ofelia zhou deals in secrets. (consultancy) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-06-05 10:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, gillian goodwin, ofelia zhou |
i am the dice you roll in the alley, i am the pennies that come in handy.
Who: Ofelia Zhou & Gillian Goodwin
What: Self-defense lessons, a consulting arrangement, a token of gratitude.
Where: Ofelia's apartment.
When: Recently.
Rating: Tame.
Status: Complete!
Ofelia hit the ground hard, the breath driven out of her lungs, legs swept neatly out from under her—she struggled to get back to her feet, but then gave up and rolled back over, gasping. An hour ago, the gambler might have sprung back to her feet like a coiled snake ready to strike, but now she seemed tapped out, her reserves of energy depleted. It was done; she was done. She could see the hazy outline of a bemused grin above her, and then with a short laugh, reached out and caught the other woman’s hand. She was tugged back up to her feet, bouncing lightly on her heels. She could feel the thin sheen of sweat beneath her clothes, her usual attire eschewed for loose-fitting trousers rolled up to the knee, exposing the glinting metal of her brace and twisted whorls of scar tissue. Several mats had been unrolled in the centre of her creaking wooden attic floor, decking the apartment out for this impromptu self-defense lesson. The samurai moved as most fighters did (and Ofelia had had long years to examine their habits, memorise their movement and map their bodies), whereas the thief moved in quick, short bursts of agility instead, her stamina not as enduring. She tired more quickly, her knee now aching and tossing up old complaints—but there was something cathartic and cleansing about this sort of exhaustion, a good workout bled onto the floor. And there was something indefinably good, too, about seeing Gillian roaming the confines of her small apartment. A mark of trust, a show of the hand. Ofelia limped over towards the kitchen island and nabbed her bottle of water, draining the last of it in one quick gulp. “So, tell me—how miserable was I compared to your usual squires?” “Got to keep working on that hold of yours,” Gillian replied, and if, in another context, that might’ve escaped as a stern critique then it failed to become so here—especially with that grin of hers lingering as it was. She didn’t immediately follow along toward the kitchen area, and instead, once Ofelia had finally absolved herself of practice sparring, Gillian had taken up the dutiful task of rolling up the mats she had brought and greatly widening the space the between the two, when there had, mere moments before, been hardly any at all. And while Ofelia had found herself at her eventual limit, the trained fighter of the two clearly had a greater reserve of personal stamina and continued to show as much in the grace of her movements. She had dressed for similar purposes, with trousers neatly folded up and her overshirt set aside for something sleeveless that would not impede her movements—all of which had been up for purposeful display, lessons taught by sharp observance and practice. She had shown a great deal of promise, Gillian had thought to herself in retrospect, rolling up and tying each mat, collecting them together in a neat pile as not to take up all functioning space in the apartment. Another interesting detail that was, and something that kept the samurai’s usual keen attention focused elsewhere. There were constructive reasons why she had come, a solid purpose to construct her goals around. But when the training was over, and the samurai stood up to reorient her thoughts, Gillian found her mind lingering on other matters instead. “Otherwise,” she said, grabbing her shirt in one hand and making her way over, “not bad, all considered. Even for a novice.” The wolfish grin was covered up as she pulled the fabric over her head, making herself seem more civilised and presentable once again (no blood and broken armor this time). Gillian’s gaze roamed elsewhere, following wherever the light from the windows played across each item of furniture, books, collected bric-a-brac and all things which comprised the living space of one Ofelia Zhou. The place was homey but slightly run-down, the old building showing its age in ill-fitting floorboards and chipped walls, though this apartment had been restored and fixed up as much as possible. Ofelia’s living room was an organised area (a sign of a tidy mind), something halfway between a home and an office: paperwork strewn across her dining table, filing cabinets standing guard at the back of the room, a pistol holster slung over the back of a chair. The main mark of domesticity was a cat napping in the windowsill, a patch of darkness curled up in the sunshine, occasionally cracking open one eye to squint at the two humes and their activities Ofelia leaned against the kitchen counter, watching as Gillian squirmed back into her clothing. “I haven’t been called a novice in about twenty years,” she protested (though a smile still curled at the corner of her mouth). “I don’t miss those days, honestly. I was a pain in the behind to teach.” A bit like Audrey, if she stopped to think about it. The gambler was still a little breathless, her lungs hitching, but over time her breathing evened out and returned to normal, heartrate thudding as it slowed. The samurai was not so winded, and she moved easily to lean against the counter as well. Arms crossed in what was meant to be a show of consideration, her posture was kept loose now, relaxed, her posture settling comfortably as her own breath evened. Ofelia’s admission brought some manner of further amusement. Gillian knew her share about difficult students—after all, Rivalen Beau had never been less than an interesting challenge during the years she had spent teaching him. “Admittedly, my shoulder might have a protest or two,” she said, glancing sideways as her attention was eventually won over from the drowsy feline resting in the windowsill. Whatever confident attitude had been ever so slightly encouraged earlier (blame it on the physical exertion or simply her own amusement, that which was not so tightly-reined here) eventually gave way to a more sincere expression. “Picking up on things well enough, are you?” Gillian might’ve admitted, at least to herself, that offering to teach personal lessons in self-defense (and to set aside the proper time for it at that) was not something of a regular occurrence. Therefore, her success might not be best measured solely on her own observations, recollections sifting through her thoughts idly of how well Ofelia was able to reproduce the movements she was shown. “Slowly but surely,” Ofelia said, glancing sidelong at the other woman. “All of my past lessons have always been on stealth—moving nimbly, climbing, sneaking. Avoiding being spotted in the first place, to sidestep this whole matter. But considering how things have gone in the city, it’s looking more and more likely that I need this better grounding in combat. Avoiding trouble doesn’t work out so well when trouble comes swanning through the city, smashing through buildings and knocking over towers.” She was talkative as usual, all bubbly and chatty as she fell on her old habits. But even as she spoke, Ofelia was mentally reviewing the progress they’d done today: each time she’d reacted faster and faster, picking up on Gillian’s tricks to use her lighter weight against bigger enemies. Knocking them off-balance, kicking their feet out from under them, pinning arms without resorting to brute strength. “Can’t always rely on the kindness of passing fighters either, I’d wager,” Gillian said, making light of the aforementioned scenario. She knew it to be a reasonable reaction, however, and a sensible method of prevention against certain risks—that she herself had been able to intervene at all during the last assault had only been due to a stroke of luck. There was no use counting on events to occur in such a way a second time (or so she had found reason to remind herself of). And the gambler herself surely knew not to constantly pin her own survival on such blind luck. A bodyguard’s instincts were what they were, however, and she did find some modicum of personal interest in ensuring the safety of the principal in some manner or another. Or friend, it now seemed (whatever it was that she had decided to settle on at last, making sense of prior actions and events as she thought was best at the time). “Especially those who never bothered to learn as much about avoiding trouble,” Gillian said, allowing herself a hint of a grin and deciding the present company might well be included (headlong into danger, and that, perhaps, was a hallmark of a mercenary—for the right incentives, at least). “Ought to consider sharing that insight of yours as well,” and if this was a slight hint to another matter she’d been considering, well, it was a fair enough opportunity now wasn’t it? “Why, Gillian Goodwin, would you like to scale buildings with me?” Ofelia asked innocently, still trying not to smirk over her water bottle at the samurai. “I’ll warn you right off that bat: the armour won’t do very well up on the slippery shingles. One wrong foot and that weight will take you tumbling right off the rooftop.” The knowing glint in her eye seemed to confirm that her thoughts were buzzing around more insights she could offer than a thief’s beginner training (though of course we mean bard). “Far nimbler outside the armor, as you’ve just seen,” Gillian countered easily, falling back into that cocksure attitude that wanted so eagerly to replace her usual stoic and commanding demeanor. That mask had fallen long to the wayside now, for the longer she remained in the presence of her current company, the more at ease she seemed to become. “Careful who you’re challenging, Ofelia Zhou,” and the name slipped off her tongue these days far easier, “you might end up with more than you bargained for.” Gillian took this time to reach around for her own water bottle, her attention noticeably wandering again to smaller details. She toyed with the cap the same way she had with a certain potion bottle, her thoughts moving from one detail to the next as if looking for a clear route forward. “Like a job offer, for instance,” she said, and drank her share of water as if it had been the most casual suggestion in the world—and not something she’d spent many hours pondering on. It was a subject they’d danced around a few times before, and it had crept up on Ofelia at stray moments: when writing out the invoices for another case, meeting other clients, gathering business cards and evidence, sitting up late over a candle and a cup of coffee in her apartment. Contemplating how she could just as easily sit across the desk from Gillian and her black-armoured men instead, poring over maps of other cities. Were there enough hours in the day to do both? Ofelia disengaged from the counter and started fussing around in the cabinets and fridge instead, locating plates (two of them) and some cold chicken. Her stomach gave out a small rumble once she started the task, hunger sinking in from burning up so much energy on the mats. It gave her time to mull over the issue for a few more moments. “I’ve given it quite a deal of thought,” she finally said, frankly. “I mostly work alone, but I admit the idea of supporting a group engagement is… interesting. I enjoy a challenge, and it’d be different from my usual. What sort of consultancy did you have in mind? Investigating your clients and targets, evaluating potential assignments in other cities…? I couldn’t exactly get involved in battlefield tactics, that’s your area of expertise” (she was honest about her strengths and weaknesses) “but I could see myself preparing informational dossiers for your team, perhaps. Assessing the lay of the land and the people involved, whenever you’re working with unknown variables.” Evidently she had given it some thought. Gillian, meanwhile, leaned back on the counter with her water bottle, watching with some amount of surprise and fascination as Ofelia divested her energy in laying out her thoughts. Likely as not she had prepared for a different reaction, or more attempts at persuasion at the very least (though she didn’t consider herself a slouch when it came to the act of recruiting), and it took the samurai a moment to repurpose her own thoughts. Even so, or maybe it was simply the lingering remnants of adrenaline, she found herself with a slight thrill that was akin, perhaps, to victory. “Thought I’d start you off with something less complicated at first,” she said, hardly moving from her own spot at the opposite end of the kitchen, Gillian’s gaze moving distractedly to Ofelia’s hands as she worked. “A slow integration, to see how well it suits you, or doesn’t. Assuming you’ve time for it, I’d have you come around to the offices and learn how the company operates its business.” Recruitment and training weren’t unusual at all, of course, and it sounded simple enough as she presented it. However. Try as she might to pawn the entire proposition off as business as usual, now that she’d gone so far as to express the ideas aloud, Gillian stood in place and realized how strange it was to make so many accommodations. She flipped the half-empty bottle around in her hands idly, reminding herself of the business incentives instead—a focus of her thoughts away from herself. “An hour or two during the week,” she continued, “as the schedule allows.” “Of course. With every job comes the apprenticeship—I’ve been running my own protege through her paces the last few years. I wouldn’t expect you to toss me onto the payroll without question, since you’d need to see how I go through my paces first.” But Ofelia’s voice was already warming as she warmed to the prospect itself, sounding more and more acceptable the longer it sat there in the open, voiced aloud for once. “A slow integration sounds perfect. See how we work together.” Starting to cook dinner gave her something to do with her own hands, a distraction to keep her busy. Ofelia hadn’t even asked whether Gillian wanted to stay for dinner; it was simply assumed as a matter of course, an executive decision made on their behalf. (And if it was a reason to keep the other woman around for longer, it didn’t need mentioning.) “I warn you in advance, though,” Ofelia said, “I’m very good at what I do, but not very good at cooking. Letting me touch this chicken is probably a bigger gamble than anything else we’ve done.” There was a sizzle from the frying pan as it heated up. Taking this as her cue, Gillian discarded her bottle on the counter behind her once again and moved across the kitchen. “How’s that?” Sliding in to the rescue, or so it appeared—this now to be an effort performed it seemed quite naturally and without thinking, Gillian stood in front of the stove to gain a better view. So caught up was she in the conversation, there hadn’t been a thought spared to question the unfolding scene, and instead, found herself adjusting the heat of the stove to what seemed to be adequate. After giving the frying pan and the chicken in question some proper looking over (and how often did she herself find time to be in the kitchen?) , she turned her attention to Ofelia. “Can’t be so difficult, I’d wager,” she said, glancing down with a bemused grin and thinking nothing for the fact that she’d been subtly corralled into staying for dinner. Gillian gestured toward the chicken. “Assuming there’s some plan for it.” “I always have a plan.” Once again, it was the playful mock-affront which Ofelia delivered so well, her freckled nose twitching as if she’d heard something distasteful. “Or—well, save for the times when I don’t, as you’ve seen yourself. I was never an actress, but improvisation is a useful talent nonetheless.” They took up shared ranks in front of the stove, Ofelia giving way easily as Gillian started rolling up her sleeves, a woman with a job to do. “A couple hours a week, then,” the gambler said, and it sounded like a promise. And then she added, more softly: “I need to repay that debt I owe you, besides.” Gillian offered a meaningful sideways look and found, with a scattering of surprise, as the words sifted out out of her all at once. Rather that she might have formed another joking and casual dismissal at the topic—but instead, the samurai only picked at her sleeve and found herself distracted, far and away from her natural course. But the oil in the pan glistened with heat, and the flames of the stove continued to snap, and so Gillian reached around for the chicken and allowed the matter to lie. No reflection on the past, and no room for her to say there was no debt, and nothing that she considered left to repay. For what would that say to her actions? Charity and heroism and the kind hearts of men, all such ideas be damned (no virtuous force had she to send herself off to bloody battle), the matter was done and that—she professed to herself, resolutely, was that. “And this?” She asked, plate in hand, the question open-ended as she turned her gaze toward the pan. “A small token of repayment. For the training, I suppose, not the life-saving.” Ofelia’s shoulders moved in a shrug; she would likely never stop counting the ticks and tallies, this ledger imprinted on her soul as clearly as if scrawled there in blood. But then she reached for the cupboard and its trove of spices and garlic, and seemed, at least, content to set that thought aside for tonight, with good food and good company. There was a bottle of white wine in the fridge. That, too, would go well with the rest. The two went quickly to work at dinner, falling into an easy rhythm beside one another in the confines of the small apartment kitchen, each woman as privately resolute as the other. Gillian spoke with Ofelia further about the Black Lions, their plans and ideas of future work, of lessons in self-defense, and further time spent in similar good company. It occurred to her not at all how, slowly but unmistakably, her world had begun to alter. |