muse: new log
Jun. 4th, 2003 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coronaviridaeLove to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
canemex for this one.
Title: Preachers and Fools/Spoiling for a Fight
Date: 02-04 June 2003
Players: Abernathy (logging), Blues, Feste, Serena Gilbert
Summary: What starts as Feste paying a simple visit to the UN Plaza to ply his trade quickly turns vicious, as Abernathy manages to provoke the Fool to violence.
Seoul - United Nations Plaza
It is here that most of the world's decisions are made. The kind of power here reflects in the architecture, with the HUGE UN building that holds the General Assembly. Blue and dome shaped in design, it is the only one in the world of its kind, and workplace to the thousands that work here. The perimeter of the General Assembly building is surrounded the flags of every country that has a seat, which is nearly everyone. Outside are a number of other large office buildings, ranging from delegate bureau's, to the Headquarters of the UN Police, to a Repliforce office. Constantly patrolled and guarded by UN Police, safety is among an utmost concern after the infamous April Fools Day Massacre. Despite that, the place is a very safe environment.
Contents: Contents:
Press Stand United Nations Vehicle Garages <UNVG>
[UN]: United Nations Building
East [E]: Seoul - Northern Commercial District
West [W]: Seoul - Tourist District
South [S]: Seoul - Historical District
North [N]: Seoul - Eastern Residential District
The Preacher has decided to haunt Interpol's door once again, or so it would appear.
The tall Preacher, clothed in the same navy-blue as in his first visit here on Good Friday, walks slowly and smoothly through the Plaza, setting down one foot consistently in front of the other. Such is his confidence.
A book in his hands, he begins to read in his echoing basso voice, starting quietly and gaining volume as he continues.
"Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear. But you in your iniquities have separated you from your God; your sins have hidden his face from you, so that he will not hear. For /your/ hands are stained with blood, your fingers with guilt. Your lips have spoken lies, and your tongue mutters wicked things."
"No one calls for justice," growls the Preacher, red eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his hat, "No one pleads his case with integrity..."
He looks only straight ahead, at the UN building. It would almost seem that this man -- whoever he is -- has some sort of grudge against the United Nations and Interpol...
One would think -- would think, mind -- that Interpol would be used to the usual swarm of protestors of any stripe that flood the Plaza from time to time. And they were, to some degree, though as a young organization -- with young officers -- there tended to be some degree of mystification about why people so vehemently protested THEM.
But the Preacher's sort of protester was, admittedly ... a little difficult to deal with. Especially since many of the Plaza guards couldn't decide if he was actively protesting, making snide commentary, or was actually a man of the cloth out and about preaching. It is for that reason that ... most people are merely giving the Preacher a wide berth, though he is turning heads.
And, if the flash of transilluminated pupils, briefly red in the shadows of the columned awning near the stairs, is any indictation ... one of those heads is that of the Director himself.
And in truth, the Preacher has no idea which of those three he is really doing. It's more for his audience to decide. Or at least, that's how it works in theory. He continues, still growing louder and louder.
"Their deeds are evil deeds, and acts of violence are in their hands! Their feet rush into sin; they are swift to shed innocent blood. Their thoughts are *evil* thoughts; ruin and destruction mark their ways!"
He stops his walk, having come into the center of the Plaza, but is by no means finished preaching.
"The way of peace they do not know; their is no *justice* in their paths! They have turned them into crooked roads; no one who walks in them will know peace."
The Director continues to watch from his spot on the stairs, though he shifts to tuck his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrow behind his sunglasses, as the Preacher's speaking gets more impassioned -- but he does not seem particularly moved by it. No, he's just ... listening. So far. But at some point, he's going to need to go address the disturbance -- not because it's his duty, but because ... because.
Hm, is that a familiar face? The Preacher continues forward after his momentary pause, advancing toward those very steps in that same slow pace.
"So justice," he continues, indeed impassioned as his voice takes a turn for the sorrowful, "is *far* from us! and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows.
"Like the blind we grope along the wall, feeling our way like men without eyes.
"At midday we stumble as if it were twilight; among the strong, we are like the dead.
"We all growl like bears; we moan mournfully like doves.
"We look for justice, but find none; for deliverance, but it is far away."
That sounds familiar. The slightest twitch of a sad smirk appears on the Director's face -- before disappearing, subsumed into ice once more. He pushes off the column he's leaning against too-casually, hands still in his pockets, as he crosses the steps fluidly to confront the Preacher. And as he does, he's humming ... very softly, a minor-key undercurrent to the Preacher's words.
As he reaches the point on the stairs above the Preacher, the Director pauses -- turns, locking eyes with the other man, pink gaze to red. That humming goes from just an intimation of sound to actual full-voiced singing, very soft, but audible.
o/` We roar, all like bears,
And mourn, sore, like doves,
We look for justice -- there is none,
We are in desolate places ... o/`
No more than a short phrase of a song, nothing near the whole thing ... but a minor-key reiteration of what's already been said. Emphasis. Commentary? Maybe.
The red-eyed Preacher continues despite the man in his path, stopping only a foot or three away from him. Looking slightly downward, he locks eyes -- red to pink -- and speaks again, a ghost of a smile hidden in the shadows that cover his face.
"For our offenses are many in your sight, and our sins testify against us.
"Our offenses are ever with us, and we acknowledge our iniquities: rebellion and treachery against the Lord, turning our backs on our God, fomenting oppressioin and revolt, uttering lies our hearts have conceived.
"So justice is driven back," he says, voice growing quieter and quieter -- it'd be impolite to yell in Abernathy's face. "And righteousness stands at a distance; truth has stumbled in the streets, honesty cannot enter.
"Truth is nowhere to be found, and whoever shuns evil becomes a prey."
The Director falls silent, point and commentary both made. This has gone from discussion to preaching again; but from that renewed twitch of a smile on the Director's face, perhaps he doesn't particularly mind that. He cants his head back as the Preacher approaches, the better to keep his eyes on the taller man's, but does not move otherwise. The symbolic barring of the way ...
The Preacher's eyes flare red; the smile becomes something more than ethereal. He remains still, and continues, softer than before, voice beginning to -- change? With the loss of volume, it is no longer quite so deep.
"The Lord looked and was displeased that there was no justice.
"He saw that there was no one, he was appalled that there was no one to intervene; so his own arm worked salvation for him, and his own righteousness sustained him."
Almost airy in tone, he skips a few lines and continues. "According to what they have done, so will he repay wrath to his enemies and retribution to his foes; he will repay the islands their due."
The Director's own smile remains little more than a slight upward quirk of the lips -- though as he notes the Preacher skipping verses, the amusement in his eyes grows. Just a little. But, as before, he does not speak up -- it is not polite to interupt a sermon, so much he knows from long experience. Plus, you miss the most INTERESTING messages ...
"The Redeemer will come to Zion," says Feste-Preacher, smiling at Abernathy.
"It would appear, my lord, that the faithful among the United Nations are horning in on your job. Don't you think?" A hint of a smirk as he speaks, intending for these words to be heard only by the Director. "A fool after my own heart."
Ahh. Now the Director's smile turns cold -- and toothy. "So it does appear, dear Fool. Though I must say, if fools they might be, they are not nearly as charming as you are." A slight nod of the head. "Even when you stand in opposition."
"Opposition? Me?" Feste-Preacher puts a hand to his chest, cocking his head back -- the very image of innocence. "Who have *you* been talking to? I merely read the Word -- the direction in which I read it does not matter." And charming he is!
"Then you deceive yourself most of all, dear Fool." The Director's smile has disappeared entirely now, replaced by a cold, serpentine amusement in his eyes. "And I keep my own counsel on this matter, I assure you. I do not need to have deception pointed out to me."
That's what he gets for talking in riddles!
Feste-Preacher further cocks his head, looking decidedly avian, especially with that hat on. "Oh, well, lackaday. I had no idea, good Director, none at all!" His tone carries a bit of sarcasm, a bit of teasing, a bit of playfulness, and that overlying faked 'innocence'.
"I thank you heartedly, my good man, for pointing out my error. I shall have to rectify it at once!"
"Good. And don't waste so much of your time patronizing me while you do it, hm?" Though the serpentine humor remains in the Director's eyes -- yes, he can take a joke -- the words are quite cold, said with exacting care. Perhaps the Fool has actually touched a nerve -- or perhaps this frostiness has elsewhere in its origins.
"Oh, I /am/ sorry," says the Fool who would be a priest, leaning downward slightly. "Have I gone and offended you again? *Terribly* sorry." Yes... always foolish, whether by design or nature.
The Director shrugs, a gesture somewhat restrained by the fact he's kept his hands in his pockets this whole time. "Never apologize for yourself, unless you truly do intend to change," he remarks, tone all casual once more. "Moreover, what would it matter if you had? You'd merely continue to do it, would you not, dear Fool?"
Feste smiles at the Director from beneath the shadows of his hat, eyes dancing with apparent amusement. But then... he's always amused.
"Now you're playing the game, my friend," he says, almost coyly. "I do hope you haven't gone and gotten the wrong message from my little sermon -- but then, perhaps I, even in my foolery, am an instrument of the Most High. Corresponded nicely with the Senator of Spain, did it not? Eery little coincidence there, don't you think?" There's your answer: yes. Without a doubt.
"I do not believe in coincidences," the Director murmurs. "Though I may grant that God does use the weakest and most humble things to carry off His points, when they must be made." He straightens somewhat, giving a nod of his head to some thought, before continuing. "Though most prophets don't act with such -- deliberation."
The Fool-Preacher chuckles -- was that an insult, in the most roundabout sort of way? He smiles again, finding a new respect for this man before him -- in his own little way, anyway.
"Well, there's a first time for everything, no?"
Maybe. The Director spends so much of his time poking and prying at those around him, looking for weak spots -- should it be any surprise that an armor like the Fool's should prove an irresistible temptation? "I would grant you that, were God not so insistent on His being immutable. No, I am led to think that any perception you might have of a message to be bestowed, dear Fool, has its origins much closer to earth than Heaven."
Oooh. Point to the Director! And yes: to beat the Fool at his own game is indeed tempting. Catch him with his pants down, win a Cupie doll! Er.
Feste grins wolfishly, which is decidedly /creepy/ considering his current dress. "And that is why you are a wiser man than I, sirrah."
That momentary segue into the realm of pants and pantslessness re> Feste has totally distracted Abernathy's typist. Please wait while we retrieve her.
Ah. There we are.
"Oh, you think so?" the Director murmurs, eyes gone half-closed. "Certainly not because I stand on my doorstep and debate matters of propaganda with fools all day."
Feste-Preacher smiles, closing his own eyes for a moment before stepping back and turning his back to Abernathy.
"O, he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hai!" quotes Feste, as if they were his very own words. Still as amused as ever, too.
"I should hope not," Abernathy murmurs, finally moving from his position to walk up alongside Feste. "As I remember, poor Mercutio was just another casualty of that bloody little mess. And I should not see you the victim of a war between two thoroughly barbaric houses, dear Fool. Besides," and here he steps abreast of Feste, glancing sidelong at the Fool. "'Prince of Cats' is hardly a fitting appelation, if you know anything about the Security Council. More wolves, I would say."
Mmm. That was the interesting thing about randomly throwing about such great works of literature -- everybody had different interpretations. And though Abernathy's was not quite the one he was looking for, it still...fits. He hadn't really thought about it that way, but... yes. Yes.
He stops as Abernathy comes up beside him, similarly glancing sidelong as he clasps his hands behind his back. "The alpha male, I see," he replies, with a bit of a wink. "But I am glad for it. By the way, did you know the Repliforce was up to something?"
Tsk. Silly Feste, having expectations for Abernathy. Abby has a little problem with completely mauling whatever people presuppose about him. Ask Procyon. Or Kelly McLaren. Or his brother, or Xiang. "Alpha bitch is more like it," he mutters, mostly under his breath. Then, louder: "Oh so. I'm sure there are others more willing to do their jobs in a fashion that would benefit you, dear Fool. And when are they not?"
It's more the problem of him having expectations of everyone, but...alas. He is not infallible, and he knew people would misunderstand him from time to time.
Feste bites his lip briefly, suppressing a chuckle. Alpha bitch, that's great, he'll have to remember that one. "One can only hope, m'lord, one can only *hope*. And indeed. It involves Iris," he begins, leaving one hand behind his back and gesturing with the other, "and Vile, and perhaps the country of France. And something stupid. That's what I caught, anyway."
Serena Gilbert arrives. That's all. Sere arrives and just watches for a moment...
Never let it be said that Abby did NOT have a talent for self-deprecation. "Oh, so. Are you implying that you would rather someone who would be MORE ammenable to your form of business /never/ take my place, or something a little less, oh, self-defeatist." Then a pause. "Oh. Vile. France. Iris. Sounds like quite a picnic, does it not?"
Abernathy and Feste, for the record, are standing at the top of the stairs up to the UN building, facing out toward the Plaza. Ahahah.
Feste is also doing his 'impersonate a priest' bit again. Just so you know, SERE.
Abernathy thinks Feste makes a hella sexy priest. (shh)
Bridgit Cascio isn't even here. She's going through another box of bullets in the UN shooting range.
Preacher-Feste carries on, oblivious of one of his lost sheep watching in the distance. He idly reaches out to put a hand on Abernathy's shoulder. "I am perfectly content with what you're currently paying me. I could care less, anyway," he says, a tad dryly. Having said that, he removes his hand (if allowed to put it there in the first place) and continues. "Yes. Something about a Paris fiasco, and saving the lives of thirty people. I'm sure you will get more out of it than I did."
The Director freezes at the sudden touch, hands balling into fists -- though, in his pockets as they are, the gesture of mild haptophobia would likely go unnoticed. "I see," he replies, voice calm -- and belying the obvious tension in his back and shoulders. "Good to know you'd be giving anyone else this much hell, regardless of his other qualities." As soon as Feste removes his hand, the tension flees the Director's stance. "Mm. Quite probably; I'll pass the word on to Intelligence and see what they have to say."
The Fool takes note of this sudden...tension. He /can/ feel it; he does, after all, have his hand on Abby's shoulder. Or did. "This much hell, you say? Interesting."
He steps away, still grinning like a loon as per usual. "Glad to be of service, Director Adrian!" He reclasps his hands behind his back and watches to see what happens next. Yeees... he'd wanted to carry out that particular experiment, and now seemed a convenient time.
Poor Abby. He just didn't know how to conceal some of his problems beneath layers and layers of ice. Don't worry, though -- he'll work it out, sooner or later. "Yes. I do. I was banking on it being either affection or a very perverse sense of humor, but I'm glad to see it's merely another aspect of a defective personality." Calm, calm, just a lilting sentence here and there ... and then Feste uses the name and the title in conjunction.
He glances away from his observation of the Plaza, looking Feste straight in the eyes. "Of course, Andruw. You do your job well -- when you do it."
The Fool, in his Preacher's clothing, watches Abernathy like a hawk, smile beginning to fade, eyes growing colder... A perverse sense of humor, fine. Affection -- fine (and also true.) But a *defective* personality? That's just too much. And... that *name*. And... it just gets worse and worse.
Feste remains silent, twitching just slightly... and then it just all falls apart. At least, long enough for Andruw Nisse to do something he will surely regret. He lunges forward, fist-first, and attempts to clock Abernathy in the jaw.
Feste strikes you with a glancing hit from his Punch for 1 units of damage.
Abernathy staggers back, totally unprepared for being /attacked/ -- and gives a little shake of his head, the look in his own eyes a positively glacial one. "Oh, /I/ see. Another of those who can dish it out but can't /take/ it, are we, /Andruw/?" That name again!
Well. Whether it's Andruw or Feste currently in control, he's going to have to watch out -- because Abernathy's going to try to tackle him into a /wall/.
Meanwhile, a few of the plaza guards suddenly come alert at the sound of a scuffle. ... Is that the Director over there?
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Ram attack.
You rebound off of Feste, taking 1 units of damage.
Andruw takes off his hat in one fluid motion. It's TIME TO GET DOWN TO BUSINESS.
He screws up his face in a terrible scowl, simply...enraged. Something about him attacking back. It just... GRR. And he's really lost it, at this point.
That and the whole thing where he's an English major, not a soldier! He grunts as he's rammed into a wall, and resumes throwing punches at Abernathy's head and body.
Feste strikes you with a minor hit from his Generic Melee for 7 units of damage.
Oh, what did Andruw expect? Adrian was not an English major or some pansy diplomat -- er, wait; well, okay, it's immaterial -- /he/ was a soldier, and he wasn't going to let some blond Norwegian fruitcake -- however cute -- attack him without giving a little back.
The flurry of punches drives the Russian back a step, and he pauses to spit blood from a split lip -- before getting back in there with a sweeping kick to Andruw's knees, meant to knock him flat on his back.
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Kick attack.
Blues can't resist the reports, after a news crew transmits some footage of 'Hand to hand brawl in Seoul!'. After all, they might not have recognized who was fighting, but he did. And Abernathy in a brawl should always be fun to watch.
The kick does as expected, and beautifully, as Andruw goes down hard. Ow. Fortunately, this blonde Norwegian fruitcake has always been quick on his feet. He scrambles into an unsteady crouch, contemplating next move for all of three seconds. A three-foot, somewhat squat... stick comes to being in his ready hand. Snarling, he waits for Adrian's next attack. (No attack this round.)
Adrian's normal follow-up to that little number -- a quick stomp of the bootheel to head, ribs, or a joint -- is averted by Andruw's quick thinking. (Go Andruw!) Adrian takes a moment to think about this, swiping his off-hand at that little trickle of blood down his chin -- and reaching around behind his back, producing a rather wicked-looking knife. If they're going to go to weapons, Adrian can certainly oblige ... and he lunges forward, aiming to snap Andruw across the face with the knife's pommel.
Meanwhile, the guards come rushing in! Save the queen, save the que -- holy heck, is that Protoman?!
Blues holds up his hand to the Guards. "Lovers Quarrel, guys. I'd stand back before they start hairpulling."
A knife, is it? Well, he did make the first move on the weapons front.
Surefooted Andruw has, actually, a knife fight or two to his credit. He steps around Abby's lunge and reaches forward with both stick and hand, attempting to lock up that knife-arm. Yay for escrima!
Feste strikes you with a glancing hit from his Snake for 1 units of damage.
Abernathy is temporarily disoriented by Feste's Snake attack.
Quite. Adrian is grabbed, held, and temporarily disabled -- painfully -- though he's quick to break the hold and stumble back a step, shaking out his arm. Ow OW ow.
Andruw wrenches Adrian's arm further, almost as if to dislocate it, but he doesn't quite have the momentum or the strength to do so. Instead, he draws his baton back, contemplating the next of two possible moves. He could attempt to break Adrian's arm (at the elbow, that would most certainly hurt) or club him in the head. He draws back further, aiming for the latter option, but...stops, eyes going wide as seemingly realizes what he was about to do.
He releases Adrian's arm from the hold and skitters backward, almost horrified. He, Andruw Nisse, just tried to kill the Director of Interpol! He hasn't, of course, realized that this is a fight, and you're not supposed to *do* that in a fight...
If only Adrian had come to the same realization. Or perhaps he has; there's nothing at all resembling blood-lust in those pink eyes, just cold, calculating emotion. And a little pain from the mauling his knife-arm just took, but not much.
As soon as the hold is broken, an icy little smile flickers across Adrian's face. He's not going to let Andruw just back /off/ like that ... and so he flows into motion again. Though he's going to be favoring his left arm for a bit, that doesn't mean he's helpless -- especially as he goes for a vicious right hook to Andruw's jaw.
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Suckerpunch attack.
Ooh, ouch. Too bad our little English major didn't see /that/ one coming. Stunned into inaction, the punch connects with a sharp *crack* and his head snaps back. Oooh, that hurts. He's still loath to...well...go after the Director -- the Director, for crissakes! -- but if he has to defend himself...
Andruw, still armed, wipes a spot of blood from the corner of his lip and hops forward -- reluctantly, and it shows -- and strikes out again with his stick, aiming right for Abby's ribs.
Feste strikes you with a minor hit from his Thwack for 5 units of damage.
That rather unwholesome 'crunch' noise when rattan stick meets ribs cannot be a good sign. Nor the quiet, pained hiss of breath from Adrian; but that doesn't stop him, and he still has that knife. A flicker of the left hand, as he reverses his grip, before lashing out at Andruw in a broad, shallow slash. Attacking an opponent who would rather back off ... tsk, tsk. Something must have queered in the soldier's mind ...
You miss Feste with your Russia To The Pacifists attack.
Mmf...that did not sound good. At all. And the last thing he wants to do is kill... the Director (must not mentally call him Adrian, must not) even if it's in self-defense. Cue fervent praying.
He ducks under that vicious slash, taking in a single, hissing breath as he once again works around it, lining up another strike -- this one with the tip of his baton, weaving under Abby's outstretched arm to jab him in the solarplexus.
Feste misses you with his Baton Jab attack.
Oh, it's not likely. Adrian has a sense of self-preservation, though God knows where it went when he decided to press the issue with Andruw. Reading Andruw's stance, he slips nimbly around around the attack, and -- goes in for the kill. When better than just within his opponent's guard? He goes for a high feint to Andruw's neck, before attempting to bury the knife between the taller man's ribs.
You strike Feste with a solid hit from your Not With A Bang But A Whimper attack.
A prayer on his lips in his native Norwegian, Andruw goes in for that one jab and finds his target rather out of reach...and moving in for his neck. He throws his left hand upward in defense -- a fundamental part of escrima: when you've got one hand free, keep it near your heart so you can keep someone from stabbing you there -- which, of course, leaves him horribly open to that stab.
It goes in sickeningly easily, buried up to the hilt. Andruw gasps, stick-hand dropping to his side as he reflexively reaches for that knife in his stomach.
There's a momentary pause, a break in the rhythm of the fight. You couldn't really miss the feel of a knife sliding into living flesh; it's sickeningly unnatural, in some ways. Adrian takes a quick breath, then another -- glances down at his hand, and the knife -- then up at Andruw. A look of sick realization flickers into those pink eyes, and his breathing goes ragged ... before he murmurs, "As I remember, Tybalt killed Mercutio -- did he not?"
. o O (ohgodohlordinheavenwhatdidijustdo?) O o .
Andruw falls to his knees, slowly, dropping his escrima stick with a clatter. He stares upward, first at Abernathy, then just...forward, blankly. "Gud i himmel," he murmurs, spitting blood to the side.
And then, a sudden change comes over him. Feste smiles, grimly, still looking blankly ahead and past Abernathy. "Look for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man," he replies, chuckling darkly.
Abernathy gives a slight shake of his head, the icy demeanor of before returning. Looks like he's come back to his senses, such as they are -- which is good; it's certainly better than panicking. He doesn't listen hard to Andruw-Feste -- though there's the temptation to hit the Fool again for quoting Shakespeare back at him -- instead sinking to his knees to offer the other man support ... and get a better look at his own handiwork. Not surprisingly, that coterie of Plaza guards -- so kindly help back by Blues -- have already come charging up the steps ...
Feste swallows, still gasping for breath. Good Lord, he's got a knife stuck in between his ribs! AAApanic! Wait. Don't panic. He quietly sinks further downward, sitting back on his heels -- not quite by choice, either. For lack of better words, OW.
His mind slips back to the way he was earlier -- his truest self. A transformation born of...pain. Nearly intolerable pain. And Adrian -- who STABBED him -- is just standing there, doing what? Gloating? A flash of pain crosses his features as he reaches for his escrima stick again. Could just be to pick it up, but you never know...
Ah-ah. Abernathy is wise to such a move, and lashes out a hand to catch Feste at the wrist, aiming to immobilize his hand. Then he leans forward on one knee, resting a hand on the knife again -- cautiously. "Stop that. I need you to lie down," he comments, tersely. He must be under stress -- even if there's nothing in his face or demeanor to show it, his accent is back. Thankfully, it's not as muddy as, say, Cossack's. "Got to get the knife out."
Andruw-Feste winces, dropping the stick again as his hand is well, immobilized. Whaat, lay down? ...oh, that's right. Knife in stomach. Almost forgot about that, somehow. Andruw obeys, slightly begrudgingly, it would seem, but perhaps that's just the pain. "Ah..."
Abernathy-Adrian nods, easing forward in that half-crouch of his. Oh, look. A nest of security guards surrounding them, how nice. He glances up briefly, snapping off an order for someone to 'go get a damned medic', before hunkering over Feste and producing a piece of cloth from one of his many pockets. The things that come in handy ...
"Don't breathe," he advises -- before leaning forward, wrapping his hands around the knife. In a flash of bloody steel, it's free -- and he's applying pressure to the wound, jaw set grimly.
Andruw-Feste has yet to notice the guards hovering just out of his line of sight, which currently consists of... Abernathy. Just him. That's all he can manage to focus on, what with the blood loss.
As Abby pulls the knife out he utters a brief, low cry of pain -- well, that's sort of not breathing. Exhaling, at least. The rest of the air in his lungs is flushed out in a quick string of Norwegian. "<God, next time stop me before I do something so terribly stupid, if You would...>"
That knife is reversed in another of those elegant switches Abby seems too-comfortable with, almost as if he's going to finish poor Andruw-Feste off ... but that's not his intent. Instead, he uses the bloodied blade to slit Andruw's priest's frock up the side, exposing the wound in a nimble slight of hand involving knife and fabric pad. Then -- only then -- does he toss the knife aside, and it clatters to a stop by a guard's foot, leaving a bloody trail on the steps.
Abernathy-Adrian breathes out in a pained sigh, and leans forward to apply a little more pressure. "Medic's coming," he mutters, softly, the words meant for Andruw's ears only. "And I'm not sure God cares." No, he doesn't know Norwegian, but it's got a little in common with German -- enough that he can guess, anyway.
Andruw just squints. Yes, he is being defrocked. This is actually mildly disturbing. He eyes Abernathy briefly, mildly confused. What? But Abby can't speak Norwegian. "I doubt He is pleased with my impersonating His ordained servants," he wheezes. How nice, Andruw-Feste briefly reflects, God may not care but Abernathy sure seems to.
Granted, there ARE more favorable situations that Abernathy-Adrian could think of for dramatically ripping Andruw's shirt off, but now is not the time or place to elaborate on those.
The soldier-diplomat smiles a brief, humorless smile at the man under his hands. "Ordained of man, maybe, but I don't know if God cares about that, either. Now shut up." Those last three words are said ... almost fondly. Like he's almost worried.
Almost as if on cue, the crowd of guards -- more than a little confused by the whole violent scene -- parts, admitting the medic, a grouchy-looking young woman. She takes in the scene with a frown on her face -- a frown met by an almost innocent look on Abby's behalf -- before hunkering down next to the kneeling Abby and pushing him aside, to attend to Feste.
Abernathy-Adrian, displaced, sits back on his heels -- and scrubs at his bloodied hands almost reflexively, a little frown on his face now.
Abernathy effects some medical work on Feste.
Andruw-Feste manages a smile -- an amused, Foolish smile -- despite his injury, and opens his mouth to say something, only to shut it when he's told to. He shakes his head, just a tad, attempting to, well, hurt it more. Mf.
But soon Adrian in his vision is replaced with some new person -- some new *stranger* -- so he closes his eyes and allows himself to be attended to. Dying would, after all, be bad. Yes... oh wait, /there/'s Abby, he's just stepped to the side. He flashes Adrian another Fool's smile -- almost an 'I'm sorry', but...not quite.
It begs the question of whether or not he's gone and done this on purpose.
muse
canemex for this one.Title: Preachers and Fools/Spoiling for a Fight
Date: 02-04 June 2003
Players: Abernathy (logging), Blues, Feste, Serena Gilbert
Summary: What starts as Feste paying a simple visit to the UN Plaza to ply his trade quickly turns vicious, as Abernathy manages to provoke the Fool to violence.
Seoul - United Nations Plaza
It is here that most of the world's decisions are made. The kind of power here reflects in the architecture, with the HUGE UN building that holds the General Assembly. Blue and dome shaped in design, it is the only one in the world of its kind, and workplace to the thousands that work here. The perimeter of the General Assembly building is surrounded the flags of every country that has a seat, which is nearly everyone. Outside are a number of other large office buildings, ranging from delegate bureau's, to the Headquarters of the UN Police, to a Repliforce office. Constantly patrolled and guarded by UN Police, safety is among an utmost concern after the infamous April Fools Day Massacre. Despite that, the place is a very safe environment.
Contents: Contents:
Press Stand United Nations Vehicle Garages <UNVG>
[UN]: United Nations Building
East [E]: Seoul - Northern Commercial District
West [W]: Seoul - Tourist District
South [S]: Seoul - Historical District
North [N]: Seoul - Eastern Residential District
The Preacher has decided to haunt Interpol's door once again, or so it would appear.
The tall Preacher, clothed in the same navy-blue as in his first visit here on Good Friday, walks slowly and smoothly through the Plaza, setting down one foot consistently in front of the other. Such is his confidence.
A book in his hands, he begins to read in his echoing basso voice, starting quietly and gaining volume as he continues.
"Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear. But you in your iniquities have separated you from your God; your sins have hidden his face from you, so that he will not hear. For /your/ hands are stained with blood, your fingers with guilt. Your lips have spoken lies, and your tongue mutters wicked things."
"No one calls for justice," growls the Preacher, red eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his hat, "No one pleads his case with integrity..."
He looks only straight ahead, at the UN building. It would almost seem that this man -- whoever he is -- has some sort of grudge against the United Nations and Interpol...
One would think -- would think, mind -- that Interpol would be used to the usual swarm of protestors of any stripe that flood the Plaza from time to time. And they were, to some degree, though as a young organization -- with young officers -- there tended to be some degree of mystification about why people so vehemently protested THEM.
But the Preacher's sort of protester was, admittedly ... a little difficult to deal with. Especially since many of the Plaza guards couldn't decide if he was actively protesting, making snide commentary, or was actually a man of the cloth out and about preaching. It is for that reason that ... most people are merely giving the Preacher a wide berth, though he is turning heads.
And, if the flash of transilluminated pupils, briefly red in the shadows of the columned awning near the stairs, is any indictation ... one of those heads is that of the Director himself.
And in truth, the Preacher has no idea which of those three he is really doing. It's more for his audience to decide. Or at least, that's how it works in theory. He continues, still growing louder and louder.
"Their deeds are evil deeds, and acts of violence are in their hands! Their feet rush into sin; they are swift to shed innocent blood. Their thoughts are *evil* thoughts; ruin and destruction mark their ways!"
He stops his walk, having come into the center of the Plaza, but is by no means finished preaching.
"The way of peace they do not know; their is no *justice* in their paths! They have turned them into crooked roads; no one who walks in them will know peace."
The Director continues to watch from his spot on the stairs, though he shifts to tuck his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrow behind his sunglasses, as the Preacher's speaking gets more impassioned -- but he does not seem particularly moved by it. No, he's just ... listening. So far. But at some point, he's going to need to go address the disturbance -- not because it's his duty, but because ... because.
Hm, is that a familiar face? The Preacher continues forward after his momentary pause, advancing toward those very steps in that same slow pace.
"So justice," he continues, indeed impassioned as his voice takes a turn for the sorrowful, "is *far* from us! and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows.
"Like the blind we grope along the wall, feeling our way like men without eyes.
"At midday we stumble as if it were twilight; among the strong, we are like the dead.
"We all growl like bears; we moan mournfully like doves.
"We look for justice, but find none; for deliverance, but it is far away."
That sounds familiar. The slightest twitch of a sad smirk appears on the Director's face -- before disappearing, subsumed into ice once more. He pushes off the column he's leaning against too-casually, hands still in his pockets, as he crosses the steps fluidly to confront the Preacher. And as he does, he's humming ... very softly, a minor-key undercurrent to the Preacher's words.
As he reaches the point on the stairs above the Preacher, the Director pauses -- turns, locking eyes with the other man, pink gaze to red. That humming goes from just an intimation of sound to actual full-voiced singing, very soft, but audible.
o/` We roar, all like bears,
And mourn, sore, like doves,
We look for justice -- there is none,
We are in desolate places ... o/`
No more than a short phrase of a song, nothing near the whole thing ... but a minor-key reiteration of what's already been said. Emphasis. Commentary? Maybe.
The red-eyed Preacher continues despite the man in his path, stopping only a foot or three away from him. Looking slightly downward, he locks eyes -- red to pink -- and speaks again, a ghost of a smile hidden in the shadows that cover his face.
"For our offenses are many in your sight, and our sins testify against us.
"Our offenses are ever with us, and we acknowledge our iniquities: rebellion and treachery against the Lord, turning our backs on our God, fomenting oppressioin and revolt, uttering lies our hearts have conceived.
"So justice is driven back," he says, voice growing quieter and quieter -- it'd be impolite to yell in Abernathy's face. "And righteousness stands at a distance; truth has stumbled in the streets, honesty cannot enter.
"Truth is nowhere to be found, and whoever shuns evil becomes a prey."
The Director falls silent, point and commentary both made. This has gone from discussion to preaching again; but from that renewed twitch of a smile on the Director's face, perhaps he doesn't particularly mind that. He cants his head back as the Preacher approaches, the better to keep his eyes on the taller man's, but does not move otherwise. The symbolic barring of the way ...
The Preacher's eyes flare red; the smile becomes something more than ethereal. He remains still, and continues, softer than before, voice beginning to -- change? With the loss of volume, it is no longer quite so deep.
"The Lord looked and was displeased that there was no justice.
"He saw that there was no one, he was appalled that there was no one to intervene; so his own arm worked salvation for him, and his own righteousness sustained him."
Almost airy in tone, he skips a few lines and continues. "According to what they have done, so will he repay wrath to his enemies and retribution to his foes; he will repay the islands their due."
The Director's own smile remains little more than a slight upward quirk of the lips -- though as he notes the Preacher skipping verses, the amusement in his eyes grows. Just a little. But, as before, he does not speak up -- it is not polite to interupt a sermon, so much he knows from long experience. Plus, you miss the most INTERESTING messages ...
"The Redeemer will come to Zion," says Feste-Preacher, smiling at Abernathy.
"It would appear, my lord, that the faithful among the United Nations are horning in on your job. Don't you think?" A hint of a smirk as he speaks, intending for these words to be heard only by the Director. "A fool after my own heart."
Ahh. Now the Director's smile turns cold -- and toothy. "So it does appear, dear Fool. Though I must say, if fools they might be, they are not nearly as charming as you are." A slight nod of the head. "Even when you stand in opposition."
"Opposition? Me?" Feste-Preacher puts a hand to his chest, cocking his head back -- the very image of innocence. "Who have *you* been talking to? I merely read the Word -- the direction in which I read it does not matter." And charming he is!
"Then you deceive yourself most of all, dear Fool." The Director's smile has disappeared entirely now, replaced by a cold, serpentine amusement in his eyes. "And I keep my own counsel on this matter, I assure you. I do not need to have deception pointed out to me."
That's what he gets for talking in riddles!
Feste-Preacher further cocks his head, looking decidedly avian, especially with that hat on. "Oh, well, lackaday. I had no idea, good Director, none at all!" His tone carries a bit of sarcasm, a bit of teasing, a bit of playfulness, and that overlying faked 'innocence'.
"I thank you heartedly, my good man, for pointing out my error. I shall have to rectify it at once!"
"Good. And don't waste so much of your time patronizing me while you do it, hm?" Though the serpentine humor remains in the Director's eyes -- yes, he can take a joke -- the words are quite cold, said with exacting care. Perhaps the Fool has actually touched a nerve -- or perhaps this frostiness has elsewhere in its origins.
"Oh, I /am/ sorry," says the Fool who would be a priest, leaning downward slightly. "Have I gone and offended you again? *Terribly* sorry." Yes... always foolish, whether by design or nature.
The Director shrugs, a gesture somewhat restrained by the fact he's kept his hands in his pockets this whole time. "Never apologize for yourself, unless you truly do intend to change," he remarks, tone all casual once more. "Moreover, what would it matter if you had? You'd merely continue to do it, would you not, dear Fool?"
Feste smiles at the Director from beneath the shadows of his hat, eyes dancing with apparent amusement. But then... he's always amused.
"Now you're playing the game, my friend," he says, almost coyly. "I do hope you haven't gone and gotten the wrong message from my little sermon -- but then, perhaps I, even in my foolery, am an instrument of the Most High. Corresponded nicely with the Senator of Spain, did it not? Eery little coincidence there, don't you think?" There's your answer: yes. Without a doubt.
"I do not believe in coincidences," the Director murmurs. "Though I may grant that God does use the weakest and most humble things to carry off His points, when they must be made." He straightens somewhat, giving a nod of his head to some thought, before continuing. "Though most prophets don't act with such -- deliberation."
The Fool-Preacher chuckles -- was that an insult, in the most roundabout sort of way? He smiles again, finding a new respect for this man before him -- in his own little way, anyway.
"Well, there's a first time for everything, no?"
Maybe. The Director spends so much of his time poking and prying at those around him, looking for weak spots -- should it be any surprise that an armor like the Fool's should prove an irresistible temptation? "I would grant you that, were God not so insistent on His being immutable. No, I am led to think that any perception you might have of a message to be bestowed, dear Fool, has its origins much closer to earth than Heaven."
Oooh. Point to the Director! And yes: to beat the Fool at his own game is indeed tempting. Catch him with his pants down, win a Cupie doll! Er.
Feste grins wolfishly, which is decidedly /creepy/ considering his current dress. "And that is why you are a wiser man than I, sirrah."
That momentary segue into the realm of pants and pantslessness re> Feste has totally distracted Abernathy's typist. Please wait while we retrieve her.
Ah. There we are.
"Oh, you think so?" the Director murmurs, eyes gone half-closed. "Certainly not because I stand on my doorstep and debate matters of propaganda with fools all day."
Feste-Preacher smiles, closing his own eyes for a moment before stepping back and turning his back to Abernathy.
"O, he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hai!" quotes Feste, as if they were his very own words. Still as amused as ever, too.
"I should hope not," Abernathy murmurs, finally moving from his position to walk up alongside Feste. "As I remember, poor Mercutio was just another casualty of that bloody little mess. And I should not see you the victim of a war between two thoroughly barbaric houses, dear Fool. Besides," and here he steps abreast of Feste, glancing sidelong at the Fool. "'Prince of Cats' is hardly a fitting appelation, if you know anything about the Security Council. More wolves, I would say."
Mmm. That was the interesting thing about randomly throwing about such great works of literature -- everybody had different interpretations. And though Abernathy's was not quite the one he was looking for, it still...fits. He hadn't really thought about it that way, but... yes. Yes.
He stops as Abernathy comes up beside him, similarly glancing sidelong as he clasps his hands behind his back. "The alpha male, I see," he replies, with a bit of a wink. "But I am glad for it. By the way, did you know the Repliforce was up to something?"
Tsk. Silly Feste, having expectations for Abernathy. Abby has a little problem with completely mauling whatever people presuppose about him. Ask Procyon. Or Kelly McLaren. Or his brother, or Xiang. "Alpha bitch is more like it," he mutters, mostly under his breath. Then, louder: "Oh so. I'm sure there are others more willing to do their jobs in a fashion that would benefit you, dear Fool. And when are they not?"
It's more the problem of him having expectations of everyone, but...alas. He is not infallible, and he knew people would misunderstand him from time to time.
Feste bites his lip briefly, suppressing a chuckle. Alpha bitch, that's great, he'll have to remember that one. "One can only hope, m'lord, one can only *hope*. And indeed. It involves Iris," he begins, leaving one hand behind his back and gesturing with the other, "and Vile, and perhaps the country of France. And something stupid. That's what I caught, anyway."
Serena Gilbert arrives. That's all. Sere arrives and just watches for a moment...
Never let it be said that Abby did NOT have a talent for self-deprecation. "Oh, so. Are you implying that you would rather someone who would be MORE ammenable to your form of business /never/ take my place, or something a little less, oh, self-defeatist." Then a pause. "Oh. Vile. France. Iris. Sounds like quite a picnic, does it not?"
Abernathy and Feste, for the record, are standing at the top of the stairs up to the UN building, facing out toward the Plaza. Ahahah.
Feste is also doing his 'impersonate a priest' bit again. Just so you know, SERE.
Abernathy thinks Feste makes a hella sexy priest. (shh)
Bridgit Cascio isn't even here. She's going through another box of bullets in the UN shooting range.
Preacher-Feste carries on, oblivious of one of his lost sheep watching in the distance. He idly reaches out to put a hand on Abernathy's shoulder. "I am perfectly content with what you're currently paying me. I could care less, anyway," he says, a tad dryly. Having said that, he removes his hand (if allowed to put it there in the first place) and continues. "Yes. Something about a Paris fiasco, and saving the lives of thirty people. I'm sure you will get more out of it than I did."
The Director freezes at the sudden touch, hands balling into fists -- though, in his pockets as they are, the gesture of mild haptophobia would likely go unnoticed. "I see," he replies, voice calm -- and belying the obvious tension in his back and shoulders. "Good to know you'd be giving anyone else this much hell, regardless of his other qualities." As soon as Feste removes his hand, the tension flees the Director's stance. "Mm. Quite probably; I'll pass the word on to Intelligence and see what they have to say."
The Fool takes note of this sudden...tension. He /can/ feel it; he does, after all, have his hand on Abby's shoulder. Or did. "This much hell, you say? Interesting."
He steps away, still grinning like a loon as per usual. "Glad to be of service, Director Adrian!" He reclasps his hands behind his back and watches to see what happens next. Yeees... he'd wanted to carry out that particular experiment, and now seemed a convenient time.
Poor Abby. He just didn't know how to conceal some of his problems beneath layers and layers of ice. Don't worry, though -- he'll work it out, sooner or later. "Yes. I do. I was banking on it being either affection or a very perverse sense of humor, but I'm glad to see it's merely another aspect of a defective personality." Calm, calm, just a lilting sentence here and there ... and then Feste uses the name and the title in conjunction.
He glances away from his observation of the Plaza, looking Feste straight in the eyes. "Of course, Andruw. You do your job well -- when you do it."
The Fool, in his Preacher's clothing, watches Abernathy like a hawk, smile beginning to fade, eyes growing colder... A perverse sense of humor, fine. Affection -- fine (and also true.) But a *defective* personality? That's just too much. And... that *name*. And... it just gets worse and worse.
Feste remains silent, twitching just slightly... and then it just all falls apart. At least, long enough for Andruw Nisse to do something he will surely regret. He lunges forward, fist-first, and attempts to clock Abernathy in the jaw.
Feste strikes you with a glancing hit from his Punch for 1 units of damage.
Abernathy staggers back, totally unprepared for being /attacked/ -- and gives a little shake of his head, the look in his own eyes a positively glacial one. "Oh, /I/ see. Another of those who can dish it out but can't /take/ it, are we, /Andruw/?" That name again!
Well. Whether it's Andruw or Feste currently in control, he's going to have to watch out -- because Abernathy's going to try to tackle him into a /wall/.
Meanwhile, a few of the plaza guards suddenly come alert at the sound of a scuffle. ... Is that the Director over there?
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Ram attack.
You rebound off of Feste, taking 1 units of damage.
Andruw takes off his hat in one fluid motion. It's TIME TO GET DOWN TO BUSINESS.
He screws up his face in a terrible scowl, simply...enraged. Something about him attacking back. It just... GRR. And he's really lost it, at this point.
That and the whole thing where he's an English major, not a soldier! He grunts as he's rammed into a wall, and resumes throwing punches at Abernathy's head and body.
Feste strikes you with a minor hit from his Generic Melee for 7 units of damage.
Oh, what did Andruw expect? Adrian was not an English major or some pansy diplomat -- er, wait; well, okay, it's immaterial -- /he/ was a soldier, and he wasn't going to let some blond Norwegian fruitcake -- however cute -- attack him without giving a little back.
The flurry of punches drives the Russian back a step, and he pauses to spit blood from a split lip -- before getting back in there with a sweeping kick to Andruw's knees, meant to knock him flat on his back.
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Kick attack.
Blues can't resist the reports, after a news crew transmits some footage of 'Hand to hand brawl in Seoul!'. After all, they might not have recognized who was fighting, but he did. And Abernathy in a brawl should always be fun to watch.
The kick does as expected, and beautifully, as Andruw goes down hard. Ow. Fortunately, this blonde Norwegian fruitcake has always been quick on his feet. He scrambles into an unsteady crouch, contemplating next move for all of three seconds. A three-foot, somewhat squat... stick comes to being in his ready hand. Snarling, he waits for Adrian's next attack. (No attack this round.)
Adrian's normal follow-up to that little number -- a quick stomp of the bootheel to head, ribs, or a joint -- is averted by Andruw's quick thinking. (Go Andruw!) Adrian takes a moment to think about this, swiping his off-hand at that little trickle of blood down his chin -- and reaching around behind his back, producing a rather wicked-looking knife. If they're going to go to weapons, Adrian can certainly oblige ... and he lunges forward, aiming to snap Andruw across the face with the knife's pommel.
Meanwhile, the guards come rushing in! Save the queen, save the que -- holy heck, is that Protoman?!
Blues holds up his hand to the Guards. "Lovers Quarrel, guys. I'd stand back before they start hairpulling."
A knife, is it? Well, he did make the first move on the weapons front.
Surefooted Andruw has, actually, a knife fight or two to his credit. He steps around Abby's lunge and reaches forward with both stick and hand, attempting to lock up that knife-arm. Yay for escrima!
Feste strikes you with a glancing hit from his Snake for 1 units of damage.
Abernathy is temporarily disoriented by Feste's Snake attack.
Quite. Adrian is grabbed, held, and temporarily disabled -- painfully -- though he's quick to break the hold and stumble back a step, shaking out his arm. Ow OW ow.
Andruw wrenches Adrian's arm further, almost as if to dislocate it, but he doesn't quite have the momentum or the strength to do so. Instead, he draws his baton back, contemplating the next of two possible moves. He could attempt to break Adrian's arm (at the elbow, that would most certainly hurt) or club him in the head. He draws back further, aiming for the latter option, but...stops, eyes going wide as seemingly realizes what he was about to do.
He releases Adrian's arm from the hold and skitters backward, almost horrified. He, Andruw Nisse, just tried to kill the Director of Interpol! He hasn't, of course, realized that this is a fight, and you're not supposed to *do* that in a fight...
If only Adrian had come to the same realization. Or perhaps he has; there's nothing at all resembling blood-lust in those pink eyes, just cold, calculating emotion. And a little pain from the mauling his knife-arm just took, but not much.
As soon as the hold is broken, an icy little smile flickers across Adrian's face. He's not going to let Andruw just back /off/ like that ... and so he flows into motion again. Though he's going to be favoring his left arm for a bit, that doesn't mean he's helpless -- especially as he goes for a vicious right hook to Andruw's jaw.
You strike Feste with a glancing hit from your Suckerpunch attack.
Ooh, ouch. Too bad our little English major didn't see /that/ one coming. Stunned into inaction, the punch connects with a sharp *crack* and his head snaps back. Oooh, that hurts. He's still loath to...well...go after the Director -- the Director, for crissakes! -- but if he has to defend himself...
Andruw, still armed, wipes a spot of blood from the corner of his lip and hops forward -- reluctantly, and it shows -- and strikes out again with his stick, aiming right for Abby's ribs.
Feste strikes you with a minor hit from his Thwack for 5 units of damage.
That rather unwholesome 'crunch' noise when rattan stick meets ribs cannot be a good sign. Nor the quiet, pained hiss of breath from Adrian; but that doesn't stop him, and he still has that knife. A flicker of the left hand, as he reverses his grip, before lashing out at Andruw in a broad, shallow slash. Attacking an opponent who would rather back off ... tsk, tsk. Something must have queered in the soldier's mind ...
You miss Feste with your Russia To The Pacifists attack.
Mmf...that did not sound good. At all. And the last thing he wants to do is kill... the Director (must not mentally call him Adrian, must not) even if it's in self-defense. Cue fervent praying.
He ducks under that vicious slash, taking in a single, hissing breath as he once again works around it, lining up another strike -- this one with the tip of his baton, weaving under Abby's outstretched arm to jab him in the solarplexus.
Feste misses you with his Baton Jab attack.
Oh, it's not likely. Adrian has a sense of self-preservation, though God knows where it went when he decided to press the issue with Andruw. Reading Andruw's stance, he slips nimbly around around the attack, and -- goes in for the kill. When better than just within his opponent's guard? He goes for a high feint to Andruw's neck, before attempting to bury the knife between the taller man's ribs.
You strike Feste with a solid hit from your Not With A Bang But A Whimper attack.
A prayer on his lips in his native Norwegian, Andruw goes in for that one jab and finds his target rather out of reach...and moving in for his neck. He throws his left hand upward in defense -- a fundamental part of escrima: when you've got one hand free, keep it near your heart so you can keep someone from stabbing you there -- which, of course, leaves him horribly open to that stab.
It goes in sickeningly easily, buried up to the hilt. Andruw gasps, stick-hand dropping to his side as he reflexively reaches for that knife in his stomach.
There's a momentary pause, a break in the rhythm of the fight. You couldn't really miss the feel of a knife sliding into living flesh; it's sickeningly unnatural, in some ways. Adrian takes a quick breath, then another -- glances down at his hand, and the knife -- then up at Andruw. A look of sick realization flickers into those pink eyes, and his breathing goes ragged ... before he murmurs, "As I remember, Tybalt killed Mercutio -- did he not?"
. o O (ohgodohlordinheavenwhatdidijustdo?) O o .
Andruw falls to his knees, slowly, dropping his escrima stick with a clatter. He stares upward, first at Abernathy, then just...forward, blankly. "Gud i himmel," he murmurs, spitting blood to the side.
And then, a sudden change comes over him. Feste smiles, grimly, still looking blankly ahead and past Abernathy. "Look for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man," he replies, chuckling darkly.
Abernathy gives a slight shake of his head, the icy demeanor of before returning. Looks like he's come back to his senses, such as they are -- which is good; it's certainly better than panicking. He doesn't listen hard to Andruw-Feste -- though there's the temptation to hit the Fool again for quoting Shakespeare back at him -- instead sinking to his knees to offer the other man support ... and get a better look at his own handiwork. Not surprisingly, that coterie of Plaza guards -- so kindly help back by Blues -- have already come charging up the steps ...
Feste swallows, still gasping for breath. Good Lord, he's got a knife stuck in between his ribs! AAApanic! Wait. Don't panic. He quietly sinks further downward, sitting back on his heels -- not quite by choice, either. For lack of better words, OW.
His mind slips back to the way he was earlier -- his truest self. A transformation born of...pain. Nearly intolerable pain. And Adrian -- who STABBED him -- is just standing there, doing what? Gloating? A flash of pain crosses his features as he reaches for his escrima stick again. Could just be to pick it up, but you never know...
Ah-ah. Abernathy is wise to such a move, and lashes out a hand to catch Feste at the wrist, aiming to immobilize his hand. Then he leans forward on one knee, resting a hand on the knife again -- cautiously. "Stop that. I need you to lie down," he comments, tersely. He must be under stress -- even if there's nothing in his face or demeanor to show it, his accent is back. Thankfully, it's not as muddy as, say, Cossack's. "Got to get the knife out."
Andruw-Feste winces, dropping the stick again as his hand is well, immobilized. Whaat, lay down? ...oh, that's right. Knife in stomach. Almost forgot about that, somehow. Andruw obeys, slightly begrudgingly, it would seem, but perhaps that's just the pain. "Ah..."
Abernathy-Adrian nods, easing forward in that half-crouch of his. Oh, look. A nest of security guards surrounding them, how nice. He glances up briefly, snapping off an order for someone to 'go get a damned medic', before hunkering over Feste and producing a piece of cloth from one of his many pockets. The things that come in handy ...
"Don't breathe," he advises -- before leaning forward, wrapping his hands around the knife. In a flash of bloody steel, it's free -- and he's applying pressure to the wound, jaw set grimly.
Andruw-Feste has yet to notice the guards hovering just out of his line of sight, which currently consists of... Abernathy. Just him. That's all he can manage to focus on, what with the blood loss.
As Abby pulls the knife out he utters a brief, low cry of pain -- well, that's sort of not breathing. Exhaling, at least. The rest of the air in his lungs is flushed out in a quick string of Norwegian. "<God, next time stop me before I do something so terribly stupid, if You would...>"
That knife is reversed in another of those elegant switches Abby seems too-comfortable with, almost as if he's going to finish poor Andruw-Feste off ... but that's not his intent. Instead, he uses the bloodied blade to slit Andruw's priest's frock up the side, exposing the wound in a nimble slight of hand involving knife and fabric pad. Then -- only then -- does he toss the knife aside, and it clatters to a stop by a guard's foot, leaving a bloody trail on the steps.
Abernathy-Adrian breathes out in a pained sigh, and leans forward to apply a little more pressure. "Medic's coming," he mutters, softly, the words meant for Andruw's ears only. "And I'm not sure God cares." No, he doesn't know Norwegian, but it's got a little in common with German -- enough that he can guess, anyway.
Andruw just squints. Yes, he is being defrocked. This is actually mildly disturbing. He eyes Abernathy briefly, mildly confused. What? But Abby can't speak Norwegian. "I doubt He is pleased with my impersonating His ordained servants," he wheezes. How nice, Andruw-Feste briefly reflects, God may not care but Abernathy sure seems to.
Granted, there ARE more favorable situations that Abernathy-Adrian could think of for dramatically ripping Andruw's shirt off, but now is not the time or place to elaborate on those.
The soldier-diplomat smiles a brief, humorless smile at the man under his hands. "Ordained of man, maybe, but I don't know if God cares about that, either. Now shut up." Those last three words are said ... almost fondly. Like he's almost worried.
Almost as if on cue, the crowd of guards -- more than a little confused by the whole violent scene -- parts, admitting the medic, a grouchy-looking young woman. She takes in the scene with a frown on her face -- a frown met by an almost innocent look on Abby's behalf -- before hunkering down next to the kneeling Abby and pushing him aside, to attend to Feste.
Abernathy-Adrian, displaced, sits back on his heels -- and scrubs at his bloodied hands almost reflexively, a little frown on his face now.
Abernathy effects some medical work on Feste.
Andruw-Feste manages a smile -- an amused, Foolish smile -- despite his injury, and opens his mouth to say something, only to shut it when he's told to. He shakes his head, just a tad, attempting to, well, hurt it more. Mf.
But soon Adrian in his vision is replaced with some new person -- some new *stranger* -- so he closes his eyes and allows himself to be attended to. Dying would, after all, be bad. Yes... oh wait, /there/'s Abby, he's just stepped to the side. He flashes Adrian another Fool's smile -- almost an 'I'm sorry', but...not quite.
It begs the question of whether or not he's gone and done this on purpose.
muse
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happy!
Date: 2003-06-05 08:02 am (UTC)Tho I coulda been so much more eloquent. I mean, some of my poses were just LAME. I guess this means I owe you another long, angsty scene in which I can do better. X)
But yes. Bravo! *claps* *giggles*
Hey, don't I owe you a drink now, or was that just if F won? XD
--CEM
Re: happy!
Date: 2003-06-05 08:12 am (UTC)On my part. The very last pose -- should be 'attempting not to hurt it more' instead of 'attempting to'. Or maybe that Andruw Nisse really is trying to hurt himself! *gasp* o_o
--CEM