Elspeth Ann Thomas Fry (elspeth_fry) wrote in v_nocturne_rpg, @ 2009-06-29 14:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | elspeth fry, michael west |
Mr. West and the Weapon Test
Offenbach... Specifically, Barcarolle, from 'The Tales Of Hoffman'
By Michael West's estimation, it was going to take a while before phonograph cylinder could gain in sufficient quality to rival an actual night out at a concert hall, but it was the perfect cerebral accompaniment to a quiet evening's reading in the ship's library. Hearing the subtle crackle of contact, the crudely recorded sound of violins inching themselves into a tentative appearance of flutes, Michael closing eyes for a second or two's picturing of the orchestra. The melodic build was a careful one and, once assured of its tempo, a quiet smile was given, before the man eased himself down into seat; his book opening to lay spine upon crossed legs and renew its intellectual acquaintance with the reader.
London was quiet, the Inquisition was at rest and the Whitechapel was in no danger of sinking. All was well with the world and music gently began to fill the air.
What could possibly go wrong with that?
A vigorous clomping of hard-soled boots progressed along the corridor. The ferocity with which the owner strode towards the library caused many a curious face to poke into the hallway, only to retreat with enough haste to risk whiplash. One of the Inquisitors trained for field hunting was on the warpath, it seemed, and her skirts were a whirling tide pool of blue and white fabric as she marched to her destination. The footfalls stopped with a scratch of grit on the hardwood. Her entrance was a perfect contradiction to the display of manly relaxation in an armchair.
Elspeth Fry cleared her throat. "Mr. West, would you mind answering a question for me?" She went on without waiting for affirmation. "What in the name of all that's holy is this meant to be?" She dangled a mysterious weapon between thumb and forefinger.
Elspeth had put on gloves to carry the offending object from laboratory to library. It was a 'portable lightning generator', according to the inventor, a weapon encased in rubber and capable of expelling a small bolt of electric power. The original mock-up was the size of a rifle, but he had redone the workings and made it small enough for easy concealment on a lady's person. Apparently, the diminished weapon had been singled out for Elspeth's exclusive use.
Glancing up with a frown, lit pipe in mouth, Michael seemed to reflect on the question with the utmost serious contemplation. Puff-puff-puff, went the smoke. One Inquisitor regarding the other's exasperated state of being with internalised amusement.
"Why, it's a..." The words trailed off and he took another puff, glancing down at the technological abomination with naught but a slight tilt of head. "It's a..." Removing the pipe from mouth, he used it like a pointer and gestured to the instrument in question. "Well, far be it from me to cast aspersions on a lady's personal property," he continued, delicately clearing throat for either effect or comedy timing, "but if I were to, uh... Hazard a guess?" Drawing in breath, Michael suddenly held up a finger for silence, hearing the music rise in a miniature crescendo and smiling in appreciation. Then glanced back at her, anew. "Oh yes," he spoke, just before Elsbeth reached the end of her tether, "I remember now... I believe your womanly expertise was sought out on the subject of, um..." The piped dab-dab-dabbed in the thing's direction. "Aesthetics. I do believe its intent is that of a weapon. Haven't located the triggering mechanism, have you?"
Head tilted with a raise of eyebrow and one could almost swear butter would not melt in his mouth.
"I have." Had Elspeth's chin tipped any higher, it would've afforded Michael a clear look up her nostrils. Though flushing pink and straining to breathe in the confines of her bodice, her expression was as maddeningly bland as his. "It's just here on the underside," she said. A gloved fingertip tickled at the switch hidden inside the lip of the rubber casing. Beneath that, the weapon was metallic, which explained its weight. She couldn't imagine how much the full-scale model weighed.
"The inventor suggested I put it through field testing. I must admit, I had hoped to test it beforehand." She continued to fiddle with the contraption. "It wouldn't do to get into a scrape and find it hasn't got the... stamina to finish the job. Don't you agree, Mr. West?"
Elspeth leveled the lightning generator at a lamp, just to the right of his head. She thumbed the switch. There came a great vibration. A bright, blue arc of electricity crackled across the library and struck the object. It was a lucky thing that the Inquisitor's hair was pinned on the crown of her head. Individual pieces, which had come loose, lifted towards the ceiling.
West's expression was one of frozen alarm. Taking a moment to sniff the ozone, Michael shifted in the chair, looked sideways at the incinerated lampshade, closed the book and rose to feet.
"Well..." Hands joined behind back and he probed the debris with an extended finger, then turned back to the cause of its demise. "I'd say that qualifies as a dedicated field test, wouldn't you, Ms Fry?"
Moving over to the one-woman apocalypse, Michael extended a hand to relieve her of the device, then thought better of it. Things which sparked were best handled by the... Handle, as it were.
"Your, um..." He began, indicating Elsbeth's hair with a look dangerously close to a grin, for a man looking at someone who could cast a few hundred volts through his system. "It's... Well, let's just say I don't think we'll be using your new plaything in any fashion parades, hmm?"
"What?" Baffled, Elspeth searched his exasperating face for explanation. Following his line of sight, she shelled out of a glove and patted at her formerly well-coifed hair. A few upright pieces crackled with static as she smoothed them into place. "Oh." She slapped the weapon and each glove into his palm and busied herself with pinning the strands.
"Well, indecent or not, it's certainly a small price to pay for saving someone's life," she said. "A far cry more useful than lying about reading novels, I'll wager." Going to his chair, Elspeth picked up the book and read its cover. Apparently, she had expected a crime novel or other bit of fictional fluff befitting a playboy such as Michael, and was disappointed to find him doing research. She closed it swiftly and set it aside. Inwardly, she hoped she had lost his page.
"Elspeth..."
Scratching forehead, Michael sighed in bemusement. Females were strange things, indeed... No doubt, several would-be authors within the Inquisition had already begun to devote entire chapters to them. They had to count as one of the most vexing, and yet simultaneously endearing creatures, imaginable.
"In all honesty," he leveled, "I was hoping you'd set the man straight. That he'd actually succeed in handing you the..." He glanced down at the still-smoking phallus-with-trigger in hand. Dear Lord, he never thought the 'gun' could look even more obscene than it already was, but this proved him wrong. Little wonder, really: It had just spent its load, as it were. "Fruits of his labour," Michael concluded, diplomatically, "but if it's any comfort, I'm sure you've single-handedly protected us from it going into mass production."
Elspeth, a widow who had been married seven years, was a lady of stature and decorum, but an innocent no more. So it was with a forthright expression and blunt words that she countered, "By 'us', I'm assuming you mean the dozens of men onboard the Whitechapel, who might have reason to fear its mass production. After all, given a few... modifications, we ladies might not need you at all." She pulled on her earlobe and cut around him. "In battle."
She went to an alcove on the other side of the library. A pot of still-warm tea and cups sat on a table. She poured herself a cup and added sugar. "What woman wouldn't eliminate the need for close-range confrontation, if given the choice?"
The lady Inquisitor's manner was certainly off-putting to some. West, though, found her an interesting conversational challenge. She was neither over the figurative hill nor seemingly one for gossiping about like a schoolmaid. Someone who could surprise oneself in discussion, as had just been demonstrated, but in a manner he found intellectually provocative. "In battle... Of course..."
Retrieving the book as the music came to an end, Michael ended the phonograph's task and closed his tome neatly in one hand, placing it nearby the machine. "Yes, the fairer sex do seem to prefer taking their shots from a distance, don't they?" He observed from lowered brow, watching Elspeth from her new locale. "Tell me, when was the last opportunity you were afforded to get up close and personal? Duty-wise, of course... I've noticed some are quite happy to make do with, say, a compact blade, although I've always been more of a machete man, myself. A good run-through can work wonders, don't you find?"
Thankfully, her back was turned. Elspeth's eyes ticked up and fixated on the wall sconce. The warm tea did nothing to soothe the flush of her cheeks and throat. "Not too long ago," she demurred. The cup rattled tellingly when set upon its saucer. She shored up her composure over a few ticks of the clock before turning to face West.
"I've noticed that a man's perception of a blade becomes curiously... distorted, when referring to his own weapon," she said carefully. "So perhaps you'll pardon my hesitance to believe you hunt with a machete. Maybe more of a... paring knife? Hmm?"
Lord, her mother would've had a fit, to hear Elspeth insinuating such things in polite company. Too, she would've wondered where her daughter came upon such common knowledge. She wasn't raised that way. But the groomsmen in her husband's stables had been a raucous bunch, and Carl had carried on like a regular lecher around them, especially when the horses were mating. It had scalded her ears and tested her patience. On one occasion, she had to physically restrain herself from bounding out of a stall, brush in hand, and informing them that he was not, as claimed, equipped like a horse.
"Well, there are times when one must be confined to a regular meat cleaver, for appearance's sake, although, I admit, a certain surgical refinement is desired when boning." Michael would be hard pushed to find her disagreeable for a divorcee. Frightful business, the early dying of one's spouse. Especially if you were still gifted with the looks and refinement of youth. In your prime, even. To think, she had yet to have children... Terrible waste of potential. Almost wicked, really.
The tell-tale scent of tobacco in the air, once more, as he exhaled from pipe. Elspeth's bequeathed weapon being silently turned over, absent-mindedly, in the other hand. "Perhaps you'd care to test the sharpness, some day? Compare measurements, at the very least, no?"
It was like watching a horrific accident unfold. Elspeth knew she'd better look away, and yet couldn't tear her eyes from the dreaded 'lightning' implement. Flip, flip... She stood transfixed, her throat dry and begging for a sip of the drink that waited in her hands. Mr. West loomed large in front of her. A bit of tea sloshed over the side of her cup and spread in a brownish stain on her saucer.
Only that minor slip saved her from gawking on endlessly. She breathed in through her nose. "Perhaps," she recovered. "But I find myself at a loss as to what I'd be comparing your weapon to, if only you and I were present. In case you don't catch my meaning, maybe you'd better pick up a different book, Mr. West. I suggest Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body. It's very instructive. There are pictures."
"Yes, I'd imagine there's even a pop-up edition... Whatever will they think up next?" Some preferred to defend themselves by adopting a lofty approach, which usually meant casting their opponent as some sort of savage. A position he was happy to occupy and even play into, should the situation warrant it. If it took her feeling like she could retain the mantle of Boadicea, for him to continue engaging in such conversational games, then far be it from Michael to instruct her otherwise. There were always advantage to being the wolf in sheep's clothing. Chiefly, being underestimated.
And if he could cause her to get that porcelain to produce its tell-tale rattle, one more time, into the bargain, then surely it was game, set and match.
"I'll have our valiant team of engineers take a fresh look at your, um, gift," he decided, bending arm at the elbow to bring the miniature weapon into visual frame. "Hopefully, the next version will be more acceptable to handle in public view. And perhaps have less chance of restyling one's hair. I take it that, as a customer, you'll let them know your own thoughts on the matter, at a time of your discretion?"
"Of course," she said.
It was true that Elspeth had spent most of her adulthood in the company of dim-witted men. She did not consider Michael West to be one of them, though she suspected his cosmopolitan lifestyle and financial successes had made him a soft man. As they had never been partnered in the field, she had seen no evidence to contradict her impression.
Mindful of spending too much time alone in the library with him (there were wagging tongues onboard), Elspeth knew she ought to take her leave. In doing so, she said, "Just mind that you return it promptly, Mr. West." She looked at the weapon a final time before departing, tea in hand. "It isn't a toy. Enjoy your evening."