Description: Although she has been enjoying her time in the fighting circuit, Luise came to Southtown with a particular purpose. Throwing all her resources into the effort, she finally makes contact with the one man who can set into motion her mission to find her missing father...
Her fame being primarily local to Europe thanks to the influence of the wealthy Meyrink family, Luise has little to worry about in being followed by the press or gossip hounds interested in her comings and goings. If they were, however, they would probably focus on her single vice: coffee. If the crazier of the Eurotrash wastrel rich indulge in everything from fine jewelery, to art collecting, to drug habits, to gambling, the most that could ever be said of Luise Meyrink is that she enjoys a good frothy cappucino with perhaps more intensity than such a beverage truly deserves.
In truth, Luise finds the ritual of frou-frou coffee drinking a way of centering herself. Rather than pounding black coffee like a workaday salaryman, or pinky-extended tea sipping like some of the nobility prefer, she indulges in a certain repertoire of behaviors. The centering of the cup on the saucer; the inhaling of the armoa. The very careful sipping of the whipped cream or first foam. Scones find their way into this. There is a curiously elegant meticulousness to it, as if she were carefully unravelling a complex puzzle with her fingertips and lips.
The pale gold of afternoon sun filters through the wavy glass of the front window of a small cafe in a corner of Metro called Ground State; popular with the moder art crowd at Colombia University and a small amount of local patrons, it's not on the public radar but serves excellent coffee at reasonable prices. As she breathes ripples across the top of her cappucino, Luise reflects on the effort she spent to get even this far. She is no spy; cloak and dagger work is alien to the dilettante heiress. Considerable effort and coin was spent in trying to find one of the world's top brokers of information. But a long search finally led her to this point, this day, this hour. She's been able to afford to be calm for so long... waiting the extra mile for her contact to arrive is not going to hurt her one bit.
There are many stereotypes in this world: Americans are rude, the French surrender at a gunshot, Chinese are squinty-eyed, Japanese men have...nevermind. Among those is the common knowledge that any secret agent of any worth will arrive in a black vehicle, step out in a black suit, and regard you as an inferior lifeform through black-tinted glasses while listening to classified information on a black earpiece. The spiralling wire that tucks down into the collar of the suit is, of course, black.
The car is definitely black. It pulls up right on time, with just enough of a buffer to allow an occupant to exit the vehicle and enter to be exactly on schedule. It's one of those little mysteries in life that even the passenger is kept up at night wondering about. The back door opens, the tinted glass catching the light of the sun and reflecting it completely, much to the annoyance of a couple seated in a window booth. The passenger steps out.
He's not wearing a suit.
Enter secret agent man. He's black enough for the part without the visual aids, content with just a crisp white dress shirt; suspenders are clear to the naked eye. He does, however, wear a tie. Even casual meets over coffee merit a certain level of professionalism. The only thing keeping his blackness in check is the white mohawk on top of his head, which - after taking a glance to either side of the street to make sure no soul is paying undue attention to his presence - he immediately tends to with a comb produced from his right pocket. Appearances are important. Finally, the man removes a brief case from the vehicle and closes the door behind him, the car cruising silently off into the distance.
His arrival in the store is announced by the jingling of bells hanging from the door, attracting a small amount of attention from the customers but nothing that lingers for more than a moment. Eyes drift across the room, spy his guest, and set his legs in motion to cross the necessary distance. No theatrical pause, no fake "nice-weather" greeting. Seth simply slips into the seat opposite Luise and sets his briefcase off to the side, picking up a menu. "I'll have a Caesar salad."
Finally, his eyes drift up to meet those of the woman who - in his mind anyway - paid far, far too much money to drag a busy man like him to a coffee shop. It is her money however, and he has his orders. "Luise Meyrink? You can call me Seth. No 'Mister' in there, just Seth. I know why you're here, and I'm not going to make you dance through the pleasantries and formalities." He speaks the word with no particular reverance, but the necessary pause is there all the same to allow his words to sink in first. "...Detlev?"
For her part, Luise didn't know what to expect. She is not a child, per se; anybody with wealth -- particularly European wealth -- is exposed to a certain kind of social circle that the popular media hint at, draw a circle around, but never fully capture. Never mind that even before his mysterious disappearance, Detlev Meyrink's controversial and highly profitable research attracted all sorts of individuals, scrupulous or no. Men in black suits are, somewhat, what she expects, simply because they really are her frame of reference.
But the second Seth walks into the room, Luise knows it is him. Her already shard perception is only enhanced by her unique gifts, after all, and if there is anything that stands out like a beacon in a crowded room, it's a 'forceful personality'. She's encountered so many in the fighting world... psyches that burn like beacons in a world of consumer drones. The informal dress reassures her, even if the opening conversational gambits surprise her. Seth is hard to read; there is something in the man's aura that simply says 'close to the vest', and Luise is disinclined to pry without good reason.
Thus, she meets him on his own terms. "Either an educated guess or an informed statement, Seth," Luise says with the faintest of wry smiles, bringing her cup of frothy coffee to her lips with both hands and sipping before placing it in front of her. She doesn't extend her to be shaken; something in the tenor of the moment says it is unnecessary. "But it's correct. As I'm sure you already know, my father went missing some time ago. I am interested in finding him." There's a pause, and the platinum blonde looks away for just a moment, off the side of the table. "I had hoped by immersing myself in the world of street fighting I might find some clues, but sadly I haven't."
No nonsense, no time wasted. Seth is indeed a man who prefers to be blunt about subject matters when it can be helped. The fact that the woman catches onto this readily enough is met with the smallest of smiles; it's nice when two people have a mutual understanding. "It was a good start. It works for many in your situation...the publicity of prize fighting, meeting with worldly individuals...but if that's all there was to it, I imagine men like me would be out of a job." There's an odd twitch of his lip at those words, but it's hard to measure the exact cause of his irritation.
Seth turns his attention to the briefcase beside him, thumbing a combination before snapping the latches open and producing a dossier. He opens it and flips through it, eyes travelling impassively over pages he's treaded and retreaded at least twenty times. "Detlev was, and most likely still is, a very talented man. You don't need me to tell you that. The insight that you're lacking is that there are some very powerful organizations out there whose attention he caught once he started deep research into the nature of..." His eyes dart around to be on the safe side. The man leans forward, two words a barely audible whisper. "...Psycho Power."
She had a hunch. How many people are born with the gift of Psycho Power? One in a thousand? A million? Perhaps even fewer than that. The luminous blue eyes in the pale woman's face dull out for just a second at Seth's statement, their typical lustre gone as the man with the information effectively gives voice to her hidden fears. After all, Detlev Meyrink's primary specialty was neuro-cybernetics... limb replacement. Mapping neuron pathways to artificial controls. Is it any wonder that his research might dip into the power that his daughter possessed and, indeed, hid from him for her entire life?
"Not many people even know what those words mean," Luise says to Seth calmly, though someone as experienced at reading people as he is can surely sense the moment of disquiet the mere mention suggested. "What you're suggesting, of course, is that someone or something interested in... 'that'," and the Xenogears-like quotes are audible in a subtle shift of vocal tone, "...would have interest in my father." She doesn't ask what those groups are. For one, she can think of at least one... and for two, she expects Seth has already prepared some leads for her to follow.
An easily missed blanch is noted, and Seth has his own theories as to why. As the young woman had already stated, she's participated in fighting tournaments, and a select few know how to categorize the difference between Chi and 'Something Else'. She had already made it onto a certain file of his before setting up this meeting...and once he began his follow-up work, it didn't take long for him to make a decision about applying an eraser to the question mark pencilled in after her the name of one Luise Meyrink. A wisened voice in the back of his mind reminds him that there are probably a number of people who have beaten him to the mark on that one.
Which brings him to the next subject at hand.
"There is no 'would have' about it, unfortunately. They do. Those who even know about that subject are in short supply, and those who actually manage to attain anything vaguely *conclusive*...well, you can imagine. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the information that is out there for men like him to find are dummy leads circulated by a select few organizations. Ones that act as an early warning system to assist in the monitoring of men of his calibre." The larger man sets the dossier down on the table and slowly slides it across the surface. "There are two organizations that I know of which come to mind. Their names are only slightly better known than the subject we just discussed. And the fact that I'm here with you to discuss *all three*...tells me two things."
The man lifts a gloved hand to begin counting off fingers. "The first is that you have an inconveivable amount of money at your disposal. More than likely this was in no small part contributed to 'gifts' and 'research grants' from these organizations that were in turn passed on to your family. Interesting how that weapon cuts both ways...the second is that you have a death wish. You've been skirting danger and outright monitoring by these groups up until now, but that ends here. The moment you open this document, the moment you even consider *acting* on any of the leads contained in here, that all ends." The cold, utterly serious eyes of an experienced intelligence agent lock with those of Luise. He wants there to be no doubt to what he says next. "I would say that you'd be killed, but that would be a blessing. You might be as lucky as to be killed by their enforcers by accident before their superiors learn more about you. Most likely you will end up being a test subject. A test subject to be drained of every ounce of life until your use is expended, used to the fullest of their purposes. If you ever see freedom again, it will be as a brainwashed experiment under their control with no memory of your past life. Heed my words, girl. The money and effort that brought you this far will in all likelihood be your undoing."
Seth's words, perhaps satisfyingly for the informant, have the impact one could have hoped for, even if the emotional impact was not a 'desired effect' on its own. Referees and officials at fights are always shocked to see Luise approach the ring, enter it, and engage in the fisticuffs of the lower world, to put a bourgeoise spin on the subject. The milk-pale skin is blemish-free, her outfit more appropriate for an afternoon spent in art galleries rather than combat. What nobody truly knows -- perhaps not even Seth -- is that it's the 'Power' that makes it all possible. Not simply outward displays of psychic energy, for something so crude as that any damned fool can manage, such as it were. It is instead her ability to fight on pure intuition, to surrender herself to impulse, that she considers. How curious that the thing that drives her ability to fight is the thing that made fighting necessary to begin with.
The woman glances down into the murky brown mirror of her rapidly draining cappucino, a distorted view of her own face staring back from the liquid's surface, but enough to highlight the faint tone of sadness as she speaks. "A 'death wish'... haha, I hadn't thought of it that way." She looks up at Seth with a slightly hardened expression. "Marx believed that the 'truth' would set one free from the systems that bind us. He was speaking in economic terms but the concept got molded into the truism. Socially we believe that 'truth' is liberating, just as many cultures view 'death' as liberating." There's a pause, and then a self-conscious chuckle. "Forgive me, I read more than I ought to, but I find the irony of that amusing considering how you've said it. I suppose if by 'death wish' you mean I'm not afraid to die to find out the truth... perhaps."
Collecting herself, the Dancing Butterfly attempts to focus on the task, bring herself out of the clouds, address the realities. "Not all of the money comes from such sources. The Meyrink family has been established in Bavaria for a long time. But scientists live off grants, as you say... and when one is a rare genius like my father, someone who considers his work to be a way to *save* mankind, sometimes it's easy to not consider where the money goes." A beat. "You'll have to forgive me... sometimes I can be terribly dense." A wry smile finds its way onto Luise's face highlighted by the unusual blue shade of her lipstick. "Throwing money at something until you get results is a tradition of European nobility."
The woman sitting across from the agent might find herself being surprised as well. Sure, a brow lifts for a moment as the woman digresses into philosphy for a brief moment, but it's met with a smile oddly enough. "Conversely, many believe death in and of itself to be the truth. It is one of the few absolute certainties in life, and a transformation that enables us to finally learn what lies on the other side. ...That doesn't mean that one should rush to embrace it, of course. Even one such as myself haven't discovered many accounts of one who has returned, and personally I think those who are claiming that they have are full of shit." ...He names his self-defense techniques after the waxing and waning of the moon and the sun that follows. Such an intellectual counterpoint might come as a surprise from a man such as him, but one who had the resources to investigate the background of the agent himself would find no surprise at all.
"Getting back to the point, don't worry over how that money came to fall into your hand. If it has any 'taint' attached to it, I imagine that you're 'cleaning it up' as well as any act can. Personally, I think money is the last thing people need to be attaching such concepts to, but." Lordy, now *he's* getting off-task. It's harder to stick to the serious matter at hand with all of these tempting philisophical lures floating around for him to take a bite at.
Glancing downward, the man opens the dossier and flips through to a blank page that appears to contain nothing more than a sheet of financial transactions - business transactions. Until he produces a paperweight with a built-in magnifier and sets it down on top of the document, revealing incredibly tiny print set to a backdrop of gigantic numbers.
"The first group..." Seth moves the magnifier over a disguised heading at the top of the page, 'Shadaloo'. "...specializes in maintaining a monopoly over the resource that we just discussed. If the resources cannot be taken advantage of, they are eliminated, usually in ways that are feigned to be natural or otherwise not arouse suspicion. Additionally, this group is believed to have the most comprehensive understanding of that resource in the entire world. They wouldn't have made him 'disappear' in the fashion that they did unless they wanted him. No disrespect to your father intended, it's possible that they wanted him, but I doubt there's much that he could have told them that they didn't already know. Not to be ruled out...just doubtful."
Seth flips through a few more pages of figures and sets the magnifier down again, revealing another hidden page header, 'NESTs Cartel'. "This group is the other lead that I would consider. This group specializes in human genetics on a scope far more broad than the last, but they would most certainly be interested in the research of your father, especially with the vacuum of information on it caused by the activities of the first group. They have been known to kidnap researchers of very specialized fields such as this one on occasion, and we believe that a number willingly operate under them with the lie that the organization exists to better humankind as a whole." His eyes meet those of Luise again, contemplative. "Based on that remark of yours from a moment ago, it'd certainly be a possibility that he might be willingly performing research for these people, accepting solitude in exchange for their own libraries of information, resoruces, and lab equipment. But believe me when I say that their ends are anything but good-intentioned."
That's not a terribly pleasant thought, is it? That your father -- the beloved man who raised you, your anchor compared to your flighty mother who went nothing short of terminally insane when he vanished -- is in fact sitting comfortably in some remote location, gleefully studying away while men with false aims use his science to destroy and to harm. It's what Seth is suggesting and Luise's stomach turns knots when the concept is even mentioned, but only because Seth is once again giving voice to the terrible fears that haunt her when her mind wanders. His discussion of the groups suddenly becomes Luise's mental anchor, rooted as it is in facts, in data, in the clever little spreadsheet this very inventive man has managed to use. The cappucino is a memory now; only forlorn flecks of white foam at the bottom of a terra cotta-colored ceramic cup remain.
"'Shadaloo'..." Even the word sounds, coming from Luise's tongue with its laser-precise pronounciation, like a hollow sound, the mournful open vowel at the end of word dying away like the wail of a ghost. "I've heard the name, at least in rumors, nothing more. But would it surprise you to hear that... as someone with 'resources' similar to their own, I have almost felt... echoes of their presence? I know no facts beyond what you've just told me, and yet somehow they are all around me. A curious thing." Still, Seth has a point. If they truly are the 'Psycho Power experts', what need would they have of Detlev Meyrink, a man who most certainly possesses no such power... or if he does, was able to hide it from his daughter, no small feat.
The second name... that's something else entirely. "You seem to favor the second option," Luise observes, and not without some justification. If Seth is reliable -- and his perceptive understanding of her power, and her history, have convinced Luise that he is so -- then NESTS is certainly the front runner. "Motive and means... it certainly sounds damning. But my father's research has very little to do with genetics, to the best of my knowledge. His specialty is neural interfaces... mechanical things."
So far, Seth has been reasonably friendly and cordial, if blunt. The moment the word 'Shadaloo' begins to form on the lips of Luise, those eyes of his widen angrily as his gloved hand flies across the table to muffle the word before she can hit the second syllable, leaving her to sound out the word where none can hear her. The fact that he reacted so quickly suggests something rather nutty - that he reacted *based on the set of her mouth alone*. But considering the circumstances, that's probably not so nutty after all.
Relaxing after a moment, and letting the woman resume her dialogue, he nods briefly. "You have a good attention to detail, Luise. Genetics aren't the whole of it, of course. They also have a highly vested interest in cybernetics. It might seem like a rather silly detail for me to overlook, but the level of organic integration that they've achieved is...somewhat unsettling. Their ideal human is anything but. An organic base with an extremely minimalized amount of original 'template' human left over. Imagine, if you will, the 'resource' that we just discussed becoming a staple to be included in their day to day 'recipie' as it were. That would be their long-term intention, I would suspect."
Blue eyes widen at the *ferocity* of Seth's response, though the woman does little to belay it. She finds her thoughts, even as Seth's hand recedes, straying to old Gnostic concepts of true names... as if something, spoken aloud, summons what is uttered. In a strange sense, that might be precisely Seth's intention. Her carriage stiffens for a moment -- favor or not, paid or not, *dangerous* or not, there are certain standards of behavior that Luise is used to, and such an act isn't one of them -- but she is too rational to let the indignation last for long. In fact, she sighs quietly and traces a finger, briefly, along the ruddy-colored rim of her now-empty cup. "My apologies. I'm not..." She pauses, trying to find the right words, and eventually simply abandons that line of thought by pressing her hand to one of the decorative hairclips she wears, the blue of the faux butterfly wing blending with the same starry-sky hue of her manicured nails. "They both bear investigation, that much is clear... even if the first is to rule the concept out."
But Seth's description of NESTS' activities leaves the Dancing Butterfly fascinated... and, in her own way, horrified. "What a terrible destiny that would be. I don't know that I place emphasis on the 'mortal shell'," she observes, dipping back into the metaphysical. "But I think what they would suggest -- a programmed self, more machine than human, using a 'resource' which is quite personal in nature as if it were some sort of sledgehammer -- is a fate worse than death itself. As you said, death is our one certainty... but in its own way, death affirms life. Passing on is a *function* of being. Such pitiful creatures... would barely be 'alive' at all."
Whether Seth is superstitious or simply an overzealous conspiracy nut, it's hard to say. Then again, for one such as him who is privy to so many secrets, it might be a good precaution to take. All the same, he doesn't seem terribly ruffled once the outburst of that 'name' was dealt with, as the woman has been carrying herself with a fair amount of rationality with that one exception.
"I try not to dwell on the spiritual implications of these matters. Too much room for debate and contention. What matters is that they're engineering assassins with the genetic potential of famous fighters and bridging the gaps with cybernetics as needed...or augmenting their agents in ways that nature didn't provide for. But yes, no matter what angle you look at it, certainly bad news." The man looks as if he's about to start talking again, only to be interrupted by the polite horn of a black car sitting outside the door again. The agent frowns, shakes his head, and moves to close his briefcase. The salad remains untouched - he never had a moment to start it due to all the talking unfortunately. A twenty is thoughtlessly slapped down on the table. "Something has come up. Don't stick around, stash that somewhere safe and keep your head down for awhile. I took precautions, but I make no promises that someone didn't track me to this location." Seth pauses, not sure what to say. At least, what to say that will be heeded. He gave her the warning, and she responded with her intention. There's not much more to it really; it's her money, and her life. "Good luck.", he offers ackwardly as he turns towards the door and exits once more, slipping into the back of the car with the briefcase and vanishing from Luise's life as suddenly as he entered it.
At least he left the magnifying lens. There are eagles who would get a headache from staring at those notes of his.
Log created by Luise, and last modified on 16:49:01 04/30/2007.