pencilcase | open rp post

[He looks down at his cuffs for a moment, adjusting them-- though in actuality he's trying awkwardly to hide the fact that this isn't going at all how he planned and he really doesn't know what to do or say next. Why does she have to be so insufferably rude? It's not like he's going to arrest her. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. Which, he doesn't. Though, not that she knows that. Upon reflection, of course she should be hostile to him.]

... My apologies. I-- I did not come here to make your life difficult, Ms. Jones. It is only-- well. I was told that... you had died. So. I'm sure you can imagine my surprise.

[ She opens her mouth to speak; her brows descend precipitously. She closes her mouth again. Of all the things she'd expected - an apology wasn't at the top of the list. It wasn't near the top of the list. It catches her utterly off-guard, because she didn't know that Mandrake even knew how to give an apology. One that didn't sound smooth and confident, that is: she has no doubt that he can give politicians' apologies, the sorts that made him sound graceful and gracious and completely insincere.

That, though, sounded...sincere. It was halting and awkward. And she wants to be furious with him, for coming here and pretending to be genuinely taken aback, or furious with him for coming here at all, but when she tries to fixate on her anger all she can think about is him saying Kitty?

Why is that who I am to him? And why does her possible death make him stumble over his words like that? Why does he even remember her? She saved his life, yes, but his sort doesn't care about gratitude... ]

I didn't.

[ There. The truth. But, warningly - ]

And that's all I'll say about it, and do not ask me again or I will hit you. The door did well enough the first time; it'll work just fine for another go.

[ And finally, reluctantly, she sighs, and she says: ]

You should put ice on that.

[At the mention of the door, he rubs his nose again absently. His pride is possibly more bruised than his nose.]

--Ah. Yes, of course. You're right. I shall just summon some ice from my coat pocket here, shall I?

[ Please. She rolls her eyes at him immensely, then jerks her chin at the still-ajar door. ]

Inside.

[That gives him pause, and he blinks once. He expects her to tell him that it isn't her problem. He definitely doesn't expect her to invite him in, or to order him in that bossy manner-- his kneejerk reaction to which is "Do not tell me what to do." But he manages to suppress it.

So all that's really left is that awkward deer-in-headlights expression that only Kitty is capable of bringing out in him-- and it only lasts for a second. Blink and you'll miss it. It's gone in an instant, replaced by a somewhat stuffy and proper nod before heading inside without saying a word.

So far this has been a disaster from beginning to end-- at this point he no longer trusts himself to say anything.]

[ She can see that very brief flash of mulishness, and she's quite ready to respond to the inevitable haughtiness with a Fine, take care of it yourself, don't come back. But then he gets - For just a moment, he looks like a person. It only lasts for a moment, no more, and then he looks simply stuck-up and constipated again, but -

Well, he's not going on about how she doesn't have any right to tell him what to do. And he's not talking, which is a decided improvement.

So she pushes past him, scoops up some ice from their icemaker and drops it into a towel. She twists it expertly into an ice pack. She's done this plenty of times: she can't even count the number of times she's put ice on some injury or another, from her own skinned knees when she was a kid to the black eyes Fred and Stanley would get sometimes when there was a real fight to the blows patrons had been suffering lately from impatient Night Police officers. She knows what to do.

None too gently, she shoves the ice pack directly onto Mandrake's nose. Like hell she's not going to take the chance to cause a little bit of pain to him. All in the name of healing, of course. ]

Here.

[He lets out a sharp hiss of pain when she shoves the ice pack roughly onto his poor nose, but he knows better than to complain. He has never complained to anyone in his whole life, save to Bartimaeus. And he isn't about to start now. He doesn't want her to see him as weak or pitiable. Though that does prompt him to wonder why she's even doing this.

It occurs to him then that several moments have passed in silence and he hasn't said a word.]

... Thank you.

[ He doesn't say that sarcastically, or mockingly, or even grudgingly. It's awkward more than anything, and it sounds like he actually half means it. Kitty doesn't get it. She doesn't get what's going on here. Someone like him doesn't thank someone like her for her help. He just assumes that she's going to give it and then attacks her if she doesn't. There's no courtesy from someone like him -

Except that she's just heard it from him. Twice. Unprompted. Either he is playing some game here, a game that started with that quiet Kitty and has continued with niceties and decency, or being in this place has changed him. As much as it frustrates her to admit it...the latter seems more likely. The egotist she met those years ago wouldn't humble himself just to trick someone. Pride was everything to him. ]

You're...welcome.

[ She looks over at him, and reaches up and rubs her nose with her knuckles to hide her confusion. (It doesn't work well; her face gives away her uncertainty quite clearly, and just obscuring her mouth with her hand isn't going to help that.) Then she drops her hand, and tries to sound confident and brash again, but it's clear that his courtesy has thrown her off her stride. ]

You must really hate being here.

[Mandrake is usually a keen observer, but at this particular moment he's too wrapped up in his own problems to notice Kitty's confusion. He's thinking intently about how embarrassing this is and wondering again why she's doing this when he hears her second statement. It catches him off guard, and... actually startles a small, wry chuckle out of him.]

... Quite vehemently, yes. I feel I can confidently say it is one of the worst places I have ever had the displeasure of visiting.

Edited 2014-11-05 11:54 (UTC)

[ Kitty relaxes just a bit - not because it's a pleasant answer, but because it's something she can get angry at. A magician saying please and thank you and not once threatening arrest? That's strange and off-putting. A magician holding things in arch contempt? That's comforting, familiar, and something she can get her back up over. If she can just draw him into an argument, get angry, that will just be so much more familiar... ]

I have to imagine. A place does get much less nice when you're not the one who's in charge of it, doesn't it? So much better when you snap your fingers and everything rearranges itself just like you want it to. [ She leans forward; she's regaining momentum. ] I happen to think it's much better like this, of course.

[Mandrake's face flushes at Kitty's cutting remarks. That wasn't what he had meant at all-- if anything, it was an attempt at humour. Why must she turn everything into an argument, make everything so difficult? It even feels like he has been deliberately set up for that one-- what else did she expect him to say, after all? In the years he hadn't seen her, he had forgotten she was like this. This is what he gets for trying to be amiable. He regards her with a mild sense of frustration.

Strangely, a conversation he had some time ago with Edgeworth about the state of his own world pops back into his mind. Of all the things to remember now.]

... You are rather quick to jump to conclusions, aren't you.

[ Two years of keeping quiet and unnoticed had left her frustrated and angry. Two years of reading newspapers with headlines about the war, about the deaths, about Police Set Earlier Curfew and Prime Minister Declared Most Beloved In History and Minister So-and-So Opens Up About Being A Fashion Icon and Mass Execution of Traitors to Take Place Tomorrow have left her spoiling for a fight. Back at home, she didn't have the chance ever to engage. Here, though, with Mr Mandrake standing in front of her - He's a perfect target for her spleen.

Though it would be better if he were a little bit less...civilized. Less polite. More like what he used to be. Less apologetic and grateful. It would be better if he were easier to goad.

Still, it's good enough. ]

Was that the wrong conclusion, then? I mean, at home, we get to read all about how rapturously you all are treated when you go out to review the troops in America and how you love seeing your loyal subjects abroad. Or how you're all showered with adulation when you go to India. So it's can't be travel you dislike. Really, there's only one thing I can think of that's missing from this place, and that's obedience.

[That gets under his skin.]

If I it were indeed obedience I was missing, I certainly would not still be here talking to you.

[It comes out a little more peevish than he intended.]

[ That's -

Not a bad point. She looks at him, her mouth open as she tries to come up with some retort, but - It's sort of ignoring her point, because there's a difference between how you spend your individual moments and how you look at the world around you, but it does highlight what's strange. ]

Why are you here?

[ She comes up with a few uncharitable answers to that question. He's here because he want to talk with someone who knows just how impressive he is back home. He's here to feel powerful. He's here because she got away and he wants to figure out how to not lose again. But...He wanted to know why she's alive, and he asked it like he really cared. He called her by her first name, like they know each other. None of those explanations...None of them ring true.

So when she asks that question, it's not hostile like she wishes it was. It's honestly confused. She's really puzzled by him. ]

[He tries to keep his face impassive.]

... If I had ... if I had died that day, it would have solved a lot of your problems. And it would not have been your fault, either. Your disdain for me is plain. ... It is a puzzle I cannot work out.

[ So that's what it's about. She saved his life, he found out about it, he wants to...What? Recover his pride? Resolve having been at her mercy so that it doesn't reflect so badly on him? She thinks about lying again, about saying that she doesn't know anything about what he's talking about, that she just ran away, but he's got an irritating ability to see through her. No point in wasting time on it. She abandons the thought, and cuts to the quick of it: ]

It's not any sort of puzzle. You're a miserable tyrant, but that doesn't mean I'm about to leave you to die. It's not the right thing to do, no matter how I feel about you. [ But, trying once again to goad him into fighting her: ] Not that you've spent your time well.

[That does make him bristle.]

As if you would have any idea what I've done with my time-- do not presume to know me just because you read the papers.

[ Good. She crosses her arms; her brows come down again. ]

You've been spreading propaganda to get our people to go die in America. Am I wrong about that?

[That is the absolute last straw. He won't stand here and be abused by this girl who knows nothing about him. His mouth is running itself off before he even knows it-- a metaphorical outpouring of months of frustration.]

What would you have me do? World politics are not simply a matter of right and wrong, black and white, as you seem to believe they are. It was not my idea to go to war-- but what is the alternative? Leave America in the hands of criminals? Oh, or maybe you would have us withdraw immediately. Send the message to the rest of Europe that we're weak and vulnerable while they're already considering revolt. I'm sure that wouldn't result in another war immediately following, this time much closer to home.

Tell me, what is it exactly do you think I do all day? Sit around in parliament all day picking my nails? I have been trying to put a rest end this godforsaken conflict quickly to the best of my abilities. But do you know how difficult it is to get a room full of self-interested individuals all with their own agendas to agree to anything? Before I came here, I put my neck on the line to suggest a course of action that could end the war quickly. But the cabinet is full of fusty old men and they see me as nothing but a boy, [John, you are a boy, be quiet] and I got shot down so hard I am still feeling it.

So you tell me: how exactly am I supposed to handle a very delicate situation without being removed from the very position in which I can potentially enact change?

[ Far from cowing her, that tirade instead brings energy to Kitty's face, brightness to her eyes. She despises those endless debates at The Frog, because they're just endless nattering over details, and she's never been a person for details. She's always been a person for these big issues, these thorny questions, and for arguments where you don't have to cautiously avoid stepping on others' toes. She doesn't worry about that with Mandrake; as a matter of fact, she's eager to bring her heel down on his foot hard, because he really seems as though he could use such treatment.

She waits until he's finished, even though she does so restlessly; she watches him intently, impatiently, and no sooner does he finish than she launches into her retort: ]

The first thing is that you stop worrying about your career. If you want to do good, and you have a plan to do good, then you have to be willing to do what it takes to put it into action. Even if you have to give up your poncy suits and fine home as a consequence. The system is broken, the people at the top are all corrupt, and if they chuck you out then you stand up and realize that they were never going to change and you find some other way to do it. If you're not willing to do that very first thing, then nothing else will follow.

[ After that first little speech, however, she takes a moment to register that he actually is claiming that he wants the war to end. Another surprise from Mr. Mandrake - though that one it's not difficult to interpret as nothing of significance. After all, what minister doesn't claim to want the war to end? ]

And if we do withdraw, then what about it? We can't defend ourselves with all our people dead on foreign soil, either.

[ Foreign is said quite pointedly. ]

Do you listen to yourself? Yes, such ideals I suppose are all very pretty on paper. But consider that we live in the real world. All right, I shall give up my suits-- fine.

What next, though? When I am branded as an anti-government traitor? As I no doubt will be. It is not as if we can afford to have a rogue magician, after all. One rebellious magician is perceived as a much higher threat than one rebellious commoner. So how can I do anyone much good if I am on the run, constantly having to dodge the fifty-two demons chasing me, each belonging to a master more hungry than the next to be the one who gets to claim the fame of capturing me? I might be the youngest and most talented magician Britain has seen in several decades but even I cannot stand up against the whole cabinet.

And even then, where do you suppose that I go? Magicians aren't exactly known for acting out of their own best interests, as I'm sure you're well aware. No magician would risk hiding me-- nor would any commoner. On the street, on the run, I would be so busy trying to keep myself alive that I would be more than useless to your movement.

As to the war-- as I told you, I have been trying to work on a solution that will satisfy both parties. They will come around. I just need more time.

[ He argues well. She has to give him that. The last time she saw him, he was nothing more than arrogant bluster with a stupid haircut, and he didn't exactly show off his intellect. But whether he's gotten smarter, or whether he just hid his smarts back then, he's definitely coming across more than just bluster now. She crosses her arms, and gives a little half-smile in spite of herself - something eager, something challenging.

And her challenge now: ]

And what is your solution?

[A few years in parliament have honed his debating skills well, though he mostly tries to stay out of frays and remain a neutral party as much as possible.]

... The staff you helped me retrieve. Gladstone's Staff. It currently sits, if you can believe it, deep in a vault where no man, woman or demon can touch it.

[You can hear the disbelief and derision dripping from his voice. Those old fools.]

They know they could end the war with it. But the Prime Minister is too cowardly. Too afraid that he won't have the power necessary to wield it-- that he'll be replaced by whomsoever does. He can't see past his own desire for power enough to even do one thing that would end the war on his terms.

[ Helped me retrieve, he says. That's one way to put it. ]

Let me guess, though. You can wield it.

... I might be able to-- I also might not be able to. [There's no point in lying to her there-- she was there, she saw the last time he tried to wield the staff and failed miserably. It was embarrassing all around. But he was fourteen then, not yet at the height of his power...]

Whatever the case, we will not know unless we try.

fast and loose role-play

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