Description: Black Sabbath (1975). Life and death. Faith and despair. Professionals and amateurs. Two mercenaries, many subjects, lots of learning. It's a discussion that quickly turns into a treacherous minefield for Francois, who discovers that when talking to his boss, there's only one taboo topic.
Another day, another dollar.
Oh sure. Some people might be glad to have survived molecular destabilization. Some people might be happy that they managed to scrape through a mission which would have been certain death for anyone else, without losing any members of their team. /Some/ people might say that recovering an artificial intelligence and possibly being in a position to jump the technology of the world forward several decades would be something to be practically ecstatic about. In the past few days, Francois has seen and done things that the vast bulk of the population would never even consider possible, and would be amazed to have survived.
Francois, however, is not too enthusiastic about anything. Ever. Not externally, at least. Sure, they'd made it through. Fantastic. Now, however, he was stuck in a boring little home, holed up like, well, a rat. Not that he complains either, of course. This is just part and parcel of the job. It was the boring part. But, at least, he was still on the payroll.
At the moment, he's set himself up in the kitchen, and is smoking one of his foul, cheap cigarettes. Whatever he had been making in the pan, it is now a sticky brown-black mess of sugar and fat, with a faint smell of burning alcohol in the air, too. It even looks like there might have been some meat in there, but, it's hard to tell what is savory, and what is congealed... well, congeal. Overall. Unpleasant to look at.
Which, coincidentally, is about all that Francois is doing to it. Looking at it, as it simmers and bubbles away unappealingly. Well. Nobody ever said /all/ Frenchmen were great cooks, did they?
Well, nobody ever said Francois was actually /French/ either. Though as the saying goes, if it looks like a Frenchman, and talks like a Frenchman and smells like a rancid side of beef, then it's a Frenchman. Elle doesn't realyl look beyond face value with these things. Pasts and origins are only problems if they're potentially dangerous. Elle's already asked if Francois's past held any trouble for her, and he's replied no. And that's good enough for Elle. Granted, perhaps she should have probed a little more, since now the air in the house smells like so much molten garbage. Between the cigarette smoke and the blob of theoretically edible food, it's enough to make her scowl slightly. as she stumbles down the stairs of the modest two story residence that's served her as a safehouse during the whole invasion debacle.
Elle is dressed in a pair of old jeans and a ratty old green t-shirt, which demonstrates that she didn't walk away from the encounter with ARIIA without her fair share of damage. Bandages cover her arm and most of her side, and she's been forced to cut her hair shorter, since the blood stains tend to set into the white hair pretty easily, making it a disturbing shade of pink. She pads down on sock feet, coughing once as she gets a lungful of food smell and cigarettes. She's been cigarette clean for a year now, and she's rapidly remembering exactly why she quit.
"Right," she says, as she settles down at the kitchen table and setting what she has in her hand on top: a suitcase. She pops open the top, displaying part of the take, which is in Euros. "Stop violating the Geneva convention and get over here so I can pay you," she says, reaching into the case with her left hand to start offloading bills. Her left arm has an elaborate Eastern dragon tattoo that coils up across the arm into the short sleeve of her T-shirt.
Overall, Elle looks tired, cranky, and altogether unpleasant, since she's essentially a mass of tattoos, scars, and remarkably poor attitude. But that's pretty much what most people come to expect from her anyway.
Oh! What would-be mercenary would be complete without a mysterious and shady past which little may be spoken of? Indeed, quite what Francois may or may not be is a question perhaps best left unasked. Because really, whatever answer was given beyond 'not troublesome' is likely to be a confusing mess. Much like any other extraneous detail Francois was left to conjure up on his own, really.
For a moment, he chips at his food. Then he gives it up. This, he reflects, is why he enjoyed cold field rations.
Francois's own injuries had healed up pretty quick, all things considered. He's tough, and that definitely helps. Though it still ached to move too quickly, it's rather difficult to bandage missing molecules, so, he was just going to have to walk that one off himself. The beating Angel had thrown his way was certainly nothing he hadn't taken before.
Though never quite so... erotically.
Shaking his head slightly as though to clear it, he turns towards his boss, and flashes a winning smile. "Ah, payment! My favorite part of the job!" He declares, happily. "Although you know, this is an old family recipe. It contains all the vitamins and minerals that help you get off to a good start for the day."
For a moment, Francois considers pushing his luck. He really does. Tattoos and scars were one thing, but... the pink hair. It's obvious he's eyeing it, buuuuuut...
Just because she was hurt, didn't mean she couldn't pull a trigger, and damn if those guns of hers didn't hurt. For the moment, at least, Francois's tongue remains still. Even if he can't help but be reminded of a small and angry portion of cotton candy.
An old family recipie? Did Francois' family serve shoe leather wrapped in tree sap for breakfast? Whatever the case, the only thing Elle's really concerned about is the horrible stench. It makes the place almost uninhabitable, and Elle's wandered around thigh deep in week old corpses in the jungle. Whatever the case is, Elle is more than satisfied to lay out the payment on the table. "Standard fee, plus the extended hazard pay, and your share of the salvage take, since I had to purchase the thing outright. Decided not to sell what we picked up. We'll get dividends from the information it provides, though," Elle indicates.
The stacks of drives containing ARIIA's conciousness is still offline and secured in a seperate location that only Elle is privy to, primarily for security reasons. There's still a lot more information left to go through, and everything in twon will have to settle down before she can start shopping for work again.
But with payment out on the table, she closes the top of the case, and it lets out a small whirring noise as electronic locks secure the lid. "So, that was your first job. There's your pay. Are you in this for the long haul or not? I'm only giving you this one last chance to walk away. Jobs from here on out can get harder or easier, but the same rules are always going to apply," she indicates, pulling the case off the table so that it thumps to the floor next to her.
The money is, almost as soon as it is laid out on the table, squirreled away about Francois's person. The mans breakfast burbles and cools, unattended, adding its own delightful sound effects to the scene. The Frenchman does, of course, listen to what he is being told. It isn't really his place to care about what happened to the goods after they had been liberated; honestly, he cared only that he hadn't died in a sudden nuclear holocaust, and even then, he'd been /ready/ for it. Which might, in itself, say something rather disturbing about his priorities.
Or it would, if the same couldn't be said for everyone else there.
"/More/ difficult?" Francois repeats, lips pulling up despite himself. "Since I have been with you, I have been shot, stabbed, kicked, beaten black and blue by a ... novel ... young woman, and almost killed by a wall! We only escaped because you talked a computer into a deal, and now, you are asking me, whether or not I am ready to stay with you, on the same terms, towards things more difficult?"
He takes a drag on his cigarette, and exhales a long, steady stream of smoke.
"I cannot walk away now, with that promise, can I? You pay me, and tell me what it is we are getting into... I'll stay, and get into it. We make a good team."
Elle can't argue with the assessment. The 'team' as it was had turned out better than she had planned. Rather than the somewhat disorganized rabble that she had worked with before, having two professional soldiers in the mix definitely made the operation a lot easier. If Rust had been more of a commando and less a fat, balding old shop teacher, then they probably would have escaped in better condition. Overall, though, she can't knock it.
"Well, we'll see. There's a few more people that I used to work with that are still running around out there," Elle indicates, leaning back in her chair. "In fact, let me give you a heads up on them, just in case you run into either of them. Wait here."
The mercenary stands up, heading back up the stairs. It only takes a few moments, but she returns with physical files that she's been slowly moving out of Seijyun since the refugees moved in. She tosses the folders onto the table in front of Francois. "They're two Japanese girls," she says, gesturing to the files as she heads into the kitchen for glass of water. "Go by the name of Marise and Ayame. Don't let the looks fool you," she says, "The little girl's a vicious peice of work. Pretty much used to be my go-to left hand when I wanted someone taken care of." Ayame's a little scrawny stick of a kid, which is kind of what you expect when you think 'Japanese Girl', except for the weird strawberry blonde hair. "The other one's a complete nutjob." That of course, is Marise. The creepy looking woman looks built like a centerfold that escaped from a morgue. "She claims to be some kind of evil half-undead ninja. All you need to worry about is that she's crackers, and pretty much the person I used to talk to about all the ninja stuff."
She turns around, sipping at her glass. "There's this whole thing about ninjas, if you don't know already. They like to engage in clan fueds and bloodtie-wars and all sorts of insane, basically stupid crap. I don't pretend to understand it. That's why I kept Vampirella there around. She's working with Shadaloo right now, but if you see her, either steer clear or make sure you win. She's big on the whole 'death' angle."
Francois, if he had learned anything at all in his checkered history, had long ago learned not to judge on appearances. Especially in Southtown. Especially when it came to fighting. Though he himself couldn't remember a time when he didn't look at least a little capable of handling himself- doubly so after that was actually the case- he had seen more than enough to know that sometimes, looks meant nothing.
Heck, Tits McNinja was proof of that!
Nodding slowly, he looks over the files, and takes it in. "I know ninja." Is all he says, at first. "I know Shadaloo better." He admits, shrugging lightly, "But... I will keep that in mind. I do not have any plans of dying any time soon, and it is always useful to know who you should think about running from sooner rather than later." For a moment, he is silent, mulling this new information over in his head.
"If we do need to run across them, though, I wonder, how much of a chance do you think I would have? You've seen enough to form a judgment, I think...?"
The response doesn't take long. "You'll probably lose," Elle reponds, sparing no feelings as she finishes up the glass. "Marise probably just on sheer power. Ayame on sheer finesse. You don't hit hard enough to hurt Marise, and you're just really not all that fast enough to land the hits you need to on Ayame. The difference is, if you fight Ayame, she'll more than likely let you live. I can't make the same promise with the other one."
She moves to rinse out the glass in the sink. "If you say that you know ninjas, you'd better mean it. And by 'mean it', I mean you know about the fued between the Imawano and the Kirishima, the extermination of Koga style ninjitsu, the 'undead' Ryouhara clan... then there's the endless smattering of half-joke ninjas that are pretty much weak piss versions of what their families used to be." She dries the glass with a paper towel, and puts it back into the cubbard before turning to face Francois. It's an oddly domestic task for someone with a massive facial injury that looks like a lion tried to tear off her face and only succeeded in causing an eye to cataract.
"And if you want to tell me you know Shadaloo, you'd better mean that, too." That one she won't go into, mostly because there's too much to talk about. Not only that, she has no real impetus to talk about them like she does with ninjas. After all, she's never worked for any ninjas but has done enough work for others to have steamrolled a few.
With that, she begins to investigate the contents of the cabinets. There's got to be something there to eat besides whatever horrible black bubbling thing Francois was trying to put together. Eating is a hassle as it is. The last thing that she needs is to make it a chore she'll regret for the rest of the day. Finding a stale granola bar is really the big victory for the day, and she returns to her seat at the table, munching at it with all the verve of someone that looks like they'd rather be doing anything else. "So to recap. They'd kill you, and you'd better not be shitting me about what you know about ninjas and Shadaloo. Not because I'm trying to outpiss you, but if you tell me you know something and I send you out on a mission assuming that you do, and you don't, the only person that's going to wind up in trouble is you. Then I have to find a new smartass frog to stand in front of me when yet another psychotic schoolgirl or stripper attacks, and that's just a pain in the ass."
Francois blinks slightly, taken by surprise. Not, really, by the analysis of his skills (honestly, that was about what he figured; he'd have been more surprised on that front if it had transpired that she thought he could deal with either of them. But a man can hope!), no. What surprises Francois is the sudden rush of weird crap that she sends his way.
"Uh..."
The cigarette is stubbed out in a nearby ashtray, before being dropped in the trash, and he turns back to face Elle a little more clearly, running his hand back through his hair before he counts on his fingers.
"Ninja, I know you have to worry about poison, and if you think you know what they are aiming for in a fight, you don't. I don't know much about their /goals/, or history. That wasn't really relevant- I did tell you I was in the Foreign Legion, no?"
His features are uncharacteristically serious as he continues. "Shadaloo, I know they have a lot of powerful big names, and are working for Vega; I was briefed on what we knew about that, and I know that they also have a strong corp of... scary... little girls. A friend of mine was in a unit that went in when they made their play in Thailand. He..."
There's a light shrug, "He was honorably discharged; post traumatic stress disorder. He was never really the same, and he doesn't like talking about what, exactly, went on. He came out better than most of them, though."
There's a flicker of a smile, again. But. It's a sad, mournful little thing. "It only cost him an arm and a leg."
Oh right. Tactical data. It's almost a side-thing now, when it comes to dealing with them. But, there's more to add. "Some ninjas are about poison," Elle replies, mid-munch. Clearly, someone forgot to tell her that she shouldn't talk with her mouth full. "Some of them are really into complex traps and like to sit around congratulating themselves on being so clever they don't matter a whit. And some of them seem to have forgotten exactly what being a ninja is all about, dress up in the worst costumes you'll ever have the misfortune of laying your eyes on, and jump out in a wide open space and start challenging people to a fight."
She shrugs in mid chew. "One of these days, one of them is going to take a sniper shot to the head and it's just going to be sad times for that clan, since half of them only have like five functioning members. And even then, it's usually one guy that's too old, one guy that's too young, two guys that are retired or cripped, and one person that has half the necessary talent to /be/ a ninja."
Elle doesn't think very highly of them. She could go into the reasons, but it really boils down to what she says next. "It's all well and good to go around professing to be a top-grade assassin. And if you stick to offing regular joes, I guess that's alright. But half the time they wanna play pajama patrol and pretend that they're anything other than a sawed off Japanese freakjob with a massive inferiority complex, and that shit's just gonna get them killed."
It's about then she realizes she's been eating raisins, and she remembers she really doesn't like raisins because they have nutritional value. Elle's body mainly runs off of artificial colors and preservatives at this point. She sniffs slightly, making a slight face. Even so, she continues to eat it for lack of a desire to hunt down anything better tasting.
"Legion, huh? Not a bad bunch. At least they know what they're doing. I guess it helps when half the guys there are trying to get away from a bad situation in the first place. Sometimes that's what you gotta do." She considers that for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. Vega's big into brainwashing, torture, mayhem. I honestly don't think he really even has a plan, having talked to him more than a few times on the matter. His brain's like a screwed up Viewmaster; every so often, someone pulls the lever and some new thing pops into his brain that he lights up with all that mystic head mumbo jumbo."
"I was on the opposite end of that contract," she says, crumpling the wrapper. "Sorry about your boy, though. You don't walk off from being part of /or/ fighting Shadaloo unchanged, really. At best, you kinda ignore what you end up having to see. But that's kind of the problem with these big clients. Just between you, me, and the wall? They have all the tactical brilliance of a five year old. They want what they want and toss a giant shit-in-diaper temper tantrum when they can't get it." She turns to toss the wrapper at a convenient garbage can with an overheand toss. It bounces off the wall, then off the rim before making it inside the can.
"And almost all of them think they're gods, or want to be gods. The problem that everyone seems to ignore is that people with messianic tendencies tend to get crucified."
Francois doesn't seem too surprised at the announcement that his current employer was on the other side of the fight to his former ... well, way of life, really. The Legion was about more than just getting paid, after all. Maybe that was why he had, eventually, been able to stomach it no longer. His expression does fall, though. No longer smiling at all. Depressing thoughts in those old times, and he really didn't want to get wrapped up in it.
"He... doesn't regret it, precisely." He says, vaguely. Turning to look up at the ceiling as he exhales. "Because of him, another couple of guys got out alive. More good than I can say I did when I was in the Legion. But. Whatever he saw out there, whatever he went through..." There's a sudden snort, and he straightens up, hotly. "Doesn't matter. You see things in this work, I know that."
Working a kink out of his shoulder, the frenchman stretches a little, casually making his way over to the horrible mess that was going to serve for his breakfast. Producing a small pocket knife from about his person, he begins to chisel the blackened stuff out of the pan, now that it seems to have hardened to a rocklike consistency.
"The trouble is, they make a big mess when they do so, eh?" He smirks, "It's sad, but, tactical brilliance does not mean much when you can't do more than give them a light massage, no? Not." He states, with a sudden seriousness, "That I have much time for gods or messiahs. If any exist, I have never seen them do anything worth praising."
The mercenary has to disagree, and she shakes her head. "That's a narrow minded view of the power of faith," Elle says, which may be somewhat surprising given her own dogged adherance to methodical and logical thought. "People that beleive that they're gods are one thing. People that beleive in a god are another. It doesn't matter if that god's Jesus, Allah, Jaweh, or Vega or Igniz. If someone has a strong enough belief, they can do amazing things."
It's that strength of conviction that Elle lacks that she recognizes as not exactly a weakness, but a definite tactical disadvantage. She can inspire loyalty to some extent through care and cash, but she can't inspire religious fervor. That's a strength that's reserved for people that beleive they're part of something greater.
"You can laugh at people that strap bombs to themselves to prove a point. You can laugh at suicide squads, too. Sure, they're funny. I used to think the same way. But when you're facing down the tenth suicide bomber or yet another fifteen year old kid attacking you in the dead of night with a katana, you start to realize that there's a hell of a lot more of them than there are of you, and they're not going to give up until they're dead or you are."
She watches the man chisel away at the pan. The teflon on that's going to be ruined, which is sort of annoying. Granted, she'll burn the house down to cover her tracks before leaving, but that's beside the point. "So on a resource level, there's not a whole lot you can do /but/ praise a leader that can put that sort of fanatacism to his advantage. It's the best motivation there is. No money, no goal, no high minded ideal is better than a religious frenzy when you want to commit a troop to battle. And that's something I can't deny as needing it's due."
Francois grits his teeth. It's suddenly quite obvious that there is ... baggage, here. He's tensing up, despite himself. He does not want to have this discussion. But each sentence is a little... wiggle. Another little scratch. Until, with a sigh, he sags.
"Never said it was funny." He says, sounding ... tired, more than anything else. "It is not. Can't think of anything less funny for the life of me."
The knife is, carefully, put away, though he doesn't turn around, the slight, slight accent that usually colors his words becomes an awful lot thicker as he continues.
"People will do 'orrible things for faith. They will ruin zeir lives, and ze lives of zeir family. For somethink that has done nothing for zem, but bring them pain. And zey will stay with it, even when zey go hungry for days, and even when zeir... -stupid- partners spend all ze money on drink, zey will refuse to leave them, because zey made a promise before God, yes?"
He steels himself, swallowing hard, and biting it back. He did not, particularly, like this feeling. It was as though, in a few, scant seconds, he'd been rendered... -weak-. Exposed. On some level, he fears that this is making him look... /stupid/. But. He's in halfway, now, he may as well finish it off.
"But." He says, that nasty, cold feeling knotting up in the pit of his stomach. "When the shells start falling, and the bullets start flying... God does nothing. And you are still crawling through the dirt, and the muck, not sure if you've left more blood behind than you've got in you, with your best friend on your back and miles left to go. What does your faith give you then? Nothing. No. If there is any God, then he does not deserve to be held that high, and, if I could, I would spit in his face."
For a heartbeat, he pauses.
And then there's a deep, throaty chuckle. The corner of his lips curling up in a snide way. "But, c'est la vie, eh? What do I know."
"There's just as many," Elle points out, "that will tell me that it was only their faith in a god that got them through so that they could see their family and friends again." If the woman has judged Francois for the display, it doesn't show. She neither demonstrates contempt for any perceived weakness or sympathy for his plight. Either she lacks empathy to the degree she doesn't notice, doesn't care, or just chooses not to address it at this time is unclear.
"If I were religious, which I'm not, I'd say that looking for reason and questioning faith is the antithesis of belief. I might even say that it wasn't 'God' that failed you, but it's you that failed 'God'. If my understanding is right, if everything happens for a reason and that 'God' works in mysterious ways, then it's not your place to question why your friends are killed or worse. It's all part of some greater plan."
Still, the steel cold voice grants not an iota of salve to soothe the man's psyche. Elle's brutal frankness borders on sociopathy. But it's this complete indifference to the feelings of others that allows her do do what she does... so it's a curse and a gift all at once. "But the reality's a lot simpler. 'God' is something that helps people acheive what they desire. Argue the point all you want, but gods are only invoked when people want the extraordinary. People wish for strength to keep going, courage to stay, and the power to make their dreams a reality. It's only when they fall short, or when they feel guilt for failing to make those desires come true and are unable to rationalize it as a part of a greater plan when they abandon their beleifs."
She stares at the back of the man's head, as if trying to read his thoughts. "I don't claim to know what happened to you. I don't claim to understand 'God', either. What I do know is people. Regardless of whether or not there is a magical man in the sky, the fact remains that when it comes down to it, the only thing that's real is what you do, not what you beleive should be done. 'God', ideals, morals... all of those things are just proxies for things humans think they want or need. When beleif in those things are strong enough, they can carry the day. When those beliefs fail, then you're left with very little but yourself, since those ideals have been constructed as infalliable."
She leans back in her chair, patting her pants pocket for some gum. She always has a pack on her, and this time is no different as she pauses to get a peice. "So however you want to cut it... 'God' failed, you failed. Someone failed. Abandoning 'God' isn't abandoning a cruch. it's the divestment of one tool for another. You give up the strength that blind alliegance affords you for the knowledge of certain truths; that the only thing that you should have ever relied on is yourself. Granted, 'God' doesn't give up it's flock so easily... there's a lot of people that want to harness the strength of faith."
The gum is ground into the usual glob of tasteless mush with her back teeth before she speaks again. "After all, there's a good reason 'God' got pissed when Adam and Eve started eating from the Tree of Knowledge."
For a few moments, Francois is silent.
It's not a comfortable silence, and for him, it seems to stretch on forever. He mulls the words over. It wasn't anything he hadn't considered himself, of course. For once, Francois had just come out and laid his cards on the table. The trouble is, now, although he tried his best not to, he was remembering those dark times. Dragging himself through blood and mud, his best friend on his back, rattling out his last, dying breath, not with any heartwarming last words, or any noble speech, but dying cold and slow, because of a stupid mistake which led to tragedy. The memory made his eyesocket itch. He hated it, in a way that he didn't like, because he looked at that hatred, and he knew that if he wasn't careful, then that is the kind of hatred which can drive a man mad.
His back remains to Elle, however. He lets that silence drag, chewing it over, and composing himself. The sardonic sneer which had painted itself on his lips refuses to budge, and he shakes his head slowly.
"There's only one thing in this world that has never failed me." He says, slowly. "I failed myself. God failed me. Even The Legion failed me. When it really comes down to it, you can't even rely on yourself. There'll come something. Some... person, some event, some nasty shock, which will make you cave. No. You can't rely on yourself."
Francois turns, and his one good eye focuses on the scarred, pink-haired woman. A sarcastic glimmer in there, his sneer, finally, pulls all the way up, becoming a full on grin.
"One thing remains constant. Money. I forget, is it Americans who are supposed to worship the Almighty Dollar?" He laughs, bitterly, shaking his head slowly.
"Non, non. It is the entire world over. Anywhere. Where there are people, there is money. What is money? Money is living. Without it, we are nothing. With it, we can become kings amongst men."
Reaching into his pocket, he produces a euro cent, turning the coin over slowly in his hand. "I don't rely on anything. I don't want to know whys, or anything else. I can name a hundred men who died for less than I made working for you in three days. Pay me, and I'll do what you say. It might cost more for some things, it might cost less for others, but, at the end of the day, why do I need to rely on anything? Money is the only constant, across all the world."
He winks, then. "Well. That, and death, eh? Those are the two constants in life. Better I pursue one, or capture the other every time, no?"
The response has all the weight of a train charging through a paper towel. "I don't want to be around when you find out otherwise, then," Elle replies, standing up. A mercenary that beleives that money can't solve everything? Isn't that blasphemous? While Elle believes that there's a great deal it can fix, there's a few problems that money could have never solved. "Although I suspect I'll be there to see it. You'll find out that a lot of the people I work with and for only use money as a means of exchange because it's worth something to me, not to them."
She nods at the coin in his hand. "In the face of undying beleif, you'll find that an infinite amount of money means nothing. When you're down to the wire and the only thing seperating you from a life of gang pressed servitude at the hands of someone that just sees you as another warm body, you'll find that the only thing that coin will be good for is swallowing it and hoping you die by choking on it."
"If you want to replace God for money, that's your problem, though. But in the end, replacing a concept with things is like grabbing a security blanket filled with smallpox. I'll continue to pay you, but keep in mind that there's an upper limit to what I'll tolerate. You can beleive in money, but if you don't learn to trust yourself then you'll never ask the whys, or anything else."
Her hand grasps the suitcase handle as she heads back up to her room, payment having been concluded. "Realize that the potential for growth is directly proprotionate to benefit. When you place faith in yourself, there's a reason to be better tomorrow than you are today. Putting your worth in terms of money makes you a commodity, to be bought and sold like a commodity. While everyone sells their skills to some extent, the second you beleive that you're only worth as much as the money you have, your relative worth to someone that doesn't care about the cash you sit on means that you're just another statistic."
She pads towards the stairs, climbing up. "Money isn't living. It's just a tool for it. A valuable one, but it's just a tool. There's no such thing as a universal tool. A hammer's not good for working with screws and a screwdriver can't remove a nail. The thing that gives tools value is the person that works with them. If you're not going to give yourself any value outside the skills you have for sale, then you're going to find yourself useless and obsolete in this business in short order."
"And you'll find that without self reliance, there's nothing left for you but the third 'constant' you missed: despair. And if you won't save yourself from that? Then don't expect anyone else to."
To that, Francois smiles. It's a genuine smile, and he really doesn't seem too put off by Elle's rejection; he doesn't particularly care what others thought about his outlook. What mattered to him was that he had it. Maybe he was deluding himself, maybe he'd wind up empty, or dead, or any number of myriad failures. As far as he was concerned, he'd found the constant. Money could have solved every problem throughout every stage of his miserable, misbegotten life. It was the only thing which had ever brought him even a glimmer of happiness, and Elle had said the magic words which meant everything else was irrelevant.
She was going to keep paying him.
"Perhaps. But, as I said, mon cher, I can name a hundred friends who died for less. If I am a commodity, I will be an expensive one, and I will enjoy every luxury that my worth can get!"
With that, he laughs, a happy, carefree sound. Quite out of place in the conversation so far. "Like this delicious breakfast I have prepared, and the wonderful accommodation we've secured in this warzone! Non, non, I am not in despair, mon cher! I am happy. I have everything I need, and want for nothing. What's more, you'll keep lining my pocket, and somehow, even when you have the shit kicked out of you, you come out looking cuter than ever."
He winks, again, gesturing to the pink hair with a smirk. "Please. Since, I promise, I could not care less -why- you do what you do, or -why- we are asked to do these things that surely, sooner or later, we will be doing. Please, do not bother me with such things, and do not ask me to explain again. I'm a big boy now, no?"
He chuckles, biting a crunchy, chewy mouthful from the hideous mess he'd thrown together, and talking through it, with all the manners that his people are renowned for across the world.
"If I am to be obsolete, let me enjoy the little while I remain current, eh?"
The footsteps stop.
The suitcase is set down on the stairs, and she turns around, a sharp clicking noise announcing her descent back down the stairs. As usual, her face displays no emotion whatsoever, but it's pretty clear that Francois has said something incredibly wrong. The snap of electricity traveling up through the floor and into her leg as she steps off the landing is really the only clear warning he gets.
"We only pass this way once," Elle says, standing where he can see her, and the fact that the gauntlets are on, and making no further motions to approach. "So listen /very/ carefully. I value your opinions and viewpoints as much as the next person's. In fact, I value nearly everything anyone says to me, because even if there's no weight to them, there's usually something I can use later."
"I will tolerate a lot of shit. I'll take your jokes. I'll take your personality. I'll take the fact that you have some kind of psychotic self denial going for you. As I've said before: I've gladly dealt with people that think killing is a bodily function. I have no trouble dealing with just about anything that comes my way. So that means there's /one/ ground rule."
Her hands flex once, and her face is dead serious. Laughing or blowing off the next set of words may not be the best plan of action.
"Do /not/ tell me what I can or can't do. If I want to hear your sob story again while you stand on your head, then I'll not only hear in, you'll do it with a smile. If I want to bother you with my thoughts on anything from universal health care to the color of the sun, you'll sit there and listen. I don't care who you are, or what you think you're capable of. But unless you're signing /my/ paycheck, you had better think long and hard before you tell me what I'm capable of doing and what I have access to."
Dead eyes stare at Francois. They're not challenging. They're just watching him. Jayden had no trouble with this issue. It remains to be seen if Francois will.
Francois raises an eyebrow, the fact that Elle was, quite clearly, preparing to beat the shit out of him, doesn't go unnoticed. More to the point; she'd made it entirely clear that she was capable of doing so. Francois didn't have much time for this kind of thing, and really, if she -was- going to beat the crap out of him, he'd rather she just got down to business and /did/ it. She clearly- as far as he was concerned- didn't particularly approve of his attitude. He could respect that, and if it meant the end of a beautiful partnership, well. He'd be sad to see all that easy money go, but, c'est la vie, eh?
Then it becomes clear what had actually bugged her, and, though he doesn't laugh, he can't help but smile again.
Reaching into his pocket, it's another of those foul rollups which is produced, and casually lit. A long drag, and a slow exhale, before he actually deigns to answer; a delay he was -entirely- aware may very well cost him. But, then he does speak. Hopefully /before/ Elle has shot, beaten, or otherwise done hideous things to his face.
"Of course, Mon Capitan!" He states, coming to smart attention, and saluting.
"I'm sorry; perhaps, I was not entirely clear. It was not an order, it was a request. If you really wish me to go into great detail, I'll explain it all. But, just because I'll drink piss and call it wine, that does not mean I have to like it, no?"
He sighs, running his hand back through his hair again. "Did... /anything/ I said before that imply that I might say no to an order? Ehn, to think! I thought we were just having a chat. No, no, Mon Capitan, you say the word, and I will jump. But if you don't want me to make requests, well, I will keep that in mind in future. No problem!"
Francois gets a nod, and it's clear she's powering down. Elle will take an awful lot of abuse from the people she works with... but telling her what to do, even in jest, is just a terrible idea. It's important to establish early on that Elle doesn't necessarily require total obedience, but she does need people to be open with her. After all, it's only when people hide things from her when the problems start. Elle makes nearly everything that anyone could possibly need to know about her known on the surface.
Complexity breeds suspicion, after all.
She doesn't really truck with people that think they're particularly complex, either. Complicated people make more trouble for themselves. Like most Gordian Knots, Elle's response is usually to just cleave them in half. Sometimes literally.
"Requests are fine," she says, "I can respect a request. But that's why we have words like 'please' and 'thank you', and 'request'. I don't like surprises, and I don't like being told what to do. As long as you recognize those two things, we'll never have a problem ever again." And that's the truth. Ask anyone that's ever worked with her. Candor when required is the best way to get on what little is left of Elle's good side.
With that, she turns around. There's no real reason for her to pound the lesson home, and the threat display was more for the reaction she's gotten in the past for her demands. She's still not totally used to Francois or Jayden yet... and it's better to go on the offensive when faced with the unknown in Elle's experience. It's easier to apologize than to plead.
And back up the stairs she goes. Breakfast is over, and there's a lot of things she has to take care of that being in a kitchen filled with horrible smells and a smarmy Frenchman won't help.
Log created on 17:23:28 05/30/2009 by Elle, and last modified on 23:18:28 06/09/2009.