Description: A monk and a Frenchman walk into a bar...
There's a certain ambience in bars like these. A combination of factors impossible to replicate. It's gotta be the genuine article or bust.
You just can't fake cigarette smoke like that. Hanging in the air, a dense grey haze, gently stirred by the ceiling fans. Or the distinct texture of peanut shells on the ground, a carpet of broken husks so dense the floor is invisible in places. Then there's the noise, the lifeless drone of a television tuned to a repeat telecast of a minor-league sports match. What sport doesn't really matter...since nobody's paying attention.
No, no. People come here to drink. To marinate their livers in beverages the colour of urine, with the approximate flavour of cardboard. The unique kind of cheap tap beer. The sort of beer where...you're not really sure you're tasting a drink, or just chewing on one of those disposable coasters.
There really isn't much life in places like these. No jukebox, much less a live band. Not even a pool table.
But...tonight, well. Tonight, there's a floor show. Improv drama, at that. Very indie. Very cultural. Very hip.
As in...dislocated hip. Possibly a shattered pelvis, a few broken ribs. Broken bones, anyway. No question about that, considering how that guy in jeans and an alcohol-soaked cotton shirt is being shoved into the hardwood bar counter. And vomiting. He's one of the regulars, so the folks here are used to him puking his guts. Just not so...enthusiastically.
There's another man holding him, a much taller individual in a leather jacket and red pants. With green hair. The rest of the bar is shying away from him. -He- just walked in a few minutes ago, and started asking questions.
Apparently, he didn't like the answers.
"Now," Remy says, pleasantly, "perhaps you'd like to repeat that, hm?"
When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can go doooowntoooown... o/~ e_e
There is a certain halt to Frei's steps as he looks at the sunken glass door of this tiny little dive on the outskirts of Southtown, one of the local bars filled with people who don't have anywhere to be and thus are always present... regulars who have worn themselves into the booths and chairs like a creek turning a jagged stone into a smooth pebble. The dazzling lights of Southtown usually don't reach these bars, and maybe Japanese culture is to blame.
But back in the days of yore -- days which, for their own reasons, are haunting the monk lately -- this type of seedy establishment, scattered like buckshot through a sprawling Chinese metropolis, was once his dojo. While others were learning to parry-thrust-riposte or proper mantis stance, Frei was learning how to dodge broken bottles and exactly how many rams of the forehead to the bar was just shy of enough. While is master, like the Monkey King, sat back and tipped his Sapporo into the air. Salud! To your health.
The fight with the bouncer isn't easy; even at 27, Frei's youthful appearance and mode of dress make the meat mountain he's dealing with skeptical, but it's tough to argue with a state-provided ID, particularly with red hair and green eyes in a world of black/black 130 5'11". The movers were finally done and Frei has a place to live. To celebrate he's going to this tiny little cantina, said to have the best Long Island in the city.
He enters, the passing of the door behind him fluttering the russet brown tails of his long bandanna behind him, the orange light of the street making his features blurry. Something is seriously wrong with this scenario.
"...uh."
Situational awareness is important for any martial artist. Or brawler. Or anyone who's in the business of pounding other people's faces in, really. And while Remy may have a healthy disdain for all self-proclaimed warriors, that doesn't mean he lacks a fighter's /skill/, or a fighter's sixth sense. The samurai of old called it zanshin. Remy doesn't have a name for it. If he calls it anything, he calls it instinct.
That instinct tells him that someone new has just stepped into the bar. Even though his back's turned towards the entrance, Remy's well aware of Frei's presence.
Of course, that might be simply due to the sound of the door opening, and the sound of footsteps on the short flight of stairs leading from the street to the bar room. Because, really, the bar's pretty quiet...aside from the sound of the TV and the soft whimpering of the hapless guy in Remy's grasp. Most of the bar patrons, and the bartender, are just sitting or standing round in terrified silence.
With a final shove, Remy releases his victim. The man spills to the floor, knocking a glass off the countertop on his way down. The man bounces, with a distinct squeal.
Remy turns his head, just enough to regard Frei.
"Yes?"
The appearance of the person that just addressed him really throws Frei for a loop. In all honesty it's because he's not made of clay, and there is a certain... rough attractiveness to Remy at the core. But there's something more to it that actually leaves the monk paralyzed for a moment as his brain attempts to sort through and prioritize far too much sensory data at once.
"You just knocked over that guy," pipes in Logical Frei, who in absence of any interpretive data has descended into pure narrative mode. This is not exactly helpful, but it gives Interpretive Frei time to work things out. Golly, he's tall. He clearly knows how to fight, or at least beat the bejeezus out of someone else. What pretty long hair.
Something is missing in this mental model.
~ Internal monologue? ~
Ah yes. That's right, Alma's gone evil.
Shaking hands, Interpretive Frei and Logical Frei nod their agreement and wander off, leaving only Philosophical Frei in their wake. You can almost see him pop onto the monk's shoulder dressed in an old Chinese-style ministerial outfit, deep in thought, before he pops out of existence as the monk gingerly steps up to the bar and has a seat, keeping respectful distance.
He glances at the bartender and says, in a cheery tone, "I'd like a Long Island, please. Just ring up a tab for 'Captain Obvious'."
Remy returns Frei's look. Unlike the monk, his mind does not operate by committee. No, it's a clear chain of command for Remy. Possibly a military junta. He stares at Frei for a good long moment...before giving a small shrug of the shoulders, going back to what he was doing. He reaches down, and picks up his hapless victim. Not in a particularly comfortable way - Remy simply reaches down, grabs a handful of the man's shirt, and -pulls-.
Meanwhile, the bartender looks from Frei to Remy, with a sense of distinct...discomfort. Sweat beads his brow. The bartender doesn't make any move to fill Frei's order. He merely grips what he's holding even tighter. Not a glass or bottle, but rather, a baseball bat. Or more correctly, the remains of a baseball bat.
Remy shifts his gaze to the bartender, who recoils. Moving a step back. This means one of the beer spigots digs painfully into the small of his back...but the bartender does not, apparently, notice. He's too busy trying to reverse -further-. Clutching what's left of his bat even tighter.
It should be noted that said bat isn't made of wood. It is - or was - one of those metal ones.
"Go ahead," Remy says, in an even voice, "the man wants a drink."
He nods, casually, to Frei.
Frei really is the drop of water that ripples outward in the stunned, curiously placid silence of Remy's actions. He doesn't know why that baseball bat is now more shiv than slugger, but he doesn't particularly care, either. In fact, except for the brief moment of blue screen, Frei appears to be perfectly at ease, which is his greatest strength in terms of personality. To shock him you really need to kill him. Well, or throw a chair at his head when you're supposed to be his tag team partner but that, for sure, he has let go. Not bitter at all. Stupid old man.
There's an uncomfortable moment while the bartender attempts to construct a Long Island Iced Tea while holding the remains of a metal baseball bat, but perhaps adrenaline is able to make him do things that he would never normally do. The glass is set in front of the monk and the bartender proceeds to back away from it like it's a live grenade, prompting an odd look from the monk before he brings it to his lips and takes a sip.
Condensation beads off the glass as Frei stares straight ahead, swallowing. What he doesn't vocalize is: damn. That was the worst Long Island I've ever had. Instead, he nods at the bartender with a smile, and the bartender looks fractionally less like he'd be just fine wearing a suit of full plate armor.
A moment of silence passes before Frei drifts a finger around the rim of the glass and says to Remy, in an off-handed manner, "Are you the owner? Or is this a military coup?"
Remy looks up from his work. While Frei got the Long Island Tea, he was busy trying to shake some sense into the gentleman he was assaulting. Unfortunately, it appears the unfortunate man has simply /passed out/, his head lolling back, mouth slack and open. There's also a rather prominent wet stain on his pants.
"Tsk."
With a small sound of disgust, Remy drops him, then steps over the unconscious body. He takes the stool vacated by the comatose drinker a moment earlier. Then he serves himself by reaching over the bar, picking up a bottle, and popping the cap off.
TWithout an opener.
He brings the bottle to his lips, takes a drink, then sets the beer down on the counter.
"I just came in here to ask a few questions," Remy replies, finally, in a level voice.
He arches an eyebrow at the bartender. The look, apparently, doesn't do much for the man's blood pressure.
"They were," Remy continues, "rather impolite."
Machismo has never been Frei's thing, so he tends to gloss over the physical aspects of Remy's bellying up (as it were) to the bar, and instead thinks carefully about what is said. Holding true to the maxim that alcohol only tastes bad at first, he brushes a lock of red hair out of his eyes and has another go at the Long Island. True to the maxim, it really is easier to take the second time around. And, bonus: if Remy accidentally kills the bartender, everyone drinks free!
Processing what the Frenchman has said for a moment, the monk half-turns to face him, his expression as guileless as ever. "That's amazingly noir of you," he suggests with a half-smile of amusement, either at the situation or possibly at himself. A finger drifts up to the monk's bottom lip and he leaves it there a moment, before looking around. Yeah... they're definitely the 'only people in the bar' right now. It's hard to tell if the others want to flee or are AFRAID to flee, which is amazingly meta. Turning back to the bar, Frei continues conversationally, "Still, there is kind of a thrilling quality to that. Has anyone threatened to not be taken alive yet?"
"Not as such," Remy replies, offhandedly. He seems to have remarkable sang-froid for someone that just beat another man into unconsciousness, and is now holding an entire bar hostage by sheer terror. Or rather, the very concrete memory of the initial moments of violence that followed Remy's entry to the room. Swift and fast enough that the bouncer out on the street still hasn't come in to investigate.
"Though I hope," he adds, after a swig of beer, "that the one on the floor doesn't die before he wakes up. Came here to speak with him..."
Remy gives a small shrug.
"...still hasn't answered my questions."
Sang-froid is just French for 'cold blood', after all... though Frei himself has displayed remarkably little concern for the people who've gotten themselves beat up for not being able to answer the questions Remy has put to them. Still, there is something unsettling about this scenario. Perhaps it's just that someone who very clearly can't stand up to the force of another person is being beaten down, or because he wanted a drink and is now sitting inside a spaghetti western saloon, or something. There is a serious problem, however, in Frei's makeup that makes him say things that would get anyone else killed... or may, someday, get FREI killed.
Case in point: he turns to Remy and says, in all seriousness, "I don't know the question, but it appears to me that he probably doesn't know what you wanted to know, or what you want to hear, or either for that matter." He sips the Long Island. "Movies are just movies... I think anyone in this room would tell you night is day considering you just beat the hell out of some random guy. A subtle art, interrogation."
"Perhaps," Remy replies, after a moment's pause. He lifts the beer bottle, holding the chilled moisture-soaked side to his cheek. Perhaps not the most dignified thing to do, when drinking. But he doesn't particularly care. He's angry and frustrated, even if he isn't really showing it.
Of course, these days, he's always angry. It's just a matter of degree.
"Unfortunately," Remy continues, "-that man-..."
He indicates the broken and battered form sprawled on the floor, with a dismissive wave.
"...is the only one who knows anything about the underground fighting circuit. The rest," Remy explains, with a sneer, "just drink here."
"And -he- lapsed into catatonia. No manners."
There's a certain amount of sense to that, narratively, the monk decides. Tipping his glass to Remy from forehead on up in a mock salute, he then brings the glass back to his lips and drains it, having numbed the suck factor out of it entirely. "Well..." the monk says, taking a deep breath -- he's too slight to be a power drinker -- "...I suppose if I wanted to enter the world of pit fighting, it's true enough that I'm not going to skim Wikipedia for info..." He'd probably Google it, actually. Wikipedia is too distracting with all the 'See also' links to click.
Of course, fool that he is, the monk takes this opportunity to hop out of his stool and, as gingerly as possible, try to pick up Mr. Unconscious and at least get him into a vacant chair and upright. "Alright, everyone's had their fun, but it would really suck for you to die on the floor like an expendable extra." Nobody helps him, of course, but nobody gets in his way, either.
"I don't want to pit fight," Remy replies, flatly.
He takes another drink of beer, then sets the bottle back on the countertop. Actually, on one of those little paper coasters thoughtfully provided by the bartender. The man has apparently regained enough of his wits to give that much service. Or maybe he's just protective of his counter surface. It /is/ a particularly well-kept bit of wood furniture, especially considering the less-than sterling state of this establishment in general.
Remy remains seated at the bar, his back turned towards Frei.
"I just want information. About a specific match. That he ran, some years ago."
He says this in a slow voice, as if he's not really sure why he's bothering to tell it.
Then again, it's a bar. Delivering expository speeches to perfect strangers is part of the package.
The monk might as well be holding a rag doll for all the vitality or sensibility the poor bastard in his arms is displaying. Whatever Remy did to him, he did it good and hard... and Frei isn't exactly known for his marvelous upper body strength either. The lone man -- no taller than a teenager and with the same fresh-faced appearance -- struggling to get someone he doesn't even know off the floor in a bar that stepped straight out of a noir film is like a forcefield, pushing people from the center of the room. Nobody's quite sure what Remy will do, though they have an inkling. Frei, on the other hand, is not only a clearly unknown quantity but also a clearly *insane* quantity.
Arranging the man against the table on the edge of the chair like a shopkeeper perfectly posing a particularly odd store window, he sighs and then steps back, dusting off his hands on his jeans and then turning to look at the surrounding people who did nothing. One might expect a withering stare of righteous indignation, or perhaps a sigh to induce guilt. In fact, Frei does neither. He goes back to the bar and sits on his stool, running a finger around the rim of his Long Island. Practical Frei speaks up inside his head and reminds the monk that staying home with a pint of Ben and Jerry's would have worked too.
Eventually, without turning his head from his drink, Frei speaks to Remy, in a low and neutral tone. "It's a shame that happened the way it did," he says carefully, squinting as he does so, as if thinking very hard about the subject. "When it gets to the point that other living things just turn into... into objects... well. That downward slide is short and steep."
Remy stops, mid-motion, his own drink halfway to his lips. He's still for a long moment, one hand raised, fingers wrapped around the bottle. Perfectly still - even his eyes are open, unblinking.
After a few lengthy heartbeats, he turns to regard the monk, turning with just the absolute bare minimum of movement...shifting his head just enough that he can see the other man out of more than just peripheral vision.
He was content to sit where he was, drinking in silence, as the other man struggled to place the fallen bar patron back on a chair...ignoring the little theatrical struggle. Now, though, he gives Frei a /look/ through half-lidded eyes.
"Are you," he sneers, "trying to tell me something?"
Say what you will about Frei's lackadaisacal personality, he's hard to intimidate. When he turns to look back at Remy, wanting to make eye contact when saying something a little less throwaway than his last comment, it is not necessarily with a smile, nor with a flown. But there is a... quality to the young spiritualist's green-eyed gaze... a peacefulness, for lack of a better word. If he's afraid of the potential beating he's about to maybe receive, it doesn't show. He takes a draw from his drink first, almost emptying the glass.
Then he speaks.
"I don't really believe in absolute good and evil," Frei begins, as if this were a perfectly normal way of starting a conversation. "And 'right' and 'wrong' are just ways of phrasing 'good' and 'evil', right? But... there are still things I value, you know? From life experience." There's a pause, and Frei mouths words silently, as if saying it again to himself to make sure it follows. "And I'm just saying. When people cease to become 'people', when they're just objects, trouble always follows. That's all."
"Yes," Remy says, after a second, "-you're- saying."
He lifts the hand holding the beer bottle - and points it at Frei, gesturing with the moisture-beaded rim of glass. Liquid swirls around inside, stirred by the motion.
"And if you'll pardon the time-worn cliche," he continues, speaking in a deceptively calm tone, "I don't recall asking...for your opinion."
As he pronounces the last words, a hint of ire begins to slip into his voice.
Perhaps the dangerous flip side of not being intimidated is that, as previously mentioned, Frei's survival instinct is a little weak. Part of that is simply philosophical; he's not afraid to die, he moves from moment to moment as needed, taking in its context, reading it, adapting, responding. Thus his chaotic and mercurial nature. But now the patrons of the bar, already keeping careful distance from unpredictability, are sensing the thunderstorm building on the horizon in the room. A few just get up and outright leave; if Remy watches carefully, he can see Frei's own gaze track them, momentarily, in his periphery before he speaks.
"Well, you're right. You didn't ask. But I'm a nice guy, so I offer it free of charge." He finally downs the rest of the Long Island and, locking his fingers together, stretches his arms as a locked arch over his head, letting out a slow breath. "But if you're not interested in what the people around you have to offer, why bother leaving the house at all?"
"Definitely not," Remy responds, "to be /mocked/ by /you/."
In contrast to Frei's studied casualness, his perhaps excessive nonchalance...tension radiates off the Frenchman's frame. His spine is straight, shoulders stiff, muscles taut, every inch of his body speaking of barely-restrained violence. He's still seated on the bar stool, but by now the veneer of civility is wearing dangerously thin.
And from the unconscious man slumped nary a few feet away, the scuff marks on the floor, the carpet of broken glass, and the sheer naked terror of the bartender and other patrons...
Well.
This is a bar. There's never just /one/ round.
By now, the bar's slowly emptying, as people adopt discretion as the better part of proverbial valor. Remy ignores them. His attention is fully on the monk.
"Is armchair psychobabble the only reason /you/ deign to leave your home? Or is this a rare appointment, /doctor/?"
There's a pause, and then Frei sighs, folding his arms on the bar and laying his head on top of them like a grade schooler stopping to take a quick afternoon nap in the classroom. "Aahh... oh man. I am seriously trapped in a movie script here and I can't even do anything about it," he says, in tones of either remorse, or perhaps flat-out despair. "This is so 'Tirez sur le pianiste', you know? That fight at the end that makes no sense, just two guys venting their rage, and it's the worst choreography ever... eh, probably not."
There's a pause, and then Frei waves a hand. "If you're gonna beat me up for disagreeing with you or thinking you shouldn't have beat that guy up to get him to talk, just get it over with. I don't have too much intention to fight back, plus it gives me more time to call a cab to get home afterwards." His words, his expression, his tone... 'cavalier' doesn't do them justice. They're almost *blithe*. "But to answer your question honestly and truly, sometimes I go to get ice cream, and every Sunday I go running at Taiyo Dome to work off the ice cream."
"I find it hard to believe," Remy responds, without batting an eyelid, "that you maintain your girlish figure on ice cream alone."
It'd be funny, almost. Really, it would. It's a joke, after all, spoken with picture-perfect deadpan delivery, a poker face that would do Vegas professionals proud. It would be funny, except for a tiny little detail:
The look in his eyes.
Remy's not amused.
"We need," he says, in a chill tone, "to talk...about your diet."
There's a pause, and then the monk pulls up one arm, resting his elbow on the bar and sinking his chin into his palm. Girlish figure is probably pretty accurate; if you don't know anything about his chi manipulation talents, Frei doesn't look like he could handle the watered-down form of Tai Chi that David Carradine sells DVDs of, let alone the feats of... if not strength then applied leverage he is known for. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then the monk simply chuckles. Even if the person telling it doesn't believe it to be, a joke IS a joke.
"It's not always ice cream. I have a thing for Indian food. Curry especially, and not Japanese curry either," he recites, warming to the subject a little. "I'm partial to butter chicken. The point was that no, I don't exactly wander out my front door saying 'who can I fortune cookie at today'?" There's a pause, and Frei extends one finger up his cheek, tapping it absently. "But, as with ice cream, when I see the opportunity, I take it."
Remy snorts, as the monk begins his little culinary monologue. As Frei talks, Remy takes another swig of beer, perhaps entertaining the hope that somehow, the alcohol will make this entire exchange /make sense/.
No such luck.
When the other man finally ceases his explanation, Remy lowers the bottle, and gives him another of those distinctly unamused looks.
"And what makes you," he demands, "so /eminently qualified/ to wander around spouting words of wisdom?"
He eyes Frei's attire.
"I hate to tell you, but the Hippie culture died back in the 70's."
What was previously just a chuckle actually becomes a full-blown laugh at that, an honest sound of joy, or at least mirth, before the Chinese-dressed redhead sits up straight and reaches behind his head, tightening the knot in his long-tailed headband a bit and brushing either lint or... imaginary lint from the sleeves of his too-big qipao shirt. Remy may have a point. In concert, the effect is unnervingly discordant, strange; the slight, boyish body of his Japanese mother but the red hair, hint of freckle, and bright green eyes of his Irish-descended Brit father, wearing the trappings of his Chinese master. The critical word for it, perhaps, is 'pastiche'.
Frei's elbows poke out as he crosses his arms behind his head and rocks back and forth on the stool for the moment... which, considering the speed he pounded that Long Island with, and the general difficulty of doing this without trouble on barstools, should say something. "I never said I was 'qualified'. How could you ever be 'qualified'? Just as you're sending out your ideology to me, I'm giving mine to you. Of course, I'm not... packaging mine the same way you are, but that's what makes the vast panoply of human existence so enjoyable to behold."
The scariest thing about that sentence is, in fact, that Frei's tone and facial expression suggest he *actually believes it*.
"/I'm/ not the one accosting a stranger in a bar," Remy shoots back, apparently oblivious, or at least willfully ignorant, of the inherent irony in that claim. What with the comatose bar patron slumped in a chair not too far away, currently occupying the land of unconsciousness courtesy of a certain Frenchman.
"I'm not the one," Remy states, "forcing little moral homilies down someone else's throat."
He tilts his head back, draining the last of his beer ... then slams the bottle down, violently, on the counter, with such force that the glass shatters.
"But you did." The sentence sounds more confused than anything else, the sound of breaking glass sort of providing a fun little background noise; if this were French new wave cinema there would be an awkward shot of the bottle in the corner of the frame as Frei looked on toward Remy but slightly off-center. "You came in here and not only accosted by physically assaulted a stranger to get what you wanted, and when he didn't have it, you left him on the floor in a puddle of his own pee." All of this delivered in the curious matter-of-fact manner of a court reporter reading back testimony.
With a shrug, Frei brushes a hand through his hair distractedly. "Your homilies are built in to your violence. Your fists are an ideology, that the strong take and the weak are taken from. Which isn't necessarily bad or good, but it's what you believe, or at least what your actions lead people to believe you believe." He scrunches up his nose for a moment. "Did I get the right number of 'believes' in that sentence?"
"Sorry," Remy replies, in a deceptively pleasant manner, "wasn't counting."
He lifts his hand, holding the jagged remnants of the beer bottle's neck, spiderwebbed with cracks. Glass fragments crunch beneath his fingers, until he finally lets everything go. Glittering green shards litter the formerly-polished surface of the bartop, spilling onto the floor. A normal man would have sliced his hand open. Remy's skin is unmarred.
The display - and particularly the additional damage to his precious counter - would have sent the barman into apolexy, if he wasn't there already. As it happens, the poor man hardly reacts. He makes a small sound...but continues staring blankly, straight ahead.
Remy ignores him, much as he's been doing all along. He looks at Frei.
"But...is that what you think? Is that what you...believe...I am?"
He tilts his head.
The monk shrugs his shoulders, turning to give the bartender a totally uncalled for smile, given the situation, before turning back to Remy and adopting a quizzical posture. "Dunno. Some of it's just sophistry. It could be you have an alien disease contracted from visiting the site of a meteorite crash that causes people to unaccountably fall to the ground barely conscious when you ask them a question. Or maybe he did something terrible to you and you're exacting revenge." He pauses, swirling a finger on the countertop. "Of course, what I believe you 'are' and what you believe you are, are only relevant to our interiority, right?" He smiles pleasantly.
And seriously, Remy could have just EATEN that broken glass for all Frei knows or cares. A man who can turn a little spiritual pressure into a ball of fire in the same way someone else's knee jerks when tapped with a small hammer in the right spot is rarely impressed by gross physical feats. Of course, Frei's never met Dhalsim. Perhaps that's for the best.
"You know," he says at last, changing the subject without permission, "you're kinda cute. I bet you'd be radiant when you're happy. Well, and not wearing black leather."
Throughout this entire exchange, Remy's had, more or less, a reasonably firm grip on his emotions. Aside from the mishap with the broken bottle, he's been...more or less calm, collected, and in control. Not precisely the kind of calm most people have, true, more dormant-volcanic than icy cool...but a kind of calm all the same. He's not an easy man to surprise.
He's surprised /now/, though, his eyes widening fractionally. He blinks, once, twice, taken aback for a moment...before his mask locks back into place. He exhales, something between a cough and a laugh. He lifts a hand to his face, fingers touching the bridge of his nose.
"Yes," he says, "maybe you /were/ right, earlier."
Remy gets to his feet, then, rising from the stool.
"I should have stayed at home."
It was a gamble, but deep behind the bright green of the young monk's eyes, the various, Carrie-like Freis are exchanging high fives. Deciding to press his luck, he clears his throat and tries to look abashed. On Frei, the success is... debateable. "I didn't mean the black leather thing as a come on or anything. You can keep the jacket on. Just sayin'." He shakes his head and glances over at the figure slumped against the table. And against all probability, looks at the ready-to-depart Remy with an almost sad expression. "I'm sorry he didn't know what you wanted to find out. Disppointment sucks in all its flavors."
Stretching again, the monk gets up off his barstool. He doesn't offer a hand to shake, but he does give Remy another bright smile. "It was nice chatting with you. If I hear anything about the pit fight stuff, I'll, um..." He pauses, then grins. "Well, I'll leave a note for you somewhere bright and cheerful, addressed to 'Mr. Neat Hair'. Dream Amusement Park, maybe... or the bulleting board the YFCC."
Remy pauses, halfway to the door. He freezes, in mid-step, his back turned towards Frei. For a second or two, he just stands there.
A part of his mind wonders whether this strange and possibly insane individual could actually know - or find out - something useful. And if so, whether he should speak of his quest, Quixotic story and all, to him.
But only a part. The rest of Remy, his nerves, patience, voice of reason, and above all, /temper/, screams for him to /keep walking/.
So.
Remy pushes through the door, stepping out into the night.
Log created on 18:15:01 04/25/2007 by Remy, and last modified on 10:56:47 09/27/2007.