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Post by SceneMod on Apr 1, 2012 22:58:27 GMT -5
Month 9, Week 1, Day 1, a swanky hotel in Monaco, semi-private
Arlen is sprawled out on the sumptuously soft bed in his hotel room in cool darkness. The drapes are pulled down, shutting out any trace of outside light. As breath-taking as the view is, he finds that his training has somewhat ruined him; he cannot abide having an exposed window near him.
He has spent a great deal of his vacation sleeping. Arlen supposes that he could do that anywhere. Perhaps it is a waste of time to sleep here, when he could sleep just as well standing against a wall back at base. That said, many of the normal luxuries are things in which he simply cannot engage, even now. He cannot visit a masseuse, despite his old surgical aches. His scars are simply too distinctive without makeup, and a masseuse would notice the latex required to cover them. He cannot use a sauna or swim for much the same reasons. Had he the inclination, which he does not, certain other professionals are also off his list of potential plans for much the same reason.
So he often sleeps through breakfast and wakes up in time for lunch. Out of his mandate to keep a low profile, he often orders room service for his lunch, and he has not been disappointed yet. Then he puts on a face for himself, attractive but nothing exceptional or memorable, as much as he would like to be transcendent.
Arlen has visited an art gallery or two. Some of the historical sites are quite nice. Shopping would appeal to him, but he keeps remembering that he has no personal possessions of his own, because he himself is a possession. This occupies his afternoons.
He has spent an egregious amount of money at different restaurants for dinner.
His nights are perhaps the most interesting. Arlen gambles. He was thrown out of one casino for card-counting. Of course he card counts. Of course he estimates the centres of inertia of dice and predicts how roulette balls will fall. Of course he looks at the tiny nicks and scratches on the backs of cards. Of course he does all of these things and more. Arlen can gate a sniper's bullet travelling faster than the speed of sound right behind a target's head.
Arlen was thrown out once. He has not stopped doing any of these things. He has just become better at not being caught. Arlen is really unclear what will be done with the money when his vacation is over. It is not his, to be certain. He simply collects it because he can.
Now he rolls over and looks at the clock. It is 1 PM. He supposes he should starts to pull on his face for the day and call for room service.
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 1, 2012 23:09:32 GMT -5
Arlen can keep his winnings, or a portion of them at least. Control just doesn't want him to keep too much. Can't foster the idea that he might be able to be independent, of course.
There is a knock at his door at what would be the appropriate time for room service by a normal person's estimation. Arlen, though, is not a normal person and might notice that the knock comes almost a full one and a half minutes later than is normal.
The room service person is going to be very familiar to Arlen. Entirely too familiar.
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 1, 2012 23:31:38 GMT -5
What would Arlen even do with the portion he keeps? Throw it in the air and roll around in it between missions? He lives entirely out of public view. His basic needs are all provided for, and the things he wants, he has no means to obtain. He is not like the 'adopted' members of the team. Arlen also doubts he will ever get another vacation like this again. Three days in, four days to go...
Arlen has on that attractive but unremarkable face and an attractive but unremarkable outfit in the tourist fashion to go with it. He frowns at the door and goes over where his weapons are kept. He decides to go with a knife behind his back, just to be safe. Then he looks through the fisheye and moans to himself, "Oh, bloody hell."
Schooling himself, he does not put away the knife, but he does undo the latch, get a cash tip ready, and open the door. Arlen smiles remarkably genuinely, a seemingly real twinkle in his eyes, and he greets, "Hello. Room service?"
He could be a normal person!
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 2, 2012 7:01:54 GMT -5
"Good afternoon, sir," Carolyn says softly as she pushes the cart into the room. She takes a crisp white tablecloth from one of the tray's shelves and expertly flips it over the sitting area table. She starts opening cloches and setting dishes out, along with silverware, seasoning, and other niceties.
There are two meals worth of food on the tray, not one. Arlen will probably recognize some of Carolyn's favorite indulgences.
Tray emptied, she sits down at the table, props one elbow on the opposite knee and leans back, regarding Arlen with a thoughtful look. It always amazes her, just how well he can be normal. She's slightly jealous of that ability, truth be told.
"Need your help," she says. Carolyn would add, I'm sorry, to that, but she can't. Hopefully, Arlen understands that she wouldn't bother him if it weren't important.
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 2, 2012 10:16:54 GMT -5
Arlen glances both ways down the hallway and says, more quietly, "Oh, yes, do come in. I wasn't expecting company."
Then he shuts and locks the door, re-doing the latch.
Arlen looks Carolyn and her food over very carefully. Then he hits himself down, the picture of casual poise, his knife stowed and unseen. He did not turn off Control for this vacation. Arlen is nosy. Still, he did not see this coming. One corner of his mouth quirks up, and he shrugs and reminds, "I'm yours."
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 2, 2012 19:07:47 GMT -5
Arlen didn't see it coming because Carolyn is mixing business with Business. There's an awful lot of metahumans gathered or gathering in Monaco, which means the situation needs monitoring. That's why Stella is along for the ride, albeit off doing her own thing at the moment. Carolyn is here on personal business, and Stella needs to be kept out of this as much as possible.
"Intel says he's in the area," she says.
"He knows what I look like, and even if he didn't I don't know how to fit in down-" she waves a hand, "there. With people. Like a normal person."
"So I need your help."
She leans forward and takes up a roll. Carolyn adds a pat of butter to it and takes a bite. The chewing helps take her mind off the fact that she's a bit scared to let Arlen do this. What if he puts her in those silly heel things?
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 2, 2012 19:48:32 GMT -5
Arlen takes some pate de fruits and spreads it on some gloriously fluffy, fresh white bread torn from a small baguette-like roll. He reflects, "One could suggest that I have a duty to eat healthy given that proper maintenance of any weapon is essential." He takes a dainty bite of his bread. "Are you going to report my lapse in eating habits now, or shall they discover it when they run their battery of tests when I return?"
He finishes his chunk of bread and reaches for a croissant, which he deftly slits open and slides some smoked salmon inside, along with mascarpone and capers.
"I think you need to work the angle that you're so rich, you just don't believe in reality. That will excuse most eccentricities on your part, but you will need to look the part, hmm."
Arlen looks Carolyn over intently. "It is a pity that you were designed for girl-next-door looks and a certain corn-fed vigour. You'll have to be an American with no taste. Fortunately, there are many of them."
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 2, 2012 20:31:57 GMT -5
Carolyn arches a brow at Arlen when he talks about eating regulations, looking first at her very decadent plate of shrimp and grits benedict and back at him. She's almost smiling. Almost.
There's nothing wrong with a little food indulgence now and then.
Speaking of her brunch, she takes up a fork and samplers hers.
"What do my looks have to do with pretending to be a rich, vapid female?" she asks. Carolyn really has no idea that what Arlen said could really be taken as a terrible insult to her.
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 2, 2012 20:48:31 GMT -5
Arlen is aware that she might have been insulted, but he knows Carolyn, and he knew she would not take offense, which is good, because he did not mean offense. He take another dainty bite of his croissant. His table manners are impeccable. They all have hobbies. Arlen's hobby is high society. This is the first real time he has had a chance to put it into practice, but that doesn't stop him from reading about specialty forks or playing around with different styles of pant cuffs while waiting for a mission briefing.
He explains patiently, "You don't have the social skills to pretend to be a businesswoman. You want access to everywhere, so you don't want to pretend to be a common tourist. You would never pass as a local. I'm afraid that rather limits your options. Now, if you appeared to be fantastically beautiful, you might try pretending to be a model, perhaps, but you have entirely too much meat on your bones for such a profession, even if your bone structure was acceptable."
Carolyn would have to model plus sizes.
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 2, 2012 21:24:57 GMT -5
Carolyn makes a sound that is decidedly uncomplimentary at Arlen's words, then takes another bite of her meal. The food earns a rare expression of pleasure from the sniper.
Finally she shrugs, "This is your forte, not mine. You're the stealth operative. I'll go with what you suggest."
"Just... nothing too frilly, all right?"
She is not your Barbie Doll, Arlen.
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 2, 2012 21:50:55 GMT -5
"This is a different sort of concept. You are accustomed to going without being seen. Now, being seen is inevitable. You wish, instead, to not be noticed. You are an object, Carolyn," much as Arlen himself is, "a weapon. A weapon stands out here. You must appear to be a different sort of object, the type that is seen but not considered. I suggest a trophy wife. Slaughter would not glance twice at such a thing."
What Arlen says is, from a humanist perspective, frankly awful.
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 3, 2012 9:54:28 GMT -5
Carolyn pauses with a forkful of grits halfway to her mouth. She sets the fork back down and leans back, her expression making her displeasure clear.
It isn't his referral to her as an object that upsets her. She knows what she is and what she was created for. She's owned, as surely as Arlen is and despite that she has more will and independence than most other Family.
"You... want me to act like some man's prize."
"Do you really think I can carry off something like that?"
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 3, 2012 10:53:28 GMT -5
The fork has not been impaled through his hand. Arlen counts that as Carolyn taking this well. He offers neutrally, "You could act like a woman's prize, if you prefer. I'm not sure what the better course of action would be. On the one hand, a rational man would accept that a lesbian would never have an affair with him and would ignore her. On the other hand, many humans are irrational. Some would see that as an excuse to target you with hate crimes. Some would see that as a challenge."
His croissant, he thinks, should be illegal.
"To be honest? Not really. Control wouldn't like it if you could just wander off and blend into a normal population without a trace. But you have a better chance of carrying off eccentricity than anything else."
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Post by Carolyn Blake on Apr 3, 2012 11:08:06 GMT -5
"Like you can?" Carolyn says softly, fixing him with a hard look. Arlen could vanish, if he really, really wanted to. By the time you're an "adult" you know the location of all the tracers in your body. You also know which ones can be removed easily, and which ones might kill you if removed. But Arlen is good enough, has ability enough that if he really wanted to he could stay ahead of Control.
The problem is that Carolyn would be the one sent after him. She knows him too well. Of course, the converse is also true. Carolyn often wonders when Arlen and she are going to actually be pitted against one another for real, all in the name of product development.
The thought does not make her happy.
"Arlen," she sighs as she reaches for her fork again, "I don't... I'm not... I can try. If someone hits on me, I'm more likely to put them through the wall than let them touch me."
"I can try though."
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Post by SceneMod on Apr 3, 2012 11:19:27 GMT -5
Arlen shakes his head and places a hand over his heart. He says very quietly, "There's a tracer in the interventricular septum of my heart, next to a cyanide pill. Finding a skilled enough heart surgeon willing to operate on me, someone who could remove the tracer and the pill without rupturing the pill, would raise too many red flags. I couldn't get off the grid long enough for the tracer and the pill to be fished out before Control would find me again. I'll be doing this until I die."
He gives her a bittersweet smile. He tries to reach out and run a hand through her hair.
"Mmm. We'll say that you're very religious, then. Can't abide the thought of infidelity to your dear spouse. I'm thinking a dye job and a cut, for the hair. A manicure and pedicure, of course. Perhaps a tan. We'll have to work on how you carry yourself."
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