rianne schulte has a bad feeling about this (riannes) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2013-01-08 19:52:00 |
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She didn’t need friends, and especially not a family. Rianne had four siblings of her own, back at home, and she wasn’t particularly fond of any of them. She wasn’t even sure if she needed friends, let alone wanted any. She had resisted it as far as she could; she was at IVI to stop her power and wanted to divert all of her efforts into that, no matter how hopeless an exercise it was becoming. Yet, somehow, a few people had crept under her skin. It was the other side of her power, being able to tell when someone was genuine. When there were no fronts to hide behind, Rianne would even warm to those people. Trust was a matter of honour for her, something that she would always reciprocate in full. Even though she differed from these people in terms of opinions, upbringing and even experience she would make some kind of effort. Lena, who could be so difficult, was someone that Rianne felt some kind of unspoken affinity with. Marine, who Rianne had originally dismissed as someone who had a thoroughly different experience of life to her, had turned out to be someone that she had far more in common with than she’d originally imagined. Nawal, her roommate, was one of the people that Rianne had real affection for. The other girl had been a mystery at first, but had also continued to surprise her as time had passed. It was strange, how things turned out to be different from one’s original expectations. As she stood beside the pool table and leaned against a pool cue, the common area strangely empty, those thoughts were the ones that hit her. She had only had the one conversation with Sol, but it had been enough to determine that he seemed truthful enough. Angry, but truthful. Perhaps unnecessarily so, but Rianne was in the frame of mind to welcome it. She twisted her hands around the pool cue, wondering slowly if he’d actually show up. She was intrigued, enough to want to talk to him a little more. The door rattled open on its hinges without his actually touching it, and Solomon came sauntering in. Somehow, the pool table in the rec room had turned into his lodestone for hanging out with girls this week. Solomon lived by territory and setting, each friendship instinctively carved into its own predetermined physical space. His usual haunt with Sel was their dorm room; Omar was the Spanish classroom after hours; his nightmare cohorts were the artificial lakeside or a floor lounge after midnight; Eden was the basketball court. And now: pool. He was carrying something when he entered; it looked like a few opaque bottles dangling from his right hand. They clinked together as he settled his weight against the table, nodding hello to the Belgian. “Safe,” he said automatically. It was a greeting from his own lingo and he seemed to realise that a second later, adding: “Hullo.” She watched his entrance, intrigued and attempting to be unimpressed at once. He liked to display his power, whereas she loathed her own. It was an interesting dichotomy between the two; the contradiction between their attitudes towards the abilities that they had. Sometimes one could show them off, use them to an advantage, and Rianne could only imagine being able to show off. She raised her eyebrows at his entrance, at the clinking of the bottles. Evidently Sol Tyler had a few more tricks up his sleeves that she hadn’t anticipated. She moved, picking up the pool cue gently and moving to lean against the pool table instead. “You any good?” she asked him, abandoning pleasantries in favour of nodding at the pool table. He may have liked to show off, but she couldn't help feeling an odd affinity with him. Fellow misanthropes, perhaps. Rianne wasn't certain yet. Solomon watched the table warily, as if it were a living creature about to lurch awake from its sleep. He hadn’t had much opportunity to practice while at IVI, especially after making a point of not playing with Carter. But... “Well enough,” he answered. “There wasn’t much to do back home, but we’d hit the billiards table at the local pub ‘cos they never charged us for a round. Or two. Or three.” Sol placed the bottles on the smooth green felt of the table and traded them in for a cue stick, which he then rolled between his hands, testing the weight and balance of it. The bottles were unmarked, unlabelled: nondescript but sloshing with some sort of liquid on the inside. “It was down to that, poker, drinking, skanking at concerts, DJing whenever I could get at a table. But billiards often, yeah. You?” He rattled off the memories easily, casually. Sol’s life could be neatly grouped into Before Capture, After Capture, and After IVI: three distinct categories that offered vastly different experiences. Try as he might to hide it, thinking back to Before Capture was still an exercise in bitterness and restraint – the all-too-brief visit to London had cemented it. Rianne gave little other acknowledgement to his words than a brief, curt nod. She leaned forwards over the pool table, where the coloured balls were neatly arranged ready for a game to start. She arranged the cue, ready to start a game, and then looked over at him slowly. “A fair amount,” she agreed. “I used to work in a bar.” Rianne leaned over the pool table and, in one smooth and well-practiced movement, broke the neat arrangement of balls. She watched them roll in different directions and then click against one another, before turning her attention to the unmarked bottles that Sol had brought. “Promise it’s not poison?” she asked him, picking one up and looking it over carefully. Sol chuckled. He was standing surprisingly still for once, eyes flicking back and forth as they tracked the movement on the table, the wave that spread across the board. “No such promise – it all depends on how good my roommate was. I asked for strong shit, so it probably tastes grimey, fair warning.” He plucked one of the other bottles from the table. There were four in total. “Roomie got back from rescue ops, and he does alcohol manipulation. Got the clearest type he could make, so this might be close to vodka. Or rubbing alcohol, dunno. Suppose we’ll find out? Got some cranberry juice in there too, just so’s it’s drinkable.” She opened the bottle, sniffing it gingerly. She didn’t trust it, despite his honesty, but the smell was not as repugnant as she’d feared. The sweetness of the cranberry was there, and as she turned her attention back to Sol she gave him a wary look. She didn’t trust many people, and he’d shared contraband alcohol with her. She felt as though she needed it, though, and she held it out to look at it once more. “Let’s give it a go, then,” she prompted him. Caution be damned, she didn’t know how else to feel any better about everything. It was, indeed, a wary act of trust – and one that he didn’t vocalise or verbalise, giving no disclaimers of This is well secret so don’t tell anyone about it, yeah? Because it went without saying. Alcohol was one of the most precious commodities on this compound, doled out in sparing doses every Saturday, three measly portions per. You’d have to be a bloody idiot to not immediately grasp the discretion of the situation. Sel Sarin was the very definition of caution, a boy who thought before he leaped and ran his contraband experiments with a businesslike acumen that Solomon could never harness. Accordingly, Sol didn’t often extend his roommate’s favour often. Yet he treated this exchange nonchalantly, his manner blasé, as if it were nothing more than tossing someone a can of Coke – but the entire time Sol was watching her carefully, gauging the girl’s reaction. The lack of hysterical oohing and aahing led to a flicker of approval. Rianne didn’t seem like someone who would take the secret and run, or blab to the authorities, or more devastatingly, chirp the news to fellow thirsty students. He leaned over the table, lined up his shot, missed the pocket, winced, then took a big swig from his bottle. Another wince: “Not good, but not gonna kill us either. Ask and ye shall fuckin’ receive. You think they’ll let us have pub night this week?” Her laughter at the very idea was short, almost a soft bark of bitter skepticism. “I wish,” she told him. She watched him, a hint of amusement visible in the corners of her lips, and then swapped the bottle for the pool cue. He was right, it wasn’t a good drink. But it was better than nothing. Silent, she took her own shot. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible. Something hit, but no balls gone from the table yet. She stared at the coloured balls as they slowed to a halt, thinking about the idea of pub night. “How about New Year’s?” she asked. “It’d be nothing on my original plans, mind you.” The rhythmic clack clack clack of the heavy, weighted plastic balls was strangely comforting – they sped over the smooth felt of the table, obeying cause and consequence, friction and kinetics. Omar would probably be able to explain the physics of it better. (Sol resisted the urge to tap the side of the table with a single finger and send a zigzagging wave of vibration that would’ve knocked the blue #10 into its pocket. No cheating, they’d agreed on that – and more importantly, she’d be able to tell before he did it.) “Considering the bullshit that’s going on and how no one at this school’s helping out and we all know it, least they could do is give us some drinks to cope. Not like our being juiced is going to mess up these rescue ops any.” Sol spoke dryly, knowing well the power of juvenile drunkenness to distract, to numb, to apply a foggy film over everything. “Or mebbe we’ll take care of it ourselves, in an example of youthful–” Entrepreneurship was the right word here, but he stalled trying to find it. Couldn’t dredge up ingenuity either. Finally settled for: “Cleverness. Youthful cleverness. We can probably put some sort of party together, all our powers combined, like.” Clack, clack. One went in. Her smile grew as she watched him sink the ball. “Nice,” she told him, appreciative. Throwing together a New Year’s party with the people left at IVI, however, didn’t sound as though it were an appealing idea. “Not sure,” she admitted. “Have you seen who’s here? IVI’s finest collection of total fucking basket cases and drama queens,” she told him, unable to resist rolling her eyes towards the ceiling at the thought of it. Rianne took another swig of the liquid, and then another for good measure. It couldn’t hurt, after all. “I suppose I would be able to tell if the fun’s about to get stopped by the administration,” she remarked quietly. It seemed awful to think about trying to let loose when people were missing, but the moment that she thought of her friend she pushed that thought away. She had to live with her decision, right or not. Leaning against his pool cue and practically using it as a walking stick, Sol went over his mental list of the people still present at the school. It was small and diminished list compared to IVI’s usual bustling population – but between the people who’d opted out of rescue, and the ones who’d returned since, it was a decent number. “Some ain’t so bad,” he said, sounding shockingly diplomatic for once in his life. Solomon was more than aware that his personal shortlist comprised the arguable worst of IVI: Devon, Laurel, Coralie, Jonas, Ted. But then again, there were the others: “Though some are absolutely fucking unbearable, yeah. I heard Karim and Lana might be putting something together but I reckon she hates me now and vice versa, so it might be a moot fucking point.” Then. One idea brushed up alongside another idea, and Sol sent her a sidelong look while downing more of his drink. “Wait, get me. So, say someone’s doing something bit less than legal. And other someones clock this and come running to stop it, all pissed. You’d be able to tell? If that was happening?“ His memory darted back to London and his stomping grounds. Their lookout was normally a spindly kid with long legs and a loud voice. What if it could be a vol? “Really?” she asked him, unable to hide her disbelief. She could think of maybe one or two, as she was quite fond of Clem. She held a great deal of affection for Mo, also, but one else came to mind. Present company excepted, of course. She considered his round of questions carefully, moving forwards to take her own shot at the pool table. “Don’t you even think about it,” she told him calmly, turning to glance at him before taking her shot. That tell-tale twinge in her spine had been enough, and that was probably not even related to her powers. His thought process was easy to read; he’d already admitted to various misdemeanours. Another ball went in. Triumphant, she looked over her shoulder at him, catching one hand in her unruly red hair before placing the cue down in favour of the drink once again. She allowed herself a smile. “Why not?” Sol asked baldly, bluntly. “If I’d’ve had someone like you two years ago, I might not have gotten caught, mebbe wouldn’t have ended up in this yard in the first place. So I take it back, mate: your power can be plenty useful. If used proper.” But it was all theoretical, the deed long-done and his sentence issued – there was no use clamouring over the past. The more interesting question, to his mind, was the future and what he might do with it. He gave a crooked grin at her small smile, her victorious look. “Nice. Don’t get too cocky yet though, ‘cos–” Clack and he didn’t sink another pocket this time, but he did knock two of Rianne’s targets further away from theirs, while inching his own closer. The not-entirely-vodka was doing its job: he was already feeling looser, some of the tension winnowing out of his limbs. So it was possible to decompress and have some fun in the midst of school-wide panic and despair. Good to know. She watched the table, shooting a slight glare at him as he hindered her own game, drinking a little more of the not-vodka. “Don’t get too cocky,” she mimicked his earlier words, complete with a soft attempt at his strange accent. Her own shot was not much better, more concentrated on throwing his game off than aiding her own. That smile held a hint of malevolence, but it was only fleeting before it was replaced with the same small one of before. “I didn’t think of it as useful,” she remarked, removing the cue from the table. “I wanted to be able to turn it off when I want to. Only made it worse. I suppose it could be useful,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Is it,” Solomon said, more as confirmation than an actual question. “So apart from trying to turn it off, how you practice it in training, then? Blindfold you and have people try to throw swings at you from behind? Imagine you could probl’y duck, dodge that shit in time, with your powers.” Beat. “If y’could get the bullshit side effects under control, that is.” He was unduly fascinated by the question of this Belgian girl and her abilities and their possibilities, surveying her over his bottle and over the green expanse of the table. Sol had never been quite this intrigued about a particular ability before: Eden’s earthquakes were the simplest to comprehend, even telepathy was fairly straightforward, and Omar’s – well, his were confusing and went right over Sol’s head, but at least he could see their physical effect in-person. Cerebral, sensory powers were still a fair bit outside his experience. Rianne gave him no reply, concentrating on her own drink once again. The thoughts were lingering already, perhaps it could be of use. Sometimes it had, alerting her to bad intentions and danger in her own life, but the idea of using it for her own gain hadn’t been one she’d ever thought of. “Use it for my own gain? Maybe other people’s?” she asked him, eyes narrowed as she tried to use that enhanced intuition to determine what his motives could possibly be. A shrug. “I’ll think about it.” Other people’s, which obviously meant his own. “Mebbe,” he eventually granted, infuriatingly vague. But then Solomon smirked again, turning his attention back to the unfolding game at hand, content to let the matter lie for now. In his usual arrogance, he assumed that Rianne could be won over. Eventually. And in his usual brashness, the concept of caution dropped from his mind once more while he stared at the layout of the game and the impossible shots he had to make. He shook his head, impatient, playful, no longer giving a shit. Then sprawled out over the table, cue balanced in his hands and jutting over his shoulder... and Sol prepared to reach for his power, the tremors that would ripple through the wooden stick, the kinetics that would knock the balls loose and into the pockets he needed. What Sol hadn’t bargained for, however, was the rapid reaction that Rianne had. She felt the change as the slightest of tingles up her spine, knowing that he was about to try and cheat. His intentions had changed, and she was immediately aware of it. She looked sharply at him, and just as he was readying the shot she reached across to hold the cue down with her hand. Stopping him from taking the shot, she glared down at him. “Nice try,” she remarked lightly, watching him closely in case he tried to do more. “Maybe there is some good in this power, after all.” Solomon rolled his eyes and withdrew, but there was still an incorrigible grin lurking on his mouth, which he masked behind another liberal sip of the semi-foul cranberry concoction. Test passed once more, experiment failed once more. “Cheers,” he said. |