Eager beaver
An intern. Right.
Must ask if he comes with his own blue dress. I have the cigars, after all.
Christ on a pony.
12/1/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[In the Hellfire Clubhouse:]
Shaw stands just inside the foyer, past the security station (guards on duty, one on the phone and the other flipping through a magazine) and the closed doors (the man manning it gone home for the night). Mail shuffles through his hands, one letter at a time under bent head's scrutiny. He's still in outside's long black coat, over black turtleneck and jeans, and he's looking sharply honed by the day. He holds up one letter in the bunch for a closer look, then a frown and a headshake as he tucks it back into the stack in his hand.
The outer doors part, not enough to be a grand entrance, but wide enough to admit Billy de la Cort. With a meaningful stride, he steps into the foyer, shrugging the chill from his shoulders. He's smartly dressed for this outing, in a fitted maroon sweater over a white shirt with neatly pressed khakis. Over that, against New York's chill, is a camelhair riding coat. It should add some credence to his attempt at entry to the elite club. He moves to the guard station, and clears his throat. "Excuse me, sir," he says, part Bourbon Street drawl and part Conneticut hoi polloi. "If you'd be so good as to open the doors, I'd appreciate it." Apparently, the other occupant of the foyer, his ulitmate goal, has gone unnoticed in his bravado.
"And who are you?" the guard with the magazine asks without looking up from her reading. African-American, in her thirties, and patently bored, she turns a page with fingers' quick flick. "And who are you here to see?" Her partner, pure Iowan whitebread by his clean-cut looks, smirks and says something with a roll of his eyes to the person on the other end of his phone call.
"I am William Fontaine de la Cort, son of Martin de la Cort of de la Cort Enterprises," is the confident purr that is returned. Maybe if he says the family name enough, she'll be impressed. "And I am here to see Sebastian Shaw." Billy leans against the station idly, smiling broadly at the corn-fed companion. "He's an associate of my family's." Just in case the name thing didn't work.
The woman looks up at all that naming, and irritation flickers before she composes herself as a good and proper Hellfire guard. "De la Cort. Right." Her partner says something else on the phone, and he half-turns away as if to hide a snigger. She, meanwhile, produces a professional smile and reaches under the counter. "Go right in, Mr. de la Cort. I'm sure Mr. Shaw is expecting you." 'He'd better be' rides implicit in her tone.
"Thank you kindly," Billy says to the woman, offering her his much-practiced smile, and nodding to Laughing Boy. As he turns, he catches sight of Shaw himself, sorting his mail, of all things. His ears redden, but beyond that he maintains his composure. "Nr. Shaw," he says warmly as he approaches. "I was just on my way in to see you. I'm sorry that I didn't make an appointment. I recently fired my assistant."
Shaw blinks up from his mail. Blinks at Billy. "De la Cort," he says, echoing the guard (who's already turned back to her reading, thank you). "You were coming to see me? Why?"
Billy smiles again, and this time there's even traces of sincerity around the corners. "I enjoyed our talk a while back," he admits, his hands finding their way behind his back. "And I wanted to pick your brain a bit more about things." He smiles. "That is, if you have the time."
With a sigh, Shaw lowers his hands, still full of letters, and hardens his stare on the boy. "Does this have something to do with your father?"
Billy shrugs. "In some ways yes, in other ways no. But I assure you, anything I ask you about is something /I/ want to know." His meaning is clear, and his smile fades. "My father doesn't even know that I planned on coming here." A feral look passes over his face for a moment, emotion flaring unbidden, then vanishes. "I rarely take his calls lately, what with school and other interests."
"Still wanting to take over the company," Shaw supposes, folding a small smile out of his expression. "I'd ask about those 'other interests,' but /I/ am not your father, so unless you said that to get me to ask, never mind and come on in. We can have something to drink in the lounge, and you can talk while I finish sorting this mess."
Billy nods, straightening slightly, and motioning to the door. "After you, sir."
A warning look ticks off that gesture: who is it, exactly, who lives and rules here? And knows where the lounge is? "Thank you, Billy," Shaw says with excessive kindness and generosity and whips around to stalk into the lounge, coat flapping long wings behind him. The room is empty at this hour but for a couple men standing at the windows, sipping drinks and talking quietly. The newcomer ignores them in favor of taking over the end of a long leather couch and kicking out his legs in relaxed stretch. "Have a seat. What do you want? To wet your beak, that is."
Billy follows, and plants himself at the other end of the sofa, crossing his legs assuredly. "I'll just have a lemon coke," he says with a smile. "I don't have much of a taste for alcohol." He looks around the room, his face unreadable, but definitely gawking just a bit. "Nice place," he says appreciatively. "Nothing like it at home, that's for sure."
Shaw waves over the bar's server and places the order (water for him). He crinkles an eye-smile at the gawking, but doesn't speak again until the drinks arrive and he's gotten a lap full of mail mostly sorted out. Prying a thumbnail under a letter's tab to open it, he comments, "It's an old place. Old and rich. You can almost smell the money in the air, can't you?"
Billy nods, sipping at his drink lightly, licking his lips in approval. Or greed. Depends on the lighting. "I hope to be a member of this club one day," he says grandly. "In due time, of course."
"At the head of De La Cort Enterprises?" Shaw asks and flips open the folded paper inside the envelope. He scans it, frowns, tucks it back in. "Right. Well, we'll see, won't we?"
Billy chuckles. "I suppose so," he says. "I wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed our talk," he says in an echo of the foyer. "I rarely get to meet many of my father's business associates, let alone one as influential as yourself." His emerald gaze rests on the older man. "It was a distinct pleasure."
Shaw smiles again. "Let's cut out the fellatio, shall we? What do you want?"
Billy laughs, and takes a drink of his coke before setting it on the low cocktail table and leaning forward slightly. "What I want, Mr. Shaw, is to talk to you about learning the practical side of business." He smiles. "I understand that your company takes on interns in the business track at Emerson. I want to join that program as your personal intern." With a straight face, even. "So that I can learn how to really do things right." Again, without so much as a flinch. It would be completely convincing if it weren't for the slight bead of sweat on one corner of his upper lip.
"The practical side of business." Shaw sits back; mail slides off his thighs onto the leather cushion beside him. He still looks amused. "Yes, I seem to recall setting up some kind of internship program, but the students who use it don't actually work with /me,/ you know. My company has many, many subsidiaries under the greater umbrella; the kids get slotted to one of those depending on their skills, interests, and so on. But following the CEO himself around? I don't think so."
Billy is unfazed by the reply, and soldiers on. "But none of those other students came here, did they? And I am sure that man in your position can hand-pick and place whomever he wanted wherever it suited his needs. Sort of like chess." He smiles, and leans back into the cushion again. "And I am most eager to learn from a man with so much to pass on."
"Yes, quite a few of them track me down; yes, I can hand-pick and place at my whim; no, it's really not at all like chess, which I hate, for the record; and no, I don't actually respond that well to brown-nosing, so please, again, knock it the hell off, William." Shaw sips his water, delicate as a fawn at a deep forest pool. "Did you at least bring a resume or a CV for me to look at?"
Billy smiles. "I sent one to your office three days ago," he says, looking at the pile of mail slid off to the side. "I'm sure that it will arrive soon."
Shaw lifts his shoulder. "We'll see. Summarize it for me now."
Billy ticks off the credits on his fingers. "Four years of private tutoring at home, eight years at Delacroix Young Men's Academy, and two summers working as a mail clerk in my father's building, to learn things from the bottom up."
Shaw mutters, "God," and has more water. "And what did being a mail clerk for two summers teach you?"
"That you can't get anywhere from the mail room. Unless you read the memos that go through there. But who listens to the mail clerk?"
Shaw cracks a smile for that. "Better," he says. "That's definitely better. So you quit the clerking because no one listened to you?"
Billy grins back, a feral split in that handsome face. "I quit the clerking, because I realized that no one listened, because no one wanted anyone to know that they had no idea what they were doing." He sips his drink, and regards Shaw with an amused look. "Let them worry their lives away at mid-management. I'm headed for the front office."
"I hate to tell you, but it's the very rare individual who can sit in the big chair without time in the smaller ones first. Not unless you enjoy public humiliations, that is." Shaw shakes his head slightly. "Even I went through that, in my own way, starting out at Penn State. You can't jump the queue, kid. It doesn't work like that."
"I'm not jumping the line," the boy says with a chuckle. "I'm simply starting my line in another place."
Shaw makes a noise. "Under my wing."
Billy echoes that noice. "At your feet. I'm not looking for a father substitute."
"Oh, really." Shaw grins a little, and it's not especially nice. Sardonic, and curved like a scythe. "Well, that's good, because I have enough little boys clustering around me, trying to latch on that way. You have your father. You love and honor him, don't you? Respect and admire him. So of course you wouldn't need a substitute." Mockery, acidly sweet, drowned by another sip of water.
Billy sips at his own drink, his face a mask. "I only want to learn from you, Mister Shaw. I've done some reading in my spare time about your company, and I think that I would like to learn your policies." His eyebrows lift momentarily, then fall. "If that doesn't interest you, that's fine with me. I enjoy our discussions. But I think that what I need to learn most is what you can teach me, and I can't do that in some subsidiary in Bugfart, Pennsylvania."
Shaw's gaze glitters cold warning. "Now, now. No need to call my wonderful home state names, is there? You can go too far the other way from kissing my ass; you might want to work on finding a happy medium, if you want to deal with me for any length of time. I'm a hard taskmaster, and a bastard to boot, because I can be and because it gets the job done. But anyone could teach you that. Go pester Trump to get on The Apprentice."
"I'm not interested in being on TV. I'm interested in being your intern." Billy's gaze is laconic in response. "I know you're a busy man, Mister Shaw, and that as much of your time that I've taken is remarkably valuable. I appreciate your indulgence." The drink is sipped again, and the boy smiles. "Your bartender is impressive. Not many people do a lemon coke justice."
Shaw rubs at his eyes. "An intern. I don't even need one."
"An assistant, then. Someone to sort your mail. I do have the experience, after all."
"I have secretaries for that. And bodyguards," Shaw thinks to add. "Because of the bombs, you know. Did you handle many of them in the mailroom?"
Billy chuckles. "It was my father's office. What do you think?"
Shaw avers, "I /never/ sent him a bomb."
Billy laughs openly at that, a rich baritone. "I never implied that you did, sir. But he did receive his share. Still does, I'm sure."
"No doubt," allows Shaw and finishes his water. Handing the glass off to the server on his next cruise by, he leans back in the couch's squeaking embrace and studies the young man. "You could run errands for me, I suppose. I can always use more of that."
Billy spreads his hands. "I am at your disposal, sir. I'm happy to help in any way." Sincerity drips from his tone. Any more, and cartoon birds would be singing around his head.
Shaw climbs to his feet, and not without a skeptical black look dropped on Billy's head on the way up. "Of course. I'll check my mail tomorrow for your letter and then give you a call with my decision. Do enjoy our hospitality, but I need to be getting to bed. By your leave, that is."
Billy rises, and straightens his coat. "Of course. I look forward to your decision." He smiles, and turns toward the door, but not before looking back. "Good night, Mister Shaw. I hope we see each other again soon." And with that, he heads for the doors, disappearing through them.
[Log ends.]
Must ask if he comes with his own blue dress. I have the cigars, after all.
Christ on a pony.
12/1/2005
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[In the Hellfire Clubhouse:]
Shaw stands just inside the foyer, past the security station (guards on duty, one on the phone and the other flipping through a magazine) and the closed doors (the man manning it gone home for the night). Mail shuffles through his hands, one letter at a time under bent head's scrutiny. He's still in outside's long black coat, over black turtleneck and jeans, and he's looking sharply honed by the day. He holds up one letter in the bunch for a closer look, then a frown and a headshake as he tucks it back into the stack in his hand.
The outer doors part, not enough to be a grand entrance, but wide enough to admit Billy de la Cort. With a meaningful stride, he steps into the foyer, shrugging the chill from his shoulders. He's smartly dressed for this outing, in a fitted maroon sweater over a white shirt with neatly pressed khakis. Over that, against New York's chill, is a camelhair riding coat. It should add some credence to his attempt at entry to the elite club. He moves to the guard station, and clears his throat. "Excuse me, sir," he says, part Bourbon Street drawl and part Conneticut hoi polloi. "If you'd be so good as to open the doors, I'd appreciate it." Apparently, the other occupant of the foyer, his ulitmate goal, has gone unnoticed in his bravado.
"And who are you?" the guard with the magazine asks without looking up from her reading. African-American, in her thirties, and patently bored, she turns a page with fingers' quick flick. "And who are you here to see?" Her partner, pure Iowan whitebread by his clean-cut looks, smirks and says something with a roll of his eyes to the person on the other end of his phone call.
"I am William Fontaine de la Cort, son of Martin de la Cort of de la Cort Enterprises," is the confident purr that is returned. Maybe if he says the family name enough, she'll be impressed. "And I am here to see Sebastian Shaw." Billy leans against the station idly, smiling broadly at the corn-fed companion. "He's an associate of my family's." Just in case the name thing didn't work.
The woman looks up at all that naming, and irritation flickers before she composes herself as a good and proper Hellfire guard. "De la Cort. Right." Her partner says something else on the phone, and he half-turns away as if to hide a snigger. She, meanwhile, produces a professional smile and reaches under the counter. "Go right in, Mr. de la Cort. I'm sure Mr. Shaw is expecting you." 'He'd better be' rides implicit in her tone.
"Thank you kindly," Billy says to the woman, offering her his much-practiced smile, and nodding to Laughing Boy. As he turns, he catches sight of Shaw himself, sorting his mail, of all things. His ears redden, but beyond that he maintains his composure. "Nr. Shaw," he says warmly as he approaches. "I was just on my way in to see you. I'm sorry that I didn't make an appointment. I recently fired my assistant."
Shaw blinks up from his mail. Blinks at Billy. "De la Cort," he says, echoing the guard (who's already turned back to her reading, thank you). "You were coming to see me? Why?"
Billy smiles again, and this time there's even traces of sincerity around the corners. "I enjoyed our talk a while back," he admits, his hands finding their way behind his back. "And I wanted to pick your brain a bit more about things." He smiles. "That is, if you have the time."
With a sigh, Shaw lowers his hands, still full of letters, and hardens his stare on the boy. "Does this have something to do with your father?"
Billy shrugs. "In some ways yes, in other ways no. But I assure you, anything I ask you about is something /I/ want to know." His meaning is clear, and his smile fades. "My father doesn't even know that I planned on coming here." A feral look passes over his face for a moment, emotion flaring unbidden, then vanishes. "I rarely take his calls lately, what with school and other interests."
"Still wanting to take over the company," Shaw supposes, folding a small smile out of his expression. "I'd ask about those 'other interests,' but /I/ am not your father, so unless you said that to get me to ask, never mind and come on in. We can have something to drink in the lounge, and you can talk while I finish sorting this mess."
Billy nods, straightening slightly, and motioning to the door. "After you, sir."
A warning look ticks off that gesture: who is it, exactly, who lives and rules here? And knows where the lounge is? "Thank you, Billy," Shaw says with excessive kindness and generosity and whips around to stalk into the lounge, coat flapping long wings behind him. The room is empty at this hour but for a couple men standing at the windows, sipping drinks and talking quietly. The newcomer ignores them in favor of taking over the end of a long leather couch and kicking out his legs in relaxed stretch. "Have a seat. What do you want? To wet your beak, that is."
Billy follows, and plants himself at the other end of the sofa, crossing his legs assuredly. "I'll just have a lemon coke," he says with a smile. "I don't have much of a taste for alcohol." He looks around the room, his face unreadable, but definitely gawking just a bit. "Nice place," he says appreciatively. "Nothing like it at home, that's for sure."
Shaw waves over the bar's server and places the order (water for him). He crinkles an eye-smile at the gawking, but doesn't speak again until the drinks arrive and he's gotten a lap full of mail mostly sorted out. Prying a thumbnail under a letter's tab to open it, he comments, "It's an old place. Old and rich. You can almost smell the money in the air, can't you?"
Billy nods, sipping at his drink lightly, licking his lips in approval. Or greed. Depends on the lighting. "I hope to be a member of this club one day," he says grandly. "In due time, of course."
"At the head of De La Cort Enterprises?" Shaw asks and flips open the folded paper inside the envelope. He scans it, frowns, tucks it back in. "Right. Well, we'll see, won't we?"
Billy chuckles. "I suppose so," he says. "I wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed our talk," he says in an echo of the foyer. "I rarely get to meet many of my father's business associates, let alone one as influential as yourself." His emerald gaze rests on the older man. "It was a distinct pleasure."
Shaw smiles again. "Let's cut out the fellatio, shall we? What do you want?"
Billy laughs, and takes a drink of his coke before setting it on the low cocktail table and leaning forward slightly. "What I want, Mr. Shaw, is to talk to you about learning the practical side of business." He smiles. "I understand that your company takes on interns in the business track at Emerson. I want to join that program as your personal intern." With a straight face, even. "So that I can learn how to really do things right." Again, without so much as a flinch. It would be completely convincing if it weren't for the slight bead of sweat on one corner of his upper lip.
"The practical side of business." Shaw sits back; mail slides off his thighs onto the leather cushion beside him. He still looks amused. "Yes, I seem to recall setting up some kind of internship program, but the students who use it don't actually work with /me,/ you know. My company has many, many subsidiaries under the greater umbrella; the kids get slotted to one of those depending on their skills, interests, and so on. But following the CEO himself around? I don't think so."
Billy is unfazed by the reply, and soldiers on. "But none of those other students came here, did they? And I am sure that man in your position can hand-pick and place whomever he wanted wherever it suited his needs. Sort of like chess." He smiles, and leans back into the cushion again. "And I am most eager to learn from a man with so much to pass on."
"Yes, quite a few of them track me down; yes, I can hand-pick and place at my whim; no, it's really not at all like chess, which I hate, for the record; and no, I don't actually respond that well to brown-nosing, so please, again, knock it the hell off, William." Shaw sips his water, delicate as a fawn at a deep forest pool. "Did you at least bring a resume or a CV for me to look at?"
Billy smiles. "I sent one to your office three days ago," he says, looking at the pile of mail slid off to the side. "I'm sure that it will arrive soon."
Shaw lifts his shoulder. "We'll see. Summarize it for me now."
Billy ticks off the credits on his fingers. "Four years of private tutoring at home, eight years at Delacroix Young Men's Academy, and two summers working as a mail clerk in my father's building, to learn things from the bottom up."
Shaw mutters, "God," and has more water. "And what did being a mail clerk for two summers teach you?"
"That you can't get anywhere from the mail room. Unless you read the memos that go through there. But who listens to the mail clerk?"
Shaw cracks a smile for that. "Better," he says. "That's definitely better. So you quit the clerking because no one listened to you?"
Billy grins back, a feral split in that handsome face. "I quit the clerking, because I realized that no one listened, because no one wanted anyone to know that they had no idea what they were doing." He sips his drink, and regards Shaw with an amused look. "Let them worry their lives away at mid-management. I'm headed for the front office."
"I hate to tell you, but it's the very rare individual who can sit in the big chair without time in the smaller ones first. Not unless you enjoy public humiliations, that is." Shaw shakes his head slightly. "Even I went through that, in my own way, starting out at Penn State. You can't jump the queue, kid. It doesn't work like that."
"I'm not jumping the line," the boy says with a chuckle. "I'm simply starting my line in another place."
Shaw makes a noise. "Under my wing."
Billy echoes that noice. "At your feet. I'm not looking for a father substitute."
"Oh, really." Shaw grins a little, and it's not especially nice. Sardonic, and curved like a scythe. "Well, that's good, because I have enough little boys clustering around me, trying to latch on that way. You have your father. You love and honor him, don't you? Respect and admire him. So of course you wouldn't need a substitute." Mockery, acidly sweet, drowned by another sip of water.
Billy sips at his own drink, his face a mask. "I only want to learn from you, Mister Shaw. I've done some reading in my spare time about your company, and I think that I would like to learn your policies." His eyebrows lift momentarily, then fall. "If that doesn't interest you, that's fine with me. I enjoy our discussions. But I think that what I need to learn most is what you can teach me, and I can't do that in some subsidiary in Bugfart, Pennsylvania."
Shaw's gaze glitters cold warning. "Now, now. No need to call my wonderful home state names, is there? You can go too far the other way from kissing my ass; you might want to work on finding a happy medium, if you want to deal with me for any length of time. I'm a hard taskmaster, and a bastard to boot, because I can be and because it gets the job done. But anyone could teach you that. Go pester Trump to get on The Apprentice."
"I'm not interested in being on TV. I'm interested in being your intern." Billy's gaze is laconic in response. "I know you're a busy man, Mister Shaw, and that as much of your time that I've taken is remarkably valuable. I appreciate your indulgence." The drink is sipped again, and the boy smiles. "Your bartender is impressive. Not many people do a lemon coke justice."
Shaw rubs at his eyes. "An intern. I don't even need one."
"An assistant, then. Someone to sort your mail. I do have the experience, after all."
"I have secretaries for that. And bodyguards," Shaw thinks to add. "Because of the bombs, you know. Did you handle many of them in the mailroom?"
Billy chuckles. "It was my father's office. What do you think?"
Shaw avers, "I /never/ sent him a bomb."
Billy laughs openly at that, a rich baritone. "I never implied that you did, sir. But he did receive his share. Still does, I'm sure."
"No doubt," allows Shaw and finishes his water. Handing the glass off to the server on his next cruise by, he leans back in the couch's squeaking embrace and studies the young man. "You could run errands for me, I suppose. I can always use more of that."
Billy spreads his hands. "I am at your disposal, sir. I'm happy to help in any way." Sincerity drips from his tone. Any more, and cartoon birds would be singing around his head.
Shaw climbs to his feet, and not without a skeptical black look dropped on Billy's head on the way up. "Of course. I'll check my mail tomorrow for your letter and then give you a call with my decision. Do enjoy our hospitality, but I need to be getting to bed. By your leave, that is."
Billy rises, and straightens his coat. "Of course. I look forward to your decision." He smiles, and turns toward the door, but not before looking back. "Good night, Mister Shaw. I hope we see each other again soon." And with that, he heads for the doors, disappearing through them.
[Log ends.]