9/23 - Sal, Beckah
9/23/2008
Logfile from Emma.
=NYC= Exercise Room - Hellfire Clubhouse
Modern exercise equipment rules this large and airy room, faced in glass and chrome and white walls. Against the treadmills and elliptical machines, weight sets and punching bags provide a cruder counterpoint and workout. Light falls through high clerestory windows and the French doors that open onto the back deck, as well as from cool, inset fixtures in the ceiling.
Near the entrances to men's and women's locker rooms, a heavy oaken door matching the polished floor leads into the sauna. Another door of glass opens into the pool.
It has to happen occasionally. Telepathy may burn calories, but it doesn't create muscle or sculpt abs. So Emma /has/ to work out at some point. Her secret is apparently well-kept. Exercise when no one else is around. And around /this/ place, that means early morning hours. The elliptical machine whir-whooses, lengthening Emma's strides and making her breathing heavier. She's 'glowing'.
There is something to be said about owning the gym at one's disposal (such as the one at Harper Enterprises); however, there is something else /entirely/ to be said about having a non-gym shower at one's disposal, post workout (such as the one attatched to Sal's guestroom at the club). These things being said, they are not equal, so today's very early morning finds Sal Harper rounding the corner into the room, then going very, very still as she discovers its occupant. Even her gym clothes bear the heavy hand of Bahir's influence: they are black, yes, but there is a bright stripe of green up both pantlegs, and a wedge of it that fans out over the sports bra/workout top.
Emma's ears are filled with music, but her mind is not. She glances over her shoulder at the surprise (among other emotions) that blossom in Sal's mind when she rounds the corner. << Don't gape, darling. It's not polite, >> Emma drawls mentally. (So much more dignified than trying to speak around panting gasps.)
There is a snort, a noise suited to the dignity of the moment -- that is, the complete lack of it. Sal sidles into the room and makes her way to the weightsets, setting a waterbottle down beside one, and selecting her weights. She settles into an easy rhythm of bicep curls before finally answering Emma. << not entirely plastic, then. who'd've thought. >>
<< Less than is usually suggested by the jealous, >> Emma retorts, her response diving immediately into and through Sal's thoughts like a bright, edged knife. Her ponytail bounces against the exposed skin between her shoulder blades, brushing the top of the sports bra back.
There is, as always, distrust and dislike of Emma cloaked in bitchiness. << you can't honestly believe i'm jealous of /that/, >> is distainful, offhand. Sal's overriding focus is on the workout at hand, in the satisfaction gained from the smooth flex and extend of muscles; beyond that, her agenda for the day.
<< I don't have to believe anything. >> There is mild satisfaction coating her tone. She slows her workout pace down to a warmdown stride.
Sal rolls her eyes, and supresses the satisfactory thought of punching Emma in that pretty little face of hers for a side-by-side comparison: Emma, lushly (curvily) female, pale blonde hair and light-colored wardrobe. /Weak/, is the overlying impression, as the image is brought up to one of herself: Sal, all rangy muscle and understated curves, dark brown curls and green-on-black workout clothes. /Strong/.
Indeed? Sal isn't the only one considering the arrangement of things. Emma kicks out of the machines foot pedals and climbs down with delicate, graceful steps. The muscles that slide under her skin are evident, but not the cut, angular things of Sal. Her eyes, the only things bright in the make-up-less face, turn on Sal and hold the stare long past comfortable. And then Emma approaches. Black might be strong in its isolation, but white incorporates all colors. Not weak. "Tell me something, Harper. How /did/ Sebastian entice you?"
Sal holds the stare, outwardly unfazed. Inwardly, there is the thinnest trickle of discomfort that lodges itself like an itch between the shoulderblades. With Emma's question, it eases, if just a hair. This? This does not make her nervous. (Emma? Emma does.) She sets down her weights, and faces Emma. "I was his bodyguard," she answers simply. "From there--" one hand gestures, indicating that from there, all things followed. (Loyalty foremost, respect, something that might have passed for affection -- all of which slowly soured, until she was left begging for Emma's protection, begging for her life.) This last remembrance brings a frown to her face, and she looks away.
Emma circles Sal and takes a seat on the bench. She reaches for a smaller barbell, and idly does an arm curl. "He was very good at that," she agrees mildly, focusing on the movement of the weight toward her chin. "And now? Do you serve still because of him?"
"I serve the circle." Sal's mind belays her words, in flashes of faces: Bahir. Percy.
"Why?"
Stronger, again: Bahir, Percy, BahirandPercy, inexplicably intertwined. "Because I believe in what it stands for, what it seeks to achieve." (In her mind, the Circle is always whole, matched Black to White.)
The answer pleases Emma, even if the implication appendages dangling from it do not so much. It is something to work with, in any case. A small smile flirts from the corners of her lips. "The Circle's attention has been somewhat distracted from that purpose as of late. It is time we rectified the situation." She pauses and holds a hand up, inviting Sal to sit and listen.
There is a brief flare of thought, a shadow of an impression -- black king? surely, no. Sal takes a long moment to weigh Emma's words, then shifts to a more attentive position: she does not sit, but puts a foot up on the bench so that she can lean forward, elbow on her knee and arm relaxed. With the free hand, she gestures for Emma to go on, then lets it fall to her side.
Emma places the barbell on the seat instead then. Her gaze settles easily on it, with the occasional look drifted upward. "Things move slowly in our spheres of influence. It is simple fact. It has occurred to me that there are... alternatives to our usual methods that we have not fully explored yet. Avenues that our former King suggested, but with unfeasible methods of implementation." Emma rolls the weight under her finger.
Not, then. Sal watches the weight's roll, then shifts her gaze to Emma once more, eyebrows arched. /Do/ go on.
She does. "If there were someplace that those of unique abilities could co-exist openly, without fear of or oversight by external..." She looks up and lifts a brow. "and less than friendly entities, such a place would naturally be an attraction."
Currently homeless due to just such entities, Sal's interest is more than piqued. "Ah," is all she says, mulling this over for a while. "And you tell me this--?" The why is unstated, implied.
"Because such a place cannot exist except as a sovereign state, and the ability to found a sovereign state is severely limited by the increasing /lack/ of unaffiliated territory. I am telling you this because I need someone to find or create such a location."
"Ah," is repeated, and Sal shifts to stand a little straighter: were she wearing a longer shirt, she would tug on the hem, then smooth it out -- as she isn't, the motion begins, then is aborted. "In this," she says, choosing her words with great care, "I am able to serve you." Underlying the you, the truth of her words: << i am able to serve the circle. >>
Emma nods her head and presses a finger to her lips for a moment before adding, "It might be best if this project were not mentioned to others. We must have information before we can have a decision, and I wouldn't wish to expend any additional energy or effort if your efforts come to naught."
Sal acknowledges this with a nod; she will be discreet. A look at her wrist, where there is no watch, and then to the wall -- where there is a clock. "Understood. If that is all--?" She does have a business to attend to, after all.
"It is." A beat, a considering look, a reluctance, then a decision. "Thank you."
Sal stands, and leaves -- but not without giving Emma a slow look over her shoulder on the way out. "No, Emma. Thank /you/." Exit Sal.
The Circle has a request. And by Circle, I mean Emma.
9/23/2008
Logfile from Emma.
KNOCK KNOCK. If you ask who's there, Emma will not be replying something funny. She stands on the other side of the guest room door, bright and early, looking freshly made up and pressed in business attire. Her skirt reaches her knee, and the shirt under her jacket has a full collar that drapes into wide, white points over the pearly gray of her jacket.
Rebecca is not so fond of those lighter colors. She is dressed in a black tank-top and black jeans. It is kind of a theme here. The black plastic rims of her glasses perch on her nose and her dreadlocks are a loose nest of serpents above her face. As she wanders to the door, she is lowering her cell phone from her ear and flipping it shut. "Yo?" she calls out, before the door can open. Bright and early, like the color white, is not so much a Beckah thing.
Emma does not respond to things like 'Yo'. But when Beckah opens the door, there is a slight smile in place. "Good morning, Rebecca," she greets breezily. "Have plans for the morning?"
"Mornin'," she replies. There is nothing especially good about it and her flat tone carries that distinction. "Nothing other than spending another morning trying to find an apartment and being turned down. And turned down. And turned down." Beckah holds up her cell phone for a moment, as the scapegoat for her exasperation, then tosses it away from her and over toward her borrowed bed. It lands safely, at least.
"Are you /still/ having trouble with that?" Emma's expression is one of exasperated displeasure. "Leave it to me. What part of the City do you want to live in?" She takes a step into the room and runs an eye over the girl from head to bottom. "Put on something professional. We are meeting with executives from BMG at FE." She holds her breath, as if waiting to say something else.
"I like the Village. Music stores, that whole kind of vibe." She chuckles softly, one of her hands reaching up to run fingers back through her dreadlocks. "I kind of fit in there better than somewhere like here," Beckah points out, in case Emma had not noticed. "Wait. Seriously?" she asks, kind of surprised at that sudden proclaimation.
Emma nods, then tilts her head and arches a brow, as if amused by the surprise. "Yes. They are looking to expand the Amost Gold label with some local talent. Your agent sent them an early cut of the work you did in LA, and they were impressed." The fact that Emma's name was dropped during the conversation didn't hurt things either. "So. They have scheduled a meeting." She makes a hurry up gesture with her fingertips.
"Well, shit," Beckah says. It is, evidently, some kind of a statement of surprise. She heads over to the guest room's closet and sets to work on finding something vaguely professional to wear. For her, this is really nothing that Emma is likely to approve of; a pair of cargo pants, a black t-shirt without any obscene logos on it and the sides cut open, and a pair of black and white skateshoes. Beckah is really not one to dress up. Ever. There is a definite buzz of excitement kindled in her as she heads, with her collection of clothing, to the bathroom. "I'll be right out. How long have we got?" she asks, hanging halfway out of the door.
"They will be at FE in two hours." With New York traffic, that's not an obscene safety margin. "I thought you might also be interested in knowing that we have a lead on the group responsible for bombing your building." This is said as almost an after thought, though the sly smile that flits unseen across her lips as she examines a nail indicates otherwise.
Getting dressed? What? Beckah steps back out of the bathroom and looks at Emma, dead on. Her hazel eyes are intense behind the lenses of her glasses. "Who is it?" There is very little that she could actually do with the information, all things considered, but the way she is suddenly burning with a desire to get even and her mind is home to immediate revenge fantasies seems entirely oblivious to that fact.
"We don't have names yet, but when we do, I promise you will have an opportunity for retaliation." Emma ambles the few steps across the room and lifts a finger to Beckah's chin, holding it still while she looks the other woman in the eyes. "In the meantime, we must keep busy making them absolutely furious, mustn't we?"
The little fire that was kindled is calmed down to a slow burn as Emma approaches Beckah and brings that finger to her face. There is perhaps one sneaky glance downward, at the blonde woman's body, that is meant to be entirely hidden. "I am not going to let them win. The more I can get myself out there and succeed to spite them, the better. I'm /sick/ of being the helpless target for everyone's mutant hate shit."
Meant, perhaps, but not. Not that Emma minds. "Good. Now. Hurry up. I want to run an idea for a video location past you in the car."
Disappearing into the bathroom again, Beckah changes out of her more casual slacker clothing for well. A nicer set of the same thing, really. She is quick to tie her dreadlocks back and away from her face and she leaves all but the piercings in her bottom lip out. The glasses stay, contacts left behind. When she emerges, she gives Emma a little grin. "And so let's go."
Emma lies. Liar, lair, pants on fire. Oh, she also sets up a meeting for Beckah with some bigwigs.
Later that afternoon, a voicemail message is left on Beckah's cellphone.
"Ms. Reed. This is Marjorie calling from 'The Sierra Vista.' Our owner company has forwarded your application to our management office, and we would like to set up a time to have you come in and fill out the paperwork on your apartment."