tampered | (no subject)

Entry tags:

star trek xii - khan

(no subject)

When; Today, July 31st, morning.
Rating; G
Characters; Open to anyone!
Summary; Khan is, once again, sitting at a cafe near the library, drinking tea and reading reading reading. Come pester him!
Log;

Ten days, now, he's been in this city. In that ten days, he'd procured a small apartment, a roof over his head, where he can sleep at night and maintain his hygiene. It will do...for now. How galling, though, that the ruler of half the world has to sleep in a tiny apartment.

Patience. Patience. He would get nowhere tipping his hand now. Plans were already being laid. He spends almost no time in that apartment, he has too much to learn. Hence all his time at the library.

This world's records are...spotty at best. Most of his research comes from the network, where Kirk and his cadre seem to be very active. So...he cut transmission from the network. For now. It didn't suit his purpose to try a new identity yet, not so soon. Although calling himself "John Harrison" might have been in error. If he'd been brought here, it was no leap of logic to assume others from that nest of vipers in Starfleet would be here as well. He should have picked an entirely new pseudonym. Too late now.

He sips at his chai, spiced properly without too much milk. At least this cafe could manage a proper cup of chai. Today, he's leaving off his search for historical records, and is simply reading for pleasure. He's read Being and Time before, but it was many years ago. It was time for a reread. Heidegger was a fool, but an interesting fool. It took a lot of courage to never publicly apologize for his Nazi leanings...

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If he doesn't get coffee right now he is literally going to die and then Scott and Derek will be stuck in the City alone and will probably end up killing each other. So he all but falls into the shop, throws a glance at the other patrons and joins the line. His foot taps fitfully as he waits, gaze sliding over everything - from the menu to the guy with the book to the weirdly anal retentive line of wooden stirrers.

When he gets his coffee he moves out, doesn't see the bag poking out from one of the tables, literally trips on the freaking thing and sends his coffee to the floor. It doesn't hit book guy but it's a close deal.

"Awh man, really?"

The bumblings of a teenage boy would normally hardly be enough to distract Khan. But there's something about the voice of the boy that seems familiar. He must be on the network, and thus also a transplant to this world. Raising one eyebrow, he lowers his book, and cocks his head at Stiles.

"...Do you have enough for a replacement cup?" he asks, his voice rumbling with amusement and what seems like empathy. Already some hapless coffee slinger is appearing with a mop, and Khan scoots his chair back to avoid the spreading puddle.

He starts the minute Khan opens his mouth. Because he's not dumb, and besides, there's not that many creepy British sounding guys in the City. Stiles would know, Stiles would totally be keeping a list. With the title: POSSIBLE SERIAL KILLERS.

So he looks from the coffee to the door and then shakes his head, "Uh, no. No, actually I don't want coffee anymore."

Jim said to avoid him, didn't he? But narrow eyes look back to Khan.

"Oh come now, you're not going to let one little mishap put you off your cup?"

That's the look of a kid who knows something. Khan wouldn't put it past Kirk and the others to tell people to avoid him. Playing right into his hands, frankly. The more terrible his reputation, the more he can play the wounded and wronged martyr, maligned by the histrionics of an unstable personality.

"Here, let me buy you another."

"Uh."

The thing is, actually hightailing it out of the shop is going to be stupidly obvious. And this dude - John - he doesn't know who Stiles knows, doesn't know who he is. There's an opportunity there, to know the enemy.

So he grabs the nearest pile of napkins and begins to mop up. "Sure, okay."

The nameless barista appreciates the help, even as Khan moves to the front of the line. Strangely, nobody seems to protest this. Apparently he's enough of a regular in this cafe now that he gets special privileges. He even manages to smile and nod at several other people, and have a short conversation with the barista behind the espresso machine.

And then, he hands the coffee to Stiles with a slim smile.

"Be careful not to drop this one. That's the last of my money, too."

A lie, but a convenient one. Opening the door for further conversation.

"It's a good thing the City practically gives money away, right?"

His hands curl around the coffee as though it's some kind of weapon - he's not above tossing it in somebody's face and running. There's no real reason to, not yet anyway. But he trusts Jim and it means that he's already on edge.

"Otherwise nobody'd ever have coffee."

"Indeed. Although I do have to wonder at where they get the money from. And what its standard of value is."

He resumes his seat, just as the last of the coffee is being mopped up, and gestures for Stiles to join him at the table. It's a casual gesture, and he nods invitingly. Come, sit, join me in pondering long-dead German philosophers and the gold standard behind the City's currency.

"I've never thought about it."

He should not sit down. He absolutely should not. Except he seems to make up his mind pretty quickly, setting his coffee down and pulling the chair out from the table.

"It was one of the first things that occurred to me," he said conversationally, now carefully marking his spot in his book. With an actual bookmark. No dog-ears or broken spines here. There's evil, and then there's just wrong.

"There's no stock market, either. The currency seems to exist only by fiat, which is a dangerous thing. It leads to inflation."

JUST BEND THE PAGE DUDE. You're creepy and meticulous. That's such a serial killer set-up.

"I've been here a year and it's the same value as always." Not that he knows much beyond High School Econ. "Maybe they've got a system, it's not something people ask. They're usually more worried about the curses."

People are disposable. Books will be treated with respect.

"Mm. Yes, I've heard about those."

He's actually quite interested to see if the 'curses' will even affect him. From a strictly scientific standpoint, anyway. Would his superior genetic structure save him? Or make it worse? Inquiring minds want to know.

"It truly is a shame, it seems as if this whole world is geared toward day-to-day survival. People are capable of so much more than that. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure."

He still has a death grip on his coffee but he's clearly listening. "But day to day survival is important too. No point aiming if you can't get yourself off the ground."

"Aptly put, young man."

That earns him a smile of genuine approval, and then he leans forward with a hand extended to shake.

"John Harrison. Pleasure to meet you, Mister...?"

Crap.

He doesn't want to touch him - actually he doesn't want to do anything. He wants to run as fast as he can. So he shakes John's hand and tries not to cringe, "Robert Grayson."

HA. Because Scott said his name, right? So he should totally lie about that.

"A pleasure, Mr. Grayson."

Oh, that probably just gave Stiles a happy little thrill. Not that Khan would know that. He never really had time for comic books when he was conquering half the planet.

"So tell me, have you been living here very long? I've spoken to a few, but there seems to be no solid consensus as to length of time."

He'd be thrilled if he weren't kind of terrified?

"Almost a year, though I don't know to the exact day. I keep getting kicked out and dragged back in."

She is a very elegant woman.

She's dressed, as they say, to kill, but tastefully, like a model, complete with spiky heels, and she doesn't seem to be even remotely bothered by walking down the street this way despite the heat and despite the slight mugginess of the City summer.

She sees him and tilts her head. She's been so busy the past month, she hasn't had time to say hello to any of the new arrivals - but she does catalog them, one by one, because that's just the way of the world. She takes a moment and sits down at his table. The other tables are full, but that's an excuse.

"There were Nazis here, once."

He glances up at her after she finishes speaking, and cocks his head at her. He knew she was approaching him from the way she walked, and she'd caught his attention immediately. He seems to take in all of her in one glance, getting the gestalt of her instantly. A woman alone, approaching a strange man at a coffee shop, when all the other tables were taken. She's either brave, reckless, or naive. Or some combination of all three.

"Do you mean somewhere in this world's history? Or that they were transported here as I was? And, as I presume, you were as well?"

His cheekbones could kill a person. It's odd to see a person with his combined features, with that severity, and nothing to soften it. Saya is almost exclusively fueled by her curiosity; it's one of the very few emotions left to her.

She sets down her coffee, and her purse.

"They were transported here. They had a blimp. An ugly one, that used to circle around the City, and occasionally their leader would make what people thought were inflammatory remarks. But generally they didn't do anything. I think one of them is still around."

She takes a moment, a sip of her coffee, but she doesn't stop looking at him.

"They were very bad Nazis."

She didn't answer his question about being transported here. Interesting. So either that was something that was hidden, or she chose to ignore it.

A small smirk curls his lips up, and he shakes his head.

"That would be almost comical if it weren't pathetic," he murmurs. "One doesn't need a blimp to make one's point. The National Socialist party were a bunch of fools, and it does not take much to be a 'bad' one."

She doesn't even see it as a question. There is no making relationships with the people who are native to the City. You work with them, drink around them, spend time with them, but ultimately they are forgettable and boring. Saya doesn't know why that is. They simply are.

"I mean in terms of what the Nazis would have considered bad. They spoke German well, I suppose that's commendable."

She sets her coffee down.

"You're new."

"...Indeed I am," he answered, picking up his chai and sipping after he spoke.

"I have just arrived here a little over a week ago. Have you been here for very long, my dear?"

He can be polite, at least. When strangers approach him uninvited, they usually want something. And if Kirk had been telling people what a threat he was, then perhaps this woman was a potential ally.

She smiles, but there's something about it - something that doesn't reach her eyes. She's cold, like ice, even when her smile isn't. But it's not a reason for concern.

"Three years, in October. And a year, previous to that, but my memory is not so reliable on that front. I run the garage." She takes a moment, another sip. "My name is Saya Wallace. And you?" The more she speaks, the more perceptible her accent becomes, something clipped and vaguely South African. Namibian, exactly.

"...John Harrison," he answers, deciding to stick to his taken alias for now. Perhaps if word got back to Kirk that he was behaving himself, it would only serve to anger him further.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wallace. Three years, you say? That's quite a long time. You must have seen a great deal of upheaval in this place."

He notices the coldness in her eyes, and makes a mental note of it. Perhaps she can divulge some secrets of this City, tell him what make it - ahem - tick. Three years here, that doesn't bode well. Or perhaps it does. Maybe it's time to shift to long-term plans.

"I've seen things change. Although never so intensely as this summer. We'll see how it goes."

She finally looks away from him, flicks her gaze to her coffee, and sets it down.

"I'm sure you have all the broad details, but I would be happy to paint in the rest. Mostly, I've understood that you do best in the City if you take it in stride, and accept the changes as they come, but at the same time, don't get complacent about it." She shrugs. "I've seen people come for a moment, and people stay for years. There's no guarantee, either way."

"Very broad details, yes," he agrees, interlacing his fingers and setting his hands in his lap. "The level of technology here is more or less analogous to my original time, so there's not much surprising there. The City seems to be more or less circular in layout, reminding me of a clock. The people are a mix of native inhabitants - which makes me question how and why they exist - and people brought in from other worlds. Of those members of the population, they range in time and place from ancient history to distant future. Which makes it seem entirely random as to whom is brought here.

"Am I accurate so far?"

"And from varying world. Some with magic, some without. Sometimes it seems random, but at times there's a pattern - a pattern that's often correlating to the world people are pulled from."

She shrugs. No one from her world in a long time. A very long time.

"Otherwise, yes, accurate."

"The magic is what fascinates me," he confesses, looking genuinely interested.

"Where I'm from, there is no such thing. Magic is left strictly to the realm of imagination. Of course, I was time-tossed myself. I went to sleep in one world, and awoke in another, a world where instant transportation was available, and the creation of food out of mid-air. Which I suppose is magical enough in and of itself."

He feels no compunctions about sharing those minor details with her, as there's no way to connect his identity to them.

[ By habit, Hei never sits by windows, regardless of the venue. Bullet-proof glass, special tints, high-rises -- none of that matters. It's a tactical disadvantage to silhouette yourself. That's something he's learnt after years of taking out targets through cobwebbed glass, during early hits in his career. But with the midday crowd bustling outside the street, he makes a rare exception to "people-watch." ]

[ It's a pleasant morning, the cafe's facade thrown open to the sunlight. He sits two tables away from Khan, half-obscured by an enormous bowl of pasta -- already four-fifths empty. It's not his first. And it won't be his last. The staff here know him as The Porker. They mostly find him amusing -- and Hei prefers it that way. In his experience, obscurity is sometimes better achieved by standing out. That's where his persona -- bumbling, wide-eyed 'Li' -- comes in handy. As a local character, he creates the illusion of being part of the scenery. Just another freak in the City of freaks. Here, as anywhere else, most people tend not to look beyond the surface. And the ones who do... ]

[ Well. Like recognizes like. Isn't that how the saying goes? ]

[ Mid-slurp on his spaghetti, Li's eyes flick to Khan's book. He takes a moment to swallow before mumbling, ] I didn't know they had that volume. [ An apologetic smile is tacked on to the words, as if he'd blurted it on impulse. (He didn't. There's very little Hei does on impulse.) ]

Khan glances up at the young man, and raises an eyebrow.

"It's not often sought out, except by students of philosophy. I found it hidden in the stacks."

He appraises the young man before him, taking in his clothes, his shoes, his haircut. Very interesting. Very precise. It would remain to be seen if this young man was what he appeared to be. Gluttonous, certainly, but there was something else.

"Are you a student? Or simply a seeker?"

[ It's not the book that caught Hei's attention -- although it's certainly an interesting tome by itself. It's simply trained instinct for him to gauge his surroundings -- the layout, the openings, the flows, the risks. That extends to the people in the cafe. Most are dull-quirky City types -- radiating the local vibe. But he remembers Khan from the Network. In the time he's spent in the cafe, Hei's sketched a quick but modest physical précis of him. Humanoid (Hei knows better, even before arriving to the City, to label anyone as Human). Not City Dead. (He breathes, and Hei assumes he has a heartbeat,) Settling in. (The fact that he's sipping tea, instead of water, as most paranoid newcomers do, suggests he's assimilating himself to the environment.) ]

[ Setting his fork down, he pitches a self-conscious little smile at Khan. (It's feigned, but like most layers of duplicity in Hei's life, it comes seamlessly.) ] A student. At least I was, back home. [ A lie, but one that corresponds with his cover as 'Li'. ] Sein und Zeit was part of the University's coursework. It was a bit too heavy for most students' tastes, though. [ Shrugging his shoulders in a sheepish Kids These Days motion. ] Is it the metaphysical aspect that interests you?

[ A polite inquiry. But it's reconnaissance by fire. You shoot into the treeline; if someone shoots back, you know they're there. ]

Edited 2013-08-07 09:10 (UTC)

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