Test of Courage
Bahir responded well, though it is not the same as a trial under fire. If Percy wasn't so damn right about the al-Razi's usefulness, I would send him to Magneto... but the truth is, I can't risk losing my only telepath. He was my ace in the hole against Emma today, and if I am careful he will become a sharper knife yet in my drawer.
[This log is a continuation of the confrontation with Emma.]
[HFC] Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office [HFC]
Shaw does not stop Emma - he just watches her, his eyes black, as she stumbles for the door. His smile just spreads, and then his mind and words both mouth: "Come in." There's exhaustion in his voice, but a deep sense of triumph echoing in his thoughts.
Bahir turns his hand out, palm facing upward, in a negating gesture to Percy's question. "Shaw asks that we enter," he says, clarifying given that the sound of invitation is unreliable through distance and door -- but telepathy is quite clear. He stands, residual pain making the movement stiff, and reaches for the door. He holds it for Percy to enter first with only a /bit/ of bitter humor in the respectful tip of his head.
Percy clambers to his feet, unwieldy but resuming the appearance of grace as he walks for the door. He suppresses a wince as he slips in past Bahir, also resisting the urge to shove his hands deep in his pockets and instead standing up straight, expression held even and mood muted, restrained.
Shaw is not really visible to those entering from outside - just the back of the top of his head, perhaps, as the man himself is slumped down against the floor on the far side of Emma's desk. There's sweat on his brow, and his legs loll open awkwardly as he breathes in and out, catching his breath after the stormy clash that has just rolled over. The White Queen's desk shows signs of struggle - crunched aluminum, marked as if by fingers, just to the side of Shaw's head.
Bahir looks over these signs of conflict without visible expression; the belated catch of fear thrums through his veins, tinting the hue of pheromonal output. He inhales slowly, gathering himself and his control, and breathes out again. He has no problem jamming his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and does so, standing at something of a slouch next to Percy as he watches their King.
Percy finds Shaw on the other side of Emma's desk and cants a look down at him. His expression is on the bland side -- difficult to read. His emotions are dulled and deadened, bottled -- his thoughts bled clean of feeling or, for that matter, vitality. Spark. He clears his throat, brows quirking up. "Well?"
"Well," Shaw agrees, and he stars to lumber to his feet, using the desk as a lever to pull himself up. A thin smile. "Yes," he says, straightening entirely with a wince. "That did go well." He begins to dust himself off, carefully, and then glances towards Bahir. "You should be commended," he says to the telepath. "Your intervention appears to have been quite effective."
Meeting Shaw's gaze, Bahir cuts a smile, just for him: thin and white. "She was distracted," he says, modest.
Disbelief. /Well/. Percy blinks this away as he watches Shaw get to his feet, scuffing a hand through his hair.
Shaw takes a step out from behind Emma's desk, sparing a glance back towards the White Queen's quarters. "My office," he says. "Percy, you should expect Adel to report to you within the next few days." A pause. "I can't imagine he's going to take it well. Pass word to Linden and Harper that their counterparts will also be contacting them to coordinate efforts between the courts until we've moved past the present crisis." He is starting for the door, limping a little.
Bahir blinks in an excessively mild fashion and falls in line behind Shaw, behind Percy. From beneath the fall of dark eyelashes, he glances at the door between them and Queen, and then follows.
There is a moment of blank surprise before Percy responds or, indeed, moves. "I ... will inform them, my King," is what he says. Eventually. Then he jerks to full alertness and hurries after them both, shaking his head slightly. "I -- don't imagine he will," he says, mild and beneath his breath.
The Black King smiles as he reaches the door, opening it before he steps outside. "No," he says. "But then - there's a certain measure of joy to that, isn't there?" A pause, as he passes the threshold.
"...and Mr. al-Razi," Shaw continues to Bahir. "I will have a task for you soon, too." His suit rustles as he walks. "I cannot imagine you will be happy about it - but..." Shaw looks back at the al-Razi brother. "I've extended you a measure of trust, today, in having your punishment lifted. It's my hope that you'll show that trust well-placed."
"I appreciate it, Mr. Shaw," Bahir says with clear and perfect sincerity. He returns the dark gaze steadily, but once it lifts, eyes flicker toward Percy sharply. They fix pointedly forward as he smoothly goes on, "I wait to hear your task."
Percy again does not flinch. His mouth thins, grimace twitching it at the corners as he trails along after Shaw. He stays silent, brows lifting slightly.
There is some silence. Ahead, a black pawn pauses and opens the door to Shaw's office, and the master of the house walks easily in. He moves to his desk and sits, wincing again, before he settles his hands on the flat desktop. "I will be calling Erik Lensherr and making a peace offer," he says. "If he accepts it, I'll need a courier to bear the substance of the offer itself to him." The Black King fixes his gaze on his pawn, and his mind fills with intimations of consequences and trusts betrayed - screams and broken legs and painful ends. "I can trust you to be my discrete messenger in this matter, I am sure."
"A peace--" The word hisses to a stop on Bahir's lips, which thin and close around sound. He meets the request (--the order) with a short nod.
The Black Bishop strangles a sound in his throat, dying in the clench of his teeth. His gaze flickers to Bahir and back to Shaw again. He schools himself forcibly back to blankness.
Shaw's smile is Cheshire Cat all over again. "You both seem... discomforted." There is an airy wave of Shaw's hand. "Please, speak - Percy, you know you can share your mind." He glances at Bahir. "Do you think Mr. al-Razi isn't up to the task?"
Breath huffs in a humorless snort as Bahir repeats "/Discomforted/," below his breath. A flicker of dark humor matches Shaw's glance; stung pride lifts his chin as shoulders straighten. Not asked to share his mind, he doesn't.
"I am not questioning either his abilities or his discretion," Percy says, without looking at Bahir; the amber gaze steadies on Shaw. "But no, it doesn't strike me as a sensible risk. We have other pawns." He does not say: less unique. He does not say: less valuable. He especially does not say: less /mine/.
"We do," Shaw agrees. "But Lensherr is unlikely to expect a pawn of Mr. al-Razi's particular abilities..." His hand goes for a drawer; it's opened, and a bottle of water is produced and unscrewed. "...and I can't think it disadvantageous to have a report not just of what the Master of Magnetism -says- when he accepts our... gift, but also what he -thinks-." A glance at Bahir. "Do you have something to add?"
Bahir has something add. It is this: "Jason."
Shaw's lips twitch. "Do you think he'll bring him?"
Percy's gaze flickers saccadic to Bahir, and then he jerks his chin as his gaze returns sharply to Shaw. "Bahir's abilities are known in the Brotherhood," he says. "Because of Jason. It's too risky. Lensherr -- wouldn't trust Hellfire as far as he could /throw/ us, and I don't want Bahir to be a blip on his radar." He raises his eyebrows. "We only have /one/ Black telepath, Shaw."
"I--" Bahir hesitates, looking to Percy, and then focuses on Shaw once again. "Yes. I would, in his place. His thoughts may be guarded, warned by Jason. I do not know how effective I would be, but I can try."
Shaw leans back in his chair, the leather creaking, and then unscrews the cap of the water bottle. He takes a drink, swallows, and then screws the cap back on, dark eyes flickering between Percy and Bahir. Finally, he nods. "Very well," he says. "In light of the Bishop's... concerns... you can make a choice, Bahir: you can volunteer, or I can ask Harper to find another pawn." A thin-lipped smile, as Shaw regards the telepath, and his mind echoes with a certain laughter at the Sword of Damocles over Bahir's head. He's doing his best to shield what, exactly, he expects the pawn to do, flitting instead between options - is it that Shaw wants Bahir to recognize his worth, escape danger? Prove trust and courage by accepting despite the risks? The pendulum - Poe looms by metaphor - swings back and forth.
Percy draws a breath through the clench of his teeth, tension tightening the stark lines of posture: straight and stiff, he stands, his hands at his sides. He has already made his opinion /clear/. Begging Bahir to choose prudence over valor does not strike him as politic at this point. So he stands there.
Bahir's fingers lace a tight knot behind his back. His eyes are firmly locked on Shaw, without flicker, without glance to the side. He clears his throat, eye contact breaking in the fall of his gaze, and says, "I volunteer."
"Thank you." Quiet approval floods Shaw's mind, and he glances at Percy for a moment, gauging the Bishop's reaction.
Breath hisses past Percy's teeth. His fingers work into fists at his sides. That his reaction is displeasure is fairly obvious, really. He lifts both hands, then, splay-fingered: defenseless, he surrenders. "Glad to know my input's so valuable," he growls. "This is /unnecessary risk/." He glares at Shaw. "Was there anything else, /sir/?"
Below Percy's growl and hiss, Bahir quietly murmurs, "You're welcome."
Shaw laughs: bass, amused, spilling out in rich tones over the room. "This was about whether or not Bahir felt he could control himself enough to face Magneto, Percy," he says. "It has nothing to do with who goes to see him." A smile. "We'll use a pawn for that, someone disposable - if he doesn't appear on my doorstep, which seems his usual modus operandi." Again, that Cheshire Cat smile. "Thank you, Bahir. Your willingness to risk yourself is appreciated." Fingers steeple. "Now, Percy, let us discuss what comes next..." There's something quietly dismissive of the pawn in his tone.
There is a moment before Percy answers. It is a moment during which he does not breathe: something fierce and furious knots itself up in the depths of his stomach, and his eyes glitter, his gaze a dark gold blade. When he does speak, it is after he has poisoned his anger to flat death on the chemical level, blinking his expression into something more serene. He lifts his head, brows climbing. He says, "Very well."
The tight crimp of a smile that Bahir offers Shaw is humorless. He turns his hand out on a vague, nothing gesture, and leaves.
Shaw leans back, sighing a little, watching as Bahir leaves. "Percy," he says. "You take him too personally. I can't have a pawn attacking Lensherr in the street." He shakes his head. "And I have to test my belief that he's moved past that, or else I have to find other solutions."
Percy's voice is smooth, even; he is all restraint, mellow amber and spoken silk. "I do take him personally. I don't pretend otherwise. I have few enough things in this world I have the luxury of caring about." He tilts his head slightly, his mouth thinning. "But I do my duty, Shaw. Have done, will do."
Shaw hands reach up to smooth back his hair, and he nods, moving on. "There's something of a little war brewing, Percy," he says. Eyes flicker up. "War is a good time for the Club; we profit from conflict."
"War." Percy repeats the word blandly. One of his brows quirks up as he slouches out of his erect posture and into something with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket. "Brings casualties."
"Hopefully," Shaw says lightly, "no one dear to us. The reason to become involved in a war, Percy, is to keep the fighting away from you." A pause. "Have you ever been to a rodeo?"
Percy looks blank. "To a what?"
"It's a western thing," Shaw explains. "The district manager in my Houston office took me to one - cowboys, bulls, lassos, the whole nine yards." He shakes his head. "The craziest people in the rodeo are the bullriders - they tie themselves to the back of a bull, and the bull tries its hardest to shake them off while they try to stay on. Still..." He smiles. "If you have to be in an arena with a bull," he says, "it occurs to me that you're better off riding it than standing in front of it. I am no matador, Percy. I do not wish to be between the bull's horns."
Percy is quiet for a moment. "My brother has a cowboy hat," he says. "That is the extent of my knowledge." He leaves off on the analogy, then, and rubs at his left eye with his right thumb. "So we ride the bull," he says.
"We do," Shaw says. "And we do what distinguishes good bullriders from bad ones, Percy - we put on a show for the groundlings." He pauses. "I need to make my call to Lensherr. We'll talk more in the next few days - the game's afoot, after all, and we'll need all our pieces in play."
"All right." The vague gesture that climbs towards Percy's temple is part-wave, part-salute. "I'll be off, then. Best of luck with the purple-crowned madman."
[This log is a continuation of the confrontation with Emma.]
[HFC] Hellfire Clubhouse - Shaw's Office [HFC]
Shaw does not stop Emma - he just watches her, his eyes black, as she stumbles for the door. His smile just spreads, and then his mind and words both mouth: "Come in." There's exhaustion in his voice, but a deep sense of triumph echoing in his thoughts.
Bahir turns his hand out, palm facing upward, in a negating gesture to Percy's question. "Shaw asks that we enter," he says, clarifying given that the sound of invitation is unreliable through distance and door -- but telepathy is quite clear. He stands, residual pain making the movement stiff, and reaches for the door. He holds it for Percy to enter first with only a /bit/ of bitter humor in the respectful tip of his head.
Percy clambers to his feet, unwieldy but resuming the appearance of grace as he walks for the door. He suppresses a wince as he slips in past Bahir, also resisting the urge to shove his hands deep in his pockets and instead standing up straight, expression held even and mood muted, restrained.
Shaw is not really visible to those entering from outside - just the back of the top of his head, perhaps, as the man himself is slumped down against the floor on the far side of Emma's desk. There's sweat on his brow, and his legs loll open awkwardly as he breathes in and out, catching his breath after the stormy clash that has just rolled over. The White Queen's desk shows signs of struggle - crunched aluminum, marked as if by fingers, just to the side of Shaw's head.
Bahir looks over these signs of conflict without visible expression; the belated catch of fear thrums through his veins, tinting the hue of pheromonal output. He inhales slowly, gathering himself and his control, and breathes out again. He has no problem jamming his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and does so, standing at something of a slouch next to Percy as he watches their King.
Percy finds Shaw on the other side of Emma's desk and cants a look down at him. His expression is on the bland side -- difficult to read. His emotions are dulled and deadened, bottled -- his thoughts bled clean of feeling or, for that matter, vitality. Spark. He clears his throat, brows quirking up. "Well?"
"Well," Shaw agrees, and he stars to lumber to his feet, using the desk as a lever to pull himself up. A thin smile. "Yes," he says, straightening entirely with a wince. "That did go well." He begins to dust himself off, carefully, and then glances towards Bahir. "You should be commended," he says to the telepath. "Your intervention appears to have been quite effective."
Meeting Shaw's gaze, Bahir cuts a smile, just for him: thin and white. "She was distracted," he says, modest.
Disbelief. /Well/. Percy blinks this away as he watches Shaw get to his feet, scuffing a hand through his hair.
Shaw takes a step out from behind Emma's desk, sparing a glance back towards the White Queen's quarters. "My office," he says. "Percy, you should expect Adel to report to you within the next few days." A pause. "I can't imagine he's going to take it well. Pass word to Linden and Harper that their counterparts will also be contacting them to coordinate efforts between the courts until we've moved past the present crisis." He is starting for the door, limping a little.
Bahir blinks in an excessively mild fashion and falls in line behind Shaw, behind Percy. From beneath the fall of dark eyelashes, he glances at the door between them and Queen, and then follows.
There is a moment of blank surprise before Percy responds or, indeed, moves. "I ... will inform them, my King," is what he says. Eventually. Then he jerks to full alertness and hurries after them both, shaking his head slightly. "I -- don't imagine he will," he says, mild and beneath his breath.
The Black King smiles as he reaches the door, opening it before he steps outside. "No," he says. "But then - there's a certain measure of joy to that, isn't there?" A pause, as he passes the threshold.
"...and Mr. al-Razi," Shaw continues to Bahir. "I will have a task for you soon, too." His suit rustles as he walks. "I cannot imagine you will be happy about it - but..." Shaw looks back at the al-Razi brother. "I've extended you a measure of trust, today, in having your punishment lifted. It's my hope that you'll show that trust well-placed."
"I appreciate it, Mr. Shaw," Bahir says with clear and perfect sincerity. He returns the dark gaze steadily, but once it lifts, eyes flicker toward Percy sharply. They fix pointedly forward as he smoothly goes on, "I wait to hear your task."
Percy again does not flinch. His mouth thins, grimace twitching it at the corners as he trails along after Shaw. He stays silent, brows lifting slightly.
There is some silence. Ahead, a black pawn pauses and opens the door to Shaw's office, and the master of the house walks easily in. He moves to his desk and sits, wincing again, before he settles his hands on the flat desktop. "I will be calling Erik Lensherr and making a peace offer," he says. "If he accepts it, I'll need a courier to bear the substance of the offer itself to him." The Black King fixes his gaze on his pawn, and his mind fills with intimations of consequences and trusts betrayed - screams and broken legs and painful ends. "I can trust you to be my discrete messenger in this matter, I am sure."
"A peace--" The word hisses to a stop on Bahir's lips, which thin and close around sound. He meets the request (--the order) with a short nod.
The Black Bishop strangles a sound in his throat, dying in the clench of his teeth. His gaze flickers to Bahir and back to Shaw again. He schools himself forcibly back to blankness.
Shaw's smile is Cheshire Cat all over again. "You both seem... discomforted." There is an airy wave of Shaw's hand. "Please, speak - Percy, you know you can share your mind." He glances at Bahir. "Do you think Mr. al-Razi isn't up to the task?"
Breath huffs in a humorless snort as Bahir repeats "/Discomforted/," below his breath. A flicker of dark humor matches Shaw's glance; stung pride lifts his chin as shoulders straighten. Not asked to share his mind, he doesn't.
"I am not questioning either his abilities or his discretion," Percy says, without looking at Bahir; the amber gaze steadies on Shaw. "But no, it doesn't strike me as a sensible risk. We have other pawns." He does not say: less unique. He does not say: less valuable. He especially does not say: less /mine/.
"We do," Shaw agrees. "But Lensherr is unlikely to expect a pawn of Mr. al-Razi's particular abilities..." His hand goes for a drawer; it's opened, and a bottle of water is produced and unscrewed. "...and I can't think it disadvantageous to have a report not just of what the Master of Magnetism -says- when he accepts our... gift, but also what he -thinks-." A glance at Bahir. "Do you have something to add?"
Bahir has something add. It is this: "Jason."
Shaw's lips twitch. "Do you think he'll bring him?"
Percy's gaze flickers saccadic to Bahir, and then he jerks his chin as his gaze returns sharply to Shaw. "Bahir's abilities are known in the Brotherhood," he says. "Because of Jason. It's too risky. Lensherr -- wouldn't trust Hellfire as far as he could /throw/ us, and I don't want Bahir to be a blip on his radar." He raises his eyebrows. "We only have /one/ Black telepath, Shaw."
"I--" Bahir hesitates, looking to Percy, and then focuses on Shaw once again. "Yes. I would, in his place. His thoughts may be guarded, warned by Jason. I do not know how effective I would be, but I can try."
Shaw leans back in his chair, the leather creaking, and then unscrews the cap of the water bottle. He takes a drink, swallows, and then screws the cap back on, dark eyes flickering between Percy and Bahir. Finally, he nods. "Very well," he says. "In light of the Bishop's... concerns... you can make a choice, Bahir: you can volunteer, or I can ask Harper to find another pawn." A thin-lipped smile, as Shaw regards the telepath, and his mind echoes with a certain laughter at the Sword of Damocles over Bahir's head. He's doing his best to shield what, exactly, he expects the pawn to do, flitting instead between options - is it that Shaw wants Bahir to recognize his worth, escape danger? Prove trust and courage by accepting despite the risks? The pendulum - Poe looms by metaphor - swings back and forth.
Percy draws a breath through the clench of his teeth, tension tightening the stark lines of posture: straight and stiff, he stands, his hands at his sides. He has already made his opinion /clear/. Begging Bahir to choose prudence over valor does not strike him as politic at this point. So he stands there.
Bahir's fingers lace a tight knot behind his back. His eyes are firmly locked on Shaw, without flicker, without glance to the side. He clears his throat, eye contact breaking in the fall of his gaze, and says, "I volunteer."
"Thank you." Quiet approval floods Shaw's mind, and he glances at Percy for a moment, gauging the Bishop's reaction.
Breath hisses past Percy's teeth. His fingers work into fists at his sides. That his reaction is displeasure is fairly obvious, really. He lifts both hands, then, splay-fingered: defenseless, he surrenders. "Glad to know my input's so valuable," he growls. "This is /unnecessary risk/." He glares at Shaw. "Was there anything else, /sir/?"
Below Percy's growl and hiss, Bahir quietly murmurs, "You're welcome."
Shaw laughs: bass, amused, spilling out in rich tones over the room. "This was about whether or not Bahir felt he could control himself enough to face Magneto, Percy," he says. "It has nothing to do with who goes to see him." A smile. "We'll use a pawn for that, someone disposable - if he doesn't appear on my doorstep, which seems his usual modus operandi." Again, that Cheshire Cat smile. "Thank you, Bahir. Your willingness to risk yourself is appreciated." Fingers steeple. "Now, Percy, let us discuss what comes next..." There's something quietly dismissive of the pawn in his tone.
There is a moment before Percy answers. It is a moment during which he does not breathe: something fierce and furious knots itself up in the depths of his stomach, and his eyes glitter, his gaze a dark gold blade. When he does speak, it is after he has poisoned his anger to flat death on the chemical level, blinking his expression into something more serene. He lifts his head, brows climbing. He says, "Very well."
The tight crimp of a smile that Bahir offers Shaw is humorless. He turns his hand out on a vague, nothing gesture, and leaves.
Shaw leans back, sighing a little, watching as Bahir leaves. "Percy," he says. "You take him too personally. I can't have a pawn attacking Lensherr in the street." He shakes his head. "And I have to test my belief that he's moved past that, or else I have to find other solutions."
Percy's voice is smooth, even; he is all restraint, mellow amber and spoken silk. "I do take him personally. I don't pretend otherwise. I have few enough things in this world I have the luxury of caring about." He tilts his head slightly, his mouth thinning. "But I do my duty, Shaw. Have done, will do."
Shaw hands reach up to smooth back his hair, and he nods, moving on. "There's something of a little war brewing, Percy," he says. Eyes flicker up. "War is a good time for the Club; we profit from conflict."
"War." Percy repeats the word blandly. One of his brows quirks up as he slouches out of his erect posture and into something with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket. "Brings casualties."
"Hopefully," Shaw says lightly, "no one dear to us. The reason to become involved in a war, Percy, is to keep the fighting away from you." A pause. "Have you ever been to a rodeo?"
Percy looks blank. "To a what?"
"It's a western thing," Shaw explains. "The district manager in my Houston office took me to one - cowboys, bulls, lassos, the whole nine yards." He shakes his head. "The craziest people in the rodeo are the bullriders - they tie themselves to the back of a bull, and the bull tries its hardest to shake them off while they try to stay on. Still..." He smiles. "If you have to be in an arena with a bull," he says, "it occurs to me that you're better off riding it than standing in front of it. I am no matador, Percy. I do not wish to be between the bull's horns."
Percy is quiet for a moment. "My brother has a cowboy hat," he says. "That is the extent of my knowledge." He leaves off on the analogy, then, and rubs at his left eye with his right thumb. "So we ride the bull," he says.
"We do," Shaw says. "And we do what distinguishes good bullriders from bad ones, Percy - we put on a show for the groundlings." He pauses. "I need to make my call to Lensherr. We'll talk more in the next few days - the game's afoot, after all, and we'll need all our pieces in play."
"All right." The vague gesture that climbs towards Percy's temple is part-wave, part-salute. "I'll be off, then. Best of luck with the purple-crowned madman."