Description: An old man. A young man. And a park bench in Southtown. Some say that the past is just history. Others say it is that which makes us who we are.
Kerian was just sitting there, really. The bench, the water, the trees; it was all very calming, very conductive. In one hand, he held a thermos; in the other, yakisoba. It was, really, a nice, quiet tea-time. Just the way he liked it.
Such a pity.
Because a nice and quiet lunch isn't what he's going to get.
In life, though, we can't all achieve what we wish. It would seem, then, that today is the day where Kerian Valentine's plans amount to nothing. For one moment, he has the bench to himself, and the next...
"Hmph," comes a gruff voice, "move over, boy."
This command is emphasised by a firm poke with a bony finger.
Not waiting for Kerian to comply, a short and wizened old man squeezes onto the bench...whether the younger man makes room or not.
The old fellow is dressed in a Chinese changshan, a traditional long shirt with baggy sleeves, his hands just about visible - clasping a brown paper bag. The brim of his old-fashioned Western fedora hides his face, but his hair is quite obviously white, judging from the wispy beard that the hat does nothing for.
Kerian looks up at the old man and smiles beneath his own mass of remarkably white hair. "Of course, sir." He stands, stepping to the side to allow the older man to take his seat before sitting at the end of the bench as well.
"Hmph," the old man snorts again, making the kind of sound that has more to do with the nostrils than the vocal cords. He lifts one finger, holding it up in Kerian's direction, the fingertip pointing.
In a sardonic voice, he continues: "A young man with a sense of manners. How odd."
Brown paper rustles loudly as he opens the crumpled bag resting on his lap, unrolling the top.
"Especially," he adds, "given that ridiculous hair."
Kerian cracks a bit of a smile. "I'm afraid I was born with both, sir." He offers, setting his yakisoba down on his lap and unhooking the top of the thermos. A bit of steaming hot tea pours out, and he raises it to his lips with two hands, the very picture of culture and civility. "Would you care for some tea, by the way? Earl Grey hot."
"What if I said yes," the old man challenges, "or no? Or insulted your taste in drinks, boy?"
Paper continues to crinkle under his grasp, as he unrolls the bag on his lap. His other hand is still raised, one finger lifted, waggling in a deliberately belligerent fashion at Kerian.
"Because that Western nonsense is an aberration against innocent tea leaves."
One could almost see the smile lower, or the eye twitch, at the phrase of 'Western Nonsense'. But he'd be damned if he allowed the old man the pleasure of breaking down his civility. He was a Valentine, dammit! "Then I'd say, sir, that that is your opinion, of course, and there's likely some truth to it." Gentle rebuke, now, he reminded himself. "Not that I've ever had a taste for Eastern tea."
Gen makes another of those sounds that lies somewhere between snort and laugh. He lifts his head, now, peering beneath the brim of his hat at the young Englishman.
"Hrrmph," he mutters, twirling his finger in the air, "what's that word you European people use. Touché? Something effeminate like that used by men who think prancing around with shiny weapons makes them fighters. Touché."
That said, Gen looks at the long-haired man on the other end of the bench, giving him a very sharp gaze.
And for a moment, just a moment, a single moment in time...
...a very dangerous one.
Again, there's that very bare breaking of the mask, a tiny little twitch of the eye at the word 'touche'. "A french word, sir. I'm English. I don't run away from fights with my tail between my legs." His smile resumes, but it's much barer, much thinner, much more a cover, an excuse for him to look Gen in the eyes, size him up, and then look back out at the river.
The old man smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's not a nice smile at all.
He has the white beard, broad smiling features, and lots of teeth in remarkably good condition...but he looks rather less like someone's grandfather, and considerably more like some kind of predatory creature that just happens to have wrinkles and facial hair.
He lowers his hand, the trailing sleeve of his robe brushing against the park bench. He taps his fingertip against the wooden slats of the seat, nail making a loud rapping sound.
"And we are in Japan. Did the Nippon army not crush your colonial forces and drive out your people from Asia in the Second Great War? Hmmmm? Oh, no, wait, I'm sure a senile old fool like me must be -misremembering- things."
Kerian snorts. "I have nothing but the greatest respect for my elders, to say nothing of my respect for Japan itself." He notes as he drains the rest of his tea. "And it isn't nationalities we're arguing about, is it? It's tea."
"And your English word 'tea' comes from the Chinese word 'te', and your 'Char' from our 'cha', and oh-so-coincidentally your country's hunger for it led to a war with a particular Asian empire..."
Gen's smile broadens, his eyes half-closing. The old man leans back on the bench, resting his hands in his lap, by the brown paper bag he still holds there. The billowing sleeves of his traditional garment settle around him in a tidy pool, as well.
"...I wonder who," Gen speculates, theatrically, "that may be."
He exhales.
"But no, of course, young man. It's just -tea-."
Kerian quirks his lips upwards. "Your changsan is very elegant."
Gen barks, a harsh sound of laughter.
His hands raise from his lap, fabric falling back as he brings his hand together in a slow measured clap. Once, twice, three times, before he simply...stops.
"-Very- good, boy," he replies, putting particular stress on the first word, "did you learn that from a book?"
"No, sir. I learned it from my master." Dammit. He'd hoped that stealth insult would reach the old man, but the verbal sparring was...obviously not going in his favor. "My -Japanese- master."
Gen arches a thin eyebrow, deliberately tilting his head at the young man. For a second or two, he doesn't respond. In fact, he lets the silence stretch just long enough for it to be uncomfortable, as he subjects Kerian to a look of intense scrutiny.
Then he laughs, once more.
Loudly.
Amusement still colours his voice as he speaks.
"Your master in -what-, boy? Hm? A British boy bowing to a yellow-skinned Nippon, -whatever- would your Queen say?"
-That- gets a reaction. He turns to look at the man. "I don't know her personally, -sir-, but I -suspect- that she'd commend me for showing such respect to my elders, and that petty matters of racism would be swept under the bridge -by now-."
"Swept under rug, water under the bridge, or are we mixing metaphors, as you young people get so /inventive/ with language, hmmm?"
Gen leers, lifting -both- his eyebrows now, threatening to dislodge the hat firmly on his scalp. Which is a distinctly Western fedora, at that, even if it does go well with his long robe-like garments.
"Ignoring something doesn't make it go away, boy. Otherwise I'm sure you'd have long since wished -me- away, hmmm?"
"Mmm. Whyever would I wish away such an -entertaining- companion when I could be enjoying a nice, quiet teatime by the riverbank?"
"Because," Gen retorts, instantly, glibly, "if you think someone like -you- can pass without notice in -this- city, then you're sorely mistaken, boy."
The old man reaches inside his paper bag.
"Didn't your master teach you anything, boy?"
"He taught me quite a bit."
"But I was never trying to pass without notice...after all, like you said...that would be impossible, wouldn't it?" He picks up his yakisoba and dusts off the remains.
"So," Gen says, sounding like a man savouring a conclusion, "you -want- to be noticed. Or simply don't care. That would seem to be the choices remaining."
He chuckles, dryly.
"Unless I'm sorely mistaken, and you seek death instead, hm?"
"I've got too much to do before I let Death catch up to me."
"Ahhhhh," replies the old man, drawing out the syllable. He seems amused by the younger fighter's answer.
"So," Gen murmurs, "you seek to /deal/ death, not receive it, eh? Well, all the more that you should watch where you step, young man. Death hardly needs -your- permission."
"It comes to all men in their time. I've just got to make the most of what time I've got." The composure was regained, finally, and his smile resumes, genuine. "But I'd like to think there's always time for some tea, whether Japanese or English."
Gen gives a toothy smile. He pulls his hand from the bag in his lap, then, finally emerging with the contents - a single plastic cup with an attached dish-like lid, form-fitting to the upper rim. This comes off with a twist of the wrist, and he brings this to his lips...scented steam wafting in its wake.
"Or /Chinese/ tea, you forget, boy. Unless your little omission was /deliberate/..."
The old man beams.
"...if so, very good. Very good."
Nothing but a smirk as the last of the Yakisoba is dusted off. "At least I didn't say 'American'. As if it's actually tea."
The old man makes a dismissive sound, a sound that somehow manages to fit entire volumes of studious disdain into a single syllable.
"Nothing American is actually anything," Gen insists, "hmph. David Carradine, a master? Indeed."
"Now -that- we're on the same page with."
"Ah, agreement?" Gen snorts at the young mister Valentine. "Surely not. You're supposed to brush off my sage wisdom and act like the youthful fool you are."
"I'm English. Everything America ever did was ripping off us, and when they got tired of that, they ripped off China, and when they got tired of that, they ripped off Italy."
Gen gives Kerian an odd look, one eye closing, the other remaining open. His teacup is cradled in the crook of his hand, held between thumb and forefinger...frozen halfway to his lips. The corner of the old man's mouth quirks, curiously: "Italy?"
"Mhm. America - the grand plagiarists."
"Now, now," Gen says, lifting his free hand and making an expansive gesture, "I'm sure they have citations."
He laughs at that, a quiet laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "Probably."
The old man drains his teacup, then replaces the lid. This goes back in the bag on his lap - folded shut with a deft gesture. He stands in a smooth movement, rising silently off the bench with almost unnatural grace...no sign of stiffness in the muscles for sitting so long, nothing at all.
"Indeed, young man. Indeed," Gen says.
Kerian raises an eyebrow at the unnatural grace, a frown crossing his lips. He, too, stows his thermos away, the glimpse of the gun just barely visible to one aware of their surroundings. He turns to the old man and gives a stiff bow, smiling at the ground - when he knows the old man can't see him.
"In any case, my teatime has long since passed. Have a pleasant day, sir."
"The same to you," Gen murmurs, as he brushes past Kerian, heading out of the park.
His back is turned by the time he speaks the next words.
"My condolences about your master...Shinsokuhou."
Log created on 16:24:27 10/10/2008 by Gen, and last modified on 18:27:07 10/14/2008.