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Post by UndeadDeadGuy on Dec 26, 2005 18:07:14 GMT -5
The Paris Opera house, a large ornate building full of art, is vacant. A few undead roam the house, no weapons can be found here.
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 4, 2011 23:03:39 GMT -5
Crowley had been moving through the rows of seats in a newly lit room. A few corpses had been lying on the stage, some of them near the entrance as well. All of them had bullet holes in their foreheads, coagulated blood staining the rim of the shot. She'd scanned the entire place thoroughly, not many zombies had raided the areas as she'd expected.
For now, she'd seated herself in the first row, looking up at the stage, admiring it's beauty. Besides the undead bodies, it still held itself together nicely. Crimson, satin, curtains with golden ropes tying them back. Lush wooden floors and soft, comfortable seats. It was glamorous. Then again, so was the rest of Paris. Shame it was in ruins from the zombie apocalypse.
Crossing one leg over the other, the woman folded her arms and sat back. She'd been brought into Paris on a lead that there had been a rogue Tricell Scientist they'd been searching for. A man who betrayed Tricell and went back to the B.S.A.A. She was to find him and kill him. It took awhile, but she found the bastard and she'd made sure he paid dearly for his treachery.
Now, she was taking in the sights and she had to admit, it was breathtaking. She never really got to make these travels before Tricell. Made her wish they would have existed earlier in her past when everyone was still living.
For now, she'd basked in the Opera House's glory and she, herself, cracked a short smile.
"I should relish these moments. I have a chopper to catch in a day or two...shame I have to leave it all behind," she murmured to herself.
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 5, 2011 5:40:10 GMT -5
Metal shavings scattered in the wind, blasted out of the barrel by a quick breath of air. Logan's eye peered through the tube of death pleased with the finish. He reassembled the P08. It was aging badly. Eventually he would simply need to replace it all together. Snapping the breach shut; for now it would do. The upper floor observatory was a quaint little spot, dead centre looking straight down upon the stage. Logan left the door to the booth open so a little European sunlight could shine in, warming his neck. His vest hung off the chair. Muffled footsteps echoed around the newly daft asylum. Their rhythmical beat taking the stern man by surprise, 'Owned not by that of a ghoul, it seems,' Logan perplexed himself further curious to whom might risk mingling amongst the dusty chairs of the auditorium, "Let's see, hmm," he pushed himself out of a super slouched position in the chair to look over the hand rail. A woman. A carefree woman choosing a seat in the front row, little thought of the corpses spread about the place, "Spineful," he mused, hanging his vest over his shoulder and leaving the observatory. Strangely enough she still remained seated looking up at the stage. The woman appeared sane for the most part; it was her seeming admiration she held for the court of acting which smelled a little off. Logan continued down the aisle, quietly. If she could hear him or not, the ball were in her hands, "Not quite Les Miserable you'd expect," he commented pulling of the French named act fluently while pulling his vest over his shoulders, "Wouldn't imagine they could be more down and out than that," he looked to the corpses on the stage.
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 5, 2011 5:58:21 GMT -5
Crowley had been seated quietly in the same position as before when the faint steps had groane nearer. She'd glanced at the man from the corner of her eye before resting them onto the stage once more. Whoever he was, he had no idea who he was talking to. Still, she'd thought she'd humor him and sighed, leaving her firearm at her side.
"Shame I'll never have the pleasure of seeing this theater in use," she told him, plainly, ignoring his misconscrued perception of what exactly it was she was doing here. There was an air of silence before she'd finally looked up at the man. He was fairly tall compared to her and dressed tastefully. He didn't seem like someone you'd find in the midst of a zombie apocalypse.
"What do you want?" she asked of the man. "I'm trying to enjoy what little time I have left in the remains of Paris before I leave for the United States. I'd rather enjoy it, alone."
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 5, 2011 19:28:56 GMT -5
Quietly stifling a laugh, "I honestly apologize. I only found it intriguing someone might choose the same building to admire as me. I don't think these cadavers count," Logan held his arms out at the several other bodies in the room, "It is a shame not to see the stage in action. I do agree..."
Sentiment for such a weathered building coming from a stone cold lady. One person he might find in common, and it's a brown recluse. Kellner had plenty of time on his hands so he decided there were nothing wrong to hammer away at a bent nail.
He sat down, "First time I saw Jean Valjean walk off stage left to hear his story was truly inspiring," Logan kept his eye to the stage, "Imagining anyone could reach such a low point. Well-" he smirked, "I guess we're all around that stage now."
The woman looked indifferent; not to mention indignant, "Can't admit to revere French musical though. Shakespeare's line walking writing of the fall of Kings during a time of beheaded if one spoke royal blasphemy," the excitement for such plays could be heard in his voice, calming himself, "Certainly makes the adrenalin run high."
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 5, 2011 19:49:46 GMT -5
Crowley had sighed and clenched her fists in her lap and stolen a glance at the man's ambitious face. She'd then continued to look onto the corpse piled stage. He was obviously dodging her statement before, attempting to strike up a conversation about Les Miserables. A play she hadn't seen since her days with Umbrella. A fond memory of it, at that.
When he'd gone off talking about Shakespeare she couldn't necessarily let him off the hook with the comparison of society today and the protagonist of Les Miserables.
"Stealing to provide for his sister's children is a low point but I never saw him as a criminal. I wouldn't compare what's left of society to Jean Valijean's character, however. People steal, murder and rape because they want to and without law, it's all the more reason to do it. I don't recall the character in the novel or play murdering or raping anyone," she explained. Sure it began to drift off into another topic but it bothered her that he would even compare a noble cause, though illegal, to the world today and before.
Standing to her feet, Crowley grasped ahold of her rifle and slung it over her shoulder, manuevering through the row of seats to the aisle.
"Well I have a few things to do before I leave," she told him on her way toward the entrance.
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 6, 2011 8:33:00 GMT -5
Logan closed his eyes, subtly shaking his head at the woman's flawed interpretation of his words. In the very least he had gotten her talking, and she seemed to show particular interest in correction for the French play, "I meant being down on his luck. The world being down on their luck. The similarity doesn't have to be in our deeds to give us the same fortune as a soulless criminal," explaining himself likely wouldn't lift the air but it would at least make him feel better. She spoke the truth, in the end, "I guess the comparison is a bit extreme," he apologized.
As she stood to leave he felt a weight sink in his stomach. Logan was pretty sure he hadn't offended her; more likely annoyed than anything else, "That sounds almost like obligation," he said, turning slightly without particularly looking, "You made it appear as if you were on a holiday or sorts, before."
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 6, 2011 8:46:55 GMT -5
The mystery man's voice had echoed and carried throughout the Atrium, leaving the woman able to hear his words a couple steps from the double doors that would take her into the spacious and quite luxurious main hall. She'd grasped at the door partially and as she walked through, she'd made a sound at the back of her throat.
"Obligations are my life's work." she told him, coldly as she entered the mainhall. With that out of the way, she'd persued the long halls around the corner where seemingly expensive art work hung. One, in particular, had caught her eye for just a split moment. The entire line of pieces had been replicas of Francisco Goya, a Spaniard Artist from the late 1400's. A rather underrated artist. His artwork was what had introduced the 'dark and edgey' scene. It was interesting and odd that they'd show up in a place like this.
Every painting she'd passed had resembled something that she could have sworn she'd seen atleast once since the world wide outbreak began, a painting brought to life.
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 6, 2011 11:34:29 GMT -5
"You like them do you?" Logan finally caught up with the uncouth woman spotting her pause in tandem with each piece of artwork on the wall, "Found them backstage in the back of a van by chance. I Felt they deserved a more reasonable place to be observed and hung them here," he held his hands behind his back while standing beside her, "Are you a fan of his art? I've no idea whether they're the originals or not. I'm sure they would be a fortune otherwise," a fortune Logan already had, otherwise making him hold art above money, always.
She definitely had a construed view of life. Far from the mainstream. It made the clean cut gentlemen curious how a person like herself could exist even in this day and age.
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 6, 2011 18:01:19 GMT -5
The brunette felt a pinched nerve within her. He was following her but she didn't get this feeling that he had any attention to take her out, still, never could be too careful with cards like these. Adjusting the assault rifle over her other shoulder, she could only imagine he was possibly someone trying to get the jump on her, but she wouldn't shoot him just yet.
"They're replicas. I can smell fresh oil off of them. Some of the displays are slightly off as well. Even so, they're interesting to look at," she told the man while burshing her shoulder off slighty. Mold that accumulated throughout the Opera House from lack of maintenance had rested on her shoulders and hair from her time inside.
She'd started moving further down the hall, her hands at her side, merely inches away from her sidearm but not exactly in anyway showing she'd grasp onto it. She always took precautions. The only people that she could imagine wanting to send someone after her would have to have been the B.S.A.A. or possibly some of her singular enemies since this guy was too clean-cut to work with the tools at the B.S.A.A.
"I wouldn't say I particularly enjoy all of it. His earlier work was bland and just meshed with all the other great artists of his time. It wasn't until the Spanish Inquisition did he start painting what set him apart from everyone else.... of course..." the Mercenary trailed off, glancing sideways at the art on both sides of the hall. "He was going blind, deaf and insane when he'd worked on those. That alone, intrigues me."
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 7, 2011 13:12:05 GMT -5
Logan had been taken aback by the woman's ability to detect the truth behind all of the artwork, her firenite senses tuned to something the vested man would consider abnormal. He nodded his head in compliment, impressed none the less. She seemed to hold quite an afinity for the artist; commendable that she at least had an artistic sense.
"I'd argue that he were perfectly sane," Logan commented while looking at a random painting, pulling at a corner of his mouth, "Given the circumstances, he likely saw what everybody else could not," the stern man shrugged, "I can't truly say I own any knowledge of Goya, though. I'm sure he were the prefect conversationalist for something a little different than the repetition of every day life."
In his eyes every famous artist from any medium were bat-sh*t mad in one way or another. Ironically he considered himself an artist; however he would be long gone before his claim to fame.
"It almost feels like a visit to the Louvre is in order!" Logan suddenly beamed, "Although I'm assuming the Mona Lisa isn't quite your style?"
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 7, 2011 18:34:34 GMT -5
Crowley had looked on at a specific piece from the Goya Collection. An ogre-like being devouring a human whole. She'd grinned at it a bit when the mysterious stranger had responded to her knowledge and personal feelings of the artist's work, positively. Most art snobs would beg to differ, they held a sense of, 'I'm right and you're wrong', but this man, she hadn't gotten that air around him. Still, she was uncertain of this man's intentions.
When he smiled and mentioned visiting the Mona Lisa, Crowley had finally looked at him. Her stern face had quirked a slender brow as she'd attempted to register his actions. He was strange and unreadable. Unsettled, she'd glanced at her watch again before shrugging.
"I take what I can get. It's not often I get the chance to have time to care for my hobbies or interests," she responded. She wasn't sure if it was an invitation or not but as long as she kept herself on her toes and had the chance to scope out more of Paris, she didn't see why not. She doubted that he could shoot her in the back anyway. He'd have a bullet between his eyes before that happened.
"So was that an invitation?" she asked.
((Just go with it. She's not cracking, don't worry. XD ))
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 8, 2011 11:42:06 GMT -5
"Why don't we call it-" Logan started, he didn't have to think hard of what word to use in this instance, "An 'obligation?'" he smiled, feeling quite clever with his hands tucked behind his tail, "If you don't have any other engagements I'm sure the company would not cause harm."
Then his stomach grumbled amongst the silence scratching out his charming streak, "Hmm," Logan awkwardly pursed his lips, "Likely the effect of missing last evenings tea. Pardon me," with the state Paris were in it wasn't exactly simple walking into a restaraunt and ordering a serving of frogslegs. Even with its magnificent cuisine Logan still found himself on rations and edible nicknacks rather than any fine dining one would come to expect from the City of Romance.
Shaking the cursory thought from his mind, "So, Miss... er..." it dawned on the guy that he didn't know her name. She didn't look hitched so Logan figured he had gotten the first part right. Segwaying to clear the air, "The name is Logan," he said simply, posture perfect and more stern than ever as he held out his right hand; left still tucked behind his back.
If trust were the issue this woman had then now was the opportunity to remove any vilification she might gestate over it; all she had to take were the chance.
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Post by NotAvailable on Jul 8, 2011 21:26:49 GMT -5
Crowley looked down at the man's hand for a what felt like minutes on end when in reality it was more or less just an awkward pause. She'd finally shook his hand firmly and unlocked eye contact from him, to look back at the painting for a second. What the hell was this guy's problem? Whatever the case may have been, she really hadn't had anything better to do until she'd made it back into the United States again.
That alone had been stressful enough without having to deal with this.
"Obligations pay. That's why it's work," she told him, straight forwardly. "Morgan. Nicole Morgan," she lied. She wasn't about to give out anymore than that.
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Post by Lunapocalypse on Jul 9, 2011 10:00:13 GMT -5
"Hmm," Logan tilted his head while inspecting the woman, holding his chin, "Funny. You don't look like a Nicole," he shrugged, physically, at his perception, "Anyway. I gather the actual currency you invest your obligations in are physical dollars. I suppose we could laud or pilfer some priceless relics and pitch them on the black market. There's bound to be some fat cat looking to pay millions for a rare piece in their collection," he made a wide turn to face toward the exit of the theatre.
Before marching off Kellner looked over his shoulder at the chained woman, "Remind me again. What sort of obligations do you do which pay, exactly?" he had always seen obligations as a means of taxing an individual. Granted his own goals could be seen as an obligation in the determination of his own mind; however Logan chose to pursue them.
"Bah," Logan suddenly spat, "Humbug. I'll keep my nose out of your work if it means that much."
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