Le Coq Gaulois


abby_icon.gif cat_icon.gif francois_icon.gif

Scene Title Le Coq Gaulois…
Synopsis … In which Francois draws a picture of a cock.
Date December 24, 2009

A Company facility, Ryazan, Russia

A box of Sharpies, a rainbow of them concealed in a plastic bag with cyrillic writing on its surface, is plunked onto the table in front of Francois. Nurse Nightingale - also known as Abigail - is flopping back into a seat beside the Frenchman in an area of the facility designed for the consuming of food and relaxing not two seconds after with an oof. Inasmuch as one can relax after what the group of them had gone through. But he wasn't in his hospital room which meant that maybe he was up and about.

"I prescribe color therapy." The crutches are clacked together and leaned against the side when she finally tracks down Francois. "I have a horribly white cast, painfully white cast that's just begging to be colored and signed and all sorts of stuff." Sweater, skirt, brown hair swept back from her face and a sympathetic smile on her face. "Maybe you can see fit to do something about that. We can talk while you do. If you want to. Or we can just sit quietly. I think I saw Cat not far behind me. You might get two of us, even"

Afternoon in the Company facility. Christmas Eve. Sometimes fate is a bitch.

They've been making eggnog, in the past few days, as cheerily Christmas as limp tinsel decorating a couple of the doorways here and there, stapled and taped and various shades of silver, gold, and red. They've dosed the frothy festive drink with advocaat, and half of it remains unfinished in the red ceramic mug Francois' been given, the dregs of his dinner pushed aside in favour of studying the immediate space in front of him, good hand supporting his chin and green eyes distant.

Abby's presence is afforded an immediate kind of attention, however. The liquor helps ease a smile into place in greeting, back going straight with attentiveness as much as they're all probably the same brand of exhausted. His left hand is currently bound tight and wrapped in bandages, as much as everyone is technically healed, his arm brace in place with the white bandages concealing his knuckles as far as halfway up his fingers, which remain loose and neglected. Nothing can be done for the neat slice taken out of his ear, not as big as all the blood had implied, white scar tissue as if the injury were decades old.

It's certainly not as bad as some of their fates. Francois doesn't quite have the audacity to complain. "Is there very much to talk about?" Even then, he is pushing his chair out a fraction, and picking up the packet of Sharpies to poke sound fingers through.

She's been staying busy since the assault on the Monastery and being brought here. Cat's poised in her demeanor as ever; back kept straight when she walks, head up, eyes alert, expression generally neutral but a good deal of time has been spent using whatever physical training spaces are available here. Pushups, situps, punching and kicking bags. Practice of Krav Maga moves.

Desire for food has drawn her out of that place now, an Aerosmith tour t-shirt from 1975 is being pulled down over her head as she rounds the corner and approaches the cafeteria door. The sports bra is thus covered, along with hints of bruising and minor cuts to her torso. Some of the same are on her legs as well, visible below workout-quality shorts. Hair up and back leaves her face and neck exposed.

Eyes spot the French man and Louisiana woman, her course adjusts to approach their table. While the demeanor is fairly normal for her, the perceptive and the knowledgeable can spot storms brewing under the surface.

"Always something to talk about. There's the weather. The latest football games. There's the weather. Movies, Weather." She lets her own finger skip across the bags and pick up a fuchsia one. "Did I mention the weather?" One side of her mouth pulls up in a wicked little grin as she takes note of the incoming woman. "Speaking of weather…" The storm approaches it seems. "Afternoon, Cat. How's the… gym?"

Francois takes out red, black and orange respectively, probably an edge of tolerance in his own demeanor as opposed to genuine enthusiasm, but impatience can wear down as quickly as patience can too. "There was a recent Indiana Jones movie," he attempts, before he pokes a gesture with a sharpie at Abby to get the cast into some kind of position for adequate scribbling. "It ends with aliens but I would still like to see it, I enjoyed the others. Bonjour, Catherine." The approaching woman gets two glances, one of acknowledgement and then one of more focused study, as much as it's just a brisk sweep up and down.

The gym sounds like a nice place to be, and he knows a glimmer of regret that he wasted his final days in Ryazan being as idle as he is, as if the injuries running tracks on him were still open. Doesn't comment, scratches his slightly unshaven jaw with the end of the orange pen and goes for a deeper sip of frothy alcoholic merriment.

"It's functional," she replies quietly to the question Abby voiced, eyes settling on the source for a moment, then turning to Francois. "Bonjour," Cat responds. Then she nods toward an open seat prior to claiming it with part of her body. "Is there room?" Study shows she's perhaps holding it together by force of will, keeping herself busy to avoid thinking of things. It's a familiar pattern for those who've been around her somewhat.

The chair, Abigail's chair, is shifted so that she can cross the plaster encased leg across her knee and let Francois get to his doodling. "Always room, and I think Leonard bought that movie. If you stay above the bar, I can try and dig it out." The fuschia Sharpie is uncapped and near the top edge, Abby starts to doodle a little flower. "You okay Cat? You look ready to burst and the room might impolde when you do."

Francois rests mangled if hidden hand light on the cast as if to steady it, thumbing off the marker's cap and beginning to draw in the way unskilled people do — filling in space as opposed to proper drawing. Still, the jerky strokes of the pen are sure enough, immediate space quickly filling with the ink's fumes as orange is coloured onto a general patch of the plaster. Silent for the moment, but listening keenly.

Her features shift slightly with Abby's question, it seems to disturb her in some way. Is it showing? Has she failed to keep things concealed? The younger woman is studied for a moment to determine such possibility before Cat opts to continue acting as if nothing eats at her.

Settling into the chair, she neither confirms nor denies what Abby speaks of. There's just a calmly spoken question. "Why would you ask that?"

Dirty blonde brows rise at Cat's question, browns going down and inwards. "Because it's polite? Because like I said, you done look ready to implode. If something's not wrong, then…" Abigail's nose scrunches, a shoulder lifted then dropped carefully. "Then nothing's wrong and my bartender sense is tingling at the wrong time. Dunno. What in heavens name are you drawing, Francois?" The swatch of orange distracting her for a moment as she colors in a petal.

"Le coq gaulois," Francois answers, switching out orange for red to give the vaguely shaped swatch of orange some folded wings. "C'est parce que c'est le seul oiseau qui arrive a chanter les pieds dans la merde. Perhaps your bartender senses are going overboard — I imagine it is hard to be 'okay'. If Cat," a glance sent her way, green eyes bright and smile half-crooked with vague apology, "is okay, then I would enjoy knowing her secret. But then, we did what we all came for, non?"

The Gallic rooster, Cat's mind translates, because it's the only bird which comes to sing with his feet in crap. Her head tilts toward him as if thinking of this for some moments. It's certainly a … different image to form in the head. Meantime, relief of a sort has also settled onto those features, perhaps from Abby not remembering a past event and/or not speaking of it if she did.

Mention of the mission shifts her also in subtle ways. "We did, da. I'm eager to continue the mission." Eyes move from them to the food service area, distraction from what's been eating at her building. "I wonder if they have chicken…"

"Le Coq Gaulois…" It's repeated carefully, obviously unknowing as to what they just said or the stream of French that came after. "Oh! A bird!" This'll be interesting even as blue eyes seek out Cat again. Likely forgotten about the anniversary of things past. Or maybe she just has better manners than to bring up that in a public place. "There's more? I thought that all there needs to be done is pass over Grigori?" Others were out, getting shot and hurt and she had remained behind, unwilling to be a distraction or a drag on what they were going to do what with her ankle and such. "You think there's to be more from us to do?"

The red is exchanged with black, uncapped with his teeth this time before he colours in the bird's darker patterns, shaping its expansive tail, and defining its clawed feet. "It is a symbol of my country, one I've always liked. They throw a rooster onto the field in football games when they're played on French soil. Before that, it represented the Revolution." Skritchyskritch, goes the pen, and Francois glances up at Abby's question, and steers a glance to Cat. They've already touched on what needs to be done after Russia, but he allows the woman the distraction of answering.

"I'd like to know the weapon has been found and dismantled," Cat answers, "as well as seeing the Vanguard dissolved as totally as it can be. I've no desire to find myself at this time next year in the field versus a third attempt from them, or someone associated with them, to depopulate the planet and reboot humanity under their rule." Her voice lowers here, to be heard only by Francois and Abby. They are, after all, in a Company facility and might have recording devices around. Or invisible spies.

"There's no shortage of madmen trying to take over the world, to remake it in their terms as it is. Introducing sera meant to impart SLC abilities to those who don't have them and create private armies, nutjobs trying to purge SLC from the earth, still others creating pain, suffering, and general chaos for their own private advancement."

Falling into quiet, her eyes settle on the rooster image being formed, Cat's thoughts on the French Revolution and how it devolved into Robespierre's Terror remaining unvoiced.

"No, there isn't. There will always be something else crop up. It seems like it. Someone with a desire to remake the world it seems." Her own flower drawing seems to halt as she watches the bird come to life beneath Francois's hand. "I think I've had enough amrmageddon's though. Like kidnapping, twice has been more than enough." A grim smile coming to the surface of her face as she studies the lines of the rooster. "Vive Le Revolution."

More red is added as both women talk, and the orange to finish off the tiny triangle of the bird's beak. Francois straightens his back to admire his work, before setting the Sharpies aside. "Some would depict it in battle with the German's eagle. That is what it reminds me of the most. We match, now," he adds, mysteriously!, sitting back in his seat and picking up the last of his eggnog before steering his attention back to Cat, a small smile briefly showing. "I would like to see this through to its end as well."

"Or the Briton's bulldog," Cat adds as she studies the drawn bird, "rivalry ended only by a common need to subdue the German madman, stemming from a French duke taking England's throne and still having lands across the Channel. Their forces finally defeated and driven back to holding only Calais after they made the serious mistake of setting a young woman on fire for the…" She affects a mock gasp. "… shocking crime of wearing pants."

Moments later, her eyes raise and drift over toward where food can be gotten. It wasn't his intent, but the avian image still causes her to want chicken.

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