Blustery Balcony
The man is losing his mind. Respect is the currency of power, not threats - and more than that, his 'demands' reflect a basic ignorance of the politics of war.
=NYC= Widow's Walk - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
Shaw is lounging on the the balcony dressed in a tuxedo, the bow tie undone and a martini in his hand. He had some female company, but she excused herself to the powder room, leaving the Black King to contemplate the East River at night in relative peace.
For awhile, anyway. It's only a minute or two before the Black King finds himself with female company again, a slender brunette with delicate features and an evening gown that shimmers white. Her eyes are darkly bright, and there's a full-blown confidence in her step that rings different from that of most socialites. She pulls up next to Sebastian Shaw in silence.
Shaw's brow furrows, and he looks sideways with a sip of his martini. "Well," he says to her. "How you doin'?" It's a trademark, winning smile. "Sebastian Shaw," he introduces with a martini salute.
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" Dark brows arc over darker eyes.
"A drink?" Shaw replies. "Ah, yes," he says quietly. "I can summon someone for one." He straightens from the balcony, turning to go to the door and summon a servant.
"Too late, Sebastian." The brunette shifts to turn toward him, and her tongue clucks lightly against the roof of her mouth. "You really should work on your timing. It's going to get you into trouble."
"...what?" Shaw replies, turning to look at the woman as his brows narrow with suspicion. "You are," he informs her, "awfully familiar for a woman I've never met." Suspicion fades to an easy smile. "Forward, even - but it's okay," he says, taking a step. "I don't mind."
"For example," she continues without acknowledgement of speech or suspicion, "You -- and your influence -- have been suspiciously absent from the public eye of late. Our President's numbers seem to be enjoying something of a reprieve." She turns her gaze fully on him, smile meeting smile. "Have you noticed?"
Shaw's smile is sacchrine. "Ah," he tells her. "So nice to see you," he says. "But politely," he says, "I don't answer to you or your master." He shrugs, sipping at his martini. "And my hunting of the President proceeds at its own pace - a pace delayed by his general senility."
"You are welcome to be polite all you like," Mystique answers clearly. "You can be polite right into your grave, Sebastian Shaw. You will answer to us in this, or you will regret it." Scarlet lips tilt in a slow smile. "I might suggest that you would rather not be on the recieving side of his wrath. Particularly at the moment."
"I think the great and powerful Magneto needs to spend a little time focusing on his goals," Sebastian Shaw murmurs back. "The man - politely - is ineffectual. He's a child who can't choose between steak or ice cream and so tries to have both." A beat. "Not, I should say, a pleasant combination."
Mystique regards Shaw in silence for a moment, weighing him with a gaze that finds him wanting. "Pity," she notes after a moment. "I'd hoped you really did have some brains hidden in there somewhere."
Shaw shakes his head, returning to the balcony. "Oh, I believe he can hurt me," he tells Mystique. "I even believe he's petty enough to try - but really," he says. "What does he think he's doing? If he wants to bring down the President in the polls, then he shouldn't be dropping planes over New York with an EMP. And if he wants to bring down the President - the country - by war, then he should be dropping those planes on the White House."
"Pay attention," Mystique orders sharply. "And try, just for a moment, to pull your brain out of the muck that your silly little club has made of it. No war is ever fought by bullets alone, Sebastian Shaw. You're quite old enough to know /that/. And yet you prove disappointingly narrow-minded."
"Ah," Shaw says with a smile. "So you're winning the hearts of minds of people whose grandmas died when their life support gave out?" he says. "Politely, I know a thing or two about war. I've profited from it more than any tinpot dictator, any green-jacketed general - any President. Wars are won by many things, but nowhere on the list is half measures."
Laughter rings between them, light and genuinely amused. Dark eyes watch Shaw brightly. "Do people believe you, when you do this?"
"The bombast?" Shaw inquires, sipping at his martini. "Routinely. The logic... well, it depends on whether or not they have breasts."
"Smart man," Mystique replies serenely. "You know a thing or two about supplying a war. You apparently know very little about fighting one. It does not matter, in any case. You have been given directions, and I expect you to fulfill them. I'm certain you can stretch your brain far enough to manage that, if you put a little effort into it."
"I don't take directions from Erik Lensherr," Shaw replies evenly. "I told him that we are doing our part against Lowe, and would continue to do so."
"I want to see doubt rising again before the weekend." Mystique speaks with a matching tone and not response to his words. "As much fun as it may be, I would sorely hate to be distracted from my work in order to destroy a man." She pauses to study Sebastian for half a moment. "If you are fighting the same war we are, then it is time to start pulling your weight. And if you are not--"
"I never said I was fighting the same war," Shaw muses. "And if I was, I would not be taking orders from your general. You can take the results you get or you can try politics on your own," he says. "Perhaps you would be good at it - smiling faces, and all that. I think Lensherr would be decidedly less so." A beat. "He lacks the appropriate subtlety."
"You are ever-insightful," Mystique murmurs in amused reply. "And so self-aware, too." Heeled steps carry her away from the balcony with neat clicks. "By the weekend, please, or I /will/ try politics on my own. You may not like them."
"Do take care," Shaw offers after Mystique, still nursing the remnants of his martini. "And enjoy the party!"
Mystique exits without further reply.
=NYC= Widow's Walk - Second Floor - Hellfire Clubhouse
Shaw is lounging on the the balcony dressed in a tuxedo, the bow tie undone and a martini in his hand. He had some female company, but she excused herself to the powder room, leaving the Black King to contemplate the East River at night in relative peace.
For awhile, anyway. It's only a minute or two before the Black King finds himself with female company again, a slender brunette with delicate features and an evening gown that shimmers white. Her eyes are darkly bright, and there's a full-blown confidence in her step that rings different from that of most socialites. She pulls up next to Sebastian Shaw in silence.
Shaw's brow furrows, and he looks sideways with a sip of his martini. "Well," he says to her. "How you doin'?" It's a trademark, winning smile. "Sebastian Shaw," he introduces with a martini salute.
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink?" Dark brows arc over darker eyes.
"A drink?" Shaw replies. "Ah, yes," he says quietly. "I can summon someone for one." He straightens from the balcony, turning to go to the door and summon a servant.
"Too late, Sebastian." The brunette shifts to turn toward him, and her tongue clucks lightly against the roof of her mouth. "You really should work on your timing. It's going to get you into trouble."
"...what?" Shaw replies, turning to look at the woman as his brows narrow with suspicion. "You are," he informs her, "awfully familiar for a woman I've never met." Suspicion fades to an easy smile. "Forward, even - but it's okay," he says, taking a step. "I don't mind."
"For example," she continues without acknowledgement of speech or suspicion, "You -- and your influence -- have been suspiciously absent from the public eye of late. Our President's numbers seem to be enjoying something of a reprieve." She turns her gaze fully on him, smile meeting smile. "Have you noticed?"
Shaw's smile is sacchrine. "Ah," he tells her. "So nice to see you," he says. "But politely," he says, "I don't answer to you or your master." He shrugs, sipping at his martini. "And my hunting of the President proceeds at its own pace - a pace delayed by his general senility."
"You are welcome to be polite all you like," Mystique answers clearly. "You can be polite right into your grave, Sebastian Shaw. You will answer to us in this, or you will regret it." Scarlet lips tilt in a slow smile. "I might suggest that you would rather not be on the recieving side of his wrath. Particularly at the moment."
"I think the great and powerful Magneto needs to spend a little time focusing on his goals," Sebastian Shaw murmurs back. "The man - politely - is ineffectual. He's a child who can't choose between steak or ice cream and so tries to have both." A beat. "Not, I should say, a pleasant combination."
Mystique regards Shaw in silence for a moment, weighing him with a gaze that finds him wanting. "Pity," she notes after a moment. "I'd hoped you really did have some brains hidden in there somewhere."
Shaw shakes his head, returning to the balcony. "Oh, I believe he can hurt me," he tells Mystique. "I even believe he's petty enough to try - but really," he says. "What does he think he's doing? If he wants to bring down the President in the polls, then he shouldn't be dropping planes over New York with an EMP. And if he wants to bring down the President - the country - by war, then he should be dropping those planes on the White House."
"Pay attention," Mystique orders sharply. "And try, just for a moment, to pull your brain out of the muck that your silly little club has made of it. No war is ever fought by bullets alone, Sebastian Shaw. You're quite old enough to know /that/. And yet you prove disappointingly narrow-minded."
"Ah," Shaw says with a smile. "So you're winning the hearts of minds of people whose grandmas died when their life support gave out?" he says. "Politely, I know a thing or two about war. I've profited from it more than any tinpot dictator, any green-jacketed general - any President. Wars are won by many things, but nowhere on the list is half measures."
Laughter rings between them, light and genuinely amused. Dark eyes watch Shaw brightly. "Do people believe you, when you do this?"
"The bombast?" Shaw inquires, sipping at his martini. "Routinely. The logic... well, it depends on whether or not they have breasts."
"Smart man," Mystique replies serenely. "You know a thing or two about supplying a war. You apparently know very little about fighting one. It does not matter, in any case. You have been given directions, and I expect you to fulfill them. I'm certain you can stretch your brain far enough to manage that, if you put a little effort into it."
"I don't take directions from Erik Lensherr," Shaw replies evenly. "I told him that we are doing our part against Lowe, and would continue to do so."
"I want to see doubt rising again before the weekend." Mystique speaks with a matching tone and not response to his words. "As much fun as it may be, I would sorely hate to be distracted from my work in order to destroy a man." She pauses to study Sebastian for half a moment. "If you are fighting the same war we are, then it is time to start pulling your weight. And if you are not--"
"I never said I was fighting the same war," Shaw muses. "And if I was, I would not be taking orders from your general. You can take the results you get or you can try politics on your own," he says. "Perhaps you would be good at it - smiling faces, and all that. I think Lensherr would be decidedly less so." A beat. "He lacks the appropriate subtlety."
"You are ever-insightful," Mystique murmurs in amused reply. "And so self-aware, too." Heeled steps carry her away from the balcony with neat clicks. "By the weekend, please, or I /will/ try politics on my own. You may not like them."
"Do take care," Shaw offers after Mystique, still nursing the remnants of his martini. "And enjoy the party!"
Mystique exits without further reply.