More Logs
OOC Posted Elsewhere Previously, but here for my reference. Back to your regularly scheduled program.
[Players : Jason, Al-Razi, and Sabitha ]
The subway is packed, crowded with those leaving work or running errands. Sabby shifts her groceries bags against the press and shift of too-many bodies and takes a step backward, toward Bahir. She looks firmly ahead, although her shoulders hunch against the itch of his gaze on the back of her neck. She sways into mild collision with the person in front of her as the train jerks to yet another halt and the doors swing open again, pouring people out and letting people in.
Jason is let in, and oh how casually is he let in, despite the press and despite the hour. Well. When one has their hands stuffed in their trench pockets and a cigarette half gnawn dangling from one's mouth, one could be stepping quite quickly and still appear casual.
Travis slips in among the last of the crowd before the door closes and assumes a leaning position against one of the posts, one hand hovering nearby in case of lurching. No bags, just black coat, the collar pulled up against the wind above.
Bahir sways, the proverbial reed, as the subway jutters and jars; he is quite careful not to immitate Sabitha in her mild collision. He may or may not laugh at her, sound buried under a clearing of his throat. "You lied about being a dancer, didn't you?"
Sabitha's head swings round as she plants her feet more solidly and narrows her eyes on Bahir. "The dance floor doesn't typically move," she points out tartly, and turns forward again. Idle eyes trail over newcomers in the crowd and... "Holy /fuck/." The obsenity escapes quietly under her breath as she marks out Jason and Travis both, close - to each other, to her, to Bahir.
Jason is unaware that he knows anyone on this subway, as yet. Due to mostly looking at the opposite window when not avoiding passengers more directly in his way. He does settle, however, close to Travis, on the other side of the post next to. He discards the cigarette, oddly, by putting it in his pocket. His emotions are all broadcast due to Tired, and the tired is perhaps foremost. But alongside, discomfort, simmering upset, triumph, and various related hodgepodges.
As the car begins to move, Travis begins observing its occupants. He winces slightly at the barrage of emotions settling beside him, a small sigh escaping before he turns slightly, only then recognizing the man. There's a single nod, and Travis reaches overhead for the bar to steady himself.
Skepticism tendered on a hum, and not lightly at that, Bahir rolls his eyes away to track her gaze. Offhand, he asides, "Distinct lack of grace, regardless. I'm disappointed." Dark eyes skip Travis to settle briefly Jason, recognition matched with half a smirk for Sabitha's curse. Tongue clicks behind his teeth, softly chiding.
"Were you hopeful for some reason?" Sabby snaps back, although her attention is locked on Jason and Travis. Half a minute passes before she sighs and wiggles her way over a passenger's splayed legs to draw nearer to the pair. She has both expression and tone under control by the time she quips dryly, "Of all the subway cars in all the world, you had to walk into this one."
"Hmm?" Jason asks, and in turning his head -- oh, well, interesting. White Knight, Sabby, Bahir. "Oh," he says, subdued like, "a party."
"Indeed," Travis murmurs, now catching sight of Sabby. In her direction, he offers a wide smile, perhaps a bit contrived, before tipping an imaginary hat her way. It's a pity the car's so crowded. Hard to filter anything out, though he does inhale deeply, covering it with a quick cough.
Bahir equivocates via gesture, her snapping words sliding off the turn of his palm. Sabitha may move but he remains in place; the car is narrow enough, however crowded -- and he is lazy. He lifts his hand, fingers curving a lazy wave for Jason. Travis, previously passed over, receives a second, longer look as he speaks. Bahir frowns.
Sabitha is fortunately not watching Bahir as he frowns. She is, instead, somewhat focused on Travis's wide smile, responded to with a twitching rise of her brows and a smile of her own, somewhat less broad and somewhat more dry. "Toss up a disco ball," she reponds to Jason, lightly, "And the place would go wild."
"Oh, /gosh/," Jason puts up both hands, tiredness discarded for raw excitement. You can see it in his eyes! "/Could/ we toss up a disco ball? Could we? What do you think, Bahir -- er, Mr. Reed?"
"You're asking /my/ permission?" Travis asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up with the thought. "Ironic." He shrugs, his gaze traveling past him. "I want no part of it. If you can accomplish that, do as you will."
On a lean, Bahir edges words past the blocky shoulder of another passenger to say, "I think that is a very bad idea." He fails to sound appropriately chiding -- he might even smirk a hint of encouragement. He eyes Travis again, longer this time at closer regard, before, straightening, he slants a thin smile at Sabitha.
Sabitha's eyes linger on Travis as he speaks and then shifts away, a bare turn of her body in the pressing crowd that takes her an inch further from Travis, an inch closer to Bahir. "I notice that you didn't ask my opinion," she comments blandly, and sweeps her gaze to Bahir just in time to catch that smile. She responds with a baffled blink and a returning wariness.
"I know your opinion, dear," Jason says, dropping his hands and looping one arm just beyond his chest to give her a bow. "Well." He stands full straight and waggles his fingers. "Is anyone going to stop me? I know two of you here could sedate me without much bother. What about it?"
Travis lets his gaze meet Bahir's, continuing to examine the man after his attention turns to Sabby. The name is filed away for further study before he turns his own attention back to Jason. He doesn't speak, simply offers a quick shrug before letting his gaze settle somewhere on the tunnel outside their car.
On Sabitha's blink, Bahir's lips quirk, slanting a smirk. Eyelashes drop low and dark over his eyes; he shakes his head once in response to Jason's question.
Sabitha's eyes shoot skyward in a search for control and patience as exasperation pushes at the corners of her minds. "You're not serious," she demands of Jason on a quiet whisper, despite a rising certainty that he surely is.
Jason drops his hands. "Man, I'm almost disappointed. Sabby's the only one who's got qualms about this?" Jason appeals with his eyes to the other two for intervention. "I could cause a lot of damage without breaking a sweat. How can you even trust that I'll stop . . . " And, at this, a portion of the ceiling slides away and drops, indeed, an disco ball, flashing feeble light around the car. Oh, how clever of the subway company! Hah hah! Late New Year's trick. ". . . at playing at props?"
"I don't," Travis replies simply, then leaning over and dropping his voice so hopefully only Jason can hear. "Though quite likely, I'll be the one to call you to task, should it, ah, get out of hand." Then, clearing his throat, he straightens, at least giving the appearance of eyeing the disco ball with the proper level of amusement.
"You go further, and you /did/ say that two people present can sedate you without much bother," Bahir echoes back at Jason. He eyes the disco ball, as do others -- And how not? Shiny! -- before adding dry, "How's that sense of self-preservation?"
"Sabby's the only one who knows you," Sabitha mentions under her breath and flicks an oh-so-amused glance at Bahir. "And what you can do. You're going to get all of us in a bad spot, Jason."
"I forgot it at home. I periodically do," Jason sighs. He looks all fascinated at his own handiwork. And, over the intercom: "Er. Sorry. That was a leftover." A most embarrassed official voice. The ball is drawn back up into the ceiling infrastructure and the panel slides back in. "It's the tragedy of my life. I'm /terribly/ sensible, but so easily tempted. I want to blow out some windows."
Travis allows a bemused smirk at that. "I'm not sure tempted is the proper word. Distracted, perhaps. Or entertained."
"Ah." Bahir nods, perfectly sympathetic with Jason's plight. He folds his arms over his chest and meets Sabitha's glance blandly.
Sabitha's eyes narrow in silence, first on Bahir, then on Travis and his smirk. Her expression settles into thoughtful consideration, underwritten with irritation.
"I just might!" Jason warns, but makes no move. Bahir, Travis, and Sabby are all examined in turn. His fingers twitch.
The train begins to slow, and Travis pushes off of the pole. "Well, my stop for now." Actually, he's just decided it's time to be off the train. With a quick mock salute, he adds a "Evening," before making his way to the exit, pressing a scrap of paper with a single name scrawled on it into Jason's hand as he passes. Chance meetings indeed.
Travis' part. Full log at: http://xmm-sabby.livejournal.com/115242.html#cutid1
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Watchpost
Security maintains patient observation in this high-tech nook. Banks of monitors and controls supervise the whole of the upper clubhouse as well as the hidden rooms in the basement. A door allows easy (if guarded) access to the Inner Circle's private meeting room; another door, even more heavily guarded, leads down to a holding cell. A one-way window peers into that room as well.
Shaw has chased away all but one pawn, and that an unhappy-looking one, from this secret raven's perch; and the raven himself is busy at the bank of controls, prodding and poking and occasionally muttering to himself or maybe the stubbornly staticky screen staring back at him. Finally, after the pawn (a lanky Chinese-American fellow) tries to help and gets growled back into his place by the door, his monarch just whacks the damn monitor. Which stays on the fritz. ". . . Dammit."
"That doesn't usualy help," Travis says, appearing in the doorway. "They make them fragile, expecting people to smack them, just so you have to buy a new one." He steps into the room, leaning back against the wall, eyes roaming the room, evaluating.
"And with my powers . . ." But Shaw trails off, absently flexing his hand, and spins in the swivel chair to consider the White Knight with tired, amused eyes. "Mr. Reed. Have you been down here before? Isn't it /shiny/?"
"Add some curtains and call it home," Travis shrugs. "Not to this particular room," he comments. "It seems adventageous to not frequent the place more than necessary. But I was in the neighborhood and thought I might pick up some ideas."
Shaw glances at the pawn trying to shrink himself into the wall, away from the Inner Circle members, and a spike of irritation pokes through his muted mood, sparking briefly in deep, dark eyes. "Queen's White Knight is hardly going to take out the Black King, Mr. Wang. Go ahead and wait outside; I'll be fine. Won't break anything." When he's gone, with a flush and head-duck -- a sigh. A long, lazy lean back in the chair. "Pawns. I hate them hovering, and they hate being told not to hover. Pain in the ass. --Ideas, is it? Any idea why the south lawn's camera might have stopped broadcasting?" He twitches fresh irritation at the balky monitor, and his mouth goes flat and tight.
"Want to pat me down for weapons?" Travis smirks slightly as the pawn retreats, then after the departure, Travis crosses the room, standing over the king's shoulder and looing at the offending screen. "Someone has investigated the camera as well as the monitor?"
Swivelled back around, Shaw grunts affirmation. "Several times. And every inch of the cable between there and here." He gives the screen an impotent glare -- more for show than anything else, however, by the faint sense of humor and resignation coming off him. "--I trust you, Mr. Reed. If you'd wanted me dead, I would be so, so why bother with the chit-chat? You don't strike me as the kind to draw out a kill." He considers. "Unless you were ordered, I suppose."
Travis shrugs, shifting to lean against the console to face the man. "Well, thank you for the vote of confidence." His gaze wanders over the other screens, pausing briefly on each. "No sign of malfunctions in any of the others?" he asks as he continues the inspection. "And no, when there's killing, it's fast and clean. Less complications that way."
"Agreed, and no, the others seem to be behaving." Shaw slouches, tips a long look up at him. "You good with electronics?"
"I know my share," Travis allows a slight nod as he leans in, peering over the top of the screen. "At least enough so I don't have to pay or leave trails on the more, ah, delicate surveillances." He slips one hand behind the monitor, feeling around for the cables. "I'd suspect weathering, but if the camera's in good condition... Where does the wiring run for this camera? Has there been any shifting of furniture? Perhaps the cable shielding has worn thin, and it's getting interference from other electromagnetic fields."
Shaw mutters, "Magneto. First our ballroom floor, now the cameras--"
"Perhaps," Travis mmms. "Although I was thinking of something on a smaller scale such as a telephone or radio. I suppose a small field could have been artificially created, although I'd expect to see some effects on the other views." His inspection returns to the other screens, pondering the clarity of each, occasionally a finger reaching out to brush the screen.
Shaw watches him work with placid contentment. "So, maybe we'll put /you/ on the case." Something near mockery, but leavened by respect strokes a slight drawl out of his next words: "If that's not beneath your dignity, White Knight."
"Give Mr. Wang a compass, and he can test the theory," Travis glances toward the closed door. "If it proves above his abilities, I'm sure Ms. Frost could be persuaded of my services. For the security of the mansion, of course." His eyes return from the door to settle on the other's face.
"Of course. Well, thanks for the input. We'll get it sorted out one way or another, and I'm confident that we won't be invaded by a ground force before then." Grinning a little, Shaw stretches up his arms and then laces his fingers behind his head. "So. How've you been?"
"Busy. Which is better than not," Travis nods. "More on the information, less on the eliminations. Prefer it that way, really. Not that I mind erasing my trail, but when it's not necessary..." he trails off. "Personally, I love the holidays. People are so caught up in their revelries, they forget what is going on around them."
Shaw snorts. "Some of us do have to pay our dues at parties, yes. I trust you weren't running operations against me or mine." His eyes are soaked with black innocence. "Emma wouldn't do that to me."
"Ms. Frost knows her position," is all the commentary Travis provides. "But I have to admit, I'm quite glad that my own doesn't typically require such of me. At least as myself. Even the quality of the wine, well, not all liquour in the world can make certain companies attractive."
"I promise not to bat my lashes at you in hopes of making it better," laughs Shaw. "But I know what you mean. Fortunately, you do have your position, and I have mine, and there we are, stuck with it. You're not the ambitious type, are you?"
"Highly so. And motivated beyond mortal ability," Travis pauses, letting the thought rest unadorned a moment. "When I find something I want, of course. But have no fear, Mr. Shaw. The world hasn't enough money, gold bullion or Swiss electronics, to tempt me."
Shaw asks pragmatically, then, "What /do/ you want?"
Travis contemplates a long moment. "How long do you have?" His half smirk turns to distain. "Certainly not anything such as the American Dream. Money, yes. Comfortable, yet simple, living. Enough influence to make things happen, and work that interests me. But the ability to slip back into the oblivion of anonymity without a word or regret."
"And so: Knight in the Inner Circle."
"So it would seem," Travis agrees. "It appears to be the dream job, however twisted a picture that paints of myself."
"'Twisted'?" Shaw repeats on rising baritone incredulity. "How is it twisted? Shit. Have I been in the wrong job all these years? Should I give away my millions and millions and go off to Calcutta to work with the lepers?"
"Hardly," Travis sniffs. "Although I'm sure they'd be singing the praises of Saint Sebastian for decades, if you did. But as far as aspirations go, blackmail and murder make for poor resume topics."
Shaw notes with distinct melancholia, "There already /is/ a Saint Sebastian in the canon. I'm reasonably sure that when my mother named me, she wasn't aware that he's the patron saint of homosexuality. Unfortunately, my classmates growing up did. Ah, well. And what /is/ on your resume, Mr. Reed? What day job keeps you amused when you're not skulking through Frosty shadows?"
"Reed Consultations," Travis replies, slipping a business card from his pocket. With a flick of the wrist, it lands wedged between the letters of the keyboard in front of Shaw. "I know enough people for appearances, and if I don't advertise in the proper circles that could increase my customer base, well, floundering businesses don't draw much attention from the IRS, do they?"
A glance follows the card, not without appreciation for the adept move, but Shaw makes no move to reach for it. "No," he says on a slight smile, "I guess they don't. Emma did do well in picking you, didn't she? Good. Her Court will be back up to snuff in no time. Queen, Bishop, Knight, Rook . . ."
"Ah, yes." A small smile appears at the corner of Travis' mouth. "She has had some rather competitive difficulties of late."
"Pity about the King," murmurs the Black one, and grins again.
"God save the Queen," Travis mocks. "Although I have been known to force His hand on occasion."
Shaw looses a laugh and drops his interwoven fingers from cradling ponytailed head to press over turtlenecked midriff. "Haven't we all! God works too slowly for my taste. Must be why I don't believe in Him. Better to believe in yourself, hm?"
"Well, no one else can get the job done quite as well as doing it yourself, hmm?" Travis nods, letting his foot twist the free chair around before settling into it.
"Damn straight." Comfortable, assured Mr. Shaw. "It's got us where we are today -- don't mess with success." He swivels slightly 'round to keep facing Travis and continues, "Which I don't intend to do, in my business or in my Circle. You do know we aren't enemies? That memo went out?"
"Oh yes," Travis leans back in the chair, his gaze not leaving the man. "That part was very clear. Yet, it neglected to explain where that leaves us in its stead. So, Mr. Shaw, what /are/ we?"
Shaw answers immediately, "Colleagues, working toward a common goal." His smile hooks a sickle's shine against his tanned skin. "Does that work for you?"
"It gives me something to work with," Travis nods once, one hand tracing the keyboard on the console next to him. "I expect the common goal will involve sharing of direction and gameplans."
"Through appropriate channels," Shaw agrees. "I'm sure your Queen will keep you completely up to date."
"I'm sure she will," Travis nods. His attention turns back to the monitor. "Has anyone reviewed the surveillance tapes for the weeks prior to this malfunction? It might be wise to plant a hidden additional surveillance focused on the same position. Should it be intentional, even if not prevented, knowledge of why could prove useful."
Shaw grunts. "Done already. It probably /is/ just the cable, or interference, as you said. You know what they say about medical students and zebras. I doubt this is a zebra."
"Zebras?"
"When you hear hoofbeats," is Shaw's laconic explanation, "don't think zebras. Something med students get pounded into them. Most of the time, there's no need to leap to an exotic conclusion from the available data." He tips his head towards the staticky screen. "Like that. Even the Hellfire Club is allowed to have mechanical malfunctions."
"Ah, on this we must differ," Travis shrugs. "Better safe than dead, to corrupt an ancient motto."
Shaw smiles. "Well, I have minions for that. I'm not concerned."
"I must remember to get a few of those myself, next time I'm browsing the internet," Travis nods. "I like to think, though, I have just the healthy respect of danger and death."
Shaw drops the smile. "We all die. Are you afraid of it?"
"No, but I'd still like to delay it as much as possible."
Shaw snorts softly. "And deal it out for others with your own hand. Fair trade?"
"When I must," Travis nods. "I've long since stopped expecting life to be fair. There's only those who make things happen and those who watch. No merit to it."
Shaw sits up, drawing his legs out of their sprawl and lightly bracing his hands on the chair arms. "Good choice, indeed. Emma's always had an eye for talent. Pity she got to you before I did."
Travis shifts back into a more alert position. "Colleagues, with competition. Best method for free enterprise. Whatever the enterprise may be."
"Social Darwinism," Shaw says with a certain flair of sarcasm. "As my own Queen might say. Well, it /has/ been pleasant, Mr. Reed, but I've other business to attend to before bed." On his way up to his feet, his gaze moves from the controls to the other man's face, with a ripple of tired affability. "Try not to burn the place down in my absence?"
Travis makes no move to stand himself, though he swivels the chair to face the door and the man. "I assure, you, Mr. Shaw, it's worth much more to me uncharred. And indeed, the pleasure is all mine."
Shaw flips him a wave of casual hand and ducks out through the door, which closes on the sight of Peter Wang scrambling frantically to keep up with his boss's impatient pace to the elevator.
Travis whirls the chair back around to the monitors, spending the next while examining each screen and the various positioning and angling of the surveillance.
[Players : Jason, Al-Razi, and Sabitha ]
The subway is packed, crowded with those leaving work or running errands. Sabby shifts her groceries bags against the press and shift of too-many bodies and takes a step backward, toward Bahir. She looks firmly ahead, although her shoulders hunch against the itch of his gaze on the back of her neck. She sways into mild collision with the person in front of her as the train jerks to yet another halt and the doors swing open again, pouring people out and letting people in.
Jason is let in, and oh how casually is he let in, despite the press and despite the hour. Well. When one has their hands stuffed in their trench pockets and a cigarette half gnawn dangling from one's mouth, one could be stepping quite quickly and still appear casual.
Travis slips in among the last of the crowd before the door closes and assumes a leaning position against one of the posts, one hand hovering nearby in case of lurching. No bags, just black coat, the collar pulled up against the wind above.
Bahir sways, the proverbial reed, as the subway jutters and jars; he is quite careful not to immitate Sabitha in her mild collision. He may or may not laugh at her, sound buried under a clearing of his throat. "You lied about being a dancer, didn't you?"
Sabitha's head swings round as she plants her feet more solidly and narrows her eyes on Bahir. "The dance floor doesn't typically move," she points out tartly, and turns forward again. Idle eyes trail over newcomers in the crowd and... "Holy /fuck/." The obsenity escapes quietly under her breath as she marks out Jason and Travis both, close - to each other, to her, to Bahir.
Jason is unaware that he knows anyone on this subway, as yet. Due to mostly looking at the opposite window when not avoiding passengers more directly in his way. He does settle, however, close to Travis, on the other side of the post next to. He discards the cigarette, oddly, by putting it in his pocket. His emotions are all broadcast due to Tired, and the tired is perhaps foremost. But alongside, discomfort, simmering upset, triumph, and various related hodgepodges.
As the car begins to move, Travis begins observing its occupants. He winces slightly at the barrage of emotions settling beside him, a small sigh escaping before he turns slightly, only then recognizing the man. There's a single nod, and Travis reaches overhead for the bar to steady himself.
Skepticism tendered on a hum, and not lightly at that, Bahir rolls his eyes away to track her gaze. Offhand, he asides, "Distinct lack of grace, regardless. I'm disappointed." Dark eyes skip Travis to settle briefly Jason, recognition matched with half a smirk for Sabitha's curse. Tongue clicks behind his teeth, softly chiding.
"Were you hopeful for some reason?" Sabby snaps back, although her attention is locked on Jason and Travis. Half a minute passes before she sighs and wiggles her way over a passenger's splayed legs to draw nearer to the pair. She has both expression and tone under control by the time she quips dryly, "Of all the subway cars in all the world, you had to walk into this one."
"Hmm?" Jason asks, and in turning his head -- oh, well, interesting. White Knight, Sabby, Bahir. "Oh," he says, subdued like, "a party."
"Indeed," Travis murmurs, now catching sight of Sabby. In her direction, he offers a wide smile, perhaps a bit contrived, before tipping an imaginary hat her way. It's a pity the car's so crowded. Hard to filter anything out, though he does inhale deeply, covering it with a quick cough.
Bahir equivocates via gesture, her snapping words sliding off the turn of his palm. Sabitha may move but he remains in place; the car is narrow enough, however crowded -- and he is lazy. He lifts his hand, fingers curving a lazy wave for Jason. Travis, previously passed over, receives a second, longer look as he speaks. Bahir frowns.
Sabitha is fortunately not watching Bahir as he frowns. She is, instead, somewhat focused on Travis's wide smile, responded to with a twitching rise of her brows and a smile of her own, somewhat less broad and somewhat more dry. "Toss up a disco ball," she reponds to Jason, lightly, "And the place would go wild."
"Oh, /gosh/," Jason puts up both hands, tiredness discarded for raw excitement. You can see it in his eyes! "/Could/ we toss up a disco ball? Could we? What do you think, Bahir -- er, Mr. Reed?"
"You're asking /my/ permission?" Travis asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up with the thought. "Ironic." He shrugs, his gaze traveling past him. "I want no part of it. If you can accomplish that, do as you will."
On a lean, Bahir edges words past the blocky shoulder of another passenger to say, "I think that is a very bad idea." He fails to sound appropriately chiding -- he might even smirk a hint of encouragement. He eyes Travis again, longer this time at closer regard, before, straightening, he slants a thin smile at Sabitha.
Sabitha's eyes linger on Travis as he speaks and then shifts away, a bare turn of her body in the pressing crowd that takes her an inch further from Travis, an inch closer to Bahir. "I notice that you didn't ask my opinion," she comments blandly, and sweeps her gaze to Bahir just in time to catch that smile. She responds with a baffled blink and a returning wariness.
"I know your opinion, dear," Jason says, dropping his hands and looping one arm just beyond his chest to give her a bow. "Well." He stands full straight and waggles his fingers. "Is anyone going to stop me? I know two of you here could sedate me without much bother. What about it?"
Travis lets his gaze meet Bahir's, continuing to examine the man after his attention turns to Sabby. The name is filed away for further study before he turns his own attention back to Jason. He doesn't speak, simply offers a quick shrug before letting his gaze settle somewhere on the tunnel outside their car.
On Sabitha's blink, Bahir's lips quirk, slanting a smirk. Eyelashes drop low and dark over his eyes; he shakes his head once in response to Jason's question.
Sabitha's eyes shoot skyward in a search for control and patience as exasperation pushes at the corners of her minds. "You're not serious," she demands of Jason on a quiet whisper, despite a rising certainty that he surely is.
Jason drops his hands. "Man, I'm almost disappointed. Sabby's the only one who's got qualms about this?" Jason appeals with his eyes to the other two for intervention. "I could cause a lot of damage without breaking a sweat. How can you even trust that I'll stop . . . " And, at this, a portion of the ceiling slides away and drops, indeed, an disco ball, flashing feeble light around the car. Oh, how clever of the subway company! Hah hah! Late New Year's trick. ". . . at playing at props?"
"I don't," Travis replies simply, then leaning over and dropping his voice so hopefully only Jason can hear. "Though quite likely, I'll be the one to call you to task, should it, ah, get out of hand." Then, clearing his throat, he straightens, at least giving the appearance of eyeing the disco ball with the proper level of amusement.
"You go further, and you /did/ say that two people present can sedate you without much bother," Bahir echoes back at Jason. He eyes the disco ball, as do others -- And how not? Shiny! -- before adding dry, "How's that sense of self-preservation?"
"Sabby's the only one who knows you," Sabitha mentions under her breath and flicks an oh-so-amused glance at Bahir. "And what you can do. You're going to get all of us in a bad spot, Jason."
"I forgot it at home. I periodically do," Jason sighs. He looks all fascinated at his own handiwork. And, over the intercom: "Er. Sorry. That was a leftover." A most embarrassed official voice. The ball is drawn back up into the ceiling infrastructure and the panel slides back in. "It's the tragedy of my life. I'm /terribly/ sensible, but so easily tempted. I want to blow out some windows."
Travis allows a bemused smirk at that. "I'm not sure tempted is the proper word. Distracted, perhaps. Or entertained."
"Ah." Bahir nods, perfectly sympathetic with Jason's plight. He folds his arms over his chest and meets Sabitha's glance blandly.
Sabitha's eyes narrow in silence, first on Bahir, then on Travis and his smirk. Her expression settles into thoughtful consideration, underwritten with irritation.
"I just might!" Jason warns, but makes no move. Bahir, Travis, and Sabby are all examined in turn. His fingers twitch.
The train begins to slow, and Travis pushes off of the pole. "Well, my stop for now." Actually, he's just decided it's time to be off the train. With a quick mock salute, he adds a "Evening," before making his way to the exit, pressing a scrap of paper with a single name scrawled on it into Jason's hand as he passes. Chance meetings indeed.
Travis' part. Full log at: http://xmm-sabby.livejournal.com/115242.html#cutid1
Hellfire Clubhouse - Hidden Watchpost
Security maintains patient observation in this high-tech nook. Banks of monitors and controls supervise the whole of the upper clubhouse as well as the hidden rooms in the basement. A door allows easy (if guarded) access to the Inner Circle's private meeting room; another door, even more heavily guarded, leads down to a holding cell. A one-way window peers into that room as well.
Shaw has chased away all but one pawn, and that an unhappy-looking one, from this secret raven's perch; and the raven himself is busy at the bank of controls, prodding and poking and occasionally muttering to himself or maybe the stubbornly staticky screen staring back at him. Finally, after the pawn (a lanky Chinese-American fellow) tries to help and gets growled back into his place by the door, his monarch just whacks the damn monitor. Which stays on the fritz. ". . . Dammit."
"That doesn't usualy help," Travis says, appearing in the doorway. "They make them fragile, expecting people to smack them, just so you have to buy a new one." He steps into the room, leaning back against the wall, eyes roaming the room, evaluating.
"And with my powers . . ." But Shaw trails off, absently flexing his hand, and spins in the swivel chair to consider the White Knight with tired, amused eyes. "Mr. Reed. Have you been down here before? Isn't it /shiny/?"
"Add some curtains and call it home," Travis shrugs. "Not to this particular room," he comments. "It seems adventageous to not frequent the place more than necessary. But I was in the neighborhood and thought I might pick up some ideas."
Shaw glances at the pawn trying to shrink himself into the wall, away from the Inner Circle members, and a spike of irritation pokes through his muted mood, sparking briefly in deep, dark eyes. "Queen's White Knight is hardly going to take out the Black King, Mr. Wang. Go ahead and wait outside; I'll be fine. Won't break anything." When he's gone, with a flush and head-duck -- a sigh. A long, lazy lean back in the chair. "Pawns. I hate them hovering, and they hate being told not to hover. Pain in the ass. --Ideas, is it? Any idea why the south lawn's camera might have stopped broadcasting?" He twitches fresh irritation at the balky monitor, and his mouth goes flat and tight.
"Want to pat me down for weapons?" Travis smirks slightly as the pawn retreats, then after the departure, Travis crosses the room, standing over the king's shoulder and looing at the offending screen. "Someone has investigated the camera as well as the monitor?"
Swivelled back around, Shaw grunts affirmation. "Several times. And every inch of the cable between there and here." He gives the screen an impotent glare -- more for show than anything else, however, by the faint sense of humor and resignation coming off him. "--I trust you, Mr. Reed. If you'd wanted me dead, I would be so, so why bother with the chit-chat? You don't strike me as the kind to draw out a kill." He considers. "Unless you were ordered, I suppose."
Travis shrugs, shifting to lean against the console to face the man. "Well, thank you for the vote of confidence." His gaze wanders over the other screens, pausing briefly on each. "No sign of malfunctions in any of the others?" he asks as he continues the inspection. "And no, when there's killing, it's fast and clean. Less complications that way."
"Agreed, and no, the others seem to be behaving." Shaw slouches, tips a long look up at him. "You good with electronics?"
"I know my share," Travis allows a slight nod as he leans in, peering over the top of the screen. "At least enough so I don't have to pay or leave trails on the more, ah, delicate surveillances." He slips one hand behind the monitor, feeling around for the cables. "I'd suspect weathering, but if the camera's in good condition... Where does the wiring run for this camera? Has there been any shifting of furniture? Perhaps the cable shielding has worn thin, and it's getting interference from other electromagnetic fields."
Shaw mutters, "Magneto. First our ballroom floor, now the cameras--"
"Perhaps," Travis mmms. "Although I was thinking of something on a smaller scale such as a telephone or radio. I suppose a small field could have been artificially created, although I'd expect to see some effects on the other views." His inspection returns to the other screens, pondering the clarity of each, occasionally a finger reaching out to brush the screen.
Shaw watches him work with placid contentment. "So, maybe we'll put /you/ on the case." Something near mockery, but leavened by respect strokes a slight drawl out of his next words: "If that's not beneath your dignity, White Knight."
"Give Mr. Wang a compass, and he can test the theory," Travis glances toward the closed door. "If it proves above his abilities, I'm sure Ms. Frost could be persuaded of my services. For the security of the mansion, of course." His eyes return from the door to settle on the other's face.
"Of course. Well, thanks for the input. We'll get it sorted out one way or another, and I'm confident that we won't be invaded by a ground force before then." Grinning a little, Shaw stretches up his arms and then laces his fingers behind his head. "So. How've you been?"
"Busy. Which is better than not," Travis nods. "More on the information, less on the eliminations. Prefer it that way, really. Not that I mind erasing my trail, but when it's not necessary..." he trails off. "Personally, I love the holidays. People are so caught up in their revelries, they forget what is going on around them."
Shaw snorts. "Some of us do have to pay our dues at parties, yes. I trust you weren't running operations against me or mine." His eyes are soaked with black innocence. "Emma wouldn't do that to me."
"Ms. Frost knows her position," is all the commentary Travis provides. "But I have to admit, I'm quite glad that my own doesn't typically require such of me. At least as myself. Even the quality of the wine, well, not all liquour in the world can make certain companies attractive."
"I promise not to bat my lashes at you in hopes of making it better," laughs Shaw. "But I know what you mean. Fortunately, you do have your position, and I have mine, and there we are, stuck with it. You're not the ambitious type, are you?"
"Highly so. And motivated beyond mortal ability," Travis pauses, letting the thought rest unadorned a moment. "When I find something I want, of course. But have no fear, Mr. Shaw. The world hasn't enough money, gold bullion or Swiss electronics, to tempt me."
Shaw asks pragmatically, then, "What /do/ you want?"
Travis contemplates a long moment. "How long do you have?" His half smirk turns to distain. "Certainly not anything such as the American Dream. Money, yes. Comfortable, yet simple, living. Enough influence to make things happen, and work that interests me. But the ability to slip back into the oblivion of anonymity without a word or regret."
"And so: Knight in the Inner Circle."
"So it would seem," Travis agrees. "It appears to be the dream job, however twisted a picture that paints of myself."
"'Twisted'?" Shaw repeats on rising baritone incredulity. "How is it twisted? Shit. Have I been in the wrong job all these years? Should I give away my millions and millions and go off to Calcutta to work with the lepers?"
"Hardly," Travis sniffs. "Although I'm sure they'd be singing the praises of Saint Sebastian for decades, if you did. But as far as aspirations go, blackmail and murder make for poor resume topics."
Shaw notes with distinct melancholia, "There already /is/ a Saint Sebastian in the canon. I'm reasonably sure that when my mother named me, she wasn't aware that he's the patron saint of homosexuality. Unfortunately, my classmates growing up did. Ah, well. And what /is/ on your resume, Mr. Reed? What day job keeps you amused when you're not skulking through Frosty shadows?"
"Reed Consultations," Travis replies, slipping a business card from his pocket. With a flick of the wrist, it lands wedged between the letters of the keyboard in front of Shaw. "I know enough people for appearances, and if I don't advertise in the proper circles that could increase my customer base, well, floundering businesses don't draw much attention from the IRS, do they?"
A glance follows the card, not without appreciation for the adept move, but Shaw makes no move to reach for it. "No," he says on a slight smile, "I guess they don't. Emma did do well in picking you, didn't she? Good. Her Court will be back up to snuff in no time. Queen, Bishop, Knight, Rook . . ."
"Ah, yes." A small smile appears at the corner of Travis' mouth. "She has had some rather competitive difficulties of late."
"Pity about the King," murmurs the Black one, and grins again.
"God save the Queen," Travis mocks. "Although I have been known to force His hand on occasion."
Shaw looses a laugh and drops his interwoven fingers from cradling ponytailed head to press over turtlenecked midriff. "Haven't we all! God works too slowly for my taste. Must be why I don't believe in Him. Better to believe in yourself, hm?"
"Well, no one else can get the job done quite as well as doing it yourself, hmm?" Travis nods, letting his foot twist the free chair around before settling into it.
"Damn straight." Comfortable, assured Mr. Shaw. "It's got us where we are today -- don't mess with success." He swivels slightly 'round to keep facing Travis and continues, "Which I don't intend to do, in my business or in my Circle. You do know we aren't enemies? That memo went out?"
"Oh yes," Travis leans back in the chair, his gaze not leaving the man. "That part was very clear. Yet, it neglected to explain where that leaves us in its stead. So, Mr. Shaw, what /are/ we?"
Shaw answers immediately, "Colleagues, working toward a common goal." His smile hooks a sickle's shine against his tanned skin. "Does that work for you?"
"It gives me something to work with," Travis nods once, one hand tracing the keyboard on the console next to him. "I expect the common goal will involve sharing of direction and gameplans."
"Through appropriate channels," Shaw agrees. "I'm sure your Queen will keep you completely up to date."
"I'm sure she will," Travis nods. His attention turns back to the monitor. "Has anyone reviewed the surveillance tapes for the weeks prior to this malfunction? It might be wise to plant a hidden additional surveillance focused on the same position. Should it be intentional, even if not prevented, knowledge of why could prove useful."
Shaw grunts. "Done already. It probably /is/ just the cable, or interference, as you said. You know what they say about medical students and zebras. I doubt this is a zebra."
"Zebras?"
"When you hear hoofbeats," is Shaw's laconic explanation, "don't think zebras. Something med students get pounded into them. Most of the time, there's no need to leap to an exotic conclusion from the available data." He tips his head towards the staticky screen. "Like that. Even the Hellfire Club is allowed to have mechanical malfunctions."
"Ah, on this we must differ," Travis shrugs. "Better safe than dead, to corrupt an ancient motto."
Shaw smiles. "Well, I have minions for that. I'm not concerned."
"I must remember to get a few of those myself, next time I'm browsing the internet," Travis nods. "I like to think, though, I have just the healthy respect of danger and death."
Shaw drops the smile. "We all die. Are you afraid of it?"
"No, but I'd still like to delay it as much as possible."
Shaw snorts softly. "And deal it out for others with your own hand. Fair trade?"
"When I must," Travis nods. "I've long since stopped expecting life to be fair. There's only those who make things happen and those who watch. No merit to it."
Shaw sits up, drawing his legs out of their sprawl and lightly bracing his hands on the chair arms. "Good choice, indeed. Emma's always had an eye for talent. Pity she got to you before I did."
Travis shifts back into a more alert position. "Colleagues, with competition. Best method for free enterprise. Whatever the enterprise may be."
"Social Darwinism," Shaw says with a certain flair of sarcasm. "As my own Queen might say. Well, it /has/ been pleasant, Mr. Reed, but I've other business to attend to before bed." On his way up to his feet, his gaze moves from the controls to the other man's face, with a ripple of tired affability. "Try not to burn the place down in my absence?"
Travis makes no move to stand himself, though he swivels the chair to face the door and the man. "I assure, you, Mr. Shaw, it's worth much more to me uncharred. And indeed, the pleasure is all mine."
Shaw flips him a wave of casual hand and ducks out through the door, which closes on the sight of Peter Wang scrambling frantically to keep up with his boss's impatient pace to the elevator.
Travis whirls the chair back around to the monitors, spending the next while examining each screen and the various positioning and angling of the surveillance.