It is by the blessing of God that I move, but these mortal shells are so fragile, they are so noisy, all the time they make their noise, and I am left to contemplate the Divine and the Choir in the midst of human dissension and turmoil...
     It isn't easy being an Ofanite with a Mission : Impossible themesong to work to. Madian wouldn't normally even be in London, either, but recent events have prompted a change in plans. Dublin and Belfast will have to fend for themselves for a few days while he goes to follow a new set of orders temporarily...
     The waterfront. There's something here, he can smell it, almost taste it - but it's not quite where it originated, even if it resonates nearby. What in the name of divinity happened? London isn't his 'beat', but it moves, at least, and he moves with it, at first just another faceless entity until he enters in through the doors, separating from the throng of humanity in order to take a look around.
     Perspective... there's a splinter of it here, after all...
     Curly hair the butter-brown colour of beechwood is clipped short, light green eyes casting about in a quick assessing glance. He's a hard-looking man with a poet's high brow and expressive quirk to his mouth - the body that of a day labourer, a ditch digger, the hands that of a pugilist, the clothing not so much different from any of the dockworkers who might wander in. The jacket's a bit on the expensive side for it, but not too posh-looking, and at somewhere between thirty and forty, he's just about human.
     "Ard da," Madian offers to someone he recognizes in passing, on their way out. Then he turns, looking around the interior as he clomps his way in heavy boots to a table, putting one hand gently on the back of a chair, the Irish brogue of his voice rolling. "Could I trouble someone for the specials of the day? Ah, and Bass for me..."

     Here's something the Wheatsheaf never used to see every day: a Mongolian beauty puffing on a huge stogie and on her third pint of Guinness. Somewhere, a sailor's dream has been answered. Hey, Heaven's a little like Disney: a dream is a wish your heart makes, am I right?
     Yisun Inkhe puffs on the cigar and lays a hand of cards flat. "Gin," she says and she grins the grin of the Brilliant. She coined it in fact, invented it. Maybe she'll be the first angel of the brilliant smile. Word to your mother.
     Across from her is a footballer trying to score more than a hand of cards. He's not getting very far. She's not budging. "Fucking gin rummy. It's a gramma's game, that..."
     Delicately plucked eyebrows lift and Yisun blows smoke as the end of the cigar glows from her last breath. "Yeah? Your down four hands... grammy..." She sits back, crossing one leg over the other, her clothes decidedly Soho in a very non-Soho-like place. A white pantsuit, titanium heels, manicured hands, pedicured feet, a white silk shirt.
     No one bothers her. Everyone just figures a woman like that has to be Yakuza and lets it all just slide. The footballer smirks, and tosses in his cards. "I'm out, lovely..."
     "Alright, big boy," Yisun smirks, going back to smoking. "See you next week. Have a good game, ducky." When the curly-haired bruiser saunters in, Yisun turns her head, giving the new arrival the eye and lifting her eyebrows in curiosity. Wonder what his story is...

     Once more the door opens, admitting another customer. Perhaps her shock of coppery locks catches more attention than anything else about her first... then her height, being taller than the 'average' woman. Dressed casually in a pair of black jeans and a green turtle-neck, she carries an air of ease about her.
     Pausing just inside the door, she glances about for an empty spot in the joint. Her cell is pulled out and the keypad is punched briefly and examined. Nope. No messages. A look of disappointment hangs briefly upon her features, but quickly dissipates as she glances around and catches the image of a Guinness on someone's table.
     Approaching the Mongolian woman, the tall redhead asks, "I'm terribly sorry to trouble you, lass, but do they water the Guinness down here, or is it legit?" The accent is very decidedly Irish. She's a bit away from home, now isn't she?

     Ireland has just officially taken over, hasn't it? Or damned close to it. Not that Madian would consider it to be damning.
     "Gin rummy?", he calls as he overhears, voice rising. His voice sounds wrong for the frame of him; it sounds like the poet's voice which his forehead and mouth hint at, which the battered hands and clothes give lie to. "Well, at least it's not bridge, but I wouldn't say no to a bit of poker or the like. Mind, I'm not keen on leaving things to chance instead of design." He looks Yisun up and down carefully, with just the hint of knowing expression, then turns to regard Una as she comes in. He hasn't moved his hand from the chair he'd claimed, as if feeling the need to have a place to be, unsure of a welcome in other places.
     "The Guinness isn't bad, though it's not Dublin's," Madian takes it on himself to answer Una, his own voice thick with Dublin's sound. "But what can you expect, in London? It's not half-bad." It's not half-good, but it's not half-bad.

     Beaming, Yisun grins around the body of the stogie. "The Guinness is as pure as Mary's Milk," Was that in poor taste. Oh well. Live and learn. "It's legit," she says, tapping off the ash. "Feel free to pull up a ..."
     Chair...
     She's turning around to the man, looking her up and down. She looks him up and down as boldly -- if not more so. "I like a good Beamish, though I hear that's sacrilege in some places," her accent is decidedly motley. A dash of Mongolian. A dash of Midwest America. A dash of Soho. Quite the spicy soup. "But ...yeah... considering the locale. They'll only let it get so Irish..."
     She takes a moment to size the man up again. You wanna tangle with this, partner?

     Praise from a Mongolian, and a so-so review from an Irishman. Hm. What should she go for? "Well, it's not like I can just head over to a pub in Ireland right now, so I guess I'll settle for what the Londoners are sellin' as Guinness, right?" the Irish woman replies with a hearty chuckle.
     Nodding at the woman seated before her, she finishes the sentence, "A chair? I'd love to.." Even as she seats herself, she's looking back up at the man. "Where you hale from, sir?" she asks him with a smile, obviously recognizing a fellow countryman with ease.
     "Una O'Grady, by the by," she says, introducing herself, first offering her hand to Yisun before pondering doing the same with the man. She signals a server with the other hand, intent on getting that pint of Guinness, regardless of where it's made.

     Yisun takes Una's hand and gives it a hearty shake: "Yisun Inkhe," she says. Cigar enthusiast. "This bother you?" she asks of the stogie.

     Not so long after Una's arrival, a man comes in behind her. A distinguished gentleman in his forties, his most striking feature is the salt-and-pepper flecks in his hair. He looks left and right, then spying Una, begins to work through the crowd towards her. He's dressed rather well, complete with a black turtleneck and dark coat. A bag hangs from his shoulder, and as he weaves through, he keeps his satchel pressed against his side.

     The chair is surrendered, and the man with the body of a stevedore and the voice of a scholar makes his way over, settling halfway between the two women, one hand sliding to the haft of his belt. "Inasmuch as it's originally from Ireland, I suppose it's legit," he answers dubiously, then shrugs, one eyebrow cocking upwards as he looks Yisun over again.
     Tangle? That depends on whether all the knots can be worked out after...
     "I'm from Dublin mostly," Madian answers Una readily, his other hand coming up to pass over the curly wool atop his head. "Though at the moment, I am here, inasmuch as I'm anywhere. Can't say how long I'll be staying to here before I'm to go elsewhere, though."
     Why anyone would want to be with an Ofanite is beyond sense. Commit? Maybe. Stay in one place? Never.

     The handshake is returned boldly with a smile. "Well met, Yisun," she replies, then brushes off the question as she pulls back her hand. "That? Hell no. Smoke 'em if you got 'em," she replies with a chuckle, looking back up to the Irish gentleman, offering the hand to him now. "Good to meet you, sir," she adds, "I'm from around those parts, myself."

     This is a motley crew. Yisun Inkhe extinguishes her stogie, rolling it around to put it out. She'll save the rest of it for later. She looks to the two gathered here, delicately plucked eyebrows lifting again. "Careful...they'll start to call this revolutionary corner. I'm from all sorts of places. Mongolia... America... now London..." Fierce, independent, fashionable. She is the culmination of all the places she has been...
     "Gotta name cowboy?" Yisun smiles, taking up her pint and giving him the look over again. "Or we just call you Dublin and have done with it..."

     "Michael Parnell," Madian answers absently, as if distracted for a moment - and, well, he is; he's spotted someone approaching the other Irisher in the room, eyebrows both drawing upwards, even as he offers a hand out between the women to be shaken. "Pleasure of your acquaintance, ladies. Though I'll answer to Dublin if you insist."
     Why not? Dublin needs its angels.
     "I believe there's someone looking for you, mayhap," he nods to Una, glancing over her shoulder to the man in black. Maybe he has a red flashing thing for them to all look into.

     "Ah," the man says, coming up to the group. And even before he speaks, there's something decidedly French about him. "It is you..." he bobs his head. "Coincidence, then, mademoiselle..."

     Una shakes his hand, then releases it, letting Yisun do the same, if she wishes. "Good to meet you, Michael," she replies with a wide smile, which only twists into a wicked grin as he mentions being called Dublin.
     Coppery eyebrows raise slightly in surprise as Michael points out the man in black to her. She glances over her shoulder in disbelief. Someone looking for me? Here? Who--? Oh!
     Glancing up at him as he approaches, she teases, "Laurent! You scoundrel! You didn't tell me you were going to be in London..." She stands and opens her arms, offering a hug to the man. "Good to see you!"

     Yisun was on her way to offering her hand when Una rises to give the man a hug. Too late. He's a cutie-pie too. She turns about, looking to Michael Parnell. "Nice to meet you, too. So...what brings you to London from Dublin. That's hardly a fair trade...."

     That gets a slow tug at the corners of Madian's mouth, bittersweet. And Dublin no fair trade for Heaven, though Irishmen might deny it. "Business," he answers sweetly, "has a way of bringing the most improbable of people to the most improbable of places, aye, and though there's few enough of my countrymen that'd trade the green grass of the fields and hills for the grey and concrete of London, every now and again I find I get told 'go here' and as the boss says it, why, it must be so. Them as pays the bills picks the tune."
     He stretches, folding the muscled arms over his chest, glancing from Yisun to the Irishwoman embracing the Frenchman. There's a metaphor in that, if he chose to look for it. "A bit of ... electrical work this time," Madian continues, "sommat to do with the repairs to the train lines. Don't ask me why, for I don't know, but it sees a long line of lights all went out at once, and I'm ferrying electrical supplies to location."

     The man seems surprised, blinking wide eyes as he's offered a hug. He smiles eventually and offers a gentle hug in return, kissing Una on each cheek in polite fashion. "I am only here for work," Laurent explains, "...and was on the street and then saw you. I was amazed...is that Una?" he grins, nodding. Apparently it was true.
     Laurent smiles as he acknowledges the other two nearby. "Good evening," he says, English lightly accented.

     That gets a slow tug at the corners of Madian's mouth, bittersweet. And Dublin no fair trade for Heaven, though Irishmen might deny it. "Business," he answers sweetly, "has a way of bringing the most improbable of people to the most improbable of places, aye, and though there's few enough of my countrymen that'd trade the green grass of the fields and hills for the grey and concrete of London, every now and again I find I get told 'go here' and as the boss says it, why, it must be so. Them as pays the bills picks the tune."
     He stretches, folding the muscled arms over his chest, glancing from Yisun to the Irishwoman embracing the Frenchman. There's a metaphor in that, if he chose to look for it. "A bit of ... electrical work this time," Madian continues, "sommat to do with the repairs to the train lines. Don't ask me why, for I don't know, but it sees a long line of lights all went out at once, and I'm ferrying electrical supplies to location."

     Yisun nods, "Yeah, I heard about that. That was weird..." She pauses, turning to smile to Laurent. "Yisun Inkhe," she says, "Nice to meet you. I was just telling your friend here about the Guinness. You're welcome to join us if you like... pretty motley assortment. Looks like the UN just exploded in here..."

     Una chuckles at the polite, European greeting. She never could get accustomed to that. She's much more of a touchy-feely type. Pulling back from Laurent, she exclaims, "Unbelievable that we'd both be in London at the same time without knowing it. That's incredible..."
     Turning to the other two, Una says, "This is Yisun and Michael..." she pauses to let Yisun introduce herself properly, then adds, "I just met them, and this is turning out to be a very grand day indeed. Yisun, Michael, this is my good friend, Laurent."

     "A pleasure," Laurent nods to each in turn. "Laurent Moselle," he states simply, though a it's a sure bet that there's more to the name.
     "I...shouldn't keep you, Una. It was...just a surprise." Laurent looks as if he is to depart.

     "Pleasure of acquaintance, monsoor." Madian's French is strictly grammar-book, it seems, at best. The greeting is well-intentioned, at least, and he pulls out a chair, dropping into it - a mighty tree felled to the earth, to judge by the noise he makes on the way down. "You're welcome to join us - you know, with you, we'd have enough for a hand or three of poker." He casts Yisun a quizzical glance. "Assuming, of course, the ladies dinnae mind."

     "Mind?" Yisun says, beaming again. "How much money you got on you, cowboy?" That must be a nickname she tosses around a lot. "You got enough to lose your wallet to me and still get back to Dublin?"
     Dark eyes glance up to Laurent and Una and she winks. "Big footballer went home crying from losing in gin rummy, and that was playing pro bono. You putting money on it?" Michael would be so proud. The idea seems to tickle her.
     "Feel free to join us, Laurent," Yisun invites. "Just hold onto your wallet...keep money inside..."

     The pint of Guinness finally arrives and the redheaded woman grins gleefully at it. Hearing what Madian says, she chuckles, "I wouldn't mind a game, sure... but only if you're not in a rush, Laurent? I'm not going anywhere until I get a call..." Indeed, she glances down at it again, apparently watching for a number to come up, or wishing it would ring.

     "I'm not wealthy as Croeseus, lass, but I've enough money to play a few friendly hands and still get home if need be," Madian answers casually, pulling his wallet out of his jacket pocket and rifling it open. "Care to name terms?" He grins lopsidedly from Yisun to Una and back. "If the man says no, he's a fool," he adds with a wink to Laurent. "After all, to foreswear the company of lovely and spirited ladies..."

     Laurent looks at everyone, bobbing his head once. "You're kind, but...I do not play cards. I will watch...for a few minutes." Perhaps he was heading someplace.

     "Hmmm... no fool. That's a smart man," Yisun laughs brightly, switching her crossed leg from one to the other. "A man who knows the value of a pound note," she teases, "... by keeping it in his wallet. I like him," Yisun grins, looking to Una. "You in?"

     Grinning at him, Una says, "Ah, well, that's no good. Can't play poker with just three. Well... I guess we could. It's just not as fun. Oh well.. sure, count me in." She raises her glass to all of you, then downs a goodly mouthful.
     There's a slight wince, then she comments, "Well, it's not as good as the brew back home... but you're right, Michael. It'll do. It'll do."

     "If there's nothing stronger, I'd drink water even though it was made for shaving," Madian pronounces, tossing a couple of notes onto the table and sticking his wallet back into his jacket. "And I freely admit to my own foolishness - it's well-known. Trumpeted, in fact. - You've the right of it, of course," he tells Laurent nonchalantly. "Watch, but don't touch. Might get burned..."

     The last arrival smiles and turns about to pull up a chair. Laurent waves his hand, expecting something will show up. He exhales as he sits down, keeping his bag near his feet. He crosses his legs and watches the developing game.

     "Friend of mine invented a game. It's called Club the Devil. Ace of Clubs high," Yisun takes her cards and begins the task of shuffling the cards. "Jokers loaded in the deck," she makes a bridge, cuts the deck and shuffles again. "Devil cheats, so there's more than two, natch..." Lovely painted fingernails and fashionista exterior overlies a warrior soul.

     Chuckling at the 'might get burned' comment, Una rakes a hand through her coppery locks, as though drawing the lines between the colour of her hair and the reference to fire. Standing momentarily, she turns her chair so that the back is to the table and she straddles it facing the table... "Ah, more comfy for playing cards, I always say," she says with a grin, downing more Guinness. "Besides, it's easier to reach my wallet in my back pocket that way."
     Said wallet does appear momentarily as she pulls a few notes out of it and tucks it away. These are tossed onto the table as well.
     Laughing at the name of the game, Una says, "Sure, whatever... I'm a bit rusty, so you'll have to go easy on me."

     "Interesting set of rules," Madian answers with raised eyebrows, though he sprawls down an inch or two in his seat, as if to minimize his length. "Well, why not - as a proper Irishman, I'm all in favour of clubbing devils. You telling us how to play, aye, or are we to go into this as blind as birth?"

     "Standard five-card rules... full house beats almost anything, club straights beat everything..." Yisun explains, giving the cards one last shuffle. She cuts them -- she likes that part -- then starts dealing. "Only thing different, any pair of devils is high, beats any other pair unless clubs. Devils trump the deck, Michael's club trumps the Devil..." Yisun looks up, smiling brightly. "Got it?"

Posted by rowan at March 13, 2004 07:33 PM