Participants:
| Scene Title | My Raven |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Varlane attempts to collect his Raven, but apparently even knowing what to expect doesn't prepare one for this particular bird. |
| Date | April 23 2011 |
Random Italian Restaurant
It's the afternoon, and Varlane's had to buy another denim suit. He did indeed survive, but he's not sure just how many of Magnes' friends will learn of his existence. He sits in a booth just as she arrives at a small Italian place, two plates of some sort of roast chicken pasta laid out on their table with glasses of sweet tea for them.
He straightens his blue denim blazer, and her being one of his best friends, well, she might find the goatee and slicked back hair a bit strange. "Hello Sable." he says in a casually tone, full of confidence he doesn't usually have as he motions for her seat.
Sable sidles in through the front doors, adjusting her hat which the unseasonable cold has demanded she slap over her dark spines of hair. The yellow eyed woman crab-walks her way to the booth where Varlane sits. Face totally straight, she slides into the opposite seat, reaches out, takes her sweet tea, and tips it back. Down the hatch, glug glug glug, not pausing until the whole thing is done. When the cups is empty, she gives a light burp which she covers with her wrist - 'scuse her - before setting the cup back down and looking Varlane straight in the eye.
"Y'all look like a tool."
"You're certainly different." Varlane very carefully rolls his pasta on the fork, not leaving one noodle hanging before sliding it into his mouth, watching her along the way. "My sexy little killing machine. There's still hope for you in this world." he states without context, just making observations while not yet touching his tea.
Blink.
Blink.
Only owls can hood their eyes with truly somber skepticism. Sable does a pretty good impression though. A look that says 'what are you?'. "Boy," she inquires, "I came here with th' intent t' eat m' lunch, not puke up m' breakfast. Are you on DMT, or are y'all tryin' get me f'r th' First? 'cause, chum," she cricks her neck, "don't bother. I'm th' best there's ever been."
"It's funny, where I'm from you often try to hide your accent, and when you get angry you slip up." Varlane finally reaches for his tea, lifting it to his lips for a light sip, watching her with a calculating gaze. "What would you say if I promised you the world, in exchange for you giving up on this band nonsense?"
"Okay- okay- fuckin'- hold on a second, arright?" Sable says, lifting her arms and waving her hands in front of her as if dispelling a mirage, "is that fuckin' thing real?" she points a finger at the little beard, "'n' like- is this some fuckin' real nerdy time roleplayin' thing? 'Cause, like, it's all well 'n' good in private, but- y'all know I can't be seen involved in anythin' like that in public. I got a fuckin' reputation t' maintain."
"Roleplaying, quaint. But I don't involve myself with the useless activities of my other half, if you can call him that." Varlane sits his glass down and leans back, spreading his arms along the back of his seat. "I also hear you're a lesbian here, what a waste. It's no wonder your Magnes involves himself with every trollop who walks by."
Sable has been busy riffing on her series of burns, personal abuse the best way she can show affection while still laying down the goddamn law. Too busy to sort together the picture Varlane is painting. This last contestation - as to the possibility of Sable's turning in her pink triangle - forces her to pause and consider just what the fuck Magnes(?) is implying. It is actually not all that hard to figure out.
"Oookay," Sable says, "I'm gonna need some, like, proof? That y'all are- like? What? From th' evil opposite dark side dimension? And that in y'alls shitty, knockff reality," she gestures between them with a hand, mouth twisted into a curl of distaste, "knew each other, like, Biblically." Pics or that shit did not happen.
"No proof, I'm here accidentally, I have no way to get back. I tried to kill your Magnes the other day, you might have heard about that boat that was exploded. But he was much harder to kill than I thought. And than there's that older girl he called his daughter… maybe killing her will get under his skin." Varlane lifts a hand to grab his glass, keeping his eyes locked on to her's in a predatory fashion.
A hand lifts, abortively. "Hold th' fuck up. We don't have t' jump right t' killin' no one's drummer, arright?" Sable folds her hands on the table before her, lacing her fingers save for the steeple of her index fingers. "Maybe you 'n' me c'n work out a deal," she lifts one hand from the gathering at once, "one that don't involve no filth flarn filth," her hand returns, relacing, "kinda make a balance b'tween world domination 'n' rock 'n' roll. Think 'bout it, y'know? Rock music so powerful, it c'n command the masses. Mebbe some subliminal-type messages, dig?"
"Don't worry, you're not my Raven." Varlane reaches out to place a hand on top of her's, brows furrowing as his face and demeanor just take on a darker tone. "You can have fun in your little band, but what I want is my top assassin back."
Sable sees that shit coming a mile away. And if this is, in fact, a very dedicated prank, then she will beg his forgiveness later. Where Varlane's finger is, the next moment, so are Sable's, but it's her that's got a hold of him. She moves with a grim economy that doesn't say a lot for Sable's qualms.
She yanks Varlane's middle finger back, applying pain and further pain's threat in a focused way that likely is more familiar too bizarro-boy than to anyone in her this-worldly acquaintances, thumb applied with something a little too close to practice. Sable doesn't always play nice.
"Rule one, no touchin'," she informs him, levelly, "rule two, no touchin' any 'f mine. Have thought one 'bout harmin' my near 'n' dear, chum? I'ma make a darkside type decision like you ain't gonna have time, life or breath to 'ppreciate."
He grunts when she grabs his finger, but unlike the Magnes she knows, he's not one to usually make a wild show in public. His other hand swiftly moves into his blazer and then under the table. "I have a gun aimed directly at your stomach, and I will shoot and shoot and shoot until I've completely severed your spinal cord unless you release my finger."
He's well aware of her ability, and he's not willing to risk actually removing her grip by force and losing a finger in the process. "Magnes' best friend, huh? You and Gillian, but mostly you these days." he states in a bit of a pained tone due to her grip. "If you're such a good friend, then why are you letting him try to date some insane sociopath, just because he thinks it's 'easy'? I know all about his little circle of friends, it's your fault he's not more like me, all of you. You soften and make him weak, but are you really there?" Why he's asking or saying these things, it's hard to tell, but he's clearly trying to nail a point home.
The difference between foolishness and simple stupidity has to do with the hardness of reality. Foolishness nets you consequences - it may lose your your job, may put you on the couch for the night, may even give you a guilty secret to lug around under your hat. Stupidity gets your spinal chord severed.
Sable releases Varlane's finger with a wariness she does her best to hide behind a: "Jus' so y'all know I ain't fuckin' 'round either," as if the exchange of threats were, of course, nothing more than routine chit chat amongst villainous friends. The aspersions cast upon her loyalty, however…
"What I fuckin' am is here f'r him, or was, only 'stead 'f him it's some shit-slicked alternate fuckin' reality version 'f 'im thinks he c'n waltz int' our world 'n' set up shot. Guess what, chumpchange? Y'all ain't been here long 'nough. I put twenny goddamn years int' this busted-ass history we got. Y'all gotta work here longer, 'fore you go actin' like you know jack 'bout him 'r me 'r any-goddamn-one."
"What do you know about him? I've been watching him. He's lost, he's not even sure if your little band is still together sometimes. He doesn't have you there to tell him to go after that Dawson girl and stop letting that black widow treat him like a lab rat. You're not there to tell him to pursue success instead of this lost cause of pleasing his father with science. Do you know why I'm telling you this?" Varlane asks as he lifts his hand up to test his finger, which still hurts a bit.
He grabs the glass of tea again, but doesn't lift it, his tone and gaze very stern at this point. "I want you to realize just how superior my Raven is, how I would not be the person that I am now if she didn't support me. I would not have Eileen and the Vanguard would not have taken the world. Instead your Magnes just wallows in uncertainty because you're chasing that Trafford trollop. You can be something more than you are, he's already an inferior product, there's no sense in making up for your failures now, that's why you should join me."
The corner of Sable's eye twitches, her mouth tightening as she stares Varlane down. She'd like to be casual and dismissive, but some of these barbs sting a little too painfully and sharply. A variety of replies pop with ugly, swampy effervescence in the heating cauldron of her mind. Defenses, structured around how Magnes is a grown man that can make his own damn fool decisions, and tends to one way or another no matter the intervention. Offenses, in which she properly answers the insult Varlane lays upon Delilah.
Wonder of wonders, she thinks better of both. She will not disrespect Magnes by leveling any criticism within earshot of an enemy. She will not return home mangled, shot or torn asunder just because she couldn't prevent herself leaping over the table to have at this snide bastard, like a reckless, knightly and totally doomed swain.
Instead, she reached into her pocket and flips open her cellphone, toggling the first number on speed dial before setting the phone to her ear. She lifts her other hand, finger lifted in a 'one moment please' gesture.
Oddly enough, Magnes J. Varlane himself is hard at work trying to track down Varlane, calling people who might have been contacted. It's when Sable calls him that he immediately switches over, answering in a casual tone, "Hello? Sable?" he asks, having read her name on the phone.
Varlane raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't protest her actions, he just keeps the gun aimed at her while lightly sipping his tea. This should prove interesting enough.
"Hey, boy," Sable says, eyes cutting over to some spot close to the ceiling, a conversational no-space created with the sole purpose of placing Varlane 'outside' the conversation, "it's th' opinion 'f someone figures he's got a better sense 'f how yer life's goin' that I ain't been friend 'nough t' y', nor takin' proper-type interest in wha's goin' on in yer life. So mebbe you 'n' me should catch up, if y' got th' time."
Her eyes finally turn to Varlane, including him as she adds. "Though I dunno how much I should trust th' word 'f a fella got such a stupid fuckin' pointy beard, 'n' scummy type slicked back hair."
"He's there with you? Damn, I didn't warn you because I thought Elaine and Quinn would have warned you before me. Where are you? I'll come right over." Magnes seems unconcerned with her status as a friend at the moment, instead more ready to fly over and punch an evil twin.
Varlane can't help but snicker a bit, sipping his tea as if it were some sort of fine wine. "If he comes, I'll shoot you just to piss him off. As much as I'd like to have you behind me, as much as I'd like my own Raven in this world, nothing would please me more than to drive him mad with revenge."
"Aw, now, don't worry 'bout it, I know I c'n be a bit hard t' get ahold of," Sable carries on, voice mostly level, performance demanding discipline she can rarely summon otherwise, "jus' hold on a sec though. Even though his beardedness here seems real eager t' pass on, like, datin' advice or somethin', turns out he means me harm you head over here so-"
She looks at Varlane again, a brow arching. "Mebbe y'all should talk t' each other? Or mebbe- hold on. Gonna put y'all on th' speaker." She clasps the phone in both hands, thumbing the speaker phone on and setting the cell in the middle of the table, leaning over to better direct her words at the mic. "There. Say 'hi' t' yer douchebag double."
"You let Sable go right now!" Magnes shouts through the phone, and can be heard rushing around the room, putting on clothes and slamming drawers. "If you harm one hair on her head, I swear!"
People are beginning to look, but Varlane just reaches over for Sable head, eyeing the table as if to remind her of the gun, then tries to pluck a hair or two from her head. After which, he'd proceed to break the hair inbetween his fingers. His voice becomes very low, leaning down to the speaker, though she can still hear. "I bet it eats you up. You've become nothing but a useless lump, you failed to take control of your environment, failed to gain any real followers. Instead you chase trollops, fail to truly improve yourself, and now I have your best friend at the mercy of a gun. I could move my finger three, four times, and you would never see or speak to her again. I could carve her pretty yellow eyes out and you would be helpless to stop me."
"I'll kill you!" Magnes is heard slamming something, then suddenly the wind can be heard blowing against the speaker. "I swear to god I'll find you and I'll kil—" But Varlane presses the end button, sitting back with a smug smile.
The sheer literalness of Varlane's violation is enough to buy him the time and distraction necessary to carry it out. Sable doesn't know what the fuck he's doing until he does it, and the threat of the the weapon beneath the table prevents any knee-jerk responses. This seemed oddly manageable up to some point, though what that point might have been, Sable doesn't really know.
That she was more or less screwed from the moment she sat down, earlier, isn't an idea she'd like to entertain, preferring to believe her sass was to some purpose other than giving her a false sense of control. Delusions aren't such a bad thing to cling to, when it makes no difference either way.
When the call ends, it leaves them alone (restaurant-goers excepted), and Sable starts to understand what she may be in for. She tries very, very hard to look unconcerned. It's- a work in progress.
"Seems like he's pretty shook up," she says through the growing dryness in her mouth, "mebbe I better go try 'n' lend that friendly shoulder y'all want so bad f'r 'im. So- jus' y'all gimme yer number, we c'n mebbe talk more later 'bout, like, world conquest. 'cause I ain't 'gainst global dominion, chum, jus'-" she seesaws a hand, "y'all kinda need t' work on yer pitch a bit. More 'bout palaces 'n' stadiums 'n' statues, less 'bout bein' a dick."
"You're too far gone to be my Raven, but I'm going to let you go. You've served your purpose, at this point killing you would be pointless, I've already painted the picture and given him the rage, and I'm far too attached to my own Raven to kill you for no reason." Varlane raises his hand, which seems to be his fingers pointing in the shape of a gun. "Killing you in the middle of an Italian restaurant would have been rather tasteless of me anyway. Go play a guitar or something, we're done here."
So- was there no gun? Or was there a gun and he's just pretending like there wasn't so as to demonstrate his amazing psych-out abilities? You know what, fuck it, it doesn't matter. Sable is shown the door - she'll take it. "I'ma go do just that," she quips, "been fun."
She can't find the exit fast enough.