike through the Financial District and historic Market Street and down to Fisherman's Wharf. Everywhere, the signs of good living are abundant. San Francisco is full of wealth and opportunity, and it draws highly educated individuals from all walks of life. It is characteristically liberal and open, welcoming a diverse community and a thriving cultural scene. Museums, theatres, parks, and art galleries crowd in with nightclubs and bars.
The hilly metropolis boasts more than 7 million residents and a bustling tourist industry. Known for its chilly summer fogs, eclectic mix of Victorian and modern architecture, and famous landmarks such as Chinatown, Alcatraz, and its cable cars, many a visitor has left their heart here.
While Cleo has certified, her first few rounds of practice and exercise have been a little heavy on in-field focus, and maybe a little unusually grueling. At the end of another test of stealth and infiltration, Jean-Paul stands opposite the door of a medical research facility and -- I don't know, maybe he is playing Angry Birds or something on his phone as he waits for Cleo to emerge, or else get arrested.
When Cleo does finally emerge, she lacks any sort of security or police escort, so that's probably a good sign, right? She is dressed the part -- lab coat, glasses, and all -- and exits with a slightly flittery air. She does not make for Jean-Paul, because that would be bad ninja-ing. She heads off in a different direction. Do they have a RENDEZ-VOUS POINT? She heads for the RENDEZ-VOUS POINT. Or at least someplace common like a coffee shop a safe couple of blocks away.
After a brief delay, Jean-Paul gives up on his name to follow after Cleo and meet her in a few minutes at the coffee shop. "I guess you'll do," he says as he slings down into a seat with something cold and slushy that is covered in whipped cream and dusted with cinnamon that smells faintly of chai. Guess what I'm drinking right now.
I can't imagine. Cleo curls up with something that contains no tea or coffee: a fruit smoothie. It is red and probably contains berries of multiple sorts. "Why thank you," she replies to Jean-Paul, faux-prim in a manner that does not reconcile with her easy sprawl of legs in one of the coffee shop arm chairs.
"Given any more thought to what areas you might develop?" Jean-Paul asks as he stirs his straw through the whipped cream. Fattie fattie.
"Well," Cleo says, not stirring through whipped cream because she has a girlish figure to maintain, fattie, "other than the basics that I'm working on, I can do /some/ of the stuff for Surveillance, but I've never really -- you know. Messed with all the /gadgets/." She looks kind of keen to mess with them, though. It is hard to tell if she's joking when she adds, "Also I want to scuba dive and fly helicopters."
Jean-Paul frowns at Cleo. "Helicopters?" He does not question scuba.
"They hover!" Cleo says, as if the coolness of this should be obvious.
Jean-Paul's eyebrows inch upward. "Unsubtle."
"Well," Cleo says. "Yeah." She breezes by his absolutely accurate point as if it wasn't even a hitch in the conversation. "Probably the two advanceds, right? Stealth, breaking and entering."
"Surveillance will take a fair amount of time to get up to speed with the electronics," Jean-Paul says as he ducks his head and takes a sip. He swallows, shrugs, and then says, "Scuba might actually dovetail in an interesting way with your current skillset. It's not something we use much, though."
"I didn't actually think so," Cleo confides. Also, do we even have any scuba instructors?
That is what NPCs are for, fool. Take classes at the local Y. "Everyone needs a hobby," Jean-Paul murmurs.
"I like keeping about five." Cleo slouches comfortably in her armchair and sucks up some fruit smoothie with a straw. "What's yours?" she asks.
"I write. I read." Jean-Paul glances out across the coffee shop. "I fly." It's okay. He's outed. He can say that.
"I'm reading a book about the 1933 World's Fair in Chicago," Cleo shares. "Sometimes I write random stuff down." So now they are friends, right? She smiles a small, slightly envious sort of smile at Jean-Paul's last hobby. "I don't do that," she says.
"Well, you could in a helicopter." His tone dry (and smug), Jean-Paul goes on to say, "But it wouldn't be the same. I've been in a helicopter. Trust me: not as good. What's the World's Fair book?"
"Maybe I can find a jet," Cleo says, eyes narrowing with half-feigned competition. She stretches out one leg and rotates her foot in a lazy circle. "It's some boring title like -- 'The 1933 Chicago World's Fair' or something. I don't know. I like books about real things."
"I like books about real people. I find it a little hard to imagine that your book is very -- interesting," Jean-Paul says. He isn't sneering, but he seems to be waiting for a counter.
"Dude, they had a /zeppelin/," Cleo says, easily taking up the counterpoint. "And they painted all the paintings like a rainbow. And had all of these awesome technological exhibits and then really weird shit like -- like /baby incubators/." She wrinkles her nose. "I mean, books about events are just books about what real people /do/, right? Not that different."
"Mm." Jean-Paul doesn't quite disagree, but he certainly doesn't agree. He siiips his drink. "Sounds real compelling."
Cleo frowns at him around her straw, trying to make out how genuine he's being.
Not very. Sitting straight, Jean-Paul says, "I'll stick with books about people."
"I read those, too." Cleo futzes with her straw. "I read a lot of things. I dunno. I was kind of a terrible student with that."
"I was just a terrible student," Jean-Paul says, no qualifications. He is unashamed.
"Did you go to college?" Cleo wonders, head canting.
"Yeah. I even graduated," says Jean-Paul with a side-glance at Cleo. "You?"
Cleo gives Jean-Paul a thumbs-up. Go graduation! "Just a couple of semesters before I wandered off."
Tipping his head, Jean-Paul judges not. "I didn't really give it the attention it deserved. I was pretty focused on athletics. Not quite that football player that can't master basic algebra, though," he adds. (Because he skied.)
"Intermediate?" Cleo guesses.
Eyes narrowing at Cleo with a trace of exasperation, Jean-Paul drinks his frapp.
"Advanced," Cleo settles on.
Jean-Paul continues to sip his drink, but there is never that much in them: soon enough it is all ice and whipped cream and he sloshes it around to melt.
"I thought about studying architecture, but then I decided that it would probably be pretty boring in practice," Cleo continues.
"You're right. That's not nearly as exciting as..." What, exactly? Jean-Paul trails off.
"Roadtripping," Cleo provides.
"Uh huh." Jean-Paul jags his straw through the slush.
"I like traveling," Cleo says.
"You're in the right job," Jean-Paul says with a low snort.
Cleo smiles, small and musing. "What did you not give deserved attention to in college when you weren't focusing on athletics?"
With the flick of a few fingers, Jean-Paul says, "English. Literature." So, you know, very highly employable. "But enjoying reading and writing on my own time does not necessarily translate academically."
"Right." Cleo shifts her seating to tuck the other foot under her. "What sport?"
"I skied." Jean-Paul says it not defensively -- omg it is too a sport! -- but with pride.
Cleo does not start fights about the validity of skiing as a sport. (Do people really argue that?) Instead, she says, "Cool" and sounds like she means it. Then her eyebrows wing upwards and then furrow. "Wait," she says. "You're that /guy/."
Tipping his head to the side, Jean-Paul taps his straw. "That's a little vague."
"/That guy/," Cleo repeats, because repetition is the same thing as clarification. "The /Olympics guy/."
Plastic crinkling from the briefly increasing pressure of Jean-Paul's hands, he ducks his head and sips. "No. I was never the Olympics guy. But yes." Mixed messages.
Cleo opens her mouth and then closes it at the mixed messages. "They interviewed you," she says, reaching for final confirmation.
"Yeah," Jean-Paul says with a tuck of his chin in a curt nod.
"Right." Cleo's excitement upon recognition fades a bit awkwardly as the full weight of the /reason/ for recognition settles. "That sucks," she understates.
Jean-Paul laughs outright in a brief, startled snort. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, it sucks. But -- well. Couldn't go back, at the same time. Wouldn't."
Cleo smiles, small and contained and slightly pleased, at the laugh. She swings her foot, musing, and finally asks, "Do you like it here?"
"Yeah. It's not for everyone, but if it's for you, there's nothing else like it." Quiet satisfaction not unmixed with regrets and loss, Jean-Paul shrugs. Good enough.
Good enough. Cleo seems to absorb it thoughtfully. Eventually, she says, "We'll see, I guess."
"I guess." Poking his straw through his drink, Jean-Paul glances over at Cleo. "You ready to head back?"
"Sure." Cleo sucks down the last of her smoothie and bounds up with a stretch of limbs.
And then they go home. Assnut.
Jerkface.
Frappes.