Debriefing
Encrypted email to Emma Frost:
Need to see you at your earliest convenience. My turn for a response to recent insults and injuries.
5/22/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office
Ebony, sable, and jet: black defines this capacious room, making its modern furniture all the more sleek and its softening touches all the more deep. A desk dominates the space with massive construction and shining-clean top, empty of all but a silvery computer's flat-panel monitor, slim tower, and keyboard. A high-backed Aeron chair looms behind the desk, lording over the two guest chairs on the opposite side. A wet bar stands against the wall opposite the desk, next to a single armchair.
One entire wall lies shrouded in black velvet; whether the drapes cover only wall or windows as well stays hidden. A miniature marble obelisk, fully six feet high, guards a corner between the office's two doors, its sloping sides and pyramidal peak gleaming darkly pristine but for stray chips and scuff marks. The rest of the room is its own adornment: crown-molded white ceiling, pale-rose silk wallpaper, and lush black carpet interwoven with tiny scarlet diamonds.
--
On the second floor of the Hellfire Clubhouse, James Amatenzo, "Jacko" to his friends and an irrepressible and unflappable Black Pawn to his King, loiters a few feet from the closed door that he'd be obviously guarding if he weren't busy instead cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife and the occasional thoughtful nibble of teeth. He spits out a bit of cuticle and with incurious brown eyes checks the staircase for signs of life. Satisfied, he starts on the next finger, shoulders slouched comfortably into the wall and a little humming tune accompanying him on his duty.
The staircase does not stay long unpopulated; the Black Bishop approaches from round the bend, his dark shoes sliding over the floor. His hands are free from the confinement of pockets, straightening the lines of his jacket only to fling loose; the cleanly-nailed hands are exquisite, fresh from the manicurist's, his cuticles free from teeth-worrying. The short waves of dark hair have been neatly trimmed and newly styled, though the difference is subtle enough that it is hardly noticeable. Resplendant in a black suit, drawn away from an overabundance of formality or the excessively funereal by the vivid crimson of the shirt beneath and by the open collar and absence of tie, he takes the stairs two at a time, obedient to the crackle-snap of vital energy that informs the springy tension of movement and mood.
Jacko obligingly transfers his attention from his nails to his visitor. His gaze remains bland, unremarkably remarking on what it takes in, but he offers a smile of recognition to go with it when Percy's near enough. "Right," he says comfortably and straightens away from the wall. One freshly cleaned hand fists out from his side to rap brisk knuckles on the door. "Business with the boss, huh? Lucky you, lemme tell ya. I've already turned away four -- no, five -- people wantin' t'get in."
"Mmhmm. Popular, is he?" The drollery rolls light off his tongue, with the flick of black-lined amber eyes toward the ceiling. Percy's smile for Jacko is dry; dry as the faint musk of amber and sandalwood that clings to his skin. "Can't say as I'm too terribly surprised." There is a well-faked ease to the carriage of his lean body as he reaches the pinnacle of the steps; his hand braced at his hip, rumpling the smooth lines of his dark suit, he stands waiting to be admitted. No tick of nerves betrays him, no flitter of fingers to scuff hair or scrub his face. There is the suggestion, in the unblocked bleed of mutant pheromones, in the cues of his posture, of extraordinary alertness; but whether it is that of a predator, hunting, or prey, hunted, remains obscure.
The pawn shrugs and supposes, "Comes with the job. He's just been waiting for you, anyway." His head's cocked to the door, though no sound's coming from it. (Nice door. Good door. /Quiet/ door.) That must be cue enough, because Jacko smiles again, slighter and sharper, and bobs a nod somewhere between encouraging and servile. "Go on in. Good luck!" His duty thus discharged, he takes no more notice of Percy than he would of the objets d'art placed up and down the hallway, and strolls away with his humming trailing softly behind.
The door opens and Percy passes over the threshhold; his glance follows its quiet draw to closed behind him under his hand, and then he pivots on his heel to let his gaze skim the Black King's office. The greeting he voices is but a mild, "Welcome back."
Shaw glances up from the paperwork he's reading at his desk -- clean white on clean black -- then down again. "Thank you. Sit down." His voice is quiet, muted in volume and emotion, matching the professional emptiness of his navy-suited appearance. His hand is keeping a pen in metronomic see-sawing next to the papers: tip-tap, tip-tap. The office is empty. The curtains are closed. The bedroom door is closed. Tip-tap. Tip-tap.
Percy sits down, although even as his mode of dress skims beneath the surface of professionalism, so too does his positioning in the seat; he molds his body to the chair before the desk, the splay of his limbs one of liquid languidity. His fingers lace; his thumbs join and their shared peak he presses to his lower lip. Whatever languor there is to his physical sprawl, it is not reflected by his eyes. His gaze is sharp and steady upon his monarch. "We have a lot of ground to cover," he notes. "Is there a place you'd have me start?"
"You can let me finish reading this memo, for a start," Shaw says mildly, not looking up again. The room lies layered in archaeological strata of pheromones: the fading old lemon of exhaustion, a brighter and tighter buzzing of adrenaline, rich bloody anger. (Tip-tap. Tip-tap.) "You might have made yourself comfortable in my office--" such delicate emphasis on the possessive pronoun (tip-) "--but I'm still settling in after the last couple weeks." (-Tap.)
"By all means." Percy's smile slivers quick and sharp over his lips, vanishing soon enough into the aether as he settles back in his chair. "At your convenience, my King." Emphasis whispers in the lightest drizzle over the first noun; the Bishop settles in to wait and watch.
It takes time for pheromones to move through space; it is not an instantaneous communication system. The chemicals rely on the force of air, the vagaries of circulation, and can be confounded by larger molecules in their way. Still, fresh evidence of Shaw's anger gets across the desk pretty goddamned fast, at that. The pen stops tapping; he drops it on the desk and flattens that hand next to the memo, which he reads, he patiently and thoroughly reads, to the end of the remaining two pages. Finished, he closes it, pushes it to one side (pushing the pen along with it), and sits back with hands grabbed around the chair's armrests. His stare sinks onto Percy's face in cold adder flatness. "Give me," he says in that muted way, wrapped in those angry chemicals, "one reason why I shouldn't decapitate Bahir al-Razi and send his head to his brother in a gift-wrapped Tiffany's box."
Percy's mouth turns up at the corners, just slightly. He does not otherwise move. "Only one?"
"You're the Bishop. Do your job." Shaw doesn't move, either. His voice starts taking on a rough edge, a slur of his native accent, no more. "Keep me from killing your /friend/ as an example to the others."
"I am not speaking to you as Bahir's friend." The words come flat and sharp, irritation curving a scythe's blade through his voice. "I'm not here to beg you for his life. If his death was the correct course, I would insist on it." Percy shifts, leaning forward. His elbows support the transfer of his weight, pressed against his black-clad knees. "But an example? An example of what? On how the Circle will turn on its own given the opportunity? Don't answer error with death. Answer treachery with death." His smile crimps, flattens; dissolves. "Respond to error with /instruction/. Bahir acted out of impulse, like a brother and an idiot. But his death would be a senseless waste. It would lose you a piece with potential, of use. It would render his brother wholly unmanageable. What for?"
Shaw says flatly, "My satisfaction," and hoists his eyebrows. "That's good enough for me. How about you?"
"Sacrifice the pawn to no purpose other than the monarch's whimsy?" Percy asks, tilting his head slightly to one side. "No, that's not good enough for me."
"It's been done before. /I've/ done it before," and with the switch from passive to active voice, Shaw twitches toward physical activity: his hands tighten around the armrests, his shoulders flatten, he starts to lean forward. His anger roughens up his voice again; it sparks and lures and throttles in heady chemical gavottes. "This has put me -- us -- into a /fuck/ of a position, Bishop. I want it fixed, and I want it fixed fast, with no repeat performances from either twin. Understood?"
"You'll have to speak to the White Queen for assurances on the behavior of /her/ pawn," Percy answers, his voice mild as his lashes sweep low. They lift again, with a faint upward quirk of one brow. "But as for our own -- I believe that Bahir managed to remain anonymous in his ... assault, such that our position is not so precarious as it would seem at first glance. Lensherr is not notorious for patience. -- In any event I don't think a repeat performance is likely. But I've an idea on how to ensure that."
Shaw sinks back in the chair, lowers his chin, flicks his first two fingers: continue.
Percy shifts, unfolding: he straightens out of his feline lounge, drawing his heels closer together. "Telepathy as I understand it comes in parts -- the part for listening and the part for projecting. Take away his power to project and you take away his weapon. Leave his receptive power intact and you leave him intact as our spy. As a punishment, it fits the crime -- rob him of the tool he abused -- and prevents recurrence. Until the lesson's learned and the block's removed."
"And Emma to do the job?" Distaste, irritation, something -- lifts his lip for a second, but only a second. Shaw smooths it away, and his adder stare coils a little more loosely, thoughtfully, while his seeping chemical mood flicks its tail more slowly. "That's a punishment. What of discipline? He clearly needs to learn some, and just giving him a whack with the stick, however painful, isn't enough."
"Who else?" Percy's mouth twists, nose's crinkle faint. "There are only so many telepaths whose talents are available. As to discipline--" He lifts his eyebrows, sitting up just a little straighter, flattening his shoulders against the back of the chair. "Well, I think it's ... a pretty effective whack," he says. "But did you have something additional in mind?"
Shaw nods, a short, tight arc. "He needs to be trained not to get into these -- situations in the first place. Jesus God, what an idiot--" But he forces that bitter complaint closed and seethes back into the icy control binding him where he is on a slow-soughed exhalation. "Clearly, he needs more training in a pawn's service. How to act around allies and enemies. How to direct his talents into proper channels, not for personal revenge. These are basics. Every pawn should have them because it keeps them alive and useful, and that's what we want for Mr. al-Razi, correct?"
There is the briefest of pauses before Percy responds, his "Yes" coupled with an inclination of his head. "We do."
"I'll speak to Harper, then." Shaw sits up to the desk, swift as striking, and braces his hands on the surface as if to support the intensity he bends on his advisor next. "Tell me again about how he was injured. Details, everything you remember."
"Well." Percy's lashes shutter over his eyes, frown faint. He re-opens them as he swallows, his throat coughed clear into one hand. "He found Magneto at total random. Crosswalk somewhere. Harlem I think. Leaped into his brain from a distance with a few rather nasty tricks. Nasty tricks he learned from Emma. That's as much as I needed to know about what they were. And he was in the midst of his attack when a young man, apparently one of Magneto's associates -- goes by the alias of Dorian, don't know the last name but the twins both have his face remembered -- attempted to intervene. Bahir launched an attack on this Dorian, who retaliated with a burst of extreme force in a wide radius that struck Bahir and -- well, some bystanders. His injuries were extensive. Broken ribs, cracked skull, broken wrist, coma -- pretty well smashed up, in any event. I don't remember the full tally but it was damned nasty."
Shaw drums a hand's fingertips on the desk while he looks just over and beyond Percy's right shoulder, his eyes dulled under the shelf of frowning brows. "Magneto might have a maverick on his hands, too. Don't you think? I wonder," and here a slow smile whets his wide mouth, "if he'd appreciate our disciplining this Dorian for him."
Dark brows lifting over the silent laughter that wakes in amber eyes, just a smidge vengeful, just a sliver nasty, Percy speaks, quite seriously. "I think that that might well be appropriate." He draws a breath and then continues, the edge of prudence dulling the brightness of his gaze, "Though best done in a way that, ah, avoids implicating us in the original attack, God knows."
Another flick of fingertips, arrogantly dismissive this time. "It can be done." Shaw smiles with brilliant, simple, bloodthirsty joy. "That's what pawns are for. A capture, a lesson delivered, and released back into the wild for his master to find, with none of them the wiser. Bahir," he allows magnanimously, "could watch from a distance if he wanted, with his receptive abilities. A tangible expression of the Circle's loyalty to him: the carrot to go with the stick."
Percy's mouth twists, wry. "I doubt if he'd object to such a carrot." He leans back in the chair, letting his fingers interlock loosely in his lap. "So. We arrange for him to take training from Sal. We speak to Emma about setting the block in place? I'm not sure what sort of duration she could comfortably inflict--" He breaks off in a frown, two fingertips tapping lightly against one temple.
Shaw's smile falls into sere and bitter lines. "Having been blocked, herself, not too long ago, she might give him too light a taste of that torture -- or too heavy, swinging the other way. I'll speak to her tomorrow if I can catch her. I'll do the arrangements, don't worry about it." A touch of asperity; a reminder of hierarchy. His prickliness eases through his pheromones, too, even as he resettles in his chair to ground physical authority, too. "Is there anything else?"
"Mmm. On the subject of Emma. She's not shy of inflicting torture of a similar nature." Percy tilts his head slightly to one side; there is a moment's hesitation, his tongue flicking over his lips before he swallows. "She went after Wyngarde and stripped his control over his powers."
Shaw needs a few seconds to catch up to that train of thought and swing himself onboard. He blinks, then frowns, then says, "Oh. For the damage done to /her/ al-Razi pawn?"
Percy nods. "Yes. For crippling Adel." Tracing the curve of his lower lip with one thumbnail, he adds, "And for abusing her mercy, I assume."
"And spilling his guts about us to his new master?" Shaw asks bitterly, rhetorically. "Lensherr probably had him on the rack as soon as he realized what a treasure trove of information he suddenly had on his hands. It's what I would have done, at least."
Percy turns over one hand, its attached shoulder lifting in a partial shrug. "I think we'd best operate under the assumption that Lensherr knows what Wyngarde does, yes."
Shaw blows out another slow breath. "Well, it was always a risk, wasn't it?" He shakes his head in manifest disgruntlement. Regret. "If only I'd managed to kill him when I had that chance. Shit. Just a little bit faster, and he wouldn't have been a problem for anyone anymore."
The flash of Percy's grin is bleak, the edge of humor morbid. "Well, now he's Lensherr's headache, right?"
"Until /he/ kills him," Shaw agrees and dismisses in the same shrugging tone. "If there's nothing else, then, I do have more work to do. A lot to catch up on. I'll be in touch on what we've discussed tonight."
"Right." Percy unfolds smoothly from the chair, pulling down on his black suit jacket to cure it of its slouch-induced rumpling. "I'll talk to you later, then. For now, good evening."
Shaw waves him off, out, away, already turning to the computer to see what corporate delights await inside its cold circuits.
[Log ends.]
Need to see you at your earliest convenience. My turn for a response to recent insults and injuries.
5/22/2006
Logfile from Shaw of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office
Ebony, sable, and jet: black defines this capacious room, making its modern furniture all the more sleek and its softening touches all the more deep. A desk dominates the space with massive construction and shining-clean top, empty of all but a silvery computer's flat-panel monitor, slim tower, and keyboard. A high-backed Aeron chair looms behind the desk, lording over the two guest chairs on the opposite side. A wet bar stands against the wall opposite the desk, next to a single armchair.
One entire wall lies shrouded in black velvet; whether the drapes cover only wall or windows as well stays hidden. A miniature marble obelisk, fully six feet high, guards a corner between the office's two doors, its sloping sides and pyramidal peak gleaming darkly pristine but for stray chips and scuff marks. The rest of the room is its own adornment: crown-molded white ceiling, pale-rose silk wallpaper, and lush black carpet interwoven with tiny scarlet diamonds.
--
On the second floor of the Hellfire Clubhouse, James Amatenzo, "Jacko" to his friends and an irrepressible and unflappable Black Pawn to his King, loiters a few feet from the closed door that he'd be obviously guarding if he weren't busy instead cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife and the occasional thoughtful nibble of teeth. He spits out a bit of cuticle and with incurious brown eyes checks the staircase for signs of life. Satisfied, he starts on the next finger, shoulders slouched comfortably into the wall and a little humming tune accompanying him on his duty.
The staircase does not stay long unpopulated; the Black Bishop approaches from round the bend, his dark shoes sliding over the floor. His hands are free from the confinement of pockets, straightening the lines of his jacket only to fling loose; the cleanly-nailed hands are exquisite, fresh from the manicurist's, his cuticles free from teeth-worrying. The short waves of dark hair have been neatly trimmed and newly styled, though the difference is subtle enough that it is hardly noticeable. Resplendant in a black suit, drawn away from an overabundance of formality or the excessively funereal by the vivid crimson of the shirt beneath and by the open collar and absence of tie, he takes the stairs two at a time, obedient to the crackle-snap of vital energy that informs the springy tension of movement and mood.
Jacko obligingly transfers his attention from his nails to his visitor. His gaze remains bland, unremarkably remarking on what it takes in, but he offers a smile of recognition to go with it when Percy's near enough. "Right," he says comfortably and straightens away from the wall. One freshly cleaned hand fists out from his side to rap brisk knuckles on the door. "Business with the boss, huh? Lucky you, lemme tell ya. I've already turned away four -- no, five -- people wantin' t'get in."
"Mmhmm. Popular, is he?" The drollery rolls light off his tongue, with the flick of black-lined amber eyes toward the ceiling. Percy's smile for Jacko is dry; dry as the faint musk of amber and sandalwood that clings to his skin. "Can't say as I'm too terribly surprised." There is a well-faked ease to the carriage of his lean body as he reaches the pinnacle of the steps; his hand braced at his hip, rumpling the smooth lines of his dark suit, he stands waiting to be admitted. No tick of nerves betrays him, no flitter of fingers to scuff hair or scrub his face. There is the suggestion, in the unblocked bleed of mutant pheromones, in the cues of his posture, of extraordinary alertness; but whether it is that of a predator, hunting, or prey, hunted, remains obscure.
The pawn shrugs and supposes, "Comes with the job. He's just been waiting for you, anyway." His head's cocked to the door, though no sound's coming from it. (Nice door. Good door. /Quiet/ door.) That must be cue enough, because Jacko smiles again, slighter and sharper, and bobs a nod somewhere between encouraging and servile. "Go on in. Good luck!" His duty thus discharged, he takes no more notice of Percy than he would of the objets d'art placed up and down the hallway, and strolls away with his humming trailing softly behind.
The door opens and Percy passes over the threshhold; his glance follows its quiet draw to closed behind him under his hand, and then he pivots on his heel to let his gaze skim the Black King's office. The greeting he voices is but a mild, "Welcome back."
Shaw glances up from the paperwork he's reading at his desk -- clean white on clean black -- then down again. "Thank you. Sit down." His voice is quiet, muted in volume and emotion, matching the professional emptiness of his navy-suited appearance. His hand is keeping a pen in metronomic see-sawing next to the papers: tip-tap, tip-tap. The office is empty. The curtains are closed. The bedroom door is closed. Tip-tap. Tip-tap.
Percy sits down, although even as his mode of dress skims beneath the surface of professionalism, so too does his positioning in the seat; he molds his body to the chair before the desk, the splay of his limbs one of liquid languidity. His fingers lace; his thumbs join and their shared peak he presses to his lower lip. Whatever languor there is to his physical sprawl, it is not reflected by his eyes. His gaze is sharp and steady upon his monarch. "We have a lot of ground to cover," he notes. "Is there a place you'd have me start?"
"You can let me finish reading this memo, for a start," Shaw says mildly, not looking up again. The room lies layered in archaeological strata of pheromones: the fading old lemon of exhaustion, a brighter and tighter buzzing of adrenaline, rich bloody anger. (Tip-tap. Tip-tap.) "You might have made yourself comfortable in my office--" such delicate emphasis on the possessive pronoun (tip-) "--but I'm still settling in after the last couple weeks." (-Tap.)
"By all means." Percy's smile slivers quick and sharp over his lips, vanishing soon enough into the aether as he settles back in his chair. "At your convenience, my King." Emphasis whispers in the lightest drizzle over the first noun; the Bishop settles in to wait and watch.
It takes time for pheromones to move through space; it is not an instantaneous communication system. The chemicals rely on the force of air, the vagaries of circulation, and can be confounded by larger molecules in their way. Still, fresh evidence of Shaw's anger gets across the desk pretty goddamned fast, at that. The pen stops tapping; he drops it on the desk and flattens that hand next to the memo, which he reads, he patiently and thoroughly reads, to the end of the remaining two pages. Finished, he closes it, pushes it to one side (pushing the pen along with it), and sits back with hands grabbed around the chair's armrests. His stare sinks onto Percy's face in cold adder flatness. "Give me," he says in that muted way, wrapped in those angry chemicals, "one reason why I shouldn't decapitate Bahir al-Razi and send his head to his brother in a gift-wrapped Tiffany's box."
Percy's mouth turns up at the corners, just slightly. He does not otherwise move. "Only one?"
"You're the Bishop. Do your job." Shaw doesn't move, either. His voice starts taking on a rough edge, a slur of his native accent, no more. "Keep me from killing your /friend/ as an example to the others."
"I am not speaking to you as Bahir's friend." The words come flat and sharp, irritation curving a scythe's blade through his voice. "I'm not here to beg you for his life. If his death was the correct course, I would insist on it." Percy shifts, leaning forward. His elbows support the transfer of his weight, pressed against his black-clad knees. "But an example? An example of what? On how the Circle will turn on its own given the opportunity? Don't answer error with death. Answer treachery with death." His smile crimps, flattens; dissolves. "Respond to error with /instruction/. Bahir acted out of impulse, like a brother and an idiot. But his death would be a senseless waste. It would lose you a piece with potential, of use. It would render his brother wholly unmanageable. What for?"
Shaw says flatly, "My satisfaction," and hoists his eyebrows. "That's good enough for me. How about you?"
"Sacrifice the pawn to no purpose other than the monarch's whimsy?" Percy asks, tilting his head slightly to one side. "No, that's not good enough for me."
"It's been done before. /I've/ done it before," and with the switch from passive to active voice, Shaw twitches toward physical activity: his hands tighten around the armrests, his shoulders flatten, he starts to lean forward. His anger roughens up his voice again; it sparks and lures and throttles in heady chemical gavottes. "This has put me -- us -- into a /fuck/ of a position, Bishop. I want it fixed, and I want it fixed fast, with no repeat performances from either twin. Understood?"
"You'll have to speak to the White Queen for assurances on the behavior of /her/ pawn," Percy answers, his voice mild as his lashes sweep low. They lift again, with a faint upward quirk of one brow. "But as for our own -- I believe that Bahir managed to remain anonymous in his ... assault, such that our position is not so precarious as it would seem at first glance. Lensherr is not notorious for patience. -- In any event I don't think a repeat performance is likely. But I've an idea on how to ensure that."
Shaw sinks back in the chair, lowers his chin, flicks his first two fingers: continue.
Percy shifts, unfolding: he straightens out of his feline lounge, drawing his heels closer together. "Telepathy as I understand it comes in parts -- the part for listening and the part for projecting. Take away his power to project and you take away his weapon. Leave his receptive power intact and you leave him intact as our spy. As a punishment, it fits the crime -- rob him of the tool he abused -- and prevents recurrence. Until the lesson's learned and the block's removed."
"And Emma to do the job?" Distaste, irritation, something -- lifts his lip for a second, but only a second. Shaw smooths it away, and his adder stare coils a little more loosely, thoughtfully, while his seeping chemical mood flicks its tail more slowly. "That's a punishment. What of discipline? He clearly needs to learn some, and just giving him a whack with the stick, however painful, isn't enough."
"Who else?" Percy's mouth twists, nose's crinkle faint. "There are only so many telepaths whose talents are available. As to discipline--" He lifts his eyebrows, sitting up just a little straighter, flattening his shoulders against the back of the chair. "Well, I think it's ... a pretty effective whack," he says. "But did you have something additional in mind?"
Shaw nods, a short, tight arc. "He needs to be trained not to get into these -- situations in the first place. Jesus God, what an idiot--" But he forces that bitter complaint closed and seethes back into the icy control binding him where he is on a slow-soughed exhalation. "Clearly, he needs more training in a pawn's service. How to act around allies and enemies. How to direct his talents into proper channels, not for personal revenge. These are basics. Every pawn should have them because it keeps them alive and useful, and that's what we want for Mr. al-Razi, correct?"
There is the briefest of pauses before Percy responds, his "Yes" coupled with an inclination of his head. "We do."
"I'll speak to Harper, then." Shaw sits up to the desk, swift as striking, and braces his hands on the surface as if to support the intensity he bends on his advisor next. "Tell me again about how he was injured. Details, everything you remember."
"Well." Percy's lashes shutter over his eyes, frown faint. He re-opens them as he swallows, his throat coughed clear into one hand. "He found Magneto at total random. Crosswalk somewhere. Harlem I think. Leaped into his brain from a distance with a few rather nasty tricks. Nasty tricks he learned from Emma. That's as much as I needed to know about what they were. And he was in the midst of his attack when a young man, apparently one of Magneto's associates -- goes by the alias of Dorian, don't know the last name but the twins both have his face remembered -- attempted to intervene. Bahir launched an attack on this Dorian, who retaliated with a burst of extreme force in a wide radius that struck Bahir and -- well, some bystanders. His injuries were extensive. Broken ribs, cracked skull, broken wrist, coma -- pretty well smashed up, in any event. I don't remember the full tally but it was damned nasty."
Shaw drums a hand's fingertips on the desk while he looks just over and beyond Percy's right shoulder, his eyes dulled under the shelf of frowning brows. "Magneto might have a maverick on his hands, too. Don't you think? I wonder," and here a slow smile whets his wide mouth, "if he'd appreciate our disciplining this Dorian for him."
Dark brows lifting over the silent laughter that wakes in amber eyes, just a smidge vengeful, just a sliver nasty, Percy speaks, quite seriously. "I think that that might well be appropriate." He draws a breath and then continues, the edge of prudence dulling the brightness of his gaze, "Though best done in a way that, ah, avoids implicating us in the original attack, God knows."
Another flick of fingertips, arrogantly dismissive this time. "It can be done." Shaw smiles with brilliant, simple, bloodthirsty joy. "That's what pawns are for. A capture, a lesson delivered, and released back into the wild for his master to find, with none of them the wiser. Bahir," he allows magnanimously, "could watch from a distance if he wanted, with his receptive abilities. A tangible expression of the Circle's loyalty to him: the carrot to go with the stick."
Percy's mouth twists, wry. "I doubt if he'd object to such a carrot." He leans back in the chair, letting his fingers interlock loosely in his lap. "So. We arrange for him to take training from Sal. We speak to Emma about setting the block in place? I'm not sure what sort of duration she could comfortably inflict--" He breaks off in a frown, two fingertips tapping lightly against one temple.
Shaw's smile falls into sere and bitter lines. "Having been blocked, herself, not too long ago, she might give him too light a taste of that torture -- or too heavy, swinging the other way. I'll speak to her tomorrow if I can catch her. I'll do the arrangements, don't worry about it." A touch of asperity; a reminder of hierarchy. His prickliness eases through his pheromones, too, even as he resettles in his chair to ground physical authority, too. "Is there anything else?"
"Mmm. On the subject of Emma. She's not shy of inflicting torture of a similar nature." Percy tilts his head slightly to one side; there is a moment's hesitation, his tongue flicking over his lips before he swallows. "She went after Wyngarde and stripped his control over his powers."
Shaw needs a few seconds to catch up to that train of thought and swing himself onboard. He blinks, then frowns, then says, "Oh. For the damage done to /her/ al-Razi pawn?"
Percy nods. "Yes. For crippling Adel." Tracing the curve of his lower lip with one thumbnail, he adds, "And for abusing her mercy, I assume."
"And spilling his guts about us to his new master?" Shaw asks bitterly, rhetorically. "Lensherr probably had him on the rack as soon as he realized what a treasure trove of information he suddenly had on his hands. It's what I would have done, at least."
Percy turns over one hand, its attached shoulder lifting in a partial shrug. "I think we'd best operate under the assumption that Lensherr knows what Wyngarde does, yes."
Shaw blows out another slow breath. "Well, it was always a risk, wasn't it?" He shakes his head in manifest disgruntlement. Regret. "If only I'd managed to kill him when I had that chance. Shit. Just a little bit faster, and he wouldn't have been a problem for anyone anymore."
The flash of Percy's grin is bleak, the edge of humor morbid. "Well, now he's Lensherr's headache, right?"
"Until /he/ kills him," Shaw agrees and dismisses in the same shrugging tone. "If there's nothing else, then, I do have more work to do. A lot to catch up on. I'll be in touch on what we've discussed tonight."
"Right." Percy unfolds smoothly from the chair, pulling down on his black suit jacket to cure it of its slouch-induced rumpling. "I'll talk to you later, then. For now, good evening."
Shaw waves him off, out, away, already turning to the computer to see what corporate delights await inside its cold circuits.
[Log ends.]