OOC: commentary on Shaw/Jason impudence scene
LJ entry: Impudence
Originally posted: October 16, 2005
Written: October 28, 2005
What Has Come Before: Jason Wyngarde had a crisis of conscience. I know! Wacky, huh? Black Pawn Joelle Parker (NPC) broke through his mildly sociopathic disconnect from humanity, and he realized that she was a person and a person he could, and did, hurt. He isn't happy with manipulation; he isn't happy with being pawned like this. He loves Joelle (as much as he can!) and isn't happy about how she's being treated, either. Time to call the Black King and get some answers.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing a "vintage T-shirt" that could have well been pulled from a trashcan (such are the designs these days), Jason is the very epitome of casual. Yet, he taps out a number on his cell phone with such great and apprehensive slowness that when said number finishes, and the phone sends out a ring, he's taken by surprise.
Great insight into Jason's mind: his player's always marvelous with that. I have no problem picking up emotional cues to write to, and I try to return the favor. Poor Jason. Brave Jason!
At the sound, Shaw steps out of his quarters' bathroom, a towel-clutched hand cocked at his head in mid-drying, and surprise widens his eyes before annoyance narrows them again. In his own T-shirt and sweats, dappled with shower's dampness, he pads out to the bedroom to root around for the phone. Mussed bedclothes, both nightstands -- there, pushed off one to fall on the floor by the curtains. One-handed, he tries to keep drying his hair while flipping open the bright silver toy. "Yeah."
I couldn't think of what Shaw was doing, and I'd just gotten out the shower before logging in, so . . . This is after his visit to Percy in jail (and after an overtime Steelers loss, for what it's worth), and he's probably done a couple hours of work (email, reports) and been to the gym. Will no doubt order in dinner and try to make it an early night. Not expecting a call - or he thought he'd turned the ring off - and so there's surprise. And a hunt for the phone, because hey, it happens. I like the little silver cell phone; I use it a lot. It's the only e-leash he has. BlackBerry, bah!
"Hey. Shaw." Jason's attempt at sounding firm and business-like (whilst still doing little better than fumbling the phone to his ear), fails somewhat. But there are no quivers. "This is, uh, Wyngarde."
"Good evening, Jason," Shaw says blandly on his walk back around the bed towards the bathroom. The towel gets flung therein, its duty discharged; absently, he wraps hair into a sticky queue and tucks it down the back of his shirt, out of the way. "How are you?"
Shaw refuses the last-name formality for the kid, and is amused by but not unappreciative of the attempt. Business-like, right. Better luck next time, Jason. I have long hair (really long), so that move is the kind of thing I do, to get the stuff out of my face and my way. And I idly wonder, not for the first time, if Shaw has pawns sworn to his service who clean his quarters because, obviously, mustn't have random maids off the street to do it . . .
Jason clenches his teeth and shifts uncomfortably on his rear. Cross-legged, perhaps not so comfortable. Legs hurt. "Curiously, that's just what I called to talk to you about."
Shaw makes a noncommittal noise, but he's quite committal in truth, by the whetted curiosity of face and sudden tension of shoulders. "Well, I'm not doing anything right now," he allows, ambling a few steps back into the room. "Tell me what's going on."
I didn't even know committal was a word until I'd typed it in SimpleMU and didn't set off the spell-checker. Score! Shaw does want to know what's going on. He presumably hasn't gotten anything new from Joelle, but he has other people watching Jason (one or two tails, say, or random spot-checks of his daily activity, from a distance). Has something come up? Is something wrong?
Jason gives up and kicks his legs out -- which leaves him dumped back on the bed. No matter. Casual. "Oh, y'know, nothing much. I just got some kinda interesting impressions that I might have signed up for more than I planned with you. Clearing stuff up." Jason's voice manages more tense than the intended mosey. Blast lack of illusions.
Shaw does prefer to deal with psionic folks over the phone, for obvious reasons. He might do more of it with Jason, during The Breaking, in fact: it will be colder and more remote of him, which will enhance the stature he wants to impose on the kid, and it will give him better information on whether his moves are working. No protective, lying illusions over the phone!
"I'm listening," comes quietly crackling down the line. Shaw sits heavily on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes into a palm's brace on elbowed knee. His posture is, indeed, a listening one. Tensely so.
I use "elbowed" so damn much. Sigh.
Hesitation. Jason scratches his knuckles across the side of his scalp. "This isn't just a job, is it? I mean, man, I'm a white pawn, I know what /you/ are."
Shaw draws out, "And what am I, Jason?"
What do you know, Jason? "Pawn" can mean anything, after all. "White pawn," less so, but . . . don't give away the store if he really doesn't know anything.
"Black King, man. Opposite to . . . that freaky angel guy Emma's sexing. But both you and Emma are using me." Emphasis on the using.
There was giggling about that second epithet. There was. I'm bad.
"Warren Worthington," the Black King supplies helpfully, with a sardonic cut to his voice. "You'd think she'd brief you better than that. --You feel used. Why?"
Shaw liked it, too. Ha. His sardonic response is for, dude, please tell me that Frost at least told the kid the White King's name, in case he's never seen the society pages before. C'mon, Jason. And he shifts immediately into pouncing on that emphasis: using. Shaw playing therapist, Socratically.
"I like freaky angel guy better. I know his name." Jason returns brash for sardonic, but quickly flattens his tone. "Well, why shouldn't I feel used? Isn't that what I'm for?"
I like that Jason does go brash. He tamps it down fast, but it's spirit. It's spitfire. Good for him. Shaw doesn't want everyone around him or under him to be brainless, shallow, placid sycophants. (Just some of them. Ha!)
Shaw snorts, rubs his hand down his face to scratch at his chin. Eyes stare blank at the wall. "You're /for/--" dark emphasis, slightly twisted "--a lot of things, my boy, same as everyone else. If you think I'm not used, for example, you're sorely mistaken." Tone shifts, quiets, approaches gentle. "Are you feeling ill-used, is the better question, I think."
He's always doing something in a pose, huh? Restless energy. Fidgety. I was going to say that it's when he's still and quiet that you have to worry, but I don't think that's true, on second thought. Worry about him at all times; better to be safe than sorry. He tries a bit of the paternal routine, maybe a little softer than he has before. Digging at Jason's emotional response: what's going on, what does he want, what can Shaw do about it to smooth and stroke him quiet again. Shaw is used, too. He's under no illusions that playing the Black King role doesn't come with as many obligations as it does freedoms - more of the former than the latter, actually, and there might be a hint of how he was/is being set up as Wide Awake's patsy by the rest of the InCi. Used!
"I like to know what the crap I'm being used for, how's that?" Jason denies gentle with a pronounced snort. "I'm not any Joelle, Shaw. I'm not going to kiss your feet for the privilege of /belonging/ to you. Or anyone."
Shaw stays his quiet course, but he's closed his eyes again, visibly concentrating, and his bare feet (kissable!) have tightened toes into the carpet. "You don't belong to me, Jason. If anything, you can put that on Ms. Frost. She asked me -- /asked/ me -- to put in a hand in your training, and so I did. Is that ownership? Or simple assistance? You've been grateful for it before. Enjoyed it, even, I daresay. That fight club, hm?"
Okay, "gentle" doesn't work. Shaw tightens his focus, squeezes mentally and physically with the concentration. (I had to do a call-back to the feet-kissing thing, too.) He's quite comfortable in throwing Jason's accusations right back over the fence into the White Court: the kid is still a White Pawn, after all, and a SIN member, a Hellion. Talk to Emma. She called him in; she asked for his help. How is that ownership? Jason, Jason . . . He brings up the fight club, which Jason did enjoy, or so Shaw thought. Did Emma ever give her pawn that much fun, that much power and trust? C'mon, kid. Quit your bitchin'. Embrace your place and your destiny.
"I would put it on Ms. Frost. Trouble is, she's telepathic, so likelihood of her knowing I got doubts is about 100 percent. I can't talk to that. Not right now." Jason pins an edge of blanket between thumb and forefinger. "I'm not the endlessly loyal /type/, Shaw. Fight clubs and girls are all very well, but one gets to thinking why, why, why? Training for /what/?"
And so Shaw is now quite sure that Jason is afraid of the White Queen. Smart boy, but it's useful information. The spectre of Joelle comes up. Girls. (Did Emma ever give him girls? No! Come on, Daddy loves you!)
"For the fullest expression of your gifts," says Shaw, deadly soft: Abaddon stirring impatiently against impudent boy-king. "That /is/ what we believe in, after all. If it doesn't interest you, however, I'm sure arrangements could be made."
Pure InCi belief; pure Shaw striving. This is what the InCi is for: develop gifts, mold them, use them to guide the world's course. And Abaddon, the Angel of the Abyss, the general of the army of demon locusts, the Beast, a prince of Hell ranked below only Lucifer - it's a reference to Marc Remillard of Julian May's Pliocene/Milieu books, which I'd persuaded Jason's player to try out because there's another character, Aiken Drum, who's a merry trickster (and sociopath) with immense gifts and a buried heart of gold. Sound familiar? Yeah. You'd have to read the Pliocene Exile books to appreciate this dynamic fully, between Marc and Aiken, but trust me, it totally works here in reference, and we players enjoyed it a lot.
"Fullest -- what a broad little word it is," Jason snickers: boy-king poking at impatience and daring it to intensify. From fear and dread, andrenaline's been rising. "Thing is, it doesn't mean what you and, /doubtless/, Emma think it means. You're not exactly training me to bring love and joy to the suffering masses here -- it's /fullest/ expression in a few key areas."
The bookend reference: ah, Aiken, boy-king! Darling. I do kinda wish that Shaw had picked up this adrenalized vibe and run with it, but maybe his deliberately flat, Black Kinged affect works better. He's impatient enough to play that role, anyway. Shut up, Jason. As if you gave a damn about "love and joy," let alone "the suffering masses." Don't try to peddle that here.
Shaw says mildly, "And, of course, you are all about love and joy, Jason Wyngarde. That's why you nearly killed Joelle. You did, you know. She might not have told you, but she told me. She was dying. Might have died. Thanks to you."
Zing. Bam. You were saying, Jason? I'm not sure, but Joelle might have believed that she could have died from Jason's "drowning" her, psychosomatically. It's possible, right? Mind over matter. She was mortally afraid, certainly (city girl who's never been in a big body of water!).
Extended silence. Jason's confidence bleeds away into a sweaty finger jammed grip on the phone. He turns his head away, spits out an incoherent expression of rage, examines his breathing, before turning himself back to the phone to remark, "I know I'm screwed up, Shaw. Y'all ain't helping." The last is writ out nasty, angry.
I'm always secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) relieved and pleased when my manipulative, socially clever char does manage to score a direct hit when he's supposed to. I ever fear that my own failings as a writer and roleplayer undermine him there. He's not perfect at these verbal/emotional games, but he's a damned sight better than I am, say. Fun to play over your head, isn't it?
"Didn't know you wanted it." Mild, mild, like the grey front of a thunderstorm. "Is that why you signed on with SIN? To get help?"
"I signed on with SIN cause I didn't have much frigging choice," Jason snarls. "How's that?"
What "no choice"? There's always choice, Jason. Don't hide behind that.
Shaw replies evenly, "That's life. Sucks, doesn't it? Angry young man. Do you want to brain-blast me right now? Are you imagining me dying illusory deaths, too?"
More little touches from the May books. Brain-blast. Zorch. (I nearly used that slang, too, at least in meta.) Shaw's not impressed with this whining about no choice, wah, wah, wah. You want to talk about no choice, you sit down, and Shaw'll swap stories and top yours without breaking a sweat. Please. He's doing a little prodding about if Jason does want to attack him. It concerns him, he's aware of what kind of fire he's playing with (thanks to Nicholas's indiscretions with him, not to mention experience with the telepaths he's known), and so . . . poke. Wanna kill a King, Jase?
"What good would it do? I'd have to wipe out the whole world I started /that/ chain." In its tight ferocity, Jason's voice sounds almost tempted. But "Look, I wasn't trying to kill Joelle, all right?" is a little less intense.
He's spitting fury about himself and about killing Shaw, but he backs off on the subject of hurting Joelle. Interesting. I don't think Shaw has suspected that Jason's a bit sociopathic, disconnected from human empathy, but he surely recognizes that the girl is a sore spot. A weak spot. He'll remember that.
Shaw rubs his hand on his thigh. Shakes his head a little. "You are a master of illusions, or could be. Would be, if you continue as you have been. You could have found a better reaction than drowning her in the open air. But you didn't. You didn't, Jason. You went right to lethal, and she could have died, but for her own powers, thank God." Anger underlines his last few words. "You weren't trying to kill her? Comforting. Of course it doesn't count if you aren't /trying./"
Oh, there's some mockery there, aimed at bursting Jason's happy bubble about not trying. Dead's still dead, or at least, hurt's still hurt. Shaw puts more stock in means and opportunity than motive; he's pragmatic about what mutant powers can (and should) do. No illusions (ha) there for him. "Master of illusions" refers to Mastermind. Love codenames. He is a bit ticked at his special pawn having been put in danger. Joelle was far more sanguine about that than her master is.
"It was reflex. I freaked out," Jason states, tight again, but sullen. "It wouldn't have killed her. I've done nastier, and they've been fine."
Ah, sullenness. Tuck your tail between your legs, Jason, there's a good boy.
"Did you enjoy it?"
Jason chews his lip. "'Course not."
"Mm-hm." Shaw levers himself up to standing and paces. "The flex of power, the thrill of exerting mastery over someone else -- no fun there."
Not believing it for a second. Shaw might not know exactly what thrills Jason about using his powers (he's making a couple guesses there, pacing because the thinking is getting his blood flowing, or the blood flowing is getting him thinking), but he's sure that Jason does feel a thrill. How sadistic is the boy? He did enjoy the fight-club experience. Any emotional connections between that event and what he did to Joelle?
"It's not supposed to be fun," Jason protests. "I'm a survivalist."
"And Joelle threatened your survival?" Shaw makes his voice dubious. He stops, braces hand against door jamb, peers into the darkened recesses of his office.
Right. Sweet, biddable, innocent little Joelle. A terror and a danger to us all. Uh-huh.
"No." Return of the sullen, low voiced and cornered. "Like I said, I freaked out. I don't do well with the mind crap, and Joelle I could /do/ something about."
Shaw comments, "She could have told your heart to stop."
I don't think Joelle's powers are quite that specific, but she's working in that direction. Her coercion is low-level, after all, although she usually uses it on more high-level tasks, not autonomous body systems. I'll have to think about the scope and depth of her talents now.
"Then she should have."
Shaw's hand drops. "No."
Jason is valuable. More valuable than Joelle, when you get right down to it. No killing!
"Why?" Jason laughs, quick and dry. "She had a great opportunity, and there's no telling when I could pull something like that again. Where she couldn't touch me."
Anger lashes again. "If you're that eager to shuffle off this mortal coil, boy, tell her yourself. If you're posturing, on the other hand ... save it."
"Oh, pfft, I'm not suicidal -- not consciously," Jason dismisses with tone too flip to be natural. "But fair's fair."
"Eye for an eye?" Shaw mocks and turns his back on the office. "God, what a simple world you must live in. What do you want from me? What do you want me to say?"
Shaw's getting sick of this back-and-forthing. He wants to have a solid problem here, one he can give a solid solution to, and even though he prefers having Jason neutered by the phone line's removal, he operates better in person, too. He feels at a disadvantage, with only voice and words at his command.
"I don't know. But I thought I'd present the question. Original one." Jason stabs the air with his finger. "What do you all want from /me/?"
Shaw sinks back against the door frame with a sigh, a slump of dark-crowned head. "I told you already. Original answer. To see you develop your powers to their pinnacle; to help you as I was requested to do. That's all I have. You ask the White Queen what she wants from you. See what she says."
Black King reference, and "heavy is the head that wears the crown." He's not lying; he's not gaming. This is pure truth. If Jason doesn't like it, screw him. Go talk to Emma.
"Apparently, it's all about some amorphous power . . . thing. If I could trust /any/ of you, I'd happily accept that all anyone ever wanted was for me to be the very freaking best I can be. As stands . . ." Jason folds his finger in. "I s'pose I'll have to be 'satisfied' with what I can get."
"Do you want to rule the world?" Shaw asks abruptly.
Two prongs to that question: has the White Queen revealed the InCi's goals, and does Jason have that kind of ambition?
"I think that might be rather too much trouble," Jason sneers.
Cold. Icy as the superficies of deep space. "Not everyone shares that belief. There are those who would give their lives for it. And power is never amorphous, Jason. You, even you, with your fine illusions that own no tangibility unless you will it so -- you should know /that./"
"Superficies of deep space" is more May reference (Marc's star-jaunts). He would give his life for it; he's talking about himself. I'm a little iffy on the last sentence - it's a bit too purple, too highbrow - but it's a good sentiment. Jason can make people feel tangible things; that is power. Does Jason not recognize that? Does he not see, or feel, the effect of his power?
"It's a concept. Play the fiddle nice enough and you might get power as a bonus. What, do you want to rule the world?"
"And why," asks amused Shaw, "do you think I'd possibly answer that, given your cock-of-the-walk sneering my way? You don't trust me. Should I trust you?"
Nice try, Jason, although Shaw's non-denial denial is a good affirmative answer, isn't it? He often doesn't see much use in hiding his goal. Who wouldn't believe that this financially, politically, and genetically powerful individual doesn't want to rule the world? Heck, if he were a baseline human, people would believe that about him.
Jason snorts. "Not if you're smart. Which I oh rather assume you /are/."
"I have my moments." His head tips back against the jamb, and slitted dark eyes study the dark ceiling. "I can't make you happy," comes after a moment, humor fading before weariness's grey wave. "I can't make you trust me. I can't /make/ you do or be anything. I can only do as I've been doing, and if that's not sufficient, then you need to tell me so I can reevaluate our relationship. Will you do that?"
Managerial Shaw! He's still Black Kinging it, but his various roles do bleed into each other. I like the repetition of "dark" (although I'm heartily sick of using that word in his poses; I need to use more synonyms) and its contrast with "grey," a call-back to a previous pose (the thunderstorm meta). He's tired, emotionally, at least, and is doing this work only because he has to. He doesn't enjoy it. He doesn't want to do it. It's an obligation. It's a pain in the ass.
"Yeah, sure. Look." Jason's tone dampens to simple explanatory. As far as it can. "I only called you because Joelle's whole attitude sent warning bells off in my sweet little head. You just want to help me? Great."
Shaw says simply, "You aren't Joelle, nor are you intended to be. Why did you think you would be? We aren't slavemasters, Jason. We aren't stamping out an assembly line of pawns and marching them into great, ineffable battles. It doesn't work like that. It couldn't."
More of the same: more truth, more InCi philosophy. Simple honesty.
"Well, then," Jason puts his free hand on his chest. "/Pardon/ my suspicions."
Attitude carries clearly on a phone line, all right, and Shaw bares his teeth at the kid's. He keeps his reply civil, however. "Next time, before you leap into them with both feet, you might try asking someone first. Could save your sweet little head some trouble."
Screw you, Jason. See if he gives you any more open truth again.
"I did. Joelle was very, hermhem, big on her own philosophies as being the one and only true way. Then, I asked you. Sounds reasonable to /me/."
"Fine." Shaw closes his eyes. "Joelle's a true believer, but a shallow vessel, for all that. Easily filled. Her philosophies aren't the end-all or be-all; they're just what she needs to live her life, which hasn't been a bed of roses. Don't judge me -- or my work -- by her, please."
He's well aware that calling Joelle names, so to speak - although he's being perfectly, objectively correct about her assessment - might tweak Jason and set him off. Oh, his maligned lady-love! (Snort. Give us all a break.) He makes this second attempt to beat into Jason's head that not all pawns are created or treated equally. Don't judge the Circle or its monarchs by one slavishly devoted Black Pawn. Also, don't put yourself in that category with her. You are more than she: more special, more groomed, more valued.
"Sir, I can only judge by what I'm given," Jason demurs. "She was, sadly, my first and only taste of your non-me associates. Oh, well, her and Nicholas."
"Who is no longer in my employ, my confidence, or your way."
Shaw is now idly thinking about introducing Jason to more "non-me associates." Which he will do, if rp sorts itself out that way. Stay tuned for details!
"I shall surely sleep better at night."
Shaw chuckles. "Do that. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
I was feeling the end of the scene coming, and I think I was getting a little tired by that point, anyway. Ah, Sunday nights.
Jason sighs. "Oh, no, not really. I guess I'm all set now."
"Satisfied," Shaw remembers from earlier. "Are you?"
"Satisfied? Never." Jason grins. "But this will do for tonight."
"Then I am, too. Call me if you need to--" Shaw pauses, considering "--and avoid Joelle's company if she bothers you that much. You two are under no obligations to each other except what you decide."
Kindly manager; nice monarch. And by advising him away from Joelle, maybe he'll drive the boy closer to her. You never know when reverse psychology's actually going to work, especially if Jason talks hismelf into thinking that it's his idea.
"She doesn't bother me. I like her. But, y'know, a guy has to be sure a girl's not some kinda brainwashed. It's called chivalry."
Shaw only just throttles back a rude noise, but some dark grin does lean through his answer. "Is it? Well, live and learn. Good night, Jason."
Chivalry? Is he serious? Oh, dear. Shaw is definitely spinning hypotheses and ideas now, centered around Jason and Joelle and Jason/Joelle.
"Well, maybe it's called something else. Close enough." Jason feigns a yawn. "Night, Shaw."
Click. Shaw snaps the phone closed, and his hand tightens around it before he can snap it at the wall. Instead, calmly, he crosses the room to put it back on the nightstand. Then, with a detour to turn off the bathroom light, he goes into the office after all. Work's a fair target right now, lacking any better one.
He has grar! Irritating boy; disobedient pawn. If he weren't so powerful and well placed . . . This scene definitely foreshadows, or just sets up, the one where Shaw asks for him for discipline.
On his end, Jason presses the done button and lets the phone drop to the blankets. "Life expectancy . . . ?" he asks the ceiling, kicks himself off the bed, and goes out.
I love that flippant yet serious attitude there (or maybe it's "serious yet flippant"). Love Jason. Love his player!
[Commentary for X-Men MUCK. Please see the full list for more.]
Originally posted: October 16, 2005
Written: October 28, 2005
What Has Come Before: Jason Wyngarde had a crisis of conscience. I know! Wacky, huh? Black Pawn Joelle Parker (NPC) broke through his mildly sociopathic disconnect from humanity, and he realized that she was a person and a person he could, and did, hurt. He isn't happy with manipulation; he isn't happy with being pawned like this. He loves Joelle (as much as he can!) and isn't happy about how she's being treated, either. Time to call the Black King and get some answers.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing a "vintage T-shirt" that could have well been pulled from a trashcan (such are the designs these days), Jason is the very epitome of casual. Yet, he taps out a number on his cell phone with such great and apprehensive slowness that when said number finishes, and the phone sends out a ring, he's taken by surprise.
Great insight into Jason's mind: his player's always marvelous with that. I have no problem picking up emotional cues to write to, and I try to return the favor. Poor Jason. Brave Jason!
At the sound, Shaw steps out of his quarters' bathroom, a towel-clutched hand cocked at his head in mid-drying, and surprise widens his eyes before annoyance narrows them again. In his own T-shirt and sweats, dappled with shower's dampness, he pads out to the bedroom to root around for the phone. Mussed bedclothes, both nightstands -- there, pushed off one to fall on the floor by the curtains. One-handed, he tries to keep drying his hair while flipping open the bright silver toy. "Yeah."
I couldn't think of what Shaw was doing, and I'd just gotten out the shower before logging in, so . . . This is after his visit to Percy in jail (and after an overtime Steelers loss, for what it's worth), and he's probably done a couple hours of work (email, reports) and been to the gym. Will no doubt order in dinner and try to make it an early night. Not expecting a call - or he thought he'd turned the ring off - and so there's surprise. And a hunt for the phone, because hey, it happens. I like the little silver cell phone; I use it a lot. It's the only e-leash he has. BlackBerry, bah!
"Hey. Shaw." Jason's attempt at sounding firm and business-like (whilst still doing little better than fumbling the phone to his ear), fails somewhat. But there are no quivers. "This is, uh, Wyngarde."
"Good evening, Jason," Shaw says blandly on his walk back around the bed towards the bathroom. The towel gets flung therein, its duty discharged; absently, he wraps hair into a sticky queue and tucks it down the back of his shirt, out of the way. "How are you?"
Shaw refuses the last-name formality for the kid, and is amused by but not unappreciative of the attempt. Business-like, right. Better luck next time, Jason. I have long hair (really long), so that move is the kind of thing I do, to get the stuff out of my face and my way. And I idly wonder, not for the first time, if Shaw has pawns sworn to his service who clean his quarters because, obviously, mustn't have random maids off the street to do it . . .
Jason clenches his teeth and shifts uncomfortably on his rear. Cross-legged, perhaps not so comfortable. Legs hurt. "Curiously, that's just what I called to talk to you about."
Shaw makes a noncommittal noise, but he's quite committal in truth, by the whetted curiosity of face and sudden tension of shoulders. "Well, I'm not doing anything right now," he allows, ambling a few steps back into the room. "Tell me what's going on."
I didn't even know committal was a word until I'd typed it in SimpleMU and didn't set off the spell-checker. Score! Shaw does want to know what's going on. He presumably hasn't gotten anything new from Joelle, but he has other people watching Jason (one or two tails, say, or random spot-checks of his daily activity, from a distance). Has something come up? Is something wrong?
Jason gives up and kicks his legs out -- which leaves him dumped back on the bed. No matter. Casual. "Oh, y'know, nothing much. I just got some kinda interesting impressions that I might have signed up for more than I planned with you. Clearing stuff up." Jason's voice manages more tense than the intended mosey. Blast lack of illusions.
Shaw does prefer to deal with psionic folks over the phone, for obvious reasons. He might do more of it with Jason, during The Breaking, in fact: it will be colder and more remote of him, which will enhance the stature he wants to impose on the kid, and it will give him better information on whether his moves are working. No protective, lying illusions over the phone!
"I'm listening," comes quietly crackling down the line. Shaw sits heavily on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes into a palm's brace on elbowed knee. His posture is, indeed, a listening one. Tensely so.
I use "elbowed" so damn much. Sigh.
Hesitation. Jason scratches his knuckles across the side of his scalp. "This isn't just a job, is it? I mean, man, I'm a white pawn, I know what /you/ are."
Shaw draws out, "And what am I, Jason?"
What do you know, Jason? "Pawn" can mean anything, after all. "White pawn," less so, but . . . don't give away the store if he really doesn't know anything.
"Black King, man. Opposite to . . . that freaky angel guy Emma's sexing. But both you and Emma are using me." Emphasis on the using.
There was giggling about that second epithet. There was. I'm bad.
"Warren Worthington," the Black King supplies helpfully, with a sardonic cut to his voice. "You'd think she'd brief you better than that. --You feel used. Why?"
Shaw liked it, too. Ha. His sardonic response is for, dude, please tell me that Frost at least told the kid the White King's name, in case he's never seen the society pages before. C'mon, Jason. And he shifts immediately into pouncing on that emphasis: using. Shaw playing therapist, Socratically.
"I like freaky angel guy better. I know his name." Jason returns brash for sardonic, but quickly flattens his tone. "Well, why shouldn't I feel used? Isn't that what I'm for?"
I like that Jason does go brash. He tamps it down fast, but it's spirit. It's spitfire. Good for him. Shaw doesn't want everyone around him or under him to be brainless, shallow, placid sycophants. (Just some of them. Ha!)
Shaw snorts, rubs his hand down his face to scratch at his chin. Eyes stare blank at the wall. "You're /for/--" dark emphasis, slightly twisted "--a lot of things, my boy, same as everyone else. If you think I'm not used, for example, you're sorely mistaken." Tone shifts, quiets, approaches gentle. "Are you feeling ill-used, is the better question, I think."
He's always doing something in a pose, huh? Restless energy. Fidgety. I was going to say that it's when he's still and quiet that you have to worry, but I don't think that's true, on second thought. Worry about him at all times; better to be safe than sorry. He tries a bit of the paternal routine, maybe a little softer than he has before. Digging at Jason's emotional response: what's going on, what does he want, what can Shaw do about it to smooth and stroke him quiet again. Shaw is used, too. He's under no illusions that playing the Black King role doesn't come with as many obligations as it does freedoms - more of the former than the latter, actually, and there might be a hint of how he was/is being set up as Wide Awake's patsy by the rest of the InCi. Used!
"I like to know what the crap I'm being used for, how's that?" Jason denies gentle with a pronounced snort. "I'm not any Joelle, Shaw. I'm not going to kiss your feet for the privilege of /belonging/ to you. Or anyone."
Shaw stays his quiet course, but he's closed his eyes again, visibly concentrating, and his bare feet (kissable!) have tightened toes into the carpet. "You don't belong to me, Jason. If anything, you can put that on Ms. Frost. She asked me -- /asked/ me -- to put in a hand in your training, and so I did. Is that ownership? Or simple assistance? You've been grateful for it before. Enjoyed it, even, I daresay. That fight club, hm?"
Okay, "gentle" doesn't work. Shaw tightens his focus, squeezes mentally and physically with the concentration. (I had to do a call-back to the feet-kissing thing, too.) He's quite comfortable in throwing Jason's accusations right back over the fence into the White Court: the kid is still a White Pawn, after all, and a SIN member, a Hellion. Talk to Emma. She called him in; she asked for his help. How is that ownership? Jason, Jason . . . He brings up the fight club, which Jason did enjoy, or so Shaw thought. Did Emma ever give her pawn that much fun, that much power and trust? C'mon, kid. Quit your bitchin'. Embrace your place and your destiny.
"I would put it on Ms. Frost. Trouble is, she's telepathic, so likelihood of her knowing I got doubts is about 100 percent. I can't talk to that. Not right now." Jason pins an edge of blanket between thumb and forefinger. "I'm not the endlessly loyal /type/, Shaw. Fight clubs and girls are all very well, but one gets to thinking why, why, why? Training for /what/?"
And so Shaw is now quite sure that Jason is afraid of the White Queen. Smart boy, but it's useful information. The spectre of Joelle comes up. Girls. (Did Emma ever give him girls? No! Come on, Daddy loves you!)
"For the fullest expression of your gifts," says Shaw, deadly soft: Abaddon stirring impatiently against impudent boy-king. "That /is/ what we believe in, after all. If it doesn't interest you, however, I'm sure arrangements could be made."
Pure InCi belief; pure Shaw striving. This is what the InCi is for: develop gifts, mold them, use them to guide the world's course. And Abaddon, the Angel of the Abyss, the general of the army of demon locusts, the Beast, a prince of Hell ranked below only Lucifer - it's a reference to Marc Remillard of Julian May's Pliocene/Milieu books, which I'd persuaded Jason's player to try out because there's another character, Aiken Drum, who's a merry trickster (and sociopath) with immense gifts and a buried heart of gold. Sound familiar? Yeah. You'd have to read the Pliocene Exile books to appreciate this dynamic fully, between Marc and Aiken, but trust me, it totally works here in reference, and we players enjoyed it a lot.
"Fullest -- what a broad little word it is," Jason snickers: boy-king poking at impatience and daring it to intensify. From fear and dread, andrenaline's been rising. "Thing is, it doesn't mean what you and, /doubtless/, Emma think it means. You're not exactly training me to bring love and joy to the suffering masses here -- it's /fullest/ expression in a few key areas."
The bookend reference: ah, Aiken, boy-king! Darling. I do kinda wish that Shaw had picked up this adrenalized vibe and run with it, but maybe his deliberately flat, Black Kinged affect works better. He's impatient enough to play that role, anyway. Shut up, Jason. As if you gave a damn about "love and joy," let alone "the suffering masses." Don't try to peddle that here.
Shaw says mildly, "And, of course, you are all about love and joy, Jason Wyngarde. That's why you nearly killed Joelle. You did, you know. She might not have told you, but she told me. She was dying. Might have died. Thanks to you."
Zing. Bam. You were saying, Jason? I'm not sure, but Joelle might have believed that she could have died from Jason's "drowning" her, psychosomatically. It's possible, right? Mind over matter. She was mortally afraid, certainly (city girl who's never been in a big body of water!).
Extended silence. Jason's confidence bleeds away into a sweaty finger jammed grip on the phone. He turns his head away, spits out an incoherent expression of rage, examines his breathing, before turning himself back to the phone to remark, "I know I'm screwed up, Shaw. Y'all ain't helping." The last is writ out nasty, angry.
I'm always secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) relieved and pleased when my manipulative, socially clever char does manage to score a direct hit when he's supposed to. I ever fear that my own failings as a writer and roleplayer undermine him there. He's not perfect at these verbal/emotional games, but he's a damned sight better than I am, say. Fun to play over your head, isn't it?
"Didn't know you wanted it." Mild, mild, like the grey front of a thunderstorm. "Is that why you signed on with SIN? To get help?"
"I signed on with SIN cause I didn't have much frigging choice," Jason snarls. "How's that?"
What "no choice"? There's always choice, Jason. Don't hide behind that.
Shaw replies evenly, "That's life. Sucks, doesn't it? Angry young man. Do you want to brain-blast me right now? Are you imagining me dying illusory deaths, too?"
More little touches from the May books. Brain-blast. Zorch. (I nearly used that slang, too, at least in meta.) Shaw's not impressed with this whining about no choice, wah, wah, wah. You want to talk about no choice, you sit down, and Shaw'll swap stories and top yours without breaking a sweat. Please. He's doing a little prodding about if Jason does want to attack him. It concerns him, he's aware of what kind of fire he's playing with (thanks to Nicholas's indiscretions with him, not to mention experience with the telepaths he's known), and so . . . poke. Wanna kill a King, Jase?
"What good would it do? I'd have to wipe out the whole world I started /that/ chain." In its tight ferocity, Jason's voice sounds almost tempted. But "Look, I wasn't trying to kill Joelle, all right?" is a little less intense.
He's spitting fury about himself and about killing Shaw, but he backs off on the subject of hurting Joelle. Interesting. I don't think Shaw has suspected that Jason's a bit sociopathic, disconnected from human empathy, but he surely recognizes that the girl is a sore spot. A weak spot. He'll remember that.
Shaw rubs his hand on his thigh. Shakes his head a little. "You are a master of illusions, or could be. Would be, if you continue as you have been. You could have found a better reaction than drowning her in the open air. But you didn't. You didn't, Jason. You went right to lethal, and she could have died, but for her own powers, thank God." Anger underlines his last few words. "You weren't trying to kill her? Comforting. Of course it doesn't count if you aren't /trying./"
Oh, there's some mockery there, aimed at bursting Jason's happy bubble about not trying. Dead's still dead, or at least, hurt's still hurt. Shaw puts more stock in means and opportunity than motive; he's pragmatic about what mutant powers can (and should) do. No illusions (ha) there for him. "Master of illusions" refers to Mastermind. Love codenames. He is a bit ticked at his special pawn having been put in danger. Joelle was far more sanguine about that than her master is.
"It was reflex. I freaked out," Jason states, tight again, but sullen. "It wouldn't have killed her. I've done nastier, and they've been fine."
Ah, sullenness. Tuck your tail between your legs, Jason, there's a good boy.
"Did you enjoy it?"
Jason chews his lip. "'Course not."
"Mm-hm." Shaw levers himself up to standing and paces. "The flex of power, the thrill of exerting mastery over someone else -- no fun there."
Not believing it for a second. Shaw might not know exactly what thrills Jason about using his powers (he's making a couple guesses there, pacing because the thinking is getting his blood flowing, or the blood flowing is getting him thinking), but he's sure that Jason does feel a thrill. How sadistic is the boy? He did enjoy the fight-club experience. Any emotional connections between that event and what he did to Joelle?
"It's not supposed to be fun," Jason protests. "I'm a survivalist."
"And Joelle threatened your survival?" Shaw makes his voice dubious. He stops, braces hand against door jamb, peers into the darkened recesses of his office.
Right. Sweet, biddable, innocent little Joelle. A terror and a danger to us all. Uh-huh.
"No." Return of the sullen, low voiced and cornered. "Like I said, I freaked out. I don't do well with the mind crap, and Joelle I could /do/ something about."
Shaw comments, "She could have told your heart to stop."
I don't think Joelle's powers are quite that specific, but she's working in that direction. Her coercion is low-level, after all, although she usually uses it on more high-level tasks, not autonomous body systems. I'll have to think about the scope and depth of her talents now.
"Then she should have."
Shaw's hand drops. "No."
Jason is valuable. More valuable than Joelle, when you get right down to it. No killing!
"Why?" Jason laughs, quick and dry. "She had a great opportunity, and there's no telling when I could pull something like that again. Where she couldn't touch me."
Anger lashes again. "If you're that eager to shuffle off this mortal coil, boy, tell her yourself. If you're posturing, on the other hand ... save it."
"Oh, pfft, I'm not suicidal -- not consciously," Jason dismisses with tone too flip to be natural. "But fair's fair."
"Eye for an eye?" Shaw mocks and turns his back on the office. "God, what a simple world you must live in. What do you want from me? What do you want me to say?"
Shaw's getting sick of this back-and-forthing. He wants to have a solid problem here, one he can give a solid solution to, and even though he prefers having Jason neutered by the phone line's removal, he operates better in person, too. He feels at a disadvantage, with only voice and words at his command.
"I don't know. But I thought I'd present the question. Original one." Jason stabs the air with his finger. "What do you all want from /me/?"
Shaw sinks back against the door frame with a sigh, a slump of dark-crowned head. "I told you already. Original answer. To see you develop your powers to their pinnacle; to help you as I was requested to do. That's all I have. You ask the White Queen what she wants from you. See what she says."
Black King reference, and "heavy is the head that wears the crown." He's not lying; he's not gaming. This is pure truth. If Jason doesn't like it, screw him. Go talk to Emma.
"Apparently, it's all about some amorphous power . . . thing. If I could trust /any/ of you, I'd happily accept that all anyone ever wanted was for me to be the very freaking best I can be. As stands . . ." Jason folds his finger in. "I s'pose I'll have to be 'satisfied' with what I can get."
"Do you want to rule the world?" Shaw asks abruptly.
Two prongs to that question: has the White Queen revealed the InCi's goals, and does Jason have that kind of ambition?
"I think that might be rather too much trouble," Jason sneers.
Cold. Icy as the superficies of deep space. "Not everyone shares that belief. There are those who would give their lives for it. And power is never amorphous, Jason. You, even you, with your fine illusions that own no tangibility unless you will it so -- you should know /that./"
"Superficies of deep space" is more May reference (Marc's star-jaunts). He would give his life for it; he's talking about himself. I'm a little iffy on the last sentence - it's a bit too purple, too highbrow - but it's a good sentiment. Jason can make people feel tangible things; that is power. Does Jason not recognize that? Does he not see, or feel, the effect of his power?
"It's a concept. Play the fiddle nice enough and you might get power as a bonus. What, do you want to rule the world?"
"And why," asks amused Shaw, "do you think I'd possibly answer that, given your cock-of-the-walk sneering my way? You don't trust me. Should I trust you?"
Nice try, Jason, although Shaw's non-denial denial is a good affirmative answer, isn't it? He often doesn't see much use in hiding his goal. Who wouldn't believe that this financially, politically, and genetically powerful individual doesn't want to rule the world? Heck, if he were a baseline human, people would believe that about him.
Jason snorts. "Not if you're smart. Which I oh rather assume you /are/."
"I have my moments." His head tips back against the jamb, and slitted dark eyes study the dark ceiling. "I can't make you happy," comes after a moment, humor fading before weariness's grey wave. "I can't make you trust me. I can't /make/ you do or be anything. I can only do as I've been doing, and if that's not sufficient, then you need to tell me so I can reevaluate our relationship. Will you do that?"
Managerial Shaw! He's still Black Kinging it, but his various roles do bleed into each other. I like the repetition of "dark" (although I'm heartily sick of using that word in his poses; I need to use more synonyms) and its contrast with "grey," a call-back to a previous pose (the thunderstorm meta). He's tired, emotionally, at least, and is doing this work only because he has to. He doesn't enjoy it. He doesn't want to do it. It's an obligation. It's a pain in the ass.
"Yeah, sure. Look." Jason's tone dampens to simple explanatory. As far as it can. "I only called you because Joelle's whole attitude sent warning bells off in my sweet little head. You just want to help me? Great."
Shaw says simply, "You aren't Joelle, nor are you intended to be. Why did you think you would be? We aren't slavemasters, Jason. We aren't stamping out an assembly line of pawns and marching them into great, ineffable battles. It doesn't work like that. It couldn't."
More of the same: more truth, more InCi philosophy. Simple honesty.
"Well, then," Jason puts his free hand on his chest. "/Pardon/ my suspicions."
Attitude carries clearly on a phone line, all right, and Shaw bares his teeth at the kid's. He keeps his reply civil, however. "Next time, before you leap into them with both feet, you might try asking someone first. Could save your sweet little head some trouble."
Screw you, Jason. See if he gives you any more open truth again.
"I did. Joelle was very, hermhem, big on her own philosophies as being the one and only true way. Then, I asked you. Sounds reasonable to /me/."
"Fine." Shaw closes his eyes. "Joelle's a true believer, but a shallow vessel, for all that. Easily filled. Her philosophies aren't the end-all or be-all; they're just what she needs to live her life, which hasn't been a bed of roses. Don't judge me -- or my work -- by her, please."
He's well aware that calling Joelle names, so to speak - although he's being perfectly, objectively correct about her assessment - might tweak Jason and set him off. Oh, his maligned lady-love! (Snort. Give us all a break.) He makes this second attempt to beat into Jason's head that not all pawns are created or treated equally. Don't judge the Circle or its monarchs by one slavishly devoted Black Pawn. Also, don't put yourself in that category with her. You are more than she: more special, more groomed, more valued.
"Sir, I can only judge by what I'm given," Jason demurs. "She was, sadly, my first and only taste of your non-me associates. Oh, well, her and Nicholas."
"Who is no longer in my employ, my confidence, or your way."
Shaw is now idly thinking about introducing Jason to more "non-me associates." Which he will do, if rp sorts itself out that way. Stay tuned for details!
"I shall surely sleep better at night."
Shaw chuckles. "Do that. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
I was feeling the end of the scene coming, and I think I was getting a little tired by that point, anyway. Ah, Sunday nights.
Jason sighs. "Oh, no, not really. I guess I'm all set now."
"Satisfied," Shaw remembers from earlier. "Are you?"
"Satisfied? Never." Jason grins. "But this will do for tonight."
"Then I am, too. Call me if you need to--" Shaw pauses, considering "--and avoid Joelle's company if she bothers you that much. You two are under no obligations to each other except what you decide."
Kindly manager; nice monarch. And by advising him away from Joelle, maybe he'll drive the boy closer to her. You never know when reverse psychology's actually going to work, especially if Jason talks hismelf into thinking that it's his idea.
"She doesn't bother me. I like her. But, y'know, a guy has to be sure a girl's not some kinda brainwashed. It's called chivalry."
Shaw only just throttles back a rude noise, but some dark grin does lean through his answer. "Is it? Well, live and learn. Good night, Jason."
Chivalry? Is he serious? Oh, dear. Shaw is definitely spinning hypotheses and ideas now, centered around Jason and Joelle and Jason/Joelle.
"Well, maybe it's called something else. Close enough." Jason feigns a yawn. "Night, Shaw."
Click. Shaw snaps the phone closed, and his hand tightens around it before he can snap it at the wall. Instead, calmly, he crosses the room to put it back on the nightstand. Then, with a detour to turn off the bathroom light, he goes into the office after all. Work's a fair target right now, lacking any better one.
He has grar! Irritating boy; disobedient pawn. If he weren't so powerful and well placed . . . This scene definitely foreshadows, or just sets up, the one where Shaw asks for him for discipline.
On his end, Jason presses the done button and lets the phone drop to the blankets. "Life expectancy . . . ?" he asks the ceiling, kicks himself off the bed, and goes out.
I love that flippant yet serious attitude there (or maybe it's "serious yet flippant"). Love Jason. Love his player!
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