some crazy bastard wants to hit me

[rathercommon]

WHO: Kitty and Mandrake
WHAT: Bickering
WHEN: Whenever
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Teenagers

"I need to talk to you."

Mandrake should count himself lucky, really, that she offers that much of a greeting. She's half tempted just to slug him in the jaw by way of a hello. He'd deserve it. But he's been civil enough, and she's trying to be decent, and so she decides against the ruder start to the conversation. Barely.

She's caught up to him in the Gallows. She often endeavors to know where he is and what he's doing in the fortress - though apparently, this knowledge was quite insufficient. Apparently, she needs to force her way into his room. Because, apparently, he cannot remained unsupervised.

Her manner is disapproving, fierce, when she demands, "Have you been summoning spirits here?"

Comments

"teenagers"

[cyclic]

He's being followed. John spent the first few days thinking he was somewhat paranoid, and after some serious thought concluded he should, probably, be more paranoid. He was in a strange world with strange magic, stranded with a rebel and an ornery demon.

Not that he can do much about it. There are some things — a Nexus, maybe — but magic has a tax here he hasn't quite figured out, and truthfully, he doesn't have enough to hide to make it worth it. The important thing is that he's not completely oblivious, which is perhaps why he isn't surprised (nor enthusiastic) when Kitty bangs down his door. He's annoyed and a bit tired, mostly. John leaves the door open for her, politely, turning back to his small desk to close the book he'd been reading. There's a small stack, none of them hidden — histories of Thedas, of the Chantry. Some slightly more exciting titles, skirting the line between mythology and fiction. It's difficult to tell what's worth reading and what isn't.

The room is, overall, very boring and mostly empty. If he's been drawing circles, they've been scuffed out; if he's been lighting candles, they've been snuffed out and put away.

"Of course not," he says, plainly. "I've only been summoning one."

Does he look smug? No more than usual. Does he feel smug? Absolutely.

[rathercommon]

She's momentarily distracted by the stack of books on the table. She recognizes a few of the titles. That one there, third from the top, A History of the Chant - it's totally useless; it's described as a history of Andrastianism, and a few other authors describe it as critical reading, but it just ends up being two hundred fifty pages of self-indulgent wailing about how the world is at fault for the Maker being gone. Much more useful was another book that she's taken out of the Gallows library which is actually a commentary on A History of the Chant. She actually almost opens her mouth to say that, but then remembers - this is Mandrake; she's not going to help him.

Especially not after a comment like that. Her jaw snaps shut fully, and her chin dips down, and she gets a dangerous, bullish look on her face. "You're going to stop that," she says, "right now, or there'll be very real consequences for you."

[cyclic]

He'd followed her line of vision to the books, hands sliding into his pockets — slightly less of A Look when it's a hand-me-down, rough-threaded jacket instead of a proper coat. He also, very briefly, got his hopes up for a nice, academic discussion. That isn't what he gets. John looks sharply back to her at the comment, frowning and brow furrowed, more affronted than cowed.

"That's rich. After all that talk about threats being beneath you — they're fine when they serve your interest. Is that it?"

He doesn't doubt she can deliver on it. Despite her lectures, the Resistance was dangerous. His defenses aren't what they should be. He'll have to be careful, just... not right this second, apparently.

[rathercommon]

"I never said that." Did she? Admittedly, sometimes, her temper does get the better of her a bit, and she forgets exactly what she says in the heat of it. God, it'd be horribly embarrassing if she did and forgot. Especially since it's not true. A good threat now and again can be terribly useful.

It's obnoxious, too, how it's a little hard to really work up a head of steam at Mandrake when he looks all shabby like this. He simply doesn't look like the magician she knew back home. Even though this is proof he still is.

"Bartimaeus is a free creature. You've got no right to enslave him."

time to go to confession for writing this bad character

[cyclic]

Not in so many words, exactly, and he might be blurring general threats with actual violence a bit, but—

"Of course you did," he corrects, just the right amount of firm; confident, not defensive. His brow furrows even more at the words free creature and enslave, because the first one is objectively wrong. The second one is... well, technically the logical continuation of the first one, but that doesn't make it less jarring. He actually sounds offended.

"He— it is a demon, Miss Jones. I haven't enslaved anyone."

This isn't a debate he's used to having. The correction on he makes it all feel a bit insubstantial, admittedly, and John makes the same slip — only when he does, it doesn't hold any significance. Not like it does for Kitty Jones.

he's good deep down. in, you know, opposite land.

[rathercommon]

"He," she says, punching that word with as much gusto as one of Quentin Makepeace's sopranos hitting her high note, "is no different from you and me. He thinks and feels and he's got dreams and desires just like us. The only real difference is that he's vulnerable to your - your - " She gestures as she searches for the right words. "Wicked tools of subjugation." Which are, in her imagination, vaguely-defined chants and spells and possibly evil artefacts and things like that.

"If you don't stop - " Here's that promised threat - "I'm going to tell everyone here exactly who you are and exactly what you do. I'm sure you've noticed how they treat magicians in this place, haven't you, Mr Mandrake?"

She punctuates that with a haughty toss of her head.

yes absolutely

[cyclic]

Well, wicked tools of subjugation is just melodramatic. He continues to look genuinely offended, which is perhaps not as ideal a reaction as genuine remorse.

Because he doesn't have any, really. Maybe an inkling of — something, as he had at the mansion, when he'd impulsively dismissed Bartimaeus instead of forcing him to speak. And while she would be clearly and objectively wrong back in London, here is... more complicated. She says no different and he quickly tunes out the nonsense of dreams and desires, but it's less easy to tune out his own uncertain thoughts. The matching anchor marks on all of them, for one. That he can summon Bartimaeus, but hasn't tried dismissing him. It's a choice easy to pass off as necessity; the truth is, he doesn't want to find out what it means if it doesn't work.

Which is, again, not regret. There's still the slightest softening of his scowl before she launches into the actual threat.

"Because their magicians don't know how to control demons properly. Which is what I can do, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Words aside, she's right. Semantics may mean something to those already sympathetic; to the majority, the commoners just outside the Gallows? Unlikely. Being angry and superior is a very deliberate choice, but she won't find any cracks in it.

"Blackmail's a bold choice, isn't it? Of the two of us, you're the only one who's been tried for real crimes."

[rathercommon]

Color comes into her cheeks, high and hot. "I wasn't ever," she says, but hates the way it comes out - it's such a thin line between sounding furious and sounding flustered. Just a trick of the breath. "I wasn't ever tried. I was - was kidnapped by you - " And what a weak-sounding word, kidnapped, like she was some helpless victim instead of someone making a choice to help a friend. "And if you're talking about the trial against Tallow, it was against Tallow, not me. I brought suit against him for what he did to us. And then the high-and-mighty magician in charge decided that a commoner's word wasn't worth anything. She dismissed the case, she didn't try me for it - "

She's losing the thread. She's babbling. The problem is that the threat implicit in his words has real teeth. To be accused of trafficking with demons is enough to get Mandrake burned alive as a, what do they call them, malificar - But if he named her a criminal and a rebel, that'd be no good for her. They probably wouldn't kill her, but she'd lose all credibility and trust. And he could make up lies about her, too, and probably be believed. After all, the word of someone like him is always worth more than the word of someone like her.

"Anyway," she says, grasping desperately at composure once more, "blackmail isn't a wicked deed when it's in defense of someone's liberty. Unlike when it's done for no purpose but your own ambition, Mr Mandrake." There; a point scored upon him. She hopes.

[cyclic]

To be completely, objectively fair, Kitty Jones has been tried for crimes as much as he has — he's been a few disasters shy of the courtroom more than once, and there's no question the accusations against him would've ended in treason and death.

All false accusations, obviously. Also, completely Bartimaeus's fault.

But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know he hadn't committed to arresting her when he set out for the Frog, either. Indecision he should be rethinking now, probably, but this is still — he doesn't hate speaking to her, honestly. Even if it is unwieldy.

"My own protection, you mean. I'd hardly call that ambitious."

... although given his luck, it probably qualifies. He tempers his own voice just to strike a contrast against her flustered one, stepping idly back to the desk and running a hand over one of the books — still very generic, though this one's about magic and undoubtedly biased. The gesture is very villain chic.

"I will," he continues, and the combative and even the snide edge has drained entirely from his voice, leaving a pensive deliberation behind. There's a pause, like he's still thinking through it. "Be summoning him only when it's imperative, going forward."

He doesn't elaborate. He means absolutely crucial, life or death; if he needs to speak to Bartimaeus, he'll have to resort to the indignity of finding him. Telling her this much already feels like a compromise. He certainly won't be admitting that. He looks up, catching her gaze, and a bit of that superiority (defensiveness) slips through.

"A decision I made several days ago, by the way. Your bullying's inconsequential."

[rathercommon]

"Bullying?" The word is so incongruous, so absurd, that she nearly laughs through her rage. Bullying. Her. Bullying him. The boy who came to her house and threatened her life and all the while sneered about how grand his stupid tight pants and stupid greasy hair made him look. "I'm not entirely sure," she says, voice wavering (from anger? from hysterical laughter?), "how one would go about bullying someone like you, Mr Mandrake. I don't believe there is a single thing anyone can do to work much as put a dent in your - arrogance, your - "

His complicity in all these wicked things. She digs her fingers into her hands so hard the fingernails feel as though they might break skin. Somehow she doesn't slap him, or punch him, or throttle him. Somehow she takes a breath, and forces herself to be level and calm when she says, "Given your previous record of doing things only when you deem them necessary, I don't much trust your judgment. Given that you were able to justify kidnapping a perfectly innocent boy and threatening his life and then breaking your word and sending him off to be tortured. I think there is nothing in the world you couldn't justify as necessary."