sirenspull_logs | now all you've got to offer me is a drink of gin

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now all you've got to offer me is a drink of gin

Who: Tonegawa (

12second_orz ) and YOU
When: Friday afternoon- early evening.
Where: A high-class bar in Sector 3, moving to Lion's Gate towards the evening
What: Tonegawa uses his afternoon off to schmooze and make contacts in a classy joint. Feel free to run into him leaving or arriving, too!
Warnings: None

[Sitting at the bar and watching the gentle murmur of activity around him as he nurses his drink, Tonegawa can’t help but feel rather pleased with himself. He works by day, he meets and greets by night. If there’s one thing he can approve of, it’s a routine, and he’s certainly managed one of those here.

Not that making nice to big shots is all he wants to spend the rest of his time here doing- his ideal state of affairs involves far more room to stretch his legs in every sense, for what is power but the ability to do anything and be forgiven for it nonetheless? But even beyond that there’s something about the charade now that sticks in his throat, bitter and resentful, that he’s become more aware of now; his hands tense beneath their leather gloves with each forced laugh, each smile.

Still, he’s damn good at it and he knows it. He’s never wanted for patience in his life, either- swallowing now could earn him the right to spit later, if he’s good enough at it. There’s nouveau riche trash here, yes, but also a few people it’s well worth being sweet to.

Of course, what mood he ends up in by the end of the night depends entirely on which of them he manages to find, and while he might look laid back as he glances around the room he’s busy sizing up faces and suits.]

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[ It's impossible not to conform to that insistent regularity of Tonegawa's routine, as impulsive as she can be. He makes communications sound so simple. He can switch masks from merely cordial to jovial in the blink of an eye, and if she wasn't looking for the cracks in his expression and tone, she would be just as easily convinced.

As custom dictates, Chane waits about ten minutes after he enters the bar to join him; enough time for him to order, settle, catch an eye or a name or two. Long enough to allow her to calm her thoughts and put on, too, a mask of her own. The sting from him knowing certain details hasn't quite faded and that is nothing a professional demeanour can fully conceal.

She gives it eleven before slipping inside, jacketed and carrying her purse (something that draws gazes when she moves amongst the tables to reach the bar; all-black seems only to suit evening occasions, she notes), settling it all on her knees once she reaches a stool one seat down from Tonegawa. And, as usual, she initiates nothing, barely even moving for her notebook in her purse or looking towards the bartender. It isn't part of the job description. ]

[It's a little too early yet for any of the regulars to stop by, but as a general rule it usually works out better that way; it gives the impression of having simply run into someone over having turned up specifically to meet them, a far better image to project to avoid seeming desperate.

A little over ten minutes pass and Laforet, just missing her usual cue, walks in and takes her post just down from him at the bar. One of these days he'll need to talk her into something less striking for the afternoon- a suit in a softer colour, or even a pinstripe to break it up.

Still no one of note has come by, and eventually Tonegawa calls the bartender over and tells him to offer Chane a drink on his tab, along with a note he scrawls down on the back of a receipt: Don't look so serious. Not the easiest of orders to comply with, considering who they're aimed at, but still. Her simply sitting and doing nothing hardly lends itself to the open, sociable atmosphere- besides, why come to a bar if you aren't going to drink anything at all, alcoholic or not?]

[ The clink of the wineglass upon the wooden bar matches with the sound of her heels catching on the stool, settling her weight. She looks up from where her fingers were playing with the zip of her purse, the folded note first catching her eye, then the drink before her. Colourful. Sweet-looking. Her complete opposite.

Studying the scrawl on the slip of paper, her expression becomes more severe for a second-- the cocktail doesn't lend itself to easy drinking. It's as though he means to soften her by this. After a sip she sets it down, relaxing her look, at least, an eyebrow quirked at the paper. Only then does she take out her NV, delicately tear out a page from the back and neatly write on the (sturdier, better quality) paper; a slicing fold, a scribbled instruction to the bartender to pass it to the gentleman who bought the drink ends her brief activity.

I don't.

As though to prove it, she makes another attempt with the glass, battling with the syrupy sweetness and the fruit slices that cluster at the surface. It doesn't taste any better the second time. ]

[Chane's response raises a few eyebrows of its own. 'I don't'? Not intentionally, perhaps, but there's no denying that Chane brings an air of carefully cultivated disinterest with her wherever she goes- fine for work, but hardly appropriate for a setting with pretensions to informality (though everyone here knows how much of a joke that is).

Glancing towards her again she at least appears to be making the effort to seem less uncomfortable, though the drink doesn't seem to have gone down particularly well- it's not a favourite of his, admittedly, but it got the point across rather well. He's still got a little more work to do, and it isn't long before he's sending along another, shorter note: 'Smile, then.'

He waits a few moments while she reads, knowing that she's almost certainly watching him out of the corner of her eye, before giving her a pointedly cool smile and tipping his glass to her.]

[ Somewhat unfortunately she happens to glance along the bar at the moment he catches her eye; and that, with the absurd suggestion-- or command-- on the note nearly makes her wish she could summon such a smile on demand, a contemptuous one.

But, no. She wouldn't, not even to spite him. Although her gaze is sharp, it betrays her brief moment of reconciling these impulses, softens, and ends as she draws the attention of the bartender back to her. One of what that man is drinking, she asks, and on his bill.

Her next message reads simply, Thank you for the drink. She doesn't wait for the next glass to arrive before sending it, even though receiving it puts her more at ease, with a thin black straw as though the creator intended to make it a little more ladylike. Not obeying the order to change her expression. Exploiting his tab. She's a model employee tonight. ]

[Oh, dear. That seem to have hit a nerve- and his wallet, from the looks of things. He was tempting fate there, admittedly, but now that she's thrown down her gauntlet so to speak he can hardly turn it down.

Part of him rather likes the idea of sending drink after gaudy drink, but the most pleasing outcome of that little trick- one blind-drunk employee ready to call first thing the next morning for some arbitrary little errand- seems an unlikely one, considering the woman he's dealing with. Chane is hardly the same sort of person as any of his old boys. While he doesn't doubt her loyalty, she doesn't have the same fierce respect that would hold her back from refusing a drink from him.

For now, he'll play it low key. Another note and a word with the bartender later and Chane finds herself with a little pink umbrella in her glass and another slip of paper: I can do this all night.]

[ If her wide-eyed look didn't have an almost incensed edge to it, perhaps it could even pass off as pleasant surprise. But she doesn't gratify him with more than a second of acknowledgement of this new gift.

Delicately plucking the umbrella from the other glass, measuring the two against one another, she snaps back the flimsy wooden spokes of whichever she deems to be longer until the pink paper has been bent, flattened back and inside-out-- as far as she is concerned, a plain cocktail stick with which to spear the fruit pieces from the pink beverage. It's especially elaborate for her, but serves well as a method of delaying taking these drinks. No matter how sociable he wants her to be, she still has a job that she cannot risk either of them in doing, by any fault or slowness of response of hers.

It does make her consider more clearly, as she directs her restlessness into transferring the fruit from one glass to another, what their relationship is outside of that single professional duty. Whether enjoying herself is something he can demand of her. Smiling. Adapting to those around her.

The one person from whom she would accept those orders would not ask her to smile for his sake. So, then, a loyalty bought by cash cannot demand that of her either. It does, however, prompt a little thought, a little concern-- perhaps that they should be on more equal grounding, if she won't acquiesce to every order. Forfeiting the paper-messaging completely (the bartender looks tired of acting as a free courier service), she takes a wine-soaked piece of apple in her mouth, eyes slipping shut, and connects her mind, the way she has tentatively taught herself to. Her voice speaks for her in his head. It's simple; they've connected before.

I won't accept these. ]

[It's difficult for Tonegawa to be more than mildly amused by Chane's reaction even in spite of its bold defiance; it's so rare to see any sort of reaction from the woman at all that it makes for an interesting game to fill the interim between contacts with. She won't be happy with him at the end of it, of course, but that isn't the point, is it? He doesn't pay her to be happy: he pays her to do as she's told, even through pointless indulgence and insincerity if needs be. It's a philosophy he's maintained for thirty years with barely a hitch- a policy of telling the right people what they want to hear- and if she wants to get anywhere she'll have to-

The connection is made, and Laforet's voice suddenly rings calmly and clearly in his mind- a mind that takes a moment to catch up and which, just for a moment, squeaks past with a Bitch- before he can reign it in.

Once was bad enough, and that had been in extenuating circumstances. His mind has always been his stronghold, the one place in which he could hiss and curse and sneer without repercussion. Its invasion is unnerving, even infuriating, but he can't let himself get angry.

He grits his teeth and tries again, though he's uncertain as to whether or not she can hear him. Stop it. Get out of my head.]

[ That murmur of an insult fails to draw any reaction from her other than a languidly raised eyebrow; so he has similar, if more strongly worded, regard for her as Chane has for him. She concentrates on nothing in particular for a long moment, chewing the apple chunk, before her next thought rings out as she peels off her gloves, slides her drink back towards her.

Talking like this is easier.

-Which is, for what it's worth, partially a lie. It doesn't show on her features but the deliberate pacing of her words comes from the effort it takes to organise her thoughts and section off his; she can feel the restrained ire like wind rushing in her ears, his voice nearly drowned out in the midst of it. Above all, she's guarded. Completely unlike when she could talk like this to her father, this is a man to whom she will not reveal herself. There is still secrets to be protected which could be so easily laid out by doing this. It's risky- she cannot let herself be distracted. But she still tries to offer something, to bridge a gap between her and Tonegawa-- to make them even.

I have learned about this power. ]

[That secret element to the matter doesn't go unnoticed, and it's what stings the most: Laforet has all the freedom in the world to speak and to remain silent, while he struggles to keep his thoughts under control. He's used to two voices, his own purring out loud and the silent commentary in his head- but this? It's playing poker with the cards face out, it's speaking through a one-way mirror. It's painfully exposing.

Though it's unnecessary, Tonegawa refuses to drop his eyes from where she sits. She's toying with her glass now, but she's too sharp to miss it.

Really? I couldn't tell. Bitter sarcasm, which he makes no attempt to control: it's hard enough to line his thoughts up, censor them, deploy them in any convincing way. I don't care how 'easy' this is for you. I want you to get the fuck out of my head. He still doesn't know what it is she hears, if anything.]

[ Sensing the broiling battle for control from within Tonegawa himself, even at this distance, takes its toll on her belatedly. With that lash out against her own paced, smooth voice, she parts her lips as though to speak in her defence. It catches the bartender's attention, but a tense wave of her hand throws him off again, a gesture towards her still-full glass.

She's misjudged her abilities. Retaining her external as well as internal composure is unbelievably, incredibly difficult, like conducting three orchestras at once; her body, her thoughts, and Tonegawa's. To think that she believed she could mimic anything approaching the magnitude of Leeza's powers with this Core-given imitation of something her father had created. She, a human, made of Huey's blood, not his craftsmanship.

The pause between answers this time is longer. A fingernail taps at the side of her glass, her eyes narrow slightly, gaze unmoving.

I hear nothing but what you tell me. There is more danger of telling you my own secrets than learning of yours.

She may as well be whispering in a storm. The incident in the office springs to mind, the sheer thickness of willpower and delusion she had to cut through in order to reach him, but it's inadvertently transmitted; unable to backtrack she nearly gasps, tenses in her seat. She had acted as though she had erased the event from memory. ]

[She twitches, and for a second Tonegawa wonders just how much effort this is taking on her part. Is the tap a displacement activity? It's hard to say. Laforet's mask of stoicism, her sheer calm, was enough to throw him before, but that's so natural for her that even the smallest ripple is enough to suggest a wild current beneath the surface.

His first instinct, however, is that she's lying.

It's a natural state for him, to assume a lie. She's not lied to him yet as far as he knows, yes, but given this violation-- would she have the energy to lie with her new-found power? To conceal a lie in her thoughts when it takes so much energy to speak at all? Obviously, it's a talent he'll need to work on now, but who knows how much practise she's had? For all he knows she's been trying this every day for a month.

If it's possible for thoughts to sound wary, his certainly do, bathed in a sea of mistrust and unease. Why should I believe you now?]

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now all you've got to offer me is a drink of gin

Sector 3 bar, afternoon

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