Scene #8935: My Dinner With Olivier

Owner	Pose
Angela	Olivier accepted a dinner with Father Berislav. While Olivier is a Grade 1 Fixer nearly on par of being a Color himself, in the grand scheme of things he is just an accomplished agent within the Hana Association rather than in charge of anything directly. But of course, even just being an accomplished agent within the Hana Association is a fairly prestigious position as far as how Associations go. But he is still ultimately a man who came from the Backstreets first and tastes that are rich are uncomfortable to him. He invites Berislav to an established pub in District 9. A piano player strums on the piano, largely ignored by the people here--including Olivier--but the music is decent. He is seated at the booth rather than a bar and the booth behind him is empty, allowing for a degree of privacy. Olivier has sent a picture of himself to Berislav so he knows who to look for. He is a large man wearing a white suit with platinum colored trimming (it isn't actually platinum) and a black tie. His drip is immaculate and his gaze is serious. He is already working on a water since he isn't the type to start ordering without his company present. If Berislav is even a momnt late, he's checking his watch. Otherwise he seems to be looking at a datapad--working even now. Of course, this is a BUSINESS dinner. The lighting is slightly dimmed, further supporting the idea of a pub with privacy. The glasses are clean, people here are largely well dressed--it's a place for those of the middle class having a nice day out in celebration, probably about as nice a place you can expect in the Backstreets. Most of the people present seem to be mid to high ranking Fixers. That's about the kind of feel The pub (The Tin Piano) provides. On the way in, Berislav has probably seen numerous musical performances going on throughout the backstreets for ahn (the local currency).
Father Berislav	Berislav arrives punctually. As it's a work-related meeting, he arrives not in casual clothes, but in his cassock. A silver crucifix sways on a chain, dangling with the priest's stride and giving a final sway as he slides into the booth. "Hello, Olivier," he says with a warm smile. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, and for hearing out my concerns the other day." he pauses, then smiles impishly, gesturing in a loose circle with one hand. "And... for your excellent taste in location. If there weren't so much to cover," he says, nodding towards the pianist, "I might ask to take a turn there myself." Reading glasses hang from his clerical collar, jostled slightly when he rests his clasped hands on the table. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long," he says. "I only just wrapped up some business elsewhere--it was all I could do to get my stole put away." The priest smiles. "So!" His smile brightens. "Down to business, then?"
Angela	Olivier recognizes the crucifix--such imagery is readily recognizable in the city--he recognizes it as vaguely related to christmas but the religious connotation escapes him. "No problem." Olivier says. "Sitting back and pretending the multiverse doesn't exist isn't working any longer. Frankly, it 'working' for a full year is lucky enough. But if we close our eyes and ears any longer, well, I ''have'' looked into what happened at Quicknest with some detail. I can only imagine the number of idiots who might draw negative attention with a adio. What a clown show." Olivier glances to the pianist as if he's noticing him for the first time. He gives Berislav a nod. "Don't let me stop you. ... No, you did not keep me waiting. This is a perfectly punctual meeting." Olivier nods once to the idea of moving into business. He looks into Berislav's eyes. "Believe you had some concerns. I know you talked about some of them. But I am here to discuss your concerns."
Father Berislav	Berislav's silver eyes twinkle with warmth at 'don't let me stop you.' He might just, when 'business' is concluded. "Frankly," he says, "That the Association has put you, someone who knows the reality of the Backstreets, in the position of liaison... well, that does allay some of my concerns. Somewhat," he adds. "Presumably, there's only so much influence you have, yes? And institutions do have a way of... taking on life of their own. Acting to preserve themselves." he steeples his fingers. "My concerns, then. The general public has been very keen to gerundize Quicknest, and turn it into a word with a certain meaning. As Lilian put it, 'one man was too good to say sorry.' But," he says, "I think there's another element that should be addressed, and that is the collective punishment of the citizens for that one man's sin." "On many worlds with ratified rules of conduct during war, collective punishment is held as a very serious crime. This," he says, indicating with an index his crucifix, "Is a symbol of the absolution of the world's sin by the death of one man. So for my part, I consider it not only a crime in the ethical sense, but a kind of blasphemy, if you will, to presume that all should suffer for the sins of one person." "The proposed policy is very reasonable, in a post-Quicknest world. Admirable, in its intention. What assurance do I have that it won't be used in bad faith, as a means to punish parts of the city seen as 'acting out?'"
Angela	"Fixer Organizations work primarily in the Backstreets. The Wings are the ones who largely control the Nests. We report to the Head but that does not mean we are comparable to a Wing. The Backstreets are not free to be a lawless place completely controlled by Syndicates simply because they have moved in." Olivier says. "But it is natural for any Association to act to preserve itself--even at the expense of Directors of those associations. I imagine it's the same for Wings, but I wouldn't know. Even my Director is just one of many. This is a city of billions, Father Berislav. Allowing a 'Quicknest' to happen would ruin billions of lives. I know this is hardly a paradise, so my priority is to prevent such a situation from happening with what little power I do have." Speaking of. Berislav speaks of the 'association' of Quicknest into a word with certain meaning. Olivier, obviously, doesn't give one lick of care about Quicknest but he certainly agrees with the idea that one nation shouldn't be punished for the actions of one man. "I agree." Olivier says. "...Punishing a city for one man's actions is ridiculous. Unfortunately, Father, that does not mean it does not nor will not happen. Those with the power to flaunt rules rarely care for them." His eyes slant towards the crucifix. "...By the by, the food here is legitimate. Nothing human. Nothing that will get you sick." He slides a menu over "This is part of my job so let it be on the company tab." He suggests. ''What assurance do I have that it won't be used in bad faith, as a means to punish parts of the city seen as 'acting out?''' "...I suppose there is no assurance." Olivier says carefully. "We live in an uncertain multiverse in an uncertain City. The new Association will be subject to the rules of the Head though, of course, the Dame Commander can do what she'd like outside of The City. I imagine as long as any rule flaunting of hers happens outside the City, The Head won't care--but I cannot say this for certain." "But," He says. "You said she was a good person for the job. Are you saying I cannot rely on that? Or are you concerned that The Head itself will assign the Dame Commander to 'punish' those parts of The City. Would Lilian accept orders such as that?"
Father Berislav	"Thank you for your honesty," says Berislav evenly. "I'd greatly prefer unpalatable truths to comfortable lies." He looks over the menu, affixing his reading glasses for a moment of study. Fervent study, as it were--not because there's any distrust of the food, but because of excitement, if the constrained glimmer in his silver eyes is any indication. "Ah," he says to himself. "That looks good. Hard to go wrong with a sandwich and fried pickles." A soft chuckle, and he's back to business, laying the menu flat again. "Dame Commander Rook is a good person for the job, not only because she is someone who holds herself to very strict standards and is used to operating within an established hierarchy, but because I believe she would, at the very least, question an order like that, if not disobey it. There's swallowing a bitter pill, and then there's taking a seat next to the problem and waiting for your turn at the controls. For as much as she and I go back and forth, I don't think she's the kind of person to do the latter. If your goal is preventing a 'Quicknest,' she'll do that and more." "As for the Head..." He frowns thoughtfully. "Let's say that, out of a desire to have a better life, something even a step closer to 'paradise,' some borough or other takes an action that the Head feels is a threat to its hegemony, however small. It knows that it can't count on its Multiversal fixers to go in and 'correct' it. Let's be very optimistic, and say that the Head also... feels the scrutiny of the Multiverse, and doesn't want to risk some sort of incident by sending their own people, either." "What do you think they'd do, in that situation? In my experience, the answer is institutional violence. Services there become more inconsistent; less available than before, if not gone. Emergencies in that area take longer and longer to answer. Maybe the Multiversal Fixers consistently get dispatched somewhere else, on some sort of busy work assignment. What I'm saying, Olivier, is that not every mile between here and 'paradise' is an act of God. Plenty--even most of it, I'd argue--is human handiwork."
Angela	It's fairly standard pub faire. Burgers. Chips. No fish, though. There's some items that look a little unusual. Beer is offered and alcoholic cocktails but no wine. THe piano playing enters a frantic moment of musicality. Olivier glances over to the pianist for a moment but ultimately ignores him, largely just because of the sudden shift in an energtic melody. At the very last, a sandwich with fried pickles is also there on the menu, even if Waters might have to ask for some particular adjustments. Olivier orders a grilled chicken breast for himself. Spicy. And a beer. "I can be deceitful when the time calls for it but right now there is little purpose in being deceitful. If the Association simply causes trouble and does not function properly, I will likely pay the price for it after all. Honesty is good to clear up potential issues in advance. ... Besides, the proposal can still be rejected." ''Dame Commander Rook is a good person for the job.'' "I am inclined to agree, just seeing from how she conducts herself in battle. The 'test' is not for me, however. I hope those who get involved in the 'Hunt' are not the sort to let pride ruin the opportunity presented. But I suppose ...it wouldn't exactly be the best test if there was no risk of that." He places his hands on the table, holidng them together. "I consider her a good person for the job because rather than meekly accept a cruel order, she will have an argument ready for why it is a bad choice--a convincing one. I also believe she is the sort to understand that not every job may be perfectly in line with one's ethical standards but need to be done in order to prevent bigger problems. She seems practical." ''The Head feels is a threat to its hegemony--'' "If the Head considers it a threat, we likely would not be the ones involved. Nor the new Association for that matter." Olivier admits. "But such cases are rare. Even if you destroy the Hana Association, the Head will be unaffected." He doesn't seem to think L Corp might be one of those threats--but of course if he did, that'd be a real problem for them. ''The answer is institutional violnce.'' "I would agree." Olivier says. "But I do not believe they would ask the Thirteenth Association to be that hammer. They wouldn't ask an Association at all. They have their own people to handle such threats. ... But if I may ... I think you are overstating how often The Head interferes with the running of The City. It is a major act if The Head ever gets involved. Normally, the Wings, Syndicates, and Associations are the ones dealing with these situations--not The Head. It is rare enough that we even get orders from The Head--even as the Hana Association." A sleeping giant, perhaps, that will crush viciously when woken but is otherwise content to leave matters to the other Powers of the City. "If a backstreet borough rises up, a Syndicate or Association would be the first to deal with it. If a city witin a Nest rebels? The Wing would answer it. They might hire an Association, of course, depending. Sometimes Syndicates and Associations have different ideas on what is appropriate in such a situation. It would be up to the Dame Commander to decide what is appropriate to intercede in."
Angela	Olivier hesitates a moment, hunching his shoulders up as he looks into Berislav's eyes. "Is that making matters clear for you? I am saying that in most cases, long before the Head even hears of anything--some other group will deal with the problem first. They're always trying to get ahead of one another. The Hana Association exists so this writhing at least has some order to it--so that Wing Wars remain rare occurances." He leans back in his chair after saying this, letting out a little tired sigh. He's been working hard these past few weeks. "The Dame Commander will have to be savvy. As will you. There will be organizations always trying to take advantage of you, or trying to mislead you. Sometimes, they may even be honest. Navigating that is the job."
Father Berislav	"Clear enough," answers Berislav with a little nod. "I'm going to tell you something that you probably won't be pleased to hear me say: Every death in the City is someone's fault," he says, giving the last word particular weight. "Every barren pantry, every sleepless night, every drop of blood spilt, the very conditions that lead us to discuss possibility of 'an uprising,' all of it is someone's -fault.-" "A mine foreman beats his workers. It isn't because he's uniquely, innately evil, even if we may say that the act is certainly evil. It's because he answers to the board of directors, and they to a conglomerate--full of men who sleep soundly every night. A worker says that the conglomerate 'doesn't interfere' in the daily business of the mine. But no matter how soundly they sleep at night, the board of directors and the chairs of the conglomerate have blood on their hands." "The only difference I see between life here, and in that mine, is that the system here is one of delicate balance and fear, rather than lockstep. That's why you and I are talking, instead of fighting--because you aren't complicit so much as you are a hostage." Berislav samples the fried pickles. A little 'mmh' of satisfaction follows. Next, a bite of the sandwich. "There's nothing quite like a good fried pickle," he remarks, taking a sip of water. "Crisp, flaky, but not dry. And the flavor...! So wonderfully tangy, but frying it adds a whole other dimension." Adjustments or not, it seems like he's a fan. "I will be less charitable to those who are complicit, you understand. Considerably less charitable."
Angela	''Every death in the City is someone's fault.'' That Olivier doesn't point out that some people die of unavoidable causes speaks volumes. The City has a lot of ways to keep people alive if they have the money. And that's the odd case. In the Backstreets one is lucky to afford Ressurection Insurance. But it is the former point that Olivier takes issue with. "Father Berislav." Olivier says. "I don't particularly care for how you seem to consistently presume that I am here to defend The City's wrongs. That is neither my job, nor my temperment." He is frowning. He really is a humorless man and his words are level. He doesn't seem angry so much as--concerned, but he isn't the easiest man to read. "It is true I enforce a certain order here." "But this is this and that is that." He says. "Nobody in this City is free of the systems that support it. That is what makes them systems. We still have to live according to our own personal codes and ideals and that still ''matters'' even if it does not overthrow the full breadth of cruelty of a place like this and create a dramatically different existence. Kill the leaders of a Wing, kill the Head themselves if you can find them, and you'll find they've been replaced within the week with many more corpses between then and now than there would have otherwise been." This might be why L Corp is willing to make many corpses to shake up the existence that is this City, but Olivier seems to be of a different--even opposing mindset. Neither love The City, but how they engage that disatisfaction is another matter. Olivier takes a sip of his beer. ''I will be less charitable to those who are complicit, you understand. Considerably less charitable.'' "...Last time someone said something approaching like that to me, they reassured me in advance that that was not a threat." Olivier sets down the beer. It is apparent, of course, that Olivier did come here with a weapon and likely seldom doesn't have one--though how exactly it works is unclear, it does seem to be some kind of melee implement. "Is that a threat to me, my coworkers? To the Wings, the Head?"
Father Berislav	...Last time someone said something approaching like that to me, they reassured me in advance that that was not a threat. Is that a threat to me, my coworkers? To the Wings, the Head? "I remember. Mr. Hamada." Berislav placidly takes a bite of his sandwich. He doesn't seem to have come armed, although there are the calluses on his knuckles which suggest a skill or at least frequent history of fighting empty handed. "I have a personal code of my own. A... number of scruples I hold myself to. 'He who turns a man from sin saves his soul from death,'" answers the priest. "That's one of them. I don't think that you're a sinful man, Olivier. I also don't call someone a 'collaborator' without being absolutely sure." "That's part of why I asked for this meeting--there's only so much you can learn about someone's intentions without being face to face. I feel like I can be certain that you'll do your best." "Thank you..." He sets his half-finished sandwich down. "...Sincerely, for not defending the city's cruelty. I don't know if you know how reassuring it is to see decency in a place like this. Frankly, Olivier, for a place with as much cruelty as this, I've seen quite a lot of decency. But that only reassures me that the cruelty is what's 'dramatic,' and the 'overthrow' only seems like the dramatic option because of how sustained, and how faceless and apathetic the cruelty is." "This Thirteenth Association..." He smiles apologetically. "It will do wonders, I think, for a 'hero.' But that's not what I am. I can't be a part of it and follow my own code at the same time. I hope that doesn't make us enemies."
Angela	Olivier eases back a little. He doesn't know what exactly qualifies a man as a 'collaborator' and that concerns him. He isn't the sort of man who will shed tears over a dead billionaire (City equivalent) but it is particularly difficult to live in the City without filling the pockets of someone who deserves the harshest treatment--and it is not the role of the Hana Association to punish corruption even if he can look the other way now and then. "If I was not a hard worker, I would not be a Grade 1." Olivier says simply. "I may not be the Black Silence, but the quality of my work matters to me." He either explicitely refuses to gender the Black Silence or doesn't know it, surely. "I will accept decent." Olivier says. He would refuse to let himself be called great. He doesn't like that kind of propping himself up. Leave that kind of attitude to the Colors. He's the sort of man who is glad he isn't one. It's that last point Berislav has that makes Olivier think that is what everything he said up to now is really about. ''I can't be a part of it and follow my own code at the same time.'' Olivier closes his eyes for a moment. Surely, he could not have possibility thought that every multiversal fixer would have signed up for the as of yet unnamed Thirteenth Association. "Enemies is a strong term, Father Berislav." Olivier says. "If we have to kill each other, I would hardly call you an enemy. That is just what it means to live here, sometimes." He lets out a little exhale of frustration, milder than before apparently. There is the larger issue that he is taking more time to think of--namely, will Berislav be in trouble with the Hana Association if Berislav refuses to join the Thirteenth? It is a difficult question to answer when there is no Thirteenth yet to join. "The Thirteenth will be seen as responsible for you whether or not you are a member. After all, that is sort of the point of having the Thirteenth Association in the first place." Olivier says. "It will be up to them, or you, or both ... to be canny. Clever enough and we may even be allies. And despite those calluses... You seem a clever man, Father Berislav. ...But be careful of being so honest about it. There are plenty of decent men who happen to also be desperate."
Father Berislav	If we have to kill each other, I would hardly call you an enemy. That is just what it means to live here, sometimes. Berislav finishes his fried pickles, one at a time. He smirks. "If I had a nickel for every time I heard something like that, I'd have two nickels," remarks the priest. "Funny that it's happened twice, isn't it?" His dry amusement gradually fades, as he then finishes his sandwich in silence and washes it down with the rest of his water. Dabbing politely at his mouth with a napkin, he sighs. "It does make a disappointing kind of sense," he admits. "That... policy. I wasn't always like this, you know." He taps the calluses on his knuckles. "I used to be softer. Gentler. My world was far from perfect, but it had some important things figured out. Then we Unified. In came the Commonwealth, to help us start fixing the rest, and patching up the scars of past mistakes." "When I learned how badly some of the rest of us were hurting, I wanted to go out into the Multiverse and bring people the liberation of Christ. Not just doctrine, but praxis," he says--and with the last word, his eyes alight, briefly becoming a window into a brighter, more idealistic past. "Building solidarity, leaving places stronger and more tightly knit than I found them." They dim, then, with a kind of weariness that mutes his zeal into something warm, but sad. "It's easy to be a saint in paradise," he says wistfully. "My spirit hardened a long time before my body ever did." "But," he says, with a faint, wry smile, "Those early days, without the martial arts, aren't so far behind me that I've forgotten how to be clever. I'll be careful, Olivier. The next time we meet, I hope it is as allies. Thank you for a lovely dinner." He rises from the table, pushes his chair in, and inclines his head in a polite little gesture of farewell, before pausing. He'd forgotten! "If you have the time, Olivier... There's a... particular song, from a long, long time ago, that my mother used to play for me, and her grandmother for her. I come back to it, every now and then. Over the years it's helped me find the spirit to keep moving forward, even when I thought I'd lost all momentum. I hope you'll enjoy this little... memento, from my world." A brief word with the pianist. A bright smile, from Berislav, during the conversation.
Father Berislav	He takes a seat at the piano for which the pub is named, his feet finding the pedals with ease, fingers spread out across the keys like meeting a new friend. The opening notes are soft, contemplative, teetering on the edge between wistful and hopeful. But Berislav hadn't said 'piece--' he'd said 'song.' His voice pushes it, tips the balance into tenuous hope. A melodious, almost angelic tenor slowly rises from him above the notes of the piano, his voice as much an instrument as the keys. "We've only just begun" "To live..." "White lace and promises..." "A kiss for luck and we're on our way..." The piano shifts, as he sings, from a tenuous, pacing advance to a steady, gradually more confident stride, his work at the pedals carefully guiding its sonorous tones throughout the pub as he gets more acquainted with its unique timbre. "Before the rising sun, we fly..." "So many roads to choose..." "We start off walking and learn to run..." "And yes, we've just begun..." The smile on his face widens, as his fingers press the keys more forcefully and his pedalwork makes those boldened notes swell. The piano, the lyrics, and especially his voice, rising in volume a little more, all suggest a theme of building hope and confidence. The tempo remains the same, but the notes fall upon the beat more steadily, more certainly, with more complex scaffolding to support them. What was before a tender, meek advance is now a swaggering, glad-hearted march. "Sharing horizons that are new to us!" "Watching the signs along the way!" "Talking it over, just the two of us!" "Working together, day to day!" "Together..." Even when the march lulls to a stride, and the keys and Berislav's voice drop from a proud belt to a warm musing, the confidence isn't lost--like a marathon, the song paces itself. His work on the keys in the upper register, then, is like the warm kiss of the sun just before it dips below the horizon, a gentle promise that it will rise again. "...and when the evening comes, we smile..." "So much of life ahead..." "We'll find a place where there's room to grow..." "And yes, we've just begun..." One more round of the chorus, and the song fades, much like the aforementioned 'evening' in his singing, yet the pedals let it last just a few seconds longer, permeating the Tin Piano for an ephemeral, but pleasant moment. Scooting the bench away and rising from the piano, Berislav flashes a grateful smile to the pianist, and -then- leaves.
Angela	Though there is a sincere effort to shake up The City by L Corp, that doesn't mean that their mad scheme is the only way to move people. Music has a way of reverberating and infecting the spirits of those that truly listen and even those who only listen passingly might hum along with the tune or tap their foot, letting tune in carelessly like in those blood fiend tales. "Being a saint is a tempting excuse to do noting." Olivier agrees in his own way, unaware that the saying has an origin point. It is always a little sad to live in the world that exists rather than in the myriad out there or in philosphy. But Olivier nods his head to Berislav. He has time. He rolls his sleeve over the watch, blaming it for suggesting he was in such a rush. The pianist is hesitant for a moment but a look from Olivier gets him to meekly pull aside. He becomes a listener rather than a player, like the rest of the crowd includimg Olivier. When Berislav starts singing, there is a small twitch in Olivier's right hand. He covers over it with his right. More and more attention is drawn to the piano as Berislag plays and the progression swells. Though it is a small gesture and the music played will be forgotten in a week, those who hear will he kinder in this world for a spell before the City's nature ultimately smothers it. Buy though it is temporary, it is not meaningless and Olivier raises his drink in salute when Berislav is done. It is a shame. Some men are suited for paradise, Olivier thinks, but sometimes responsibilities find oneself pulling away. All eyes are on the Father as he departs. Angelica would've loved to hear it, Olivier thinks. She always found a way to really get into the music. Sighing wistfully, Olivier looks out the window into the steamy night.