An Offer She Can't Refuse


kristen_icon.gif varlane_icon.gif

Scene Title An Offer She Can't Refuse
Synopsis A dashing man pays a late night visit to an eager producer and makes her an offer that's promised to make her drop her robe.
Date April 15, 2011

Dorchester Towers — Kristen Reynolds' Apartment

It's not hard for Varlane to get into Dorchester. Magnes frequents the building to visit Yana, used to visit his former boss Tracy Strauss, and hell, even lived here for a while. So after a bit of digging and general following, he takes these hours after his encounter with Eileen to take care of some other business.

Once he's at her apartment door, he simply knocks. Why not? "It's Magnes J. Varlane." he states in as casual a tone as he can muster, which still comes off as about ten times more serious than Magnes Classic's. He's wearing his denim blazer and pants, with the grey shirt and cream Oxford's, hair slicked back and goatee ready for action. It's a bit of a change from Magnes and Kristen's previous encounter.

A knock on the door at this time of night usually means Kojo is looking to 'talk' about something or other. A little glare turns to irritation when it's not the voice of the DJ/reality star but Magnes. "What the hell?" Her butternut accent isn't masked in her own home, at least when she's all alone with her dog. Trippy is in a coma in the living room, not really a coma but from the drool soaking her doggy pillow, she's not about to wake up anytime soon.

"Hang on a sec'…" Is called out in more of her Tennessee accent but it's quickly covered when she opens the door and peeks at Magnes through the crack. "Magnes J. Varlane," she greets, sounding at professional as ever, even in her bathrobe. "Isn't it a little late? A little past curfew?"

She doesn't invite him in, not just yet. The door is opened enough that he can see the dog perk its head up to the visitor and then lay it back down, uninterested. Why make the three legged hobble to protect the door when the master of the house isn't too worried.

"You're looking rather naked." Varlane states as he moves a hand into his blazer, pulling out a plain black phonebook. "You haven't invited me in yet. We have a few things to discuss. If your career isn't made yet, then I believe your robe is going to hit the floor in thanks after this discussion."

With a shove, the door swings open a little further, allowing Magnes J. Varlane his entrance. Without the ceremony of formal invitation, Kristen turns on her heel and begins making her way back to the living room. It's a short distance down a small hallway, but when she arrives she curls into a large chair and pats her leg. Almost automatically, the dog jumps up and settles in.

"What is it Mister Varlane?" She lets the guest close the door behind him. "I thought you weren't interested in television anymore."

"I'm not interested in television." Varlane flicks a finger and the door closes behind him without touching it, then he holds up the black book. "I have Gabriel Grey's phone number, and I happen to have it in good faith that I can get him to meet me. FRONTLINE, your camera crews there to film it all. You can be the first person to broadcast the capture of Sylar. Or, if you really want ratings, the murder of Sylar."

If she were really naked underneath the bathrobe, she might drop it right there if it weren't for two problems. First being, she's not naked under the bathrobe, she wears pajamas. Second, the word FRONTLINE being mentioned doesn't exactly win points with a woman so disenchanted with the law. At least lately.

Regardless, "Sylar, the Midtown Man, was reported to have died during the bomb. So what you're saying is that he's actually alive, you have his phone number, and— You want to kill him on television? Live or not?" One hand strokes the back of the pooch on her lap in a lazy motion, sort of like an evil mastermind entertaining a plan.

"That is exactly what I'm saying. There is so much you probably don't know, Kristen, and I could tell you everything. But what's important right now is that he is alive, the Ferrymen are hiding him." Varlane looks around, sliding his phone book back into his blazer. "I've done something to make him particularly angry, I bet he'll jump at the chance to come after me if I call him. I'd just need a little time to prepare. Do you have any wine around here?"

"Now why would you do something as silly as making a walking nuclear bomb angry?" The brunette's chin jerks toward a winerack along the wall half filled with bottles. It's filled with reds of different varieties, no two bottles are the same. Instead of being a good hostess and getting a bottle and a glass for him, she stays where she is, with her dog. If needed, she'll use Trippy as an excuse for why she's not jumping to serve. A butler would be handy.

"The white's in the fridge," she utters low, eying him carefully. "What if you fail? Because if you fail that leaves me exposed and conveniently on the wrong side of the little fight. How long do you think I'd survive?"

"Oh, don't worry, he's a good little dog on a leash now, he won't kill you. He'll only kill me and anyone who happens to be shooting at him." Varlane is more than happy to grab the glasses and wine on his own. Two glasses held in one hand, he pops the cork of Beaujolais Noveau, then pours them both half a glass.

Heading back over, he hands her a glass, then moves to take a seat on the couch, sipping lightly while watching her in the chair. "But I will kill him, and if I don't, the law will." There's a little pause inbetween sips, his entire attitude cool and confident, barely seeming like the same person who worked for her. "I have to be in France by morning, but considering I did just give you the scoop of a lifetime, I'm in no rush."

"France by morning? It's an eight hour flight— What are you going to do, teleport there?" The producer's eyes narrow a touch as she takes the glass, a small smirk forming on her lips. Kristen raises her glass in a silent toast, perhaps a wordless agreement that she'll comply. After all, it's a pretty big scoop. Blowing the cover on the Midtown Man, filming him die, that's a lot of vengeance.

"I have to say Varlane, I'm a little bit impressed. Have you gone to visit your father recently? Is that the change? Or have you just found a direction that you want to go in?"

"You could say that I have a direction now. And I have indeed met my father." Varlane grins, his sipping quite refined, even savoring the taste of the wine before swallowing. "Well, give or take a few hours. I can afford to be late, I have all the time in the world. Why don't you come sit over here?"

"I'm fairly comfortable over here," Kristen utters as she takes a small sip from her glass. Some people have to work in the morning, then again, some people work seven days a week. "If you're waiting for my bathrobe to hit the floor, Magnes, then you're going to have to wait until after this whole Sylar scoop goes live and on the air." Because some women don't hedge their bets on a maybe. Curling her thin legs a little tighter against her body, she gives him something of a lazy look. Her glass is running out of wine at the same pace as an egg timer.

"Then I'll just have to hand you his head on a platter." Varlane stands and walks over to her, hunching down to look her directly in the eye. "Let's not mention this outside of these walls, we wouldn't want any unsavory characters figuring out what we're doing." Then he leaves the glass on the arm of her couch and turns around to head for the door. "I have a plane to catch, no time to waste with a clothed woman I've said all I had to say to. I'll call you."

The hand she's been using to scratch her dog behind the ears is raised to give something of a nonchalant farewell to the departing man. "I'll answer," it's a promise that she doesn't actually make to many people. This time, she can afford to do it and not slough the task off on her personal assistant. "It was good seeing you again, Magnes, we've missed you on the show." Well she has, Dirk has, maybe Russo has.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License